Junk Miles Page 12

  I was breathing hard and my lungs felt a little torn, but also like they were stretching to accommodate all of the new air I drew in. I liked the feeling. Just like I felt my heart shrivel and harden on the museum roof after kissing Saxon, my lungs seemed to expand as I ran on the pavement.

  Less room to feel, more to breathe. I would make do with that.

  Soon the sun came up bright and warm, and my stomach growled and turned on itself. I looped back to the dorms, following the line of cheese stores, grocers, and bakers I had committed to memory like a breadcrumb trail. When I got to my hall, Mom stuck her head out her door and hugged me.

  “Did you have fun last night, sweetie?” She pulled off the towel that she had wrapped around her damp hair, and it fell in light, wet waves around her shoulders.

  I nodded, my body feeling incredibly hot now that I wasn’t racing the cutting air outside. “Yes. It was good to dance. I’m getting soft.” I gasped for breath.

  She rubbed my back with one soft hand. “You look so cold. Go get dressed. We’re going to the Louvre today!”

  I hugged her hard because I was really excited. Jake and Saxon were going to be where they were, and we would be or we wouldn’t. In the meantime, I would go and see the Louvre with my mother, and I would sincerely, adamantly love it. I had to give my slightly shriveled heart something to expand around, and boys were just too treacherous right now.

  Mom and I met for breakfast.

  “So how was the dance? Details, please.” She sipped coffee so hot it steamed continuously.

  “It was okay.” I buttered a roll, paying a lot of attention to the process. She had already asked me in a cursory way, but she obviously wanted more information, and if I didn’t give it to her, she would keep digging. “The music was all French, but everyone danced. I danced until my feet ached.”

  “I’m glad you went and danced.” Mom ran a finger around the rim of her mug. “I was always self-conscious about that kind of thing when I was young.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s so stupid to be that way. The only one who knows if you danced or not is you.”

  It was one of her tried and true sayings. “It was really fun.”

  “Those are real travel moments.” Mom dipped a piece of croissant in her cup and took a bite. “More important than museums and tours are the things you do with the regular French people.”

  Another of Mom’s favorite topics. She thought our time in Denmark was my most valuable experience because it was so normal; going to the post office, going to the bank, seeing a movie, watching television, taking walks. It was just everyday stuff, but she thought that made you take a country in best.

  “I’m glad I went.” I wished I could work up more excitement, but it was difficult to push the time in Saxon’s room away from my memory.

  There was a long silence, then Mom looked up, her blue eyes more gray, probably because she had a great gray cardigan on with her Swiss dot blouse.

  “Did you have fun with Saxon?”

  I realized that Mom was nervous, and I realized that she saw more than I thought, than I wanted.

  “He’s a good dancer.” It was the most neutral thing I could think to say about him.

  “He’s taken an interest in you,” Mom said pointedly. “Is that something you want?”

  I wanted to tell her everything, starting with the first day of school. I had my mouth open to do it, but something in her eyes stopped me. I knew it would feel good in the moment, but I would wind up regretting it. Mom’s love for me was so strong, it would override respect for my privacy or my need to work things through on my own. Asking for her help by listening meant that I was inviting her to comment and take action.

  And as messed up as things were, they were my own brand of controlled chaos.

  “Saxon takes an interest in lots of girls,” I said lightly and shrugged. “He’s fun to go to a dance with. He’s just a friend.”

  “Good.” Mom took a tiny sip of coffee and made a purposefully bright face. “So how’s Jake?”

  My heart fell. “He’s great.” I forced enthusiasm on my words. “He delivered some apple tarts to Thorsten.”

  “He really is a sweet guy,” she said reluctantly.

  I felt my heart pounding so loud, I could hear the blood sloshing in my ears.

  “Yeah,” I said, as evenly as I could. “He really is.”

  If I was unusually quiet for the rest of the morning, Mom didn’t seem to notice. She was busy gushing admiration and love for art like blood from a ripped open artery. I was able to fairly effectively turn off my brain of all things boy related and soak the beauty of the art in. I walked the wide, marble floors and listened to Mom chat with animation about how certain paintings had changed this or that movement or started a riot or been commissioned for royalty. I looked at dark faces that I would never know and dramatic landscapes that didn’t exist anymore and wondered about the people who had painted them, wanted them, looked at them every day in homes and churches and offices for hundreds of years before they landed in this museum to end all museums.

  I had snapped discreet pictures all morning. I wasn’t insane enough to think I could take any definitive pictures of such great art. But I did want to catch some of what Paris was really like. I got one of a man and woman kissing on the steps outside the museum. I snapped one of two young kids running through the museum halls, unchaperoned. A display box full of pens with a sliding Mona Lisa in the liquid-filled interior. A man tying his shoe next to a group of melting, molding Rodin statues. I clicked whenever I saw a ‘real’ moment. Jake might never want to see them, but I took a lot of them with him in mind, imagining how we could look at them and invent stories behind the pictures.

  It had been one of our favorite things to do; watch people and make up stories about why they were where they were, what they were planning, thinking, doing. Jake always had a good knack for making the stories completely wild and making me laugh. I felt a whole new pang over losing him.

  Then we were moving down a long, wide corridor with Leonardos on both sides, moving closer and closer to the group of ogling tourists snapping pictures at the end.

  “That’s the Mona Lisa?” I looked down at the biggest group of people in the whole, wide museum full of amazing sights.

  “Yes,” Mom said, her brow wrinkled. “You’d think they would give a second of attention to the other paintings. I know she’s famous, but come on.”

  It was strange, how everyone gravitated to this one painting, agreeing that it was something special, something worth all of the hysteria even if they had no idea why. It was in that gallery that we saw Lylee and Saxon. When Lylee saw my mother, she walked to her with purpose.

  “Suzanne, where were you? I thought we were coming here together?” She sounded annoyed.

  Mom gave her an incredibly intimidating stare-down. Even Lylee backed off. “My daughter was up early, and I decided to take her with me before the rest of the group. You shouldn’t count on me to always be right there, Lylee. I’m really here for Brenna.”

  Mom’s words were icy, and I was so proud, I could have crowed. I felt embarrassed that I had ever been charmed by Lylee, and thought it was weird how completely my opinion of her had changed. Now every time I was around her, she gave off a vain, shallow vibe that just didn’t sit well with me. But I didn’t tell my mother, because I didn’t like to discourage Mom from having friends.

  Lylee looked suitably chastised, but there was even something about that look I didn’t trust one hundred per cent.

  “How nice that the two of you had time together.” She smiled as indulgently as if she had been the one to give us permission. “Should we stroll over and see what all the fuss is about?”

  Mom put her arm around my shoulders, and we all headed down to the painting. We had to wait in the middle of a big, jostling crowd. It was definitely the most densely populated couple of feet in the museum. Maybe it got some competition from the gift shop and the cafeteria, at least at lunch, but otherwise
this was where you could find most of the museum patrons.

  Mom and Lylee struck up a pseudo-friendly conversation, and Saxon came to stand behind me.

  “Morning, pal,” he said softly.

  “Hey, Saxon,” I answered, not taking my eyes off of the painting. It was hard to see, since it was behind a scratched, slightly blurry piece of plexiglass.

  “Do you want to talk a minute?” He was wearing a faded Quiet Riot t-shirt and a pair of brown suit pants. He looked shower damp and so handsome, it made my throat tighten.

  “Mom, Saxon and I are going to look at Nike. She’s over here right?” I pointed out into the next foyer.

  Mom tossed me an absent smile and nodded, then went back to what was quickly turning into a heated debate with her ‘friend’ about the relevance of pop culture in art. I knew it could be a while.

  Saxon and I walked into the open, cool foyer where Nike stood, right at the center of two huge staircases that met in the middle. We both stared at the enormous, headless, winged goddess.

  “I wanted to say that I’m sorry about some of the stuff I said last night.” Saxon’s voice sounded the opposite of sorry.

  “Like you’re sorry because you were wrong, or you’re sorry because you don’t want me to be pissed?” I sat down on the first step of the left staircase, and the statue shadowed us.

  “I guess it makes a difference to you?” He sat too close to me.

  “Yes, Saxon. It makes a difference whether your apology is sincere or bullshit.” He took my hand, and even though it felt good, I knew I was mostly just putting up with it.

  “Have you talked to Jake?” His voice brushed softly against my ears.

  “Not in words.” I felt twitchy when I thought about the photos.

  “Smoke signals?” he teased.

  “Pictures. On Facebook.” And I briefed Saxon on our photo project, and on the first pictures, then on the second set, and by the time I was done, my head was on his shoulder and he rubbed a hand over my hair roughly.

  “He sounds pissed,” Saxon observed.

  “He should be,” I returned, and my voice quavered embarrassingly.

  “He’s an understanding guy,” Saxon assured me. “You don’t have any reason to be nervous.”

  I pressed my face to his shirt to temper back the tears that threatened to pour out. “You’re so full of crap, it’s hard to believe one word that comes out of your mouth.”

  “I can tell you what I’m sorry about from last night.” Saxon kissed my head. I closed my eyes and leaned into him. “I’m sorry for pretending I would be cool with you being corrupted, because all of that really was crap. I just think it would be the only way for me to go after you without feeling like you were getting a totally raw deal.”

  “I figured that. What about the virgin/whore thing?”

  “That stands,” he said firmly. “Sorry. I know it bucks your whole feminist view of yourself, but it’s what makes guys fall all over you.”

  I sighed. “I don’t want anyone falling over me.”

  He shook his head. “Did you just steal my bullshit crown? You’re so full of it, it’s sickening. Something in you takes sick pleasure in seeing guys on their knees for you.” He pulled away and faced me. “Admit it.”

  “It’s not true,” I said, though there was, as always, an uncomfortable ring of truth in everything he said, even when he claimed it was mostly crap. And then I kissed him, because he was being so understanding. Because he was so handsome it made my eyes ache to look at him. Because I wanted to. Because Jake’s pictures made me lonely and miserable, and I didn’t really enjoy feeling punished, even if that’s exactly what I deserved.

  I wrapped my arms around Saxon’s neck and kissed without holding back. He put his hands on my hips and held me to him, kissing back. The goddess of victory towered over us and the cool, damp museum smell surrounded us. I could hear the silky chatter of French museum goers and the tread of their feet as they passed by us. I pressed harder, and Saxon was the only thing I thought about.

  Saxon.

  Complicated, understanding, infuriating Saxon.

  When I finally pulled away, he smiled and his face looked happy.

  “We only have a few days left here.” He tucked my hair behind my ears. “Let’s be exclusive, you and me, alright? International dating buddies. And when you get home, you go back where you belong.”

  “It’s not going to work like that, Saxon.” It was annoying that he was trying to plan my life out, despite his obvious good intentions. “Anyway, I thought you were working on not being someone to have fun with.”

  “This isn’t fun.”He held my face in his hands. “You’re not giving up the goods and it’s gonna be uncomfortable as hell when we get back to good ol’ Jersey. This is just pure indulgence.”

  It was that word that did it for me. Maybe my childhood desire to scribble with markers over a perfectly good fairytale had just morphed in my teen life. Because I had all of the elements of a fairytale with Jake, and here I was, scribbling hard with every crazy, relationship-ending color I could find.

  “It sounds like a really stupid idea,” I said, then kissed him softly. “I’m in.”

  He took my hand and stood me up. “You know they had to move this in World War II?” He looked at the colossal Nike.

  “Why?”

  “Hitler was an art lover. Kind of. He stole famous art from all over Europe and holed it up for future display in some planned master museum. Anyway, the Germans were marching on Paris, and the museum director got scared, so they moved it.”

  “How?” I liked this storytelling side of Saxon. I liked thinking about historical facts instead of potential emotional intricacies. This was good.

  “They put up all kinds of ropes and pulleys and just pulled her down the stairs.” He chuckled, something in him loving the idea of a Classical statue being dragged down a marble staircase by frantic Frenchmen with Nazis hot on their tail.

  It made my eyes pop just to imagine the effort that must have gone into getting it down. “Could you imagine if they broke her?” My voice was hushed with the horror of it.

  He laughed, the sound echoing off the big cave of a room. “Brenna, she’s got no head! How much more could they do?”

  I looked at the huge, intimidating, marble goddess, who was strangely headless in that way so much ancient art is that I just kind of imagine great sculpture purposefully limbless and beheaded. “Well, there’s the wings,” I said indignantly, but when he kept laughing, I gave up and joined him.

  Mom found us standing on the stairs, our arms loosely around each other, laughing hard and leaning on each other for support.

  “What’s so funny?” Mom asked.

  “That she has no head,” I gasped and Saxon leaned his head back and howled.

  Mom narrowed her eyes at me a little. The idea of an ancient headless marble statue was practically religious to my mother, and she crossed her arms and glared our laughs dead.

  “If you two jokers are done, we have a lot more to see.”

  I left Saxon’s embrace swiftly and put my arm around her waist.

  “It wasn’t really that she was headless that was so funny,” I said soberly, willing Mom to feel less disappointed in my disrespect of the arts. “It was the Nazis trying to steal her…” Yeah, there was no way to explain it that didn’t make us sound like idiot teenage American tourists.

  “The Nazi occupation of Paris was a real hoot.” Mom clicked her tongue. “Tsk. Brenna, they have an amazing Dutch landscape section. Would you like to see it? If clouds and dikes aren’t too hilarious for you.”

  Saxon choked a little, and I laughed behind my hand, trying hard not to. Mom rolled her eyes, but she smiled. A little.

  We went through the rest of the long, cool museum and looked at the clouds and dikes with perfectly respectful appreciation, though Saxon did pinch my arm and wink behind Mom’s back. Lylee joined us, and I found her innuendo and fawning irritating. It seemed like Saxon did
too. Finally everyone’s eyes except Mom’s were glazed over from fine art overload.

  “Should we go examine the Rococo display again? I don’t think I really had time to drink that Fragonard in.” Mom clasped her hands over her heart like she was a lovesick teenager.

  I could see Lylee and Saxon suppressing groans. “Maybe we should get something to eat first, Mom,” I suggested.

  “Oh! Yes, good idea.” Mom wrinkled her nose. “I just can’t eat at the Louvre cafeteria. Let’s go and grab something…there’s a great little place a few blocks away.”

  Lylee seized the opportunity and drew Mom away by the arm. They chattered over each other about sexual suggestiveness in French Rococo paintings. Saxon grabbed my hand.

  “Hey. Sorry if I offended your mother with my headless art and Nazi humor.”

  “Mom is serious about art.” I offered him a tidbit of advice with my smile. “Excepting a racial slur or something less than complimentary about me, I don’t know if there’s anything that would have offended my mother more.”

  He watched her walk in front of us and nodded. “I like her passion. She doesn’t care if she’s cool or not, and that’s pretty damn awesome on its own.”

  “Of course she doesn’t care if she’s cool.” I put my hands up. “She’s my mom.”

  “Being a mom doesn’t give you automatic self-esteem.” Saxon’s eyes switched focus to his mom’s back, her long, silky black hair swishing around her firm little butt.

  “Your mom seems to have good self-esteem.” I followed his gaze.

  “My mom has a big mouth and lots of opinions. That’s different.” His face hardened a little.

  “Do you two get along?” Before this trip, I felt like Saxon had just sprung to life, fully formed. Or hatched from a giant egg. The idea of him having parents seemed impossible.

  “No.” The word fell out of his mouth bluntly. “My mother likes me, but I don’t really feel any pressing need to be around her much.”

  “Why not? She’s so smart and pretty.” I didn’t like Lylee myself, but it seemed kind of terrible to not like your own mother.

  “Jake’s told you all about how we were when we were younger, right? How I was the bad guy who introduced him to all the crazy stuff he did?” He grabbed my hand tighter.