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"Hey, Dad, check it out," I said, "wouldn't that be a great name for a band--Prodigious Oeuvre?"
I pointed at the phrase on the panel.
My dad had been whispering something into Mara's ear when I started talking, and now they
both looked at me, like they'd forgotten I was even there.
"What'd you say, honey?" he asked.
Just as I was about to repeat myself, my dad tickled Mara, who let out a yelp and said, "Doug!"
God, compared to the two of them, Madison and Matt actually had a sense of decorum.
"I said I think I'm going to go on ahead," I said.
"How come?" Mara had her fingers intertwined with my dad's. Her cheeks were flushed.
"I kind of have to look at some things for class."
"You mean like an assignment?" asked my dad. He ran a hand through Mara's hair, letting the
fingers rest at the nape of her neck. I thought of last night and Connor holding my neck.
Everything had officially gotten just a little too weird.
"Yeah, exactly," I lied. "Like an assignment."
"Well, okay," he said. "I guess we'll find each other at the end."
I was already stepping back, letting myself get lost in the crowd. "Great," I said, nodding
enthusiastically. "I'll see you at the end."
I made my way past decades of Clemente's work,
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too mad to see any of the brightly colored canvases surrounding me. If all he was going to do
was nuzzle Mara, why had my dad even bothered to come? Had he actually wanted to ruin my
day? That was a plausible theory, except that in order to plan on ruining my day, my dad would
have actually had to think about me, something he clearly never did anymore.
And then, suddenly, just as I was considering storming out onto Fifth Avenue and putting Mara,
my dad, and the museum behind me, I was stopped in my tracks by a painting that took up
almost an entire walclass="underline" a crazed face of red and green and yellow. The mouth was open in a
grimace, and each tooth was a skull. The tongue was an impossibly pale, delicate pink. Sitting on
the razor's edge of the beautiful and the grotesque, it was unlike any work of art I'd ever seen.
I don't know how long I'd been standing there, gaping, when I noticed the guy who kept looking
back and forth from the painting to me. I stood up a little straighter before I realized it was just
Sam Wolff from my art class. Sam's got black, curly hair, and when he's painting or drawing, he
pulls on it, so usually when I see him his hair's standing more or less straight up from his head.
But I guess when he hasn't been doing that, it lies a lot flatter, which would explain my failure to
recognize him at first.
"Hey," he said, turning to face me. "You're in my art class." He didn't smile.
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"Oh, right," I said. "I was trying to figure out where I know you from. What are you doing here?"
I wondered if Ms. Daniels had told him to come to the museum, too. On the one hand, I liked the
idea that I was the only student she'd told about the exhibit. On the other, if she was going to
lump me with another one of her students, Sam Wolff wasn't exactly shabby artistic company.
"What am I doing here?" asked Sam. He looked around at the paintings and then back at me.
"I'm shopping for a sofa bed."
I couldn't tell if he was laughing with me or at me. "Funny," I said.
When he didn't say anything, I should probably have taken his silence as a subtle sign that he
was not interested in pursuing a conversation, yet I plunged on. "So, do you like the exhibit?" I asked.
He'd gone back to looking at the painting. "What?" he asked distractedly.
"Do you like the exhibit?" My question, which hadn't exactly been brilliant the first time around, sounded utterly inane the second.
"Do I like it?" Sam repeated my question slowly, rolling the syllables around in his mouth either because he wasn't sure how to answer it or because he felt he was tasting a new and particularly
impressive flavor of idiocy.
"Yes," I repeated in a snotty voice. "Do you like it?"
Why was I being so rude? After all, he'd just repeated my question. Lots of people did that and I
didn't snap at
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them. But there was something about the way he was standing there, silently, like he was all
alone with the painting, like I wasn't even there, that was driving me crazy.
Then again that was kind of how I'd been standing there a minute ago.
Sam finally looked at me. "Yes," he said. "I like it."
"Oh," I said, unprepared for such a civil response. "Well, I like it, too."
Sam ran his hand through his hair. With his curls once again veering straight up to the ceiling, he
looked more like the guy in my art class than he had a minute ago.
"That's ... great," he said. "Yeah," I said. "Great."
He glanced down at his watch. "Well, I gotta go," he said. "I'm meeting someone downtown."
"Oh, yeah, of course," I said. I looked at my watch-less wrist. "I should get going soon, too."
"Okay. Well, bye," he said, turning to go.
"Yeah, okay. Bye." I watched him disappear into the crowd.
I wandered into a little room off the main exhibition space. In the past, whenever my dad and I
went to a museum, we played this game where we each had to pick which painting we'd want if
we could have only one. I tried to play the game by myself, walking slowly through the room
and pausing before each piece as I imagined
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owning it. The stuff here was completely different from the painting I'd just been looking at;
everything in this room was either a page from a tiny illuminated manuscript or an equally
intricate pencil drawing. I imagined hanging first one piece and then another in my room. But it
wasn't any fun without having someone to show what I'd picked, so finally I quit trying and
headed back down to the lobby. I ended up wandering into the gift shop, where my dad and Mara
were comparing napkin rings. I watched them for a minute, laughing and talking together, before
I called out to my dad. He looked up, but he didn't seem especially glad to see me or anything.
The whole ride back in the car, I tried to figure out what was wrong with me. How can you be
Cinderella after she meets the prince and still feel so incredibly sad?
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Chapter Nine
The first thing I did when the bus pulled up to school on Monday morning was check to see if
Connor's SUV was in the senior parking lot. Which it was. I'll say this for the car-dependent
suburbs--it's much easier to track a crush here than in a major metropolitan area like San
Francisco.
On the way to chemistry, my last class before lunch, I still hadn't seen Madison, Jessica, or
Connor, but I was starting to get a really weird feeling. Everywhere I went small groups of
people were whispering to each other. At first I wondered if some scandal had taken place over
the weekend, like back in November when two kids got expelled for selling Ecstasy. On my way
from chemistry to the cafeteria, though, I started to sense the buzz was more localized,
something that followed me around. Two conversations ended just as I walked by and started