Page 8 of The Fangirl Project
“Um.” I clear my throat, but say, “It’s Cerys, actually,” and hope it doesn’t sound like I’m shouting across the café.
She pulls a face, somehow looking embarrassed but unbothered at the same time. Her name is Daphne—“likeBridgerton! And I’m, like, perpetually late to stuff, so my mom’s always yelling at me tomake haste,lol!” as I heard her proclaim in our media class at the beginning of term—but she has a look more reminiscent of a Love Islander than a Regency-era duchess.
Today, she’s in an oversized cream sweater and khaki leggings, and her hair is slicked back in a neat bun. The other girls have done their hair the same way. I pat down the flyaways that I never quite got under control around my own ponytail. She’s even got the knack of outlining her lips with lip liner to make them appear bigger, which I tried copying a few days ago and had to scrub off immediately. While she looks glamorous, I felt like a clown.
I’ve practically got a mental file on all of the group from seeing them around campus (and from stalking on social media). Daphne is very much into the clean-girl aesthetic; she’s willowy, with long black hair and pale skin that’s flawless, thanks, she claims, to her very well-documented-on-Instagram nine-step Korean skin careroutine. There’s Nikita, a curvy brunette who reposts a lot of snarky, sarcastic memes, is a die-hardMarried at First Sightfan, and tends to wear a pop of color with her beige-and-black-toned outfits; today, it’s a high-necked green sweater. Yesterday, it was a pair of red boots.
Evie, of course, I already know, but I looked her up on socials all the same. Blond and petite, but with a far curvier figure than I have, in a way that makes her look dainty instead of flat or boxy. She’s very into beauty influencers and fashion hauls, and alters her style often. Lately, she seems to have taken Daphne’s and Nikita’s lead, like I have.
And then there’s Chloe, who has the exact opposite of a resting bitch face. She does a lot of show jumping and horseback riding, and is usually clad in thick leggings and tall, worn boots, even if her glasses are Versace. Her dark hair is often braided, and it must take her hours to get the styles looking so intricate and neat. Quite honestly, I don’t know where they all find the time to put so much effort into how they look, every day before school. It’s sort of awe-inspiring.
“Cerys,” Daphne corrects herself, still smiling at me. “Right! I’m sorry. We have media studies together, right? Cute sweater, by the way.”
Nikita adds, “Lovethe shoes. I’m obsessed. Are they thrifted?”
“Oh, um…sort of. They were my mom’s.”
“Vintage! Ugh, I wish my mom had taste like that.”
Chloe jokes, “I wishmymom didn’t have such hideously big feet, so I could actually borrow her shoes!”
“Oh nooo,” Daphne says. “Not boat feet!”
“Never mindboats,they’re like cruise liners.” Chloe gives amelodramatic eye roll that makes everyone laugh, and then it’s my turn to order from the barista. I try not to glance their way for approval, but order a pumpkin spice latte. I’ve only had one once before; Jake hates them, and I still remember him choking and sputtering after trying mine, how he claimed he could still taste it a week later.
The girls carry on chattering without me, resuming their conversation, but I’m pleased when they wait for me to get my drink before Nikita says to me, “Ready to go?” and I get to join them for the walk to campus.
I sit by Daphne and a couple of her friends in media studies, and afterward, even though I’m the first to history and take my usual seat, Nikita comes to sit next to me when she arrives, and then I end up going to lunch with her to join the others. Evie smiles brightly when she sees me there, waving me over enthusiastically as if we’ve never been anythingbutclose. It feels genuine, and I let myself be swept into the fold, trying not to give away how much I could cry with relief at how easy and straightforward this turned out to be.
I’m sweating inside my turtleneck and boots, and I don’t know how they all look so cool and unbothered in their own sweaters and layers, but it’s so worth it to be included.
IknewI just had to find a way in.
If only things were this easy with Jake.
4
On Wednesday afternoon, I’m sittingin art class. It technically started fifteen minutes ago, although our teacher has yet to show up. Some people have carried on working on their projects—we’re spending this term compiling a portfolio of one study in five different mediums—but most people are scrolling on their phones or chatting with friends.
I feel like I made a huge mistake in opening my sketchbook to carry on with my work; Evie is perched on a table on the other side of the room, her legs swinging as she chats with a couple of people. I should have gone over and joined in. Is it too late now? Probably. I don’t want to intrude, and it’s not as if Evie invited me, is it? (Should she have? Was I supposed to assume a sort of standing invitation? Will she be more annoyed at me for barging in?)
It feels like when I go into the breakroom at the H&M I work at in town, and some of my older colleagues are talking about university courses or childcare or a hundred other things I can’t relateto, and I get stuck on the fringes, too intimidated to try joining in. Too in my head to make a decision.
I stay put.
The piece I’m working on isn’t even anygood.We’ve been given the broad theme of “nature” to work within, and my still life of a single rose in a vase is bland and lifeless and so basic that, while technically decent, I wonder why I spent so many hours wrestling with the lighting when it’s so wholly uninspiring.
Iam wholly uninspired.
Art used to make me feel…something,at least. Now it’s like I’m just…ticking a box. Like it’s the easy A I told my parents it would be. It’s certainly not the hobby it once was, all those evenings I’d rush home from school to pull out the paints and canvas from under my bed. It was a fun class at school and I had really encouraging teachers, but then it became something to desperately distract me from the latest round of bickering that was going on downstairs between my parents. At least I’ve realized I’d be wasting my time to think it could be a career; Dad had to give up being an artist when I was little, and he’s become really resentful about it these days. I’m glad I’m learning from his mistakes before it ruins my life, too.
I flip the page away from my crappy rose, landing instead on a half-done sketch from last night. My pencil moves lightly over the drawing, falling into the habit of refining lines and expanding on the outline of the image, adding detail and suggestions of shadow to tend to later. It’s just something to keep my hands busy, since I’ve committed to not joining Evie in her conversation.
The edge of my left palm is smudged gray as my pencil movesacross the page, solidifying the lines of a stag’s skull and adorning the antlers in vines that will melt back into the forest behind it. It’s only as that part of the vision takes hold in my mind that I realize what I’m drawing.
It’s a scene fromOf Wrath and Rune.I finally watched the first two episodes last night, and while they were very slow and very strange, there was this part where one of the forest creatures emerged from the woods. I think it was this antlered character I saw that guy dressed up as at the convention, and while the episode droned on I ended up down a Wikipedia rabbit hole, learning that because of the low budget most of the special effects like that were done with makeup and clever artistry rather than relying too heavily on CGI.
I ended up rewinding that episode to watch it again properly, feeling a little flutter of excitement when the weird stag-man appeared as if from nowhere in the tree line, thinking of all the agonizing artistic detail that must have gone into making that so seamless.
