“You were here?” She makes a frustrated growl. “Figures I’d be out. Hang on.” I hear her moving things. “Such a mess. No wonder I didn’t see— Oh!” There’s the sound of paper, and she says, “You came to see me,” like she can’t believe it.
“I did.”
“You weren’t dodging me.”
“Of course not.” I fall back on the bed and exhale. “So, what are you working on?”
“A new art project. Well, kind of new. It’s a little hard to explain.”
“Try me.”
“You know the bits of painting I scavenged from the fire? I’m trying to stitch them back together using wire.”
“That sounds cool.”
“I guess so.” She yawns. “It feels good to try something different. What about you?”
“I haven’t been painting at all.”
“You know what I mean.” I can hear her smiling. Wish I could see it, too. “What have you been up to?”
I let silence settle between us as I sift through everything that’s happened since I last saw her. I want to tell her about Hydro and Dad’s confession, about the Skylar test—and most of all, about me—but Warren warned us about sharing information over the phone.
“Danny? Are you still there?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Have you and Germ been able to—”
“Only one. It’s been…difficult.” Better change the subject. “But enough about that. What about you? You’ve been super busy.”
“Yeah.” She still sounds concerned. “I’ve been, um, doing a lot of painting.”
“That’s great.”
“Not really,” she says. “It’s all crazy stuff. My weird ideas. Not anything I can actually show. The jury is tomorrow, and…” She sighs. “I’m not going to do it.”
“What? Why not?”
“I can’t submit this stuff. It’s different.”
“Different is good. What would the world be like if everything was the same?”
“Not everyone thinks that.” She doesn’t say anything for a long time, then, “I miss you.”
Her voice shivers through me. “I miss you, too.”
“Wish I could see you.” She sounds sleepy.
“I could come over.”
“Curfew.”
“Screw curfew.”
“We’ll see each other tomorrow.”
“Well, I wish tomorrow would hurry up and get here.”
“Me too.”
The line goes quiet and I wonder if she’s fallen asleep. Then she says, “Is all of this worth it?”
The question hangs there between us. “It will be,” I say at last. “It has to be.”
My phone alarm startles me awake, stuck under my face and blaring in my ear. I peel it away and squint at the screen. Art Guild jury, it reads, begins in one hour.
Great. I’d set it weeks ago, thinking I’d need to be up bright and early this morning, and forgot to cancel it.
I untangle my feet from the covers and sit up, taking in the damage from the night before. Bits of wire and canvas lie strewn around the floor. Tubes of paint lie uncapped and drying. The cup of brushes lies on its side, knocked over in my dive for the phone. Brushes surround it like a motionless explosion.
When did we hang up? I don’t remember saying goodbye. Wait. It’s Friday. I get to see him tonight.
The flame-haired girl watches as I walk to the sink and splash water on my face. I’m a wreck. It’s going to take a lot of work to pull me together for the gala.
I grab a soda from the mini-fridge and tiptoe through the mess to sit in the chair, my legs tucked up under me. Morning light peeks in around the edges of the blinds and glints off the gold paint on the resurrected Confidante. The wire stitching looks macabre, especially with the sooty raw canvas edges. It’s weird. Different.
Different is good.
His words last night caught me off guard. For a moment I actually thought about submitting these paintings to the jury. How crazy would that be?
I down the rest of the soda and go to the closet to pack for the big weekend downtown.
The flame-haired girl watches me pull out my overnight bag.
“No,” I tell her as I pack.
“Shut up,” as I get dressed.
“Stop looking at me,” as I brush my teeth.
“It’s a bad idea,” as I gather my toiletries.
I pull the red dress from the closet and turn to find myself eye to eye with the other girl, the one emerging from the dark. Her hands reach for me. “Don’t you start.” My gaze follows the flame-haired girl’s to the coffee table, where my newest creation lies.
These paintings are my breath. My soul. They represent not only what I can do but who I am.
Different.
What would the world be like if everything was the same?
I swallow, feeling the fire of Danny’s words. A little voice in my head says, You’ll be sorry.
Damn these Moments, making me choose.
“Fine.” A quick check of the time shows I’ll have only minutes to spare if I hurry. I load the flame-haired girl, the girl emerging from the dark, the fractured Danny watercolor, an older one of people evaporating into butterflies, and the wire-stitched Confidante into my portfolio case, then leave before fear or reason can stop me.
Dad woke me early with a tap on my bedroom door. “Let’s go.” I rolled over and realized I was still holding the phone in my hand.
They’ve opened the harbor for gala-weekend festivities. Dad wasted no time getting the boat ready. We moved through the same procedure as before, packing drinks and snacks and kissing Mom before heading out.
The roads were a mess. Checkpoints at every turn. Even when the traffic picked up, Dad kept it five under. Anything to avoid unwanted attention.
But we made it.
Waves splash against the boat as we move slowly toward the open sea. The rocking motion makes my head feel strange. The harbor grows small behind us, and ahead is rolling blue. Oil rigs dot the horizon, gray with haze. Now and then security buzzes us in their speedboats, and Dad mutters, “Go away.”
This is the ocean.
I’m in a boat. With my dad. On the ocean.
He lifts the cooler lid and pulls out two cans of soda. Pops one open and hands the other to me. “Your granddad used to bring me out here when I was your age.” He takes a drink and sits down. “He’d call in sick for me and we’d come out here. Fish. Talk. ‘Never spend a day inside,’ he’d say, ‘if you can spend it out at sea.’ ” He leans his elbows back on the engine house and looks out over the water. He’s quiet a long time, like he’s thinking. Remembering, maybe. I sit back and watch a Jet Ski in the distance bouncing across the waves.
“Remember the time we went camping up by Woods Canyon?” he asks. “Took the rowboat out on the lake?”
“Of course.” I take a sip of soda. The Jet Ski slows, turns, races back the way it came.
“When those storm clouds came up so quickly, and the lightning started striking the trees around us?” He shakes his head. “I thought, What have you done, Ogden, taking your son out in a metal boat during a thunderstorm? And your eyes.” He laughs. “Whenever lightning flashed, your eyes were like saucers.” He does an impression of me and laughs again, slapping his leg. “Good times. Remember?”
I smile. “Yeah. Good times.”
He drums a rhythm with his ring finger against the soda can. “Didn’t happen.”
“What?” My eyes snap to his face.
“It didn’t happen.” He leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “No rowboat. No thunderstorm.”
Oh.
He drains what’s left of his drink. “Your, uh, story. What you said after you got back the other night, about being from somewhere else. That was true, wasn’t it.”
“Yes.”
His head drops to his hands, and he rubs his face as he lifts it again. “Tell me about it.”
“About jumping here?”
&n
bsp; He shakes his head. “About the other world. About you.”
I look away. This is the part I’ve been dreading. “Um, well…It’s different there,” I say. “No ocean, for starters.”
“Really?” He looks baffled. “Wow.”
“It’s a desert, actually. Cactus. Coyotes. Really hot summers.” I can tell he’s trying to imagine what I’m telling him. “Sunshine. Lots of sunshine.”
“But you. What about you?”
“I don’t know. I’m just Danny.”
He prompts me for more, so I close my eyes and dredge up the images I’ve worked so hard to forget.
And I tell him.
A couple of times he looks like he’d rather jump out of the boat than hear what I’m saying, but he listens until I’m done and it’s all there, out in the open. We sit in silence, just the sound of the waves.
“He’s trying to come back,” I say. “The other Danny. Your Danny. When the vortex opens, I can feel him trying to push across.” I swallow the knot in my throat. “When it happens again, I won’t fight. He should be here, where he belongs.”
“My Danny?” He gives his head a small shake and puts a hand on my knee. “You’re my Danny. You both are. If you leave, I’ll know you’re there, without Mom and me. Just like I know he’s there now, on his own.” He exhales. “Please don’t tell your mother. Not any of it. She’s convinced it was the Hydro talking the other night. If she hears this, I don’t know what it’ll do to her.”
“I won’t say anything.” I watch a seagull gliding in the breeze. “Dad? What do we do now?”
He thinks a moment, then says, “We keep going. Appreciate the time we have. Live each day the best we can.”
“Do you think that’s what Danny would want?”
“I think that’s what anyone would want,” he says. “In any world.”
A million thoughts banter about in my mind as I walk through the doors of the Juniper Gallery in the North Building on campus. The loudest of them: Am I really going to do this?
This is what I dreamed about for so long. What I worked for years to achieve. This is the moment the Art Guild was going to see I’m a serious and talented artist and, most of all, a sure investment.
All of that would be true of this moment if. If my paintings hadn’t been ruined. If there hadn’t been a fire. If I hadn’t met Danny Ogden.
Seems too small a word to carry such heavy repercussions.
The regular exhibits are gone, replaced by modular walls waiting to be adorned. Students bustle around, lugging paintings, hanging and straightening them, affixing labels. At the far wall, I see Vivian and Antonio. She looks nervous, biting her thumbnail as she works on her display. I choose a wall at the opposite corner, as far from her as I can get.
Taking a deep breath, I set my stuff down and pull the paintings out of the portfolio case. As I look at each one, I’m filled with a sense of pride. And dread.
“You,” I say, picking up the flame-haired girl, “will be front and center.” Her shocking orange head will grab attention, that’s for sure. I arrange the other paintings around her, switching their placements for best effect, testing them for eye flow. I choose the upper left corner for Confidante, and hang the butterflies at the far right so they look like they’re flying off the wall. I realize too late I don’t have information labels for the pieces. Oh well. It’s not like the members of the Art Guild are going to be writing any of them down anyway.
“Do you have a submission form?” a woman asks. Her Art Guild name tag says SUSAN. She sees my work and takes a sucking breath through her teeth.
“No, I don’t.” I smile. “Thank you.” She hands me the form and walks away.
I fill in my name, contact information and schooling and mentorship information and check the box verifying the work is original and mine. There are two blanks for signatures, one for me and one for Antonio. I sign my name and walk to the far side of the room.
“Such progress,” I hear Antonio saying. Vivian sees me approaching and her eyes narrow.
I clear my throat. “Excuse me, Antonio?”
His face brightens when he sees me. “Compagna! You are here! I gave up hope on you.”
“Sorry.” I hold out the form. “I, um, need you to sign my submission form.”
“Oh yes, yes.” He takes the form and points to Vivian. “Yours too.”
She completes hers quickly, not even hesitating as she checks the box saying she isn’t committing fraud. I’m tempted to say how nice my work looks in her display, but I don’t. What would be the point?
“Where are you set up?” Antonio asks.
“Over there.” My vision telescopes as I lead him to the far wall. It’s the longest walk of my life. Antonio takes his time moving through the exhibits, talking to students and other teachers. At one point he announces loudly that everyone should join him in seeing the display of his top student. The voice in my head screams, You’ll be sorry. You’ll be sorry.
I stop in front of my display, fold my arms and wait. Antonio arrives with a small crowd of onlookers eager to see what the fuss is about. I watch his face as he takes in each piece. He leans in close to Confidante—realizing what it used to be, I’m sure—and lingers last on the flame-haired girl. His eyebrows twitch and his hand crushes my submission form. Then he turns and walks away, tossing the paper in the air. It falls to the floor at my feet.
You’ll be sorry.
Maybe, but what’s done is done. I pick up the form and brush it off before pinning it to the wall. Then I grab my belongings and leave everyone standing there, gaping.
I walk past the limos lined up in front of the Regency Majestic and wonder who’s behind all those tinted windows. They’re probably looking out, wondering who walks to a gala in a suit borrowed from his dad’s closet.
The last time I wore a suit was never. I sure hope Eevee appreciates this.
Eevee. Her name alone makes my feet move faster.
The porter opens a limo door and offers his hand to a woman in a shimmery dress. She waits for her date, and the two walk the red carpet into the hotel. I follow, ducking away when cameras begin to flash.
The lobby is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Mosaic floors lead to an enormous rotunda encircled by marble pillars. Two spiral staircases curve along the walls, rising to an upper level, where the ceiling is lit by hundreds of starburst chandeliers. I keep to the carpet, descending a small flight of stairs toward a crowded bar and restaurant. Ahead is a series of metal detectors, scanners and pat-downs. The usual. There’s a bit of a holdup when a woman won’t allow her purse to be searched, but she finally hands it over and we’re all on our way again.
I walk through a set of double doors into an enormous ballroom. Chandeliers as big as cars hang from the ceiling. White-and-gold flower arrangements decorate the walls, tables and stage, their scent mixing with the smells of alcohol and expensive perfume. A band in the corner plays jazzy music while men in tuxedos mingle with women in gowns. I’m a sardine in a sea of penguins.
A waiter walks by with a tray of champagne glasses. I snag one and gulp half of it down. Somewhere in this mass of humanity is my date. My eyes scan the crowd. If I were the governor’s daughter, where would I be?
With the governor, of course.
I see her across the room, standing between her mom and dad, wearing a red dress. Her hair is up and her shoulders are bare. She smiles and gestures as she talks to a couple.
She’s stunning.
I down the rest of the glass and add it to the tray of a passing waiter. The great thing about being a nobody in this kind of crowd is that it takes me no time at all to cross the room. I slip around groups of chattering women and couples dancing, then join her circle. I lean my head toward her and say, “Hi.”
When she realizes it’s me, she gasps and grabs me in a hug. Her mom smiles. Her dad does not.
“Good evening, Governor Solomon,” I say, extending my hand. He looks me up and down before shaking it.
> “Mom, Dad, this is Danny.” Eevee slips her arm around mine. “Danny, this is my mom and dad.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mom says.
“You too,” I say.
I turn to Eevee to tell her how amazing she looks, but she speaks first. “And this is Senator Hayes and his wife, Elana.”
“Oh,” I say, shaking their hands. “Nice to meet you.”
They smile and I smile and it all gets a little awkward until Eevee says, “Ooh, are those hors d’oeuvres?” She steers me away. When we’re out of earshot, she laughs. “Your face!” She makes a stunned face and laughs again as we maneuver toward a tall table loaded with tiny bites of food. Bacon-wrapped beef medallions. Salmon canapés. Handmade ravioli. Caviar. It’s endless, and the waiters keep bringing out more.
“Do you have any idea how far outside my comfort zone I am here?” I say, chowing down on a stuffed mushroom.
“Do you have any idea how good you look?”
“Me? You look…” I give up words for hand signals. Mind-blowing.
“Thank you.” She runs her hands down her dress. “Does it remind you of anything?”
“Uh…I don’t know. Does it?” I’m thinking about her hips.
“The museum.” She gives her head a little shake, then looks around the room. “Do you have any idea how bad I want to get my hands on you?”
“So what’s stopping you?”
“Only about three hundred and fifty people. Smile.” She rests her hand on my arm and we both smile as a photographer snaps our picture. I’m pretty sure I have food in my teeth.
“Let’s go somewhere, then.” I start looking for exits.
“I can’t. I’m on the clock.” Her expression changes and she grabs my arm. “Oh no.”
“What?” I turn and see a blond girl approaching.
“Hi, Eevee,” she says, with one of those catty smiles that girls give when they really hate each other. “Who’s your date?”
Eevee glares at her a moment, then puts on the fakery, too. “Vivian, this is Danny. Danny, Vivian Hayes, Senator Hayes’s daughter.”
“Oh,” I say, shaking her hand, “I just met your parents.”
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