Get Lost

by Xavier Neal

  “What the hell just happened?” My voice squeaks. “Who were those people chasing us? Shooting at us? Were they even people? Because I’m pretty sure people don’t disappear into thick smoke! No. I know people don’t disappear like that!”

  “Calm down.” He rolls up his sleeves, revealing a tattoo almost identical to the one Peter has, except inside of his is a music note.

  “Calm down? Calm down. How do you expect me to calm down? I’ve been shot at two days in a row now! And I don’t know why. And yoyou just act like this is normal.”

  “It is normal.”

  “For who?”

  “Me!” He emphasizes his answer by accelerating. With a heavy sigh he says, “What does D.R.E. A.M. stand for?”

  “Are you joking?”

  “Why would I be joking?”

  “We were just shot at, and you want to know what D.R.E. A.M. stands for?”

  “Yes.”

  Annoyed, I run my fingers through my hair and answer, “Darling Reveals Everything Art Museum. My father has a strong philosophy that if a picture is worth a thousand words, then a painting is worth a thousand clues.” After a beat, I ask, “Are you going to answer my questions?”

  Pulling into a parking space outside For the Love of Art, he turns the engine off and nods. “Eventually. As for now, I just need you to tell me more about that painting because I can guarantee you, the more I know about it, the quicker I can do something about what’s chasing us.”

  “Us? You mean you, right?” I croak, attempting to grab my bag to bring it with me. But, I drop it when Justin shakes his head. Putting up the top, he unlocks the doors. “What do you mean, they’re chasing us? Why are they chasing me? I don’t know them! I barely know you!”

  “Stop yelling,” he demands to overcome my shouting. “Now, let’s focus on why we’re here, please.”

  I join Justin’s side as we enter the building where I’m immediately recognized by the woman behind the desk. “Good afternoon, Peyton! I wasn’t expecting to see you until later.”

  “Good afternoon, Bertha.” My arms rest on the chest high marble countertop. With a smile at the aging black woman, whose curly hair is decorated with an off yellow flower to match her blouse, I ask, “How are you doing?”

  “Fantastic. You know me and Mr. Smith had a date last night.” She giggles and wiggles in her seat.

  Genuinely excited someone found love, I giggle too. “Yay!”

  “Well, you look like you’re having one yourself, so I’m going to stop interrupting. Enjoy your afternoon.” She lets us through.

  Justin, with a soft smile, stares at me in near awe, which makes me smile as well and ask, “What?”

  “That back there with Bertha. You really care about her.” The words fall out of his mouth as we take a right turn away from the main displays, which are on the marble floors along the gray-painted hall of sculptures. “Yeah. She’s like a grandmother to me.” I rub absently at my arm. “She’s good people. Anyway, the painting you were asking me about is this way.”

  “Do you have actual grandparents?”

  “My grandparents here in the States died before I was born. The others live in London, and until I’m eighteen, I’m not allowed to see them. They send me nice cards every year, kind of cryptic and strange, but it’s a nice gesture.”

  “Why not until you’re eighteen?” he asks as I park myself in front of the very painting we’re looking for.

  “I don’t know. They’re really weird. Here it is.” I point to the uniquely small painting. “Sous Clef. The one and only.”

  Justin places his hand on the wood railing that separates him from one of the most sought after paintings I know. Leaning in, he asks, “What can you tell me about it?”

  Copying his gesture, I ask, “What do you want to know?”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Well,” I stare at the painting, finding his question slightly idiotic as he can see what’s in it, “there’s obviously the rustic, upside-down golden key, which if you notice right there, has an extra bump, and it slinks in a little below there. This is what they say it gives you the illusion of a woman. Most keys back then weren’t shaped like that. The red curtain that slightly drapes on it on the right side is said to be the woman’s hair. That hints why the curtain creases in an unfamiliar fashion. Right there, where that tiny teardrop, red shaped jewel is, is said to be the necklace she was wearing, while on the left side, the red curtain at the bottom is supposed to be part of the woman’s dress.”

  “And the midnight blue colored background?” he asks, his eyes never leaving the painting.

  “The two supposedly met at night outside after dinner. Nicola saw her and insisted that he had just been graced with the presence of an angel. Falling for it, she allowed him to paint her, bombarding her with question after question. Apparently, all she could tell him was that the answers he sought were under lock and key. Hence, the name.”

  Justin stands up straight, as if preparing for battle with the painting, then shoves his hands in his pocket, and nods slowly. “Has anyone ever attempted to steal this painting?”

  “It’s funny. It was originally stolen in the middle of the night from a villa in Italy. Shortly after, it was donated to a museum in France before being transported the next year to London. In fact, now that you mention it, this painting is relocated about once a year.

  It actually got the nickname “Art in Motion” because it seemed like every time it stayed somewhere too long, an attempt was made to steal it.”

  “You don’t say.” The words slide off his tongue as a security guard enters the room.

  “May I see your passes, please?” The unfamiliar face snaps in an impolite tone.

  With a soft smile, I sigh. “I’m sorry I don’t have mine.”

  “No pass? You have to leave,” he instructs, pulling on his red jacket where his name badge should be but isn’t.

  “You see, but I.”

  “Now.” The word hisses out of his mouth.

  Justin stares suspiciously at the five foot five inch, orange tanned guy, who can’t be much if any older than us. Justin’s hands slide slowly in his back pockets as he debates with himself whether to pick a fight.

  “Would you like to see some ID?” Justin offers, pulling out his wallet to quickly grab his license.

  “No. Leave.”The guard demands in a way that makes me feel not so at home in my home away from home.

  Justin very sweetly slips his wallet back in his pocket, slides an arm around my waist, and pulls me along. “It’s fine, honey. We’ll just go get passes printed.”

  My eyebrows crease together, prepared for an argument, when Justin gives me a brief headshake. Passing by the security guard, who adjusts his coat once more, exposing the badge that should be pinned on his lapel, I watch as Justin cleverly swipes it, replacing it with a credit card he must’ve pulled out from his wallet. Within the blink of an eye, the badge is in his back pocket, and the guard is buttoning his jacket, completely clueless that it’s gone.

  Strolling toward the front of the museum, Justin compliments, “I really like the cream colors of the walls. It complements the marble floors. It gives a grand ballroom feeling rather than a museum.”

  “The state hosts many functions here; so do a lot of other art related businesses. That’s why they decided to give it this appeal.”

  “You know a lot about this place,” he says as we slowly approach Bertha’s desk.

  “It’s my second home. I know almost everything there is to know about it and its contents. I’m in here so often there’s not a name or face that I don’t know and that doesn’t know me. Aside from that, of course, my parents are big donors, which almost give me this special rite of passage to examine pieces that aren’t even on display all the time. In fact…”

  “Peyton…” Justin’s slow drag on my name brings me back to the reality. I’m rambling now, not because I’m nervous but overly excited.

  “I’m sorry.” My word
s are followed by me peering over the desk to see not Bertha but a frumpy man with bottle cap glasses rummaging through her things. “Excuse me.”

  His tiny head pops up unexpectedly before he grumbles something and goes about his search.

  “Excuse me,” I state again, this time grabbing Justin’s attention enough to join me at the counter.

  “What?” The man snaps, his older face in a permanent scowl.

  “Where’s Bertha?”

  “On break.” His answer is short, and he doesn’t even look up to make eye contact.

  “You don’t look familiar, either. Are you new?” The question raises Justin’s eyebrows in the way I want it to. “Yes.” The answer is followed by him opening one of her drawers.

  My eyes glance around Bertha’s desk, and I notice his badge is lying next to the stack of Bertha’s business cards. Cleverly, I sigh to Justin. “Well, baby, do you want me to grab you a business card?”

  Leaning on the countertop, he shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Do you mind if I grab a card from you?” The innocence in my voice seems to raise no question. With a wave of his short arm at me, he turns in the desk chair and continues searching. Quickly, I snatch his badge and a card before moving some papers over the area, so he won’t immediately notice.

  While I’m pretending to scratch my back with the badge hand, he asks, “Are you done here?”

  “Yup.” I show him the card. “Thanks.”

  Justin wraps his arm around my shoulder as we exit the building and slip back into his car. Once safely inside, he nods slowly. “Well done.”

  “Thanks.” My grin is now genuine as I slightly blush. “I learned it from you.”

  “Think of knowledge like this as not a bucket you’re going to fill but a fire you’re going to ignite, and before the end, the world will be brighter than you ever imagined.” The words flow so flawlessly from his mouth; it’s as if he’s spent time at the mirror rehearsing these lines. Doing my best to not get caught in his eyes, which I’m learning are more like webs not to get tangled in than oceans to get lost in, I ask, “What’d you need their badges for?”

  “Have to run a couple checks on these guys. You said you’ve never seen the one behind the desk. What about the other one?”

  “Nope. Never. And I was just there…three days ago?” I rest my back against the seat. “There’s something strange about them. In fact, even their uniforms seemed fishy. See, normally you are required to wear…”

  “Peyton,” Justin cuts me off, sliding the badges into his glove compartment,“you think you could paint it?”

  Confused,I fold my arms across my chest. “Sous Clef?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well yeah, I could easily paint a replica but…”

  “What about a believable one? One that people would mistake for the real thing.”

  “Sure, but I would need aged paint, an aged canvas, special lighting, and space. I mean, painting it isn’t what would be hard; getting the items you need to duplicate it would be the challenge.”

  “If I bring you the materials, will you paint me one?”

  “Why?” I ask quickly. His head bobs around for a moment before I sigh, “What? You’ll tell me later?”

  “Yes.”

  Shaking my head, I ask, “And why exactly am I supposed to do everything you ask without question? I mean, you’ve gotten me shot at, and I’m pretty sure I’ve been shot, been in car chases, and…”

  “Trust yourself. You know more than you think you do.” His tongue grazes his lips. “Benjamin Spock.”

  After chewing on those words, I come to the realization that, while yes, I have been violently attacked with my life in danger, I’ve lived more in two days than I ever have in my entire seventeen years. I’ve gone from being a nameless face to being the girl seen on the arm of one of the most popular seniors. While I may not trust him, I do trust myself, and I know that, if it gets deeper then I can swim, I’ll head back to shore.

  “When do you think you can bring me the materials?” My question raises his smile.

  “Tomorrow,” he responds, starting the car. “When do you think you could have it ready for me?”

  “Friday.” The answer brings smile out of him as stretch the seat belt across my body.

  “You sure that’s enough time?”

  Pulling my hair to the side of my face, I answer, “Plenty. But, you get your painting when I get my answers.”

  As he puts on his blinker to enter traffic, he tilts his fedora to the side and impishly states, “Be aware that the answers are often just skeleton keys to the doors of questions that may not have the information you want to believe on the other side.”

  Chapter Three

  As I twist my combination, I glance at the girls standing two lockers over. The tall strawberry blonde is brushing her hair slowly, and she cocks her slender face to the side as if deep in a reverie, while her slightly shorter, obviously faked baked tan friend reapplies lip gloss.

  “He is so gorgeous.” The redhead sighs heavily. “I mean, I thought you only saw guys like him on TV, you know?”

  “I know.” The other agrees, blotting her lips. “He’s only been here three months, and it’s like, ‘Where have you been my whole life?’”

  Curious as to whom they are talking about, I gently pull my locker somewhat open as the tall one says, “Justin Ryan is perfect.”

  “I’m surprised he doesn’t have a girlfriend.” The lip gloss girl puts her tube away.

  With a ruffle of her hair, the strawberry blonde lets out another deep sigh. “I’m not. What girl is good enough to measure up to that?”

  My lips press together, and I turn my attention back to my locker, where a lavender rose is dangling with a note attached. Slowly, I detach the piece of folded paper and open it.

  Look right.

  Confused, I glance around to see Justin leaning against the lockers with one leg propped up, one hand in his pocket, and his fedora tilted down to emphasize his smile.

  Grabbing the flower, I take a long sniff before flashing it in his face. With a soft smile, I ask, “Why lavender?”

  “They’re hard to come by. They’re unique and symbolize two very important things. Enchantmen.” His tongue grazes his lips.

  “And?”

  “Love at first sight.” The words cause me to blush as I grab a binder from the back of my locker.

  I bite my bottom lip nervously and focus on sliding the binder inside my bag. “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing for lunch?”The question is followed by me shutting my locker.

  I toss my book bag over my shoulder, the rose still dangling from my fingertips, “Probably the same thing I do every day. Work in the art room.”

  Justin nods slowly before letting his foot drop. “Have lunch with me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” My head reels because I don’t think I’ve been asked out since I was a sophomore. Instantly, my mouth begins to ramble in a familiar way. “You know, I really should go to class and work on my project.”

  “But…”

  “And it’s a big project. I mean, almost a quarter of my grade.”

  “But…”

  “In fact, Miss Kennedy says that she expects a lot from this project. She really wants to see me shine with something different. I’ve been working really hard, but sometimes, I just think that…”

  With a gentle touch of my hand, Justin interrupts. “Peyton.”

  Realizing I’m rambling, I bite my bottom lip again. “Sorry.”

  “Have lunch with me today,” his voice softly purrs, “please.”

  My head bobs up and down, helpless in the battle against his bright blue eyes. “Okay.”

  Quickly, Justin grabs my free hand, plants a kiss on it, and leads me away, with him walking backward past the two girls who were ogling over him earlier. After a deep look into my eyes, he glances at the two girls and tips his hat. “Ladies.”

  “Bye.” They coo
, hypnotized by his presence.

  He turns around, so now, he is dragging me by the hand behind him, which is when I give the girls a quick look. Intimidated by their hateful stares, I look down once more, terrified to guess what everyone is thinking.

  Before I know it, I’m watching Justin spread a bright red and white checkered blanket across the green grass. Dangling the basket Justin had pre-packed in his car for us, from my hands, I watch and admire the fact he really does look gorgeous doing anything. Once it’s set, I sit down beside him and begin to bring out the champagne glasses for sparkling water.

  The two of us engage in a light and friendly conversation over homemade sushi and fresh cut strawberries.

  After many random laughs over the strangest combinations of food we’ve ever eaten (he totally has me beat with his the vanilla bean cupcakes with friend worm sprinkles), Justin stretches his body out so that he is lying on his side, staring at me.

  “So, Peyton, tell me, what are your parents like?” I stretch my legs out in front of me.

  I lean back with a heavy sigh, allowing my ponytail free hair to brush the grass. “Well, my mom’s gorgeous. She used to be an international model and traded it all in to be, well, my mother. My father is probably the most understanding person I know. No matter what it is or what I want to do, he says what’s most important is my happiness.”

  “Sounds like a nice guy.”

  “Yeah.” I nod slowly.

  “So, did you grow up here?”

  “No. I’m actually a gallery brat.”

  A soft chuckle escapes him. “What’s a gallery brat?”

  “It’s like being a military brat, but instead of moving from city to city because the government tells you to, you move from city to city because the art community demands you to. I’ve lived in thirteen different cities since I was born.”

  “Wow.” The word slides out of his mouth slowly. “That doesn’t sound like fun.”

  Staring at my toes and clicking them together, I respond, “It’s not. You know what the worst part is? Having to say goodbye every time you think you’ve finally found somewhere you belong.”