Portrait of Us (9 page)

Or at least try.

I loved art. But my love was safe, comforting. Classical art was like a warm blanket on a stormy day. It soothed my soul.

Matthew spoke of art like it was a forest fire.

“Fine.” He crooked a smirk at me. “I accept that challenge. I hope you're ready to eat your words.”

I swallowed, and my heart began its irregular thump-thump. Oh boy, was I ready for this? Too late to back out now. Pride made me give a shaky nod.

“There's a gallery right here in Lakewood that we'll go to on Thursday instead of meeting about our project,” he continued. Excitement filled his voice, and he grabbed his phone and opened his notes program to jot something down. “I'll take care of it.”

“Corinne!” Maxine hollered as she ran toward us. She was breathless and panting, her hands thunked on her knees as she bent over and drew in sharp breaths. “I think . . . Charlie lost . . . the car. It rolled . . . into a creek.”

I sighed and stood. “I'd better go help him or he'll whine for a week about it.”

Matthew nodded, and an emotion crossed his face that I couldn't quite pin down. He scrawled down an address on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. “Thursday. Eleven a.m. Meet me here.”

I was proud of how steady my hand was when I grabbed the paper, even as his thumb brushed against mine. Small tremors zinged through my skin, but I don't think he noticed.

Matthew walked away, and I turned my attention to trying to save the solar car. But in the back of my mind, all I could think about was how my stomach would probably never be normal around him again.

The exterior was nothing like I expected. Thursday morning, I stood outside of the nondescript building on Detroit, a few cars flying by. There was a large picture window, a thick purple curtain hiding most of the interior from the outside world. The red front door had
SANDS ART GALLERY
written in a bold black script above it.

I glanced at the time on my phone. I was a few minutes early, so I leaned back against the brick wall, crossing my arms. I had on a flowing white shirt with slitted sleeves—dressy but cute. I paired it with a pair of fitted black jeans and sparkly flats. Thankfully there had been a bit of a break in the temperature, and it was only in the upper seventies, so the cool breeze slipped down the road and caressed my bare skin.

I had no idea what to expect from today's gallery visit, but I hoped it would go okay. I'd told myself a hundred times that I was not going to make today awkward. I wouldn't be stubborn, would open myself up to the experience, even if I ended up not liking it. I'd presented the challenge, so I had to give him a fair chance.

It didn't help things, though, that I kinda sorta felt like this was a date. As dumb as it sounded, my stomach had been a tangled mess ever since I'd gotten up this morning. I was nervous
and excited about seeing Matthew. Sharing with him something that was so important to me—art.

It would be good for our project, I told myself, to get my head out of that zone. We were tentative friends. Partners. We needed to learn how to appreciate each other's styles. Maybe he'd even be open to exploring classical art at the Cleveland Museum of Art with me sometime. All in the name of research, of course.

“You look great,” Matthew said, popping up beside me out of nowhere.

I jumped and pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. “You scared me to death!” I chastised.

“Sorry.” The wicked twinkle in his eye wasn't the least bit sorry.

I rolled my eyes. “Let's just go inside.” My traitorous brain kept looping on his compliment, though.

When we walked in, the gust of air-conditioning was so strong I actually shivered in delight. Matthew held the door open to let me enter first. The room was dim but not overly dark. There was soft instrumental music playing in the background, and the whole building looked like one big open floor plan with small exhibits thrusting out in various spots on top of the hardwood floor. The brick walls were painted a soft beige, covered in paintings of all sizes.

Matthew touched my lower back, and I swallowed. “Um, wait right here,” he said, nodding toward the attendant in the
corner. “I'll be back in a second.” He headed to the older man and gave him two tickets.

The guy nodded and smiled, peeking over Matthew's shoulder to look at me.

I waved.

Matthew headed back, smiling. “Okay, let's make our way around.”

“You didn't have to buy my ticket,” I said.

“I didn't—they were a gift for us.”

“But—”

“Let's get going before the gallery closes,” he said in a teasing but firm tone. “There are some pieces I want to show you.”

We walked to the left. There was a metal sculpture near the corner, pieces and curves thrusting out everywhere.

“Okay,” I said, pointing at it. “What's up with this?”

Matthew studied it for a moment. He walked around it, taking it in fully. His eyes were fixed on the brushed metal as he did a couple of loops. He peered down at the little plate on the floor beside it. “This piece is called
Tragedy
. The artist created it after she lost her father in the Vietnam War. Keeping that in mind, what do you see in here?”

My heart tweaked in sadness for her. I couldn't imagine how it was to lose a parent, especially in a war. My grandfather didn't speak much about that time period except to say it was difficult—someone he knew had gone into that war and come back a changed man.

I followed Matthew's earlier path and circled the piece a
couple of times. I studied all the juts and lines. Forced myself to really look at it and see how it made me feel. There was a cluster of spikes in one corner with a small teardrop-shaped curve coming off a particularly vicious-looking spike.

The piece made me feel . . . lots of emotions. The spikes were a little scary, to be honest.

“It makes me uncomfortable,” I admitted. “All these sharp points at the bottom. Someone could get hurt on those.”

“It makes me wonder how her dad died,” he said. “Look at this section. It's almost the opposite of the spiky part.”

I peeked on the other side. There was a sweep of curved lines here, hunched around each other. When I kept staring at it, I swore I could almost see the arched back of a person, legs folded under.

Grieving.

“The spikes are her anger, right?” he said. “Her dad died in such a violent way. At war. And here she's crying for him.”

I swallowed. “How do you know?” I asked him. It sounded plausible, and looking at the art, I could see how that would be an interpretation. But who was to say it was the right one?

“Well, that's the way I see it,” he replied. There was no embarrassment, no wavering in his voice. “But someone else in a different place might see it another way. What do you see?”

I had to admit, after he pointed all of that out to me, the artwork started to come to life. The teardrops on top of the spike. The rubble on the ground, like artillery shells. It was like nothing I'd ever experienced before.

I licked my lips and stared at him over the top of the sculpture. “I never would have seen that if you hadn't pointed it out.”

He shrugged, giving a shy smile. “Doesn't mean you wouldn't have seen something. And next time you see this piece, it might look different to you.” He stepped around and grabbed my fingers, and I almost stumbled from the feel of our skin, from holding hands. “There's more I want you to see.”

Matthew stayed close to me and took me to several of his favorite pieces. I could tell he'd been here a few times by the way he gushed about them. His enthusiasm was infectious. Though some of the stuff went right over my head, especially the one with doll heads glued to plastic cups.

“My brother could make that in five minutes,” I said with a snort, staring down at the “art” resting on a low table. “What could this possibly be saying?”

“Look closer. What do you notice about these doll heads?”

I furrowed my brow and scanned down the row. There had to be a hundred blond heads stuck in the cups. Then I saw one in the very back corner. It was a black doll—the only one in the whole group of white dolls.

“This piece makes me angry,” he said quietly. I heard the thread of strength in his voice. “There's a lot I see here. Race, of course—how monochromatic almost everything on here is. But also how fake and plastic we as a society have become.” He glanced at me. “What does this make you think about?”

I blinked and rubbed a hand on my upper chest, right under
my throat. Once he pointed it out, a bunch of contrasting emotions fluttered in my stomach. I picked a memory that flew right to the front of my mind. “My mom gave me both black and white baby dolls as a little kid.” I paused. “I've always been aware of race, of course. As a black girl, that's inevitable in our society. But the color of my friends has never mattered to my family.”

He crooked a grin. “I bet you were a cute kid.”

I shrugged. “I had a bit of a mouth. Always stubborn.”

“I believe that.”

I nudged him in the side, and he chuckled. Sometime over the last hour, the walls had slowly dropped between us. I could feel a difference already. Less hesitation when we spoke to each other. More honesty.

Matthew was smarter than I'd given him credit for. Way smarter. I'd seriously misjudged him, had assumed he was just a flake who didn't care about anything but sports. But he had lots of passion, and the skill to rouse that feeling in others. Even just walking around with him, I could feel his intensity about art.

Had I ever been that strongly vocal about anything I believed in?

Something about him sparked a feeling deep in my heart that I wasn't about to label yet. It made me uncomfortable, aware of myself, of him. All I knew was that despite my discomfort, I wanted to feel it more.

Chapter
Nine

H
e and I walked a
little more around the gallery wall in silence, taking in a series of similar paintings hanging on the far wall. They were a theme of colors. I stood there and just absorbed. Turned off my inner judgmental side and made myself stare at the image, let it present itself to me.

Then I noticed the pattern. The one square of red that made its way marching across the paintings. What did it mean?

I turned to him, expectant.

He laughed and held up his hands. “Hey, I don't have all the answers. This is a new installation since I've been here.”

“How often do you come to this gallery?” I suddenly found myself wanting to know more about him. Who his family was,
where he lived, what he did when he wasn't playing basketball or taking our class.

“As often as I can. At least a couple of times a month.” He chuckled. “My uncle's girlfriend owns this gallery, so she lets me visit whenever I want. For free.”

Interesting. “It's good to have connections,” I teased. “Do you ever come here with anyone?” My face burst into flames when I realized how that could sound. “Um, I mean, like friends or family or whatever.”
Wow, way to be weird, Corinne.

He angled just a fraction toward me and peered down into my eyes. His pupils were wide and dark, and the irises were just a slim blue line around them. I saw him swallow. “You're the first person I've come here with.” His voice was low but intense.

I drew in a steadying breath, my heart thundering in my chest. I'd sworn I wasn't going to give any further thought to this stupid, simple crush I had on him, but the way he was looking at me right now . . . I couldn't resist the pull.

I stepped just a hair closer; heat poured from his body. A small flutter at the base of his throat showed his heart rate matched mine.

“So glad to see you again, Matthew,” a tall slender woman interrupted us. Her brown hair was pulled into a messy bun on her head and she wore a flowing dark blue dress.

I jerked in surprise but tried to recover my cool. Her scrutiny hit me in full force as she took me in with her eyes. Must be his uncle's girlfriend. I thrust out my hand. “Hi, I'm Corinne.”