Chapter 19 Heaven
Heaven
I might die in the friend zone. The hug was worse than the cheek kiss.
So much worse, and by worse, I mean so much better.
I figured the drive to the museum would be enough time for me to push aside whatever weird feelings I was starting to develop, but the hug?
Come on, man! You can’t hug people like that and expect them not to fall in love with you.
I’ve been hugged before, of course, but I didn’t want this hug to stop and that is alarming.
Maybe my shyness and anxiety are causing me more problems than I realize.
Being scared to share my artwork is one thing, but losing your mind over a hug because you’ve made it to seventeen with no meaningful contact from another girl is something I might need to jot down in a journal or relay to a therapist. How does she live like this? ?? I have to know.
But the hug isn’t even my biggest issue.
We make our way down to the first floor finally, and we’re still holding hands.
We’ve both let go a few times so we could take more pictures and scan more of the informational QR codes, but then we go right back to holding hands.
She reaches for me first, most of the time.
Yes, I’m counting like some sort of obsessive freak, but I keep reaching for her too!
When I come out of a trance from seeing my first Warhol in person, I have mild panic when I see she’s not standing next to me anymore.
I turn and find her a few feet away looking at this four-foot hair comb statue that’s leaning against the wall.
I just drift right back over to her and scoop her hand up like I’m afraid I’m gonna get lost on this field trip.
What is wrong with me? Also! I hate that she’s right again!
I don’t care about anyone seeing us. That should be more than mildly concerning!
I hate being looked at, but holding her hand does not feel normal or comfortable.
It’s like the most exhilarating thing that’s ever happened to me in my life, and it’s bad that I’m not acknowledging how embarrassing that is.
I know Saylor doesn’t have much experience with girls, but she’s done something like this before.
Many times. I haven’t, even if we’re just talking about holding hands as friends.
But that’s not the worst part. Holding her hand feels good, and all I can think about is this day ending and us somehow never holding hands again. Will I die? Maybe!
I try to shake off the weird experience while walking through the immersive piece on consumerism and misogyny that takes up the entire second floor, and let Saylor lead me through the final exhibits in this part of the museum.
We enter another big room, but there’s only one piece in there.
This giant curved wood piece that takes up most of the space.
A white guy with glasses in a dark blazer nods at us as we come around the side of the piece.
“It’s like a wooden sand dune,” Saylor whispers.
“Yeah,” I mutter.
The wood curves inward, and two people and their kid walk out of the space where it folds in at the middle.
I follow Saylor inside. We both look up at the curved wood towering around us on all sides.
I have no plans to sculpt or build anything, but this is very cool.
I turn and catch a glimpse of the exhibit attendant who has moved so he can watch us through the curved break in the wood. Saylor spots him too.
“We should just start making out. Give him a real show.” She chuckles. My heart jumps in my throat.
“No,” I blurt out.
“I’m just kidding.”
“I don’t know, you might be making out with Bethany all the time when no one is looking.” I know how ridiculous and panicked I sound. And this weird pang of jealousy hits me. I don’t want to think about her kissing other girls, which means I definitely need to seek professional help.
“I’ve never made out with Bethany or Tatum or Glory. Emily is pregnant with my baby right now, but that’s a secret.” She’s looking up at the large opening at the top of the sculpture when she says it. I’m glaring at her when she finally looks back in my direction.
“You’re cute when you’re cranky. Come on.
” Saylor pulls me back out of the opening just in time for this old Asian man to slip in behind us.
We head out of that room and finish the rest of the bottom floor.
There’s a long walk by a mounted light installation and a room filled with a massive city that looks like it is built out of LEGOs and Hot Wheels tracks.
The attendant standing by the wall tells us the little cars go all around the city every hour on the hour.
I ask Saylor if she wants to wait around for another thirty minutes. She shakes her head.
We step back out into the heat and across the pathway that goes into the other building. We walk around for a little while. There are more paintings and this cool mini exhibit on the history of the motion picture. I take a few more pictures, but soon I’m all museumed out.
“We walked the whole place and didn’t rush.
I think we definitely completed our second square,” Saylor says when I tell her.
I don’t tell her the part about how looking at some of the pieces is making me doubt my own ability to illustrate something that someone would want on their body.
I’ll keep that bit of self-doubt in my back pocket.
We go to the gift shop, and I grab my dad a puzzle that features Warhol’s tomato soup can and a church fan with this funky memorial painting of Chadwick Boseman that looked more like a quilt than a painting.
My dad would like it. I grab some colored pencils that I don’t need.
Saylor buys a bunch of postcards and a little journal with some of Kehinde Wiley’s signature flowers in it.
Somehow, it’s hotter when we step outside.
Maybe too hot to hold Saylor’s hand. She’s rummaging through the stuff she bought anyway.
“Here.” Saylor hands me a postcard with a Diego Rivera painting. “For your angsty art girl collection.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. Saylor grabs my elbow and pulls me out of the middle of the path, saying excuse me to two women with strollers.
I look at the postcard again. I almost tell her she didn’t have to buy me anything, but I like the postcard and I like that she gave it to me.
The part of me that apparently likes hugs and platonic hand-holding is gonna frame this postcard.
“Well, since the square is done, you want me to take you home or do you want to get lunch?” I ask, knowing what I want her answer to be.
It’s still early in the day and she did tell me the last place she wanted to be was home, but still, I don’t think Saylor wants to keep holding hands the way I do.
I don’t think Saylor’s whole body feels like a live wire or that she’s worried what will happen when we break contact.
She’s not going through puberty again just because I brushed her fingers.
“I do not want to go home. Not yet.” I wait as she pulls out her phone.
“Since we aren’t in a rush, we can jump around a little.
Let’s see. Too hot for a sidewalk chalk mural.
We might have to do that at night. We can go pick up the tie-dye stuff and pretend we were gonna do it this afternoon, or we can eat and watch Love Island instead?
” That devious smile spreads across her face, and I think about making out with her the way friends totally make out with each other.
“We can do that,” I say, my eyes drifting to her lips for a few moments too long. “What do you want to eat?”
“Whatever. What do you want?”
“I mean I just really want a Baja Blast,” I say honestly.
Say grabs my hand then and tugs me toward the car. “Let’s grab the tie-dye stuff then go get Taco Bell, then.”