romeo remeemed

chapter 8

ariel

I can't believe this. Any of it. The past fourteen hours are a dream that keeps getting progressively more bizarre. First finding out about the bet, then the near disaster in the car, then Dylan acting as if he likes me-maybe even a lot, maybe even for real. And now this easy escape from my crushing routine. I can't believe it. I can't believe I undressed with Dylan in the same room. I can't believe I've been flirting like it's my new job. I can't believe I conned my mother or that I'm skipping school or that I called the office and pretended to be Dylan's dad's girlfriend to keep him from getting detention. I can't believe Dylan and I shared a large coffee and three sticky pink donuts, or that we listened to his favorite playlists and talked music the entire way down to Santa Barbara, or that he's made me smile more in a few hours than I have in months. Maybe longer. If it weren't for the episode last night and the nightmare this morning, I'd think this was all some pretty dream I'm going to wake up from any second. But it's not. It's real. I'm really standing here in the Works on Paper wing. Dylan Stroud is really hovering over my right shoulder, staring at an Egon Schiele painting of a gaunt man with sunken cheeks and footless legs. He's really close enough for me to smell the detergent on his tight gray T-shirt. Close enough that his breath kisses my neck when he speaks. "I like this." His voice is hushed. It's as if he feels it, that charge straight to the heart I get whenever I look at something by a master. Who would have imagined? I guess I would have. Back when he sang that song for me at the spring formal rehearsal, I did. I believed he felt the way I felt, that books and music and art dug into his guts and rearranged his molecules and seemed more real to him than real life ever does. And maybe I was right. Maybe the way he acts at school is a cover to hide that part of himself that other people wouldn't understand. Because most people don't see the world the way we see it. We. Could we be ... we? Maybe. Today I say ... maybe. I still don't trust him. Not entirely. He's too different. He watches me like a stranger, like someone who hasn't sat across the aisle from me since first grade. We're having a great time, but a voice in my head warns me to be careful, to keep my distance. Still, distance isn't easy. Looking at art alone has always been a transporting experience, but looking at art with Dylan is completely ... sexy. I close my eyes, and my entire face starts to burn. I've never even thought that word, but since the moment Dylan crawled through my window this morning I've been feeling it. All my senses are heightened and conspiring against me. The sunlight slanting across the room, the warm, soapy smell of Dylan mingling with the old-book-and-older-paint smell of the art, the hint of coffee floating up the stairs from the café, and all the raw emotion hanging on the walls. It's sensual, heady. Sexy. It makes me want to turn around, wrap my arms around his neck, and press against him the way I did last night. I want him to kiss me again. I know it would be better than it was the first time. More authentic. Maybe even the most authentic thing I've ever felt. "What do you think?" he asks. "I love it." I turn my head and find his lips only inches from my cheek. I don't know whether to hold my breath or breathe deep, to pull back or give in. "You don't think it's ugly? Disturbing?" His dark eyes flick to my lips. I know he's thinking about kissing me, too, and I start to worry that my heart might injure itself from all the slamming it's doing behind my ribs. I shake my head. "No. It's real. It's beautiful." "You're beautiful." I tuck my chin, letting my hair fall over my ruined cheek. For a second I'd actually forgotten about the scars. I never forget about them. Never. That's why I'm wearing a billowy long-sleeved blue shirt and jeans even though I know it will get warm today. I always cover the scars on my arms; I always keep my hair arranged to conceal as much of my face as I can. I can't believe I let my guard down. Even for a second. "Don't." His fingers trail up my throat, and my breath shudders out in a way that leaves no doubt about what he makes me feel. A part of me is ashamed, and demands I run before Dylan laughs and confesses this is all a prank. But another part wonders ... I look up. He isn't laughing. "Don't hide. There's no reason to." "Yes, there is," I whisper. "People stare." "Have you ever thought they're staring for a different reason?" His fingers curl around the back of my neck, and my body hums like he's touched me everywhere, all at once. "Because you're too beautiful not to stare at?" "No." I swallow, keenly aware that his lips are slowly moving closer. "I haven't." "Well," he whispers. "Maybe you're dumber than you seem too." And then he kisses me, a soft brush of his lips against mine. It's feather-light and fleeting, and he's gone before I can even think about kissing him back, but it doesn't matter. It still feels like my soul is going to explode, like I'm going to shatter into a thousand pieces and all of them will grow wings and fly wild through the room. "Come on. I want to see more." He takes my hand. After only a moment's hesitation, I let him. "Let's check out the special exhibit." "We can't. It doesn't open until this weekend." I'd been both disappointed and relieved when I'd read the dates on the sign downstairs. I love Schiele's work, but a lot of it is on the ... erotic side. I stop walking at the closed door to the exhibit, holding still when Dylan gives my arm a tug. "Really. It's not open to the public." "And?" "We'll get in trouble if we go inside. They might have an alarm on the door." "They might." He looks over his shoulder, eyes glittering. "We'll never know unless we open it." Something in my chest rumbles, like a motorcycle revving up. Exciting, wild, and way too similar to what I felt last night when we stole that bottle of wine. Daring is exhilarating, but it can also be dangerous. "The last time we broke the rules, I ended up drunk and forgetting things." "No, the last time we broke the rules, we ended up having a lovely drive and eating some pink donuts with extra sprinkles," he says, urging me closer to the door. "We agreed to forget about that other time that I can't even remember because I've forgotten about it so completely." He reaches for the handle, and the rev inside me builds to a roar. I look over my shoulder, noting the lack of cameras near the ceiling, half wishing the museum guard we saw in the other room would wander in and keep me from giving in to this reckless side of myself. But he doesn't, and when the door opens with a squeak-and no alarm-I let Dylan draw me inside the softly lit room. The door snicks shut behind us, sealing us into a silence more private than that of the rest of the museum. This is ours, not to be shared. It makes the air taste better. "See? Nothing to worry about." Dylan keeps hold of my hand as we walk toward the first set of paintings, older works that resemble that of Schiele's mentor, Gustav Klimt. There's a beautiful woman with red hair and piercing eyes, and several moody twilight landscapes. I take them in, trying to act like this is normal, holding hands with a boy, being one of two. "And these are ... very nice," he says. I laugh at his disappointed tone. "They are." I lead the way deeper into the room. The exhibit is arranged in chronological order, and I know Schiele's darker work came later. I'm still nervous, but now that we're inside, I'm also excited. Looking at art up close and personal is so much better than seeing it in a book. "But I think you'll like his later work more." "Why do you think that?" I shrug. "Just a hunch." We stop in front of a series of portraits of women. One is holding her skirts bunched in her hands, revealing a long stretch of thigh. Another sits with her legs spread and chin propped on her knee, both provocative and innocent at the same time. The last is of two women-one nude, one in a red dress. They're embracing, obviously lovers, but it isn't sexy. It's sad. Furtive and lonely. I can feel the ache the woman in the red dress feels. Her life has been hard, and now her heart is in danger. This could be the last time she ever holds the person she loves in her arms. I take a shaky breath, heaviness building behind my eyes. "Your hunch is right." Dylan squeezes my hand. "They remind me of you." "Really?" I turn to him, surprise banishing the rush of emotion. "Why?" "I don't know." He angles his body closer to mine. "Why are you afraid? Why are your eyes so old and sad, pretty girl?" My lips part, and for a second I think about lying. But I can't, not when he's gone to the trouble of really seeing me. I can't remember the last time anyone did that, if anyone ever has. "I guess I've seen more than I should." Or heard more, felt more. I swallow, trying not to think about the screaming things or my wrecked mind. I don't want to be broken and strange today. I want to be happy, a girl holding hands with a boy. "This isn't just about the accident when you were little, is it?" He looks down at me with concern, but not pity. I'm glad. Concern is hard enough to handle. I glance back at the paintings. "Not really, but it's related, I guess. The other stuff started right after the accident, when I was in the hospital trying to get better." "Other stuff." "I started ... hearing voices. That no one else could hear. The doctors thought I was having a bad reaction to the morphine, but even after they took me off the medicine, the voices didn't go away." I cross my arms and stare at the girl with her head on her knee. She can't be more than fifteen, but she's seen her share of bad things. I can tell. She knows how I feel and gives me the courage to say, "I still hear voices sometimes, if I get really angry." "What do they say?" "I don't know. I can't understand them." I'm uncomfortable-very-but I can't seem to stop telling the truth now that I've started. "They just scream. They don't sound human." I risk a glance at him from the corner of my eye, expecting to see him backing away from the crazy girl. But he's still close. Too close. I catch another whiff of his Dylan smell, and things begin to ache inside of me. I could get used to this. I could come to count on him being next to me, on having someone I can really talk to. I could come to care and need and maybe even love, and then, when he finds out how messed up I really am, the pain of losing him will be horrible. Unbearable. Better to clue him in to the fact that I'm the Freak the kids at school think I am, and get it over with. "I call them my episodes," I say, voice brittle as I force myself to break this fragile thing I want to cling to so badly. "I had one last night. I thought I saw something on the playground, like a ghost or ... something. And then I got cold the way I do before I start to hear the voices. So I ran. I made it to a vineyard before the screaming started. I fell down and passed out in the mud, and when I woke up ..." My eyes slide closed. I feel like I'm going to throw up, but I'm not finished. I'll tell it all, and then I can walk to the bus station and start trying to figure out how to get my stupid, freakish self home. "When I woke up, I'd wet my pants." I spit the words out like seeds. Swift. Efficient. "Just like in fourth grade. You remember that, right? Everyone knows the story of how the Freak became the Freak." He doesn't say anything. Not a word. Nothing, for so long that the nothing feels like a weight that will crush me into Ariel juice on the floor. I open my eyes, braced for a sneer or a laugh or words that will make me feel smaller than I do already. But he doesn't say a thing. He just stares at me, a look on his face I can't pin down. Maybe disbelief. Maybe fear. Maybe a really bad case of déjà vu. I'm having some of that again today. As wonderful as this morning has been, it has also been eerie. It's like I've lived it all before, and a part of me knows that Dylan and I aren't going to end well. That's why I made myself say what I said. I know something's going to go wrong, and better that it happens sooner than later. I wait for Dylan's eyes to give me a better idea of what he's thinking, but it's like he's a museum exhibit-frozen in time, never to change. Finally I have to break the silence. "So I guess you think I'm crazy for real now." He flinches, runs his tongue between his lips, and then does the last thing I expect. He takes my hand again, and holds on tight. "I don't think you're crazy. I ..." "You what?" "Screaming things." He says the words like he'd say chair or car or donuts, like something he could point out in a picture, something he understands. I cling to his hand, the feeling that something is about to be born in the space between us making my heart race. What will he say? Is there any way that he could understand? No one ever has. I assumed no one ever could, but maybe ... His eyes meet mine, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry, to celebrate that I've found a similar creature, or to mourn the fact that there's a person alive with eyes sadder than mine. "I want to tell you something." He licks his lips again. "But I ..." "You can tell me." I take his other hand, and wish I had the guts to put my arms around him the way I want to. "I won't think less of you." He shakes his head. "Yes, you will. You-" Before he can finish, the door to the exhibit squeaks open and an impatient voice demands, "What are you kids doing in here? This is a closed exhibit." It's a man with gray-streaked brown hair wearing a browner suit. He isn't the museum guard we saw earlier, but he's obviously someone official. And angry. I pull away from Dylan, dropping his hands, as if not touching him will somehow reduce the amount of trouble we're about to get into. Dylan edges in front of me. "Sorry. We didn't realize." "The sign on the door says No Entry." The man narrows his eyes and takes another step into the room. "Why aren't you two in school?" "We go to the college?" The terror inspired by the possibility of getting caught ditching makes my lie come out as a question. The man snorts. "You look like you're twelve years old." "We're freshmen," Dylan says, his lie smoother than mine. "Art history majors. That's why we wanted to see the exhibit." "So you're some of Professor King's kids?" "Right." Dylan nods. "The professor's a big Schiele fan." The man smiles, a smug, condescending, old-person grin that makes me feel about three years old. "There is no Professor King. And I'm calling your parents." My stomach turns to lead, and I think I hear Dylan cuss beneath his breath, but I can't be sure. My heart is beating too loud in my ears. My mom is going to kill me. Really, kill me. She was cool last night and this morning, but she will not be cool with the fact that I lied to her and played sick so I could skip school and go to Santa Barbara. I'm a walking dead girl. All that's left is for my mom to come retrieve my body. The man waves us toward the door. "Follow me to the office. We'll call your parents and-" "Run!" Dylan grabs my arm and hauls me in the opposite direction. I trip, but he helps me along beside him until I find my balance. When I do, I don't hesitate. I sprint, keeping pace with him as he dashes for the emergency exit on the other side of the room. Suit Man shouts for us to "Stop!" but we don't. We dart around glass cases displaying some sculpture I wish I could have looked at-I didn't know Schiele sculpted-and behind us I hear dress shoes begin to slap the wood floor. I have a split second to wonder what will happen if Suit Man catches us, and then Dylan is lunging for the door with the red and white stripes on the handle. An alarm blares, but I don't hesitate. Who cares about the alarm? We're already caught. We can't get into any worse trouble, and we might just get away. These stairs have to lead somewhere. Dylan grabs the black railing and swings around the first landing, looking over his shoulder to make sure I'm close behind before pounding down the concrete steps with a bum-bum-bum-bum that echoes in the stairwell. I follow him, letting my feet fly without thinking about the next step, carried along by adrenaline and the delicious rush of running from something I actually have a chance of escaping. It's exhilarating, a high that makes me want more, more, faster, faster. I catch up with Dylan and pass him on the second landing. He laughs as I beat him to the main level, and I giggle like a madwoman as I lead the race down a shiny, tiled hallway, toward a set of glass double doors with sunshine and green grass on the other side. Dimly I hear Suit Man shout again, but his voice is far away, and we are nearly, nearly, almost-"Free!" I shout as I burst into the light, another laugh bubbling up as I spin to see Dylan dashing through the door behind me. He grabs me around the waist and swings me in a circle, pressing a breathless kiss to my cheek. My feet hit the ground again, but on the inside I'm still floating. "Come on." He pulls me toward State Street. "Before he sends someone in better shape." I jog after him, holding tight to his hand, his kiss burning through my skin and setting me on fire as I realize that-for the first time in my life-I'm not running alone.