THE PHOTO TRAVELER (THE PHOTO TRAVELER SERIES - BOOK 1)

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I spend my entire shift at the museum replaying what Mr. P told me. The look in his eyes, like he was trying to tell me something without coming right out and saying it. I can’t decide if my mind’s playing tricks on me or not.

      On one of my errands for Mitch, I pass the new Mona Lisa exhibit and overhear a group of students excitedly debating who Da Vinci’s muse actually was. I know that people have been speculating about this for centuries, but I never really cared. Until now, when I decide that a short trip will be a good way to clear my head.

      I grab one of the brochures and run to the bathroom. But it doesn’t work. I repeat the chant a half-dozen times, but nothing happens.

      I’m freaking out. Has something gone wrong with my abilities? I find a brochure with images of another temporary exhibit and travel to it and back again successfully. But when I try to go to the Mona Lisa again, I still can’t. Is it possible that the subject of this amazing painting never was a real person? That Da Vinci only imagined her? What an unbelievable frenzy that would cause in the art world.

      I walk out and start heading back to the gift shop. Someone grabs my shoulder and I whip around, shielding my face.

      “Calm down, baybeh doll! Meesha isn’t gonna hurtcha.”

      “Sorry. My anxiety’s sorta been acting up.”

      “Well, a blind man coulda seen that.”

      “Hey …”

      “Mm-hmm?”

      “What time do you get off at tonight?”

      “Same as you, I assume. 6 o’clock. Gotta make sure everyone’s outta here and then I can go. Why ya askin’?

      “Would you mind giving me a ride home tonight?” I just don’t feel like being alone. I’m a wreck.

      “Sure, sweet thang. Meetcha out front. I shouldn’t be any later than 6:15.”

* * *

After work I make a quick call to Estelle to check up on her. She seems fine. Nowhere near the person she was when I arrived, but better…I guess.

      Meesha walks out of the building, pointing at her watch. “Let’s go. Told ya I wouldn’t be later’n six-fifteen, didn’t I?”

      I follow her down Constitution, where a navy 1999 Ford Explorer is parked at a meter under a shady tree.

      She gives me a look after I settle in the cracked leather seats. “I hope you don’t expect to be driving in this car without no seatbelt?”

      “Oh.” I buckle up immediately as she tunes the station to Majic 102.3

      I want to tell her what’s going on but don’t dare, so I stare out at the blur of shop lights along Pennsylvania Avenue. A smooth R&B song plays while we wait for a pedestrian to cross the street. “You know,” I finally say, “when I first started practicing how to drive, I wanted this car more than anything.”

      “Oh yeah? And what happened?”

       “My adoptive parents—well, my adoptive father anyway, wasn’t exactly too fond of me.”

      “How come?”

      It’s the first time anyone’s ever really asked me. But what I find really strange is that I actually feel like I want to talk about it. I never have before. “He blamed me for my adoptive mother’s death. I guess it was sort of my fault. But I dunno… I couldn’t have stopped it. I don’t think I could’ve. Anyways… he used to beat the crap out of me. Pretty much all the time. I’ve had a tooth knocked out. Arm broken. Stitches. You name it. Pretty messed-up life, huh?”