The Art of Exile

Chapter 1

It figures that when I’m finally chosen for something, it’s to be kidnapped.

I’m trapped in a box. My knees are pulled to my chest, my whole left side numb from lying here for so long. My head throbs from the blow that knocked me out earlier, and metal gloves restrain my hands behind my back, painfully burning my skin. The burning subsides when I relax, but that’s difficult under the circumstances. If I ever get out of here—please, please let me get out of here—I expect to find my palms burned and blistered like over-grilled cheese.

A sob escapes, and in the cramped space, there’s no room for my breath to go except back to me, warm and cloying against my cheek. Strands of my wavy brown hair stick to my face and tickle my eyes, forcing me to keep them shut.

Maybe if I’d received some training before this ill-fated trip, I’d know what to do. Instead, I’m utterly helpless.

I have no idea what’s going to happen to me.

The allegro of my heart beats faster, and my throat tightens. My palms prickle with a familiar warmth. No.

Breathe. Don’t panic.

I had a glass of wine before I was taken, which, at first, helped subdue my hysteria. But now it’s worn off and traveled from my head to my bladder, where it sits with an uncomfortable, building pressure. I won’t be able to hold it in for much longer.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Think of puppies and guys with dimples.

I was with a guy with dimples when I was captured. A guy who is clearly not who he seemed to be.

Tsss. I gasp as the glove scorches the flesh of my palm near the base of my thumb.

Don’t think about him.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Don’t panic.

Who knows how many hours earlier…

When I was planning my trip to Italy, I daydreamed about falling for an Italian, so this should be no surprise. However, I hadn’t expected him to be over five hundred years old. I also hadn’t expected to cry. Yet here come the tears, blurring my vision as I look up at him.

David.

The veins in his hand pulse with tension. I can almost feel him breathe, can almost see the blood orchestrating the life under his skin of cold, hard marble as he prepares to face his much stronger foe. I’ve heard his expression described as determined, but as his gaze bores into me now, it seems more… unsure, self-conscious.

Same, babe. Same.

I can’t believe I almost skipped coming to the Accademia Gallery where Michelangelo’s David stands ready to sweep unsuspecting tourists off their feet.

I’ve seen enough naked male bodies (only one and a half up close and personal, but who’s counting) to realize how incredibly lifelike he is. Though I haven’t ever seen, uh, anyone uncircumcised, so I can’t comment on that particular bit of artistry. Not that I’m looking.

But the fact that a person could hew this man out of stone absolutely boggles my mind.

My dad often quotes that “Man was created in the image of God.” Having a Jewish father, an agnostic mother, and a Catholic grandfather, I’ve always found the concept of “god” to be pretty abstract. But for the first time, I maybe understand what that quote means. The ability to create something as beautiful as David , to craft flesh and bone from mere marble, is surely some kind of divinity.

But this realization of the heights of human potential kinda sucks.

Because how do I use my potential?

This question settles over me, and for a moment I hate myself. For every unfinished painting, every half-written song, every abandoned story. Every attempt that was never quite good enough. Even this trip, which is almost over, and I have yet to accomplish what I was sent to do. I’d come knowing it was a long shot, finding one man in all of Florence, but I’d hoped to finally prove myself to my family. And the door’s about to close on my one and only chance to do so.

I look up at David again; his intense gaze now seems to be one of accusation.

It’s a familiar feeling. Growing up as the least talented member in a family of artists and scholars, I’m accustomed to being judged. I know I have talents, but they often feel more like expectations.

And I always fall short.

I sniff and glance around to see if I can get away with wiping my nose on my sleeve, but somebody’s watching me. A very handsome somebody. And this handsome body has an actual heartbeat, and, though quite tall, is still within the realm of human size, unlike my new boyfriend towering above us. Now I’m even more self-conscious of my tears.

I look back at the boy—the living, breathing one, that is—and he’s still watching me. When our eyes meet, he smiles, and he has dimples that are so charming that I decide to break up with David on the spot.

Sorry, my love. I’ll still buy a postcard with your face on it.

Mr. Dimples is moving toward me now, or maybe he’s just trying to see the sculpture from another angle. He’s even cuter up close, all long limbs and floppy brown hair. A blue gemstone hoop hugs his right earlobe. I’ve been on the hunt for someone wearing a sapphire earring but… no. He’s nothing like the recruiter I’ve been told to look for: a Black man in his fifties with an eye patch or sunglasses and three piercings in one ear of sapphire, emerald, and pearl. This guy might have a blue earring, but he’s white, looks like he’s in college, and has nothing obscuring his twinkling brown eyes and too-long lashes.

The T-shirt he’s wearing has a picture of da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man playing an electric guitar.

Be still my beating heart.

I pretend to scratch my nose so I can deal with the snot situation as inconspicuously as possible. Then I too decide to see David from another angle, wandering close enough to give Mr. Dimples an opening to flirt with me. Though the fact that he just watched me cry over a statue might reduce my chances.

He smiles in a way that shows he sees right through my ploy, and now he’s close enough for me to see that the dimple on his left cheek is deeper than the one on the right.

“Nice shirt,” I say.

“It’s refreshing,” he responds, “to watch someone truly appreciate a masterpiece.”

Heat rises in my cheeks. “Isn’t it rude to come in here flaunting a rival’s work?” I ask, eyeing his T-shirt meaningfully.

“Da Vinci and Michelangelo weren’t rivals,” he says with complete assurance.

Considering that I don’t know nearly as much about the Renaissance masters as I wish I did, I’ll take his word for it.

He extends his hand to me. “I’m Michael.”

I awkwardly shake his hand. It’s warm and calloused, but his nails have been chewed to the quick.

“I’m Ada,” I reply as I pull my hand from his, though I can’t say I want to.

One of his dark brows arches. “Like Ada Lovelace,” he says.

This takes me by surprise. Only a certain kind of person immediately associates my name with Ada, Countess of Lovelace, the first computer programmer.

“The inventor of poetical science,” he continues, amused. “My very favorite kind of science.”

“Theoretical physics is my favorite kind of science,” I respond. “Too bad I suck at math.”

“Theoretical physics is definitely in my top three,” he says.

“For the time travel, right?” I ask.

“How did you know?”

I should stop grinning so hard; I don’t want to appear too eager. But he’s grinning too.

“So, you’re a fan of sculpture?” he asks.

“I didn’t know I was until today.” No other sculpture has ever hit like this one.

“Ah, yes, the David can have that effect on people.”

I feel the easy flow of the conversation settling to a natural conclusion, see the polite shift in his manner as he prepares to move on. But I dumped David for this guy, so I can’t let him slip through my fingers just yet. I say, “If you know so much about its creator, what else can you tell me about my new favorite piece of art?”

“Ah, so I’ve been unsuccessful at hiding the fact that I’m an insufferable know-it-all.” Michael runs his hands through his thick brown hair, pushing it out of his eyes, and his forearm flexes in a way that makes me want to inspect his form as closely as I just did David ’s.

“You say know-it-all. I say kind educator of ignorant, helpless tourists.”

“Ah, yes, ignorant and helpless, the exact two adjectives I would use to describe you,” he says with a dimpled grin. “Well, did you know that in order to familiarize himself with human anatomy, Michelangelo dissected cadavers?”

“I did not know that.”

Michael mimics the position of David ’s hand with his own. “So much of the realism is because Michelangelo was as knowledgeable about the human body as any physician.”

I add, “And he was also a painter, architect, and engineer. Talk about a know-it-all.” I roll my eyes dramatically.

“You say know-it-all. I say true embodiment of the Renaissance ideal.” He lowers his hand.

“The epitome of a Renaissance man,” I say wistfully and perhaps with an edge of bitterness.

The concept of a Renaissance man—someone who’s an expert in multiple fields—is an ambition I’m all too familiar with. It’s the very ideal that’s been hammered into me by my family ever since my hands were big enough to hold a paintbrush and plink at the keys of a piano. But I couldn’t keep up with those expectations. So while my brilliant best friends, Kor and Izzy, spent years training in all sorts of disciplines, I was left home to merely dabble in various hobbies just long enough to start to get good at them and then get bored and move on to something new.

“And here’s another fun fact,” Michael continues. “The piece of stone used for the David had been discarded by other artists for being too flawed. But Michelangelo saw its potential. He carved it freehand, with no model, claiming that he was revealing the form that was already inside as opposed to designing it himself.”

I look up at the statue of an underestimated boy about to fight a giant with nothing but a slingshot. The knowledge that the stone he was created from was equally underestimated adds an additional layer to my appreciation.

Am I underestimated? Or do I just suck?

Considering that many people are relying on me to accomplish a crucial task, but instead I’m getting my flirt on—I’m leaning toward the latter.

“That’s really cool,” I say. “Seeing something’s truest potential instead of its most negative outcome. Unfortunately, I’m a chronic cynic.”

“Is that so? Then what’s this interaction’s most negative outcome?” He motions his hands between us.

“You turn out to be a kidnapper who’s hoping to add my teeth to the collection hidden behind your bedroom mirror?”

His eyebrows shoot up, and his eyes widen. “Okay. Thank you for reminding me of the realities of being a woman alone in a big city. My answer was going to be you leaving before I get the chance to ask you out. But you’re right, molar harvesting is a lot worse.”

I tuck escaping waves of brown hair behind my ear. I heard correctly: the hot, smart dude wants to ask me out. “Well, I can’t possibly go out with you now that I know what you keep behind your mirror!” I say.

Michael steps closer. “Or instead of planning for the most negative outcome, you could consider the positive potential.”

My breath hitches. “Well,” I say. “What do you think the most positive outcome of our interaction could be?”

“I have a few ideas.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed.” He winks. “Starting with more titillating discussions of sculpture.”

“You think you’re joking, but that sounds excellent to me.”

He grins. “In that case…” He motions for me to follow him as he heads away from David and down the corridor. It’s lined with statues of men. But they’re incomplete, their shapes emerging from rough, unfinished stone.

“These are Michelangelo’s Prisoners,” Michael explains. “He deliberately left them unfinished to represent the struggle of humanity.”

Prisoners. Like they’re trapped in the rock, trying to escape. God, don’t I feel just like that sometimes. Like I could just break free if—

“Sometimes I feel just like that,” Michael says. Our eyes meet, and I’m flooded with the warmth of shared experience.

“I know what you mean,” I say, finding it hard to break his gaze. I blink and clear my throat. “So, where does all your sculpture knowledge come from?” I ask. “Do you read up on art trivia just to pick up tourists?”

“I do, actually,” Michael replies.

“I knew it.” I’m grinning too big again. “Okay, but what’s the real answer?”

“Well, I have a vested interest in Michelangelo because I was named after him.”

It takes me a moment for it to click. Michael, Michelangelo. My eyebrows rise.

“I applaud your valiant effort not to make fun of me,” Michael says.

I scrunch up my nose. “No! I was just… thinking about what kind of parents you must have.”

“Ha. The kind who read Machiavelli and Maimonides to my sister and me before we were old enough to read on our own.”

“I see. I was only getting Shakespeare at that age. My grandfather didn’t graduate me to the philosophers until middle school.”

“A kindred spirit! Have you too been raised constantly terrified to fall off the pedestal you’ve been placed on?”

“Oh, no. I fell off my pedestal long ago. I’m now officially ‘the disappointing one.’?”

“You? Disappointing? The standards must be high.”

I feel a blush creep up my cheeks. “You have no idea.” He really doesn’t. The standards I’m compared to are ridiculous. Kor is at Columbia with a growing collection of honors, has his artwork displayed in various prestigious galleries around New York City, and have I mentioned his recent Grammy nomination? Izzy’s in her first year at MIT, and an app she designed was just bought by one of the world’s most successful companies, Ozymandias Tech. Meanwhile, I—though I’ve been aggressively avoiding thinking about it—have already missed the deadlines on some of my (very mid-tier) college applications.

I brush my bitter thoughts aside and ask Michael, “What has you worried about falling from your pedestal?”