by James Ramos
Why did Darcy have to be so stinking interesting? Why couldn’t she either be off-putting or alluring? Why’d she have to vacillate between the two, or even be both at the same time? I tried to push her out of my head, but she just wouldn’t go away.
“This blows,” I muttered.
“What’s that?” Mark asked.
“Nothing. Wake me when we get there, will you?”
Twenty minutes later I was awakened by the bus rocking. We were pulling into the art museum parking lot. The building beside us was built like a bunch of pale green shoe boxes that were in various stages of falling down. Artful, I believe, was what they were going for.
We filed out of the buses and into the funny-shaped building. The lobby was huge, with angular, clean white walls and a high ceiling. Some type of weird glowing orb made of light bulbs sat at the center of the room. Even though the space was wide open, everything felt somehow off-limits, like there were certain places where you weren’t supposed to walk.
The crowd consisted of mostly young people, many of whom I assumed were on field trips of their own. I briefly wondered whether or not Gabby’s school was here too, and I hoped she wouldn’t put in an appearance today.
A thin man with circular glasses and a frizzy mane awaited us. “Welcome students,” he said in a high pitched voice, “to the Phoenix Art Museum!”
There were a few less-than-enthusiastic greetings from the audience. I shifted onto the balls of my feet. I was already sick of being here. Our guide led us further inside. The walls were a slick, gray-green rock that made the corridor feel like a cave. Suddenly we emerged into an atrium with bright orange walls and glistening white floors and ceiling. The contrast was jarring.
I couldn’t pay attention to our guide’s presentation. Instead I looked around at all the strange exhibits. Panoramic rocky desert landscapes, weird self-portraits, and odd sculptures arranged without a rhyme or reason I could discern. I never understood what the big deal with most of it was. Some of it was nice to look at, but nothing held my interest.
Nothing, that is, that had been here before we arrived.
All of my attention fell on Darcy, who seemed absorbed in her surroundings. Darcy . . . and the insufferable imbecile next to her. They almost made a good pair.
I scowled. No, they didn’t. Calvin was pretentious and narcissistic. Darcy was somewhat the same. Still, I refused to believe that they belonged together. Calvin whispered something to her and then slipped away. A restroom break, in all likelihood. Which, I noted with no small amount of satisfaction, provided me with opportunity to observe her alone.
I’d never seen the look on her face she had now. That judgmental arch to her eyebrows was gone, replaced by a look of, dare I say, admiration? What was there to enjoy here?
At last the tour guide came to the conclusion of his exhaustive introduction. Mrs. Lola took over from him. “Now comes the fun part, people,” she said giddily. “The scavenger hunt!” She explained how we were to work in pairs and find the various exhibits listed on the paper she and the other instructors were handing out, and make notes on each of them. “Remember, be back here in one hour.”
She dismissed us, and our group surged into motion again. Everyone except me. A golden opportunity had presented itself. Darcy was right across from me, and she was alone again.
I took a step forward, and suddenly I wasn’t in the museum anymore. I was back at Lucas’s party, cutting my way through the crowd. A part of me was apprehensive. Could I expect the same chilly reception as Darcy had given me then? It didn’t matter. Because as I zigzagged through the people separating me from her, she was all I cared about. Darcy. The puzzle. She stood on the far side of a statue that looked like someone had started carving a human torso only to give up halfway through it. She was studying it like it was the most interesting thing she’d ever seen.
I shuffled next to her, my hands shoved into my pockets to keep from fidgeting with them. She didn’t notice me. I cleared my throat. “Want to be partners?”
My voice seemed to come from someone else’s mouth.
She looked up in surprise. “I’m sorry?”
I resisted the urge to brush the bangs from her brow so I could see her eyes better. “I said, would you like to be partners?”
I waited, leaving myself completely at her mercy. She brought the full force of those overwhelming dark blue eyes to bear on me. Finally her lips curled up into a smile. “Sure.”
I was shocked. “Really?”
She almost laughed. “Really.”
Was there a catch? I forced my excitement down. “Great,” I managed. “Where to first?”
She scanned her handout. “The Phillip C. Curtis exhibit is the closest; we can start there.”
“Right. There.”
I let her lead the way. I had no idea where we were going, because I was absorbed in the sheer euphoria at the fact that I was finally with her. No, I reminded myself, that I was finally going to figure her out.
“So,” she began with a glance at my shirt as we walked, “more Star Trek?”
“Wars.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Star Wars. The Millennium Falcon is a ship from Star Wars, not Star Trek.”
“Is there a difference?”
Her question wasn’t nearly as annoying as it should have been. “Have you ever seen Star Wars?” I asked.
“No.”
Whatever satisfaction I had died right then. I wasn’t aware that such a person could exist. “Not even one?”
She shook her head. “Not one frame of one film.”
I laughed in disbelief.
Darcy cocked her head and stared at me with a curious look. “What?”
I shook my head. “Nothing, it’s just . . .” She waited expectantly. “I’ve always had this dream to find someone who’s never seen any of the movies before and spend, like, an entire weekend with them watching all six in chronological order.”
Darcy listened intently, then frowned. “What’s so special about watching them in chronological order?”
I should have known she wouldn’t get it. But to my surprise I wanted to explain. I wanted her to get it. “They didn’t come out in order,” I said. “I think to experience the whole story from beginning to end without knowing how it ends would be kind of cool. By the time the prequels all came out everyone—well, most people—already knew that Darth Vader was . . . you know what? Spoilers. Never mind.”
“I know what a Darth Vader is. He’s the robot with breathing problems.”
I cringed. “Sort of.”
She shrugged. “You can tell me. It’s not like I’d ever willingly watch any of them.”
“You never know.”
“I’m pretty sure I do,” she said. “That’s all . . . confusing.”
“You know, the entire story is actually based on the same mythological model commonly used in literature.”
She gave me a blank stare that could have meant I-couldn’t-care-less, but I was beginning to think that was just the way her face was. “You don’t say.”
“I do.”
We stopped when we’d entered a large, square room split in half by a panel that nearly reached the ceiling. Dozens of paintings lined the walls.
“I assume these were all done by Mr. Curtis,” I said as I watched Darcy inspect them each in turn. “Reminds me of Salvador Dali. If Salvador Dali had a weird obsession with deserts.”
“That’s because they were both surrealists,” said Darcy.
“I learned something new today.”
Darcy grinned. “Keep that up.”
When we finished there we left for the Asian art section. The exhibits here were much more interesting. Statues of little soldiers, ancient pottery, Buddhas, and intricate paintings that were much lusher in color.
“We’re not dating, by the way,” Darcy said as she studied a gilded shield. “Calvin and I. We aren’t, like, a thing or an
ything.”
“I certainly hope not.”
“Why’s that?” She straightened up and flashed me one of her rare and disarming grins.
“Well,” I began, suddenly at a loss for words. “He’s a jerk.”
Darcy laughed. “Can’t argue with that.”
We doubled back and worked our way through the main floor, stopping at the contemporary art exhibit, where Darcy was particularly enamored with a Georgia O’Keefe piece, before heading upstairs for the Renaissance, European, and Western exhibits, and then moving back downstairs again for some more contemporary art. It was here that Darcy scoped out a seemingly hidden staircase.
“Yayoi Kusama? I’ve always wanted to see one of these,” she said as she led the way up first one, and then another flight of steps.
“I didn’t even know this place had a third story,” I said as we reached the top floor.
We were met by a massive graphic of a tree projected against the wall opposite the stairs. The spindling branches rotated and twisted in a slow, transfixing pattern.
I quickly decided that this small third level was the most interesting of them all. Exhibits with strobe lights, three-dimensional paintings, and sculptures that moved—if the entire museum was made up of art like this, I might have actually wanted to come here.
“I think we’ve found a winner,” said Darcy.
I looked away from the piece by Cornelia Parker I’d been staring at—a massive cube made up of hundreds of shards of burnt wood suspended in the air—to see that she was grinning at me again.
“I wish more of the stuff around here looked like these,” I told her.
She laughed. “Then you’re going to love this. Come on.”
I followed her. Tucked in a corner was a narrow open door. The sign outside it read “You Who Are Getting Obliterated in the Dancing Swarm of Fireflies—By Yayoi Kusama.”
I stood nervously in the dark doorway. Darcy’s hand touched mine, by accident it felt, but then her fingers very purposely interlocked with mine.
Um. Okay. Wow.
Feeling her hand in mine should not have felt that good. It should not have sent sparks through my entire body. But it did.
“Don’t let go,” she whispered. “You might get lost in here.”
I swallowed nervously. “Don’t worry, I won’t.” Ever.
We stepped inside. It was near pitch black, but from the ceiling hung hundreds of strings with tiny color changing light bulbs dangling from them. The walls were made of mirrors, giving the illusion of an unending space. It was beautiful and disorienting at the same time. The effect was compounded by the eight other people huddled in the space, who were only silhouettes around me. I nearly tripped over a row of girls sitting on the floor against one of the walls.
Next to me Darcy laughed. I felt her hand grip mine tighter. “This is . . . amazing,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” I answered, and it was. It felt like we were walking through the sky.
It was amazing to feel her so relaxed. I could hear it in her voice. I glanced at her, trying to decipher her features against the glimmering illumination of thousands of tiny bulbs. She was smiling. This was a side of her I’d never seen.
And then there was her hand, interlocked with mine. My entire arm buzzed with her touch. It was just like at the movie, only magnified. Her hand felt electric.
All of a sudden I was jostled as more people piled inside. I fumbled through the darkness for an empty spot to stand in, but everywhere I stepped there was another body.
“Over here,” came Darcy’s voice. She tugged me toward her, and I felt the warmth of her body suddenly right next to mine. “Told you you might get lost.”
We stayed unmoving for an eternity. I absorbed her perfume, the steady in and out of her chest as she breathed, and the feeling of her fingers locked with mine. I wanted to stand there for the rest of my life.
What piece of the puzzle is this?
“We’d better go,” she whispered after what felt like hours. She dropped my hand and slid away from me, and I immediately felt cold and empty. Outside I was caught off guard by the intensity of the light.
“We’ve found all of our items,” she said as she scanned her list, business as usual, “and we’ve still got plenty of time. What now?”
I thought for a moment. What else did Darcy enjoy?
“Read any decent books lately?” I asked.
“Not really, why?”
“Want to get out of here?”
She frowned. “What, this room?”
I smiled. “No, this building.”
She gave me a curious face. “And go where?”
I tugged at one of her studded wristbands, wanting nothing more than to wrap her hand in mine again. “Not far.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere I want to show you.”
She hesitated.
“You’re not scared, are you?” I teased.
She cut her eyes at me, but smiled. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 20
I led Darcy back toward the main entrance of the museum, keeping a wary eye out for anyone that might recognize us. Thankfully there were enough students here to obscure us, so it was easy enough to escape without drawing any attention.
Outside it was bright and warm, but a mellow breeze took the edge off the heat. We walked south down the block, keeping our pace brisk in case someone spotted us.
“Where are we going?” Darcy asked again.
“My surprise. Don’t worry; I think you’ll like it.”
We made our way down Central Avenue. Towering buildings loomed over us, and the light rail whizzed past like a shimmering silver snake. Rows of palm trees lined the sidewalks, and business people, tourists, and college students surrounded us. Soon we came upon a large, square building.
“What is this place?” Darcy asked skeptically as we approached.
“This,” I announced proudly, “is the Burton Barr Library.”
We stepped into the parking lot and approached the doors. I watched with no small amount of satisfaction as her mouth fell open and she went still, her eyes sweeping the massive structure.
“C’mon,” I said. “It’s better on the inside.”
The Burton Barr Library was by far the largest, most beautiful library I had ever set foot in. Five floors and 280,000 square feet of books, wrapped in an elegant copper leaf and granite structure that was, coincidentally, only little more than a block away from the museum.
Inside the expansive atrium we were met with a towering, glass and steel elevator, an indoor fountain of gray granite that ladled rippling water at its base, and further back, an open staircase. Patrons lazily traversed the open rows that lined the walls.
“They call this the Crystal Canyon,” I said as Darcy stared at the glass elevator that ran all the way up to the fifth floor.
“This is amazing,” she said.
I smiled. Few people shared my enthusiasm for libraries. Was this another piece of the puzzle?
We toured the first floor, from the self-checkout kiosks to the CD and DVD bins that ran long-wise behind them, then to the back, where the fiction, mystery, and science-fiction books were kept. “Your favorite,” Darcy teased. “Would you like a moment alone?”
As we took the stairs to the second floor, I started to reach for her hand again but caught myself. What am I thinking?
“Can I ask you a question?” I asked as we perused the books in the teen section.
“If you like,” she said guardedly.
“What exactly do you enjoy about art?”
She shrugged, abruptly plucking a book from the nearest shelf and flipping through it. “I’m not sure. I think it’s the fact that there aren’t any rules. I mean, there are rules, but everything is abstract. Real life can be so rigid and structured. There are things you have to do, things you can’t do, and things that are expected of you. When an artist creates, they’re free.
They can do any and everything they can imagine. It’s . . . refreshing. Escapism, I suppose.”
“Escapism . . .” The word turned and turned again in my head. That word in itself was an elusive piece of the Darcy puzzle. She wanted to escape. Was she a runner, like me?
“How are rehearsals going?” she asked, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Better than I expected, oddly enough. I like them. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.”
“Are you?”
I had to think about that. “Yeah.”
She nodded. “I’ve been reading your articles. I look forward to seeing the show.”
“Thanks. I think you’ll like it.”
She tossed me an odd look—brow raised, a half grin on her mouth, like she’d caught me saying something I wasn’t supposed to. Something she liked.
We skipped the fourth floor and moved up the fifth.
“Why don’t you like Shakespeare?” she asked suddenly.
I laughed. “Does there have to be a reason for everything?”
“Says the boy who’s chronicling a production of one of the Bard’s most prolific stage plays.”
She had me there. “It’s not that I don’t like Shakespeare. It’s just . . . I read for enjoyment. How can I enjoy what I’m reading if I have to stop every four lines to brush up on the finer points of fourteenth century customs and society just to understand a joke?”
She nudged me with her shoulder. “So what you mean is, you don’t like to work that hard.”
I poked her shoulder. “No.”
She grinned and poked me back. “Sounds an awful lot like that’s what you’re saying to me.”
“I bet it does.”
We reached a long row of windows at the end of the floor, and stood pressed against the glass. The view of the city was sublime; we could see clear across the valley and on to the grainy mountains that surrounded us.
“So what happens next?” she asked quietly.
“Next?” I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the immediate next—after we left the library—or the other, far off next, such as what would happen between us.