Chapter Four

chapter four

THANKFULLY FRIDAY GOES BY QUICKLY, THOUGH I THINK MILESmight be avoiding me for some reason. It makes the days undeniably more pleasant, but I’m annoyed with him for being annoyed with me and not telling me what he’s annoyed about. He’s supposed to lord his little moral high grounds over me, not sulk and avoid me in the halls. But, on the bright side, that might mean he won’t show up to the art exhibit and try to sabotage my Harrison-Clarke matchmaking.

We have tickets for 1 p.m. on Saturday, so I sleep in and make myself a late brunch of eggs and fruit before driving over to the old movie-theater-turned-exhibition-space. I can’t remember what particular brand of cineplex the theater was, but it was huge, with IMAX screens on the second floor. The outside of it hasn’t changed much, with an awning with neon lights and those black letterboard signs where the names of movies would go. Now it simply says HIGHBURY ART SPACE. It’s a bit minimal. I was expecting at least a new sign, maybe a fresh coat of paint. But the only change is that the glass cases where movie posters used to hang now have posters for the exhibition, and a calendar of upcoming events, of which there is only one besides the Hodges show. Grim.

I’m the first there, and the parking lot is deeply empty, so I study the posters. Landscapes, attractive ones, and promises of an “immersive experience” that will “teleport you through time and space.” I suddenly realize I shouldn’t have agreed so readily to something suggested by Georgia and praised by John. I was too eager for something intriguing. But this looks like it could just be embarrassing for everyone involved—ticketholders included.

I clasp my hands behind my back and study my reflection in the glass over the poster. No, I decide. Even if the exhibit is tedious, the conversation won’t be. At least not for Harrison and Clarke. I’ll make sure to keep it lively and entertaining.

Taylor and West arrive a moment later in West’s black Lexus LC. It’s always fun to see people out of school on the weekend, because no one is in uniform anymore, so their real style shines through. I, not wanting to be a distraction, chose a white polo and salmon-colored khakis, and West is in an oversized T-shirt and jeans, but Taylor is on full display, a gorgeous A-line dress the yellow of the sky at sunset, which shows off her jewelry—a pendant, bangles, earrings. It might be too much on anyone else, but it’s perfectly coordinated. The pendant is the focus, a large Star of David in blue and pink triangles, overlapping, and apparently stitched together where they touch, with white blooming vines. In the center is a cameo.

“That is beautiful,” I tell her.

“Thanks. The profile is my grandmother. I think it’s going to be the cover piece for my portfolio.”

“It’s really amazing,” I say. “Let me see the earrings?”

She tilts her head. “You’ve seen these.” I have. They’re beautiful little textured studs in silver, like the moon. “And these,” she adds, raising her hand with the bangles, rose gold pressed into what look like blades of grass, wrapped around her wrist.

“I still like looking at them,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says, but I can tell she’s still nervous about the portfolio.

“Relax,” I say. “Don’t think about the portfolio today. Think about…”

“Hodges,” West says. “I’m so excited.” He takes her hand and brings it to his lips. “Babe, promise me you’ll really look at the art, okay? No stressing.”

“I’ll try,” she says. “I want to.”

“I’ll help,” he says, bending in for a kiss.

I turn away so they don’t see me rolling my eyes, and spot Clarke pulling in. He’s got a cute gold Jaguar convertible with vanity plates that read THIGH C, which is also his KamerUhh name. He steps out and he’s got on peach short-shorts and a long-sleeved vintage crewneck that reads FLY ATLANTIC and has a woman in a red bathing suit diving on it. He also has on the obscenely expensive jewel-encrusted sunglasses Taylor has shown me ads for. She says they weigh over a pound. Right now she’s staring at them.

“Am I late?” Clarke asks, looking at me. “Sorry.”

“No, no, we’re still waiting on people,” I say.

“More?” A corner of his mouth tweaks up for a moment. “Fun.”

As if he’s summoned her through some unholy ritual, Georgia arrives in her purple Tesla, wearing torn jeans and a plaid button-down—she always wears her school uniform with pants, but I forget how butch she can get in her civvies. Finally, Harrison arrives in his little blue Mini Cooper. I’m a little disappointed by what he’s wearing—his jeans should be tighter to show off his figure, and his button-down shirt is tucked in, too formal, kind of nerdy. I should have thought to approve his outfit beforehand. Truth is, I’ve only ever seen him in his school uniform or his underwear (always black boxer briefs, perfectly acceptable), so I didn’t suspect he’d be a bad dresser. And it’s not awful, exactly. Still. I smile politely and go to work.

“Harrison, you know Clarke, right?”

“Oh yeah,” Harrison says, looking momentarily confused by my introduction. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Clarke says. I can’t tell what his eyes are doing behind the giant crystal sunglasses.

“So let’s head in?” I ask. “If nothing else, it’ll be a good laugh.”

“Oh, come on, it’s going to be great,” Georgia says. “John loved it.”

“What about Miles?” West asks, then turns at the sound of another car arriving. Miles. I guess he just had to show up to ruin this for me. He gets out of the car, in a peach shirt and torn white jeans that do a much better job of showing off his figure than Harrison’s do. At least he’s straight, so even if he distracts Clarke, it won’t lead to anything.

“The parking lot is like a museum exhibit on luxury cars,” he says, walking over, a superior little smirk on his face.

“They’re all electric, Miles. We’re doing a good thing,” I say, smiling as brightly as I can at what is obviously him insulting me.

He just smirks again.

“Well, now that we’re all here,” I continue, keeping my voice from becoming too exasperated, “let’s go in.”

We show our tickets to a bored-looking college guy running the booth and then go inside. I’m not sure what I was expecting, maybe the lobby I remember from when it was a movie theater, just with art projected on the walls, but now there’s a long hallway with a pair of red velvet curtains at the end. The carpeted floor slopes gently up, the walls are black, and there’s writing on them in white, with a few paintings and portraits, telling us about Hodges, the painter.

“So we gonna get them to fall in looooooove?” Georgia whispers to me.

“Shhh,” I quiet her. Harrison looks over at me strangely.

“He was Captain Cook’s painter,” West says, looking at the portrait of Hodges on the wall. Everyone is quiet, reading, or at least listening to West. “Cook was supposed to bring a whole team headed by a botanist, but he couldn’t build them an extra deck on the boat, so he was assigned some supposedly B-tier academics to explore the islands with him. Hodges was one of those.”

“There was just an NPR story about that,” Harrison says. “It was about how he was one of the first artistic colonizers.”

At the end of the hall, standing in front of the curtains, is someone in full period costume: a sailor from the 1700s. I eye him warily. I’m not a snob, but costumed actors usually mean participation, which never turns out well and is the opposite of creating an air of romance.

“Yeah,” West says. “And that’s not wrong, but it’s also really interesting to see the way British eyes first saw Easter Island, New Zealand, Tahiti, and… made them more British in art. That’s the colonization. Like, he made canoes look like gondolas, and framed nature in the English way. I think it’s so interesting. We think of colonialization as being about taking over space, forcing people into our culture, but it’s also about the ways we perceive other cultures and then express our view of them.”

We’ve made it nearly to the end of the hall. The sailor beams, almost menacing, but thankfully stays silent.

“It’s pretty, though,” Georgia says, looking up at a large landscape. I hate to say it, so I don’t, but I agree. Tall statues, like fingers, rise out of the ground, white and pink stone, and behind them the sky is blue on the left, but dark with clouds on the right. There’s a skull by the base of the statues, and silhouettes in the distance. Closer to us, shadows are growing longer. The colors are beautiful, pinks and blues and dark storm gray and deep red. It feels modern somehow, in its colors. I’m not an artist like Taylor, and I only took one art history class, but I know it seems peaceful. Still. And a little sad.

“Pretty is a whole other thing,” West says. “Subjective, and shouldn’t be judged. At least, that’s what I think.” He glances at Taylor, who nervously twirls her pendant with the hand not holding his. “Art’s value isn’t in the eyes of one person, or even a small group, after all.” Taylor doesn’t seem to hear the way he’s speaking directly to her, though.

“I thought this was, like, lasers or something,” Clarke says, mostly to me. I walk so that I’m next to Harrison, and he follows, so the two are practically facing each other. “None of this is KamerUhh-worthy.”

“I think that’s…” I point at the curtain. And the sailor standing in front of it, now saluting us.

“Greetings, travelers,” he says in a heavy fake British accent.

“Oh no,” I whisper without meaning to. Clarke snorts a laugh.

The sailor ignores us and continues. “Welcome aboard the ship of Captain Cook!” And with that he draws back the curtain, revealing the inside of a boat. Like, actually constructed, not a projection. We all tentatively walk forward, into the ship. It smells like the ocean, and I can hear sea gulls. It seems to be empty, aside from us.

“Okay, this is something,” Clarke says. “I should have brought a sailor hat. We could do cute photos in it.” He smiles at me.

“Harrison would look good in a sailor hat,” I say, nodding at Harrison, who blushes.

“So cute!” Georgia adds. She’s definitely making herself part of this.

“Welcome aboard, my fellow sailors!” says the costumed attendant.

“Just no,” Clarke says to him. “We’re here for the art, not whatever you are, okay?”

“Clarke,” I say, glancing at the sailor, who’s frowning. “Let’s be nice.”

“Yeah, we’re here for a whole experience, right?” Harrison says. “Hello, fellow sailor.”

“The ship has many doors to different lands,” the sailor says, though with less enthusiasm than before. He opens his arms wide at the various doors around us. “Explore the depths of William Hodges’s adventures and imagination! But only go on deck when you’re ready to depart.” He points at the stairs heading up. “And feel free to ask me if you need help finding your sea legs.” As he says it, the boat seems to tilt slightly.

“Thank you,” I tell him, then turn to Clarke. “See? Not so bad.”

Clarke laughs. “Let’s just see the lasers.”

“This is pretty cool,” West says. He’s spinning, looking around at the actual ship. “He said to go through the doors, right, so…” He walks up to one and opens it. Pink light pours over him. “Nice.” He grins and goes inside, all of us following.

Inside is a fairly large room, circular, and glowing, the walls lit up with a projection of a painting. This one shows beautiful pink-and-green mountains in the distance, and people in canoes in the water closer to us. The room smells like the sea and like flowers, and the floor is covered in white sand.

“This seems fun, right?” West says to all of us, but mostly to Taylor, taking her hand.

“Yeah,” she says. He pulls her in for a kiss, and as their lips meet, bright tropical flower petals fall from the ceiling, fans in the room blowing them so they circle around the couple.

“That is so cute,” Clarke says. “Think someone is watching and does it when people kiss?” He turns to me.

“I don’t know. That would be awfully specific,” I say.

“I need to get it to happen to me for a KamerUhh shot,” he says, walking over to where West and Taylor are. He looks at the ceiling. “If someone triggers that, I’d like flowers, too!” Nothing happens. “I’ll tag this place! I have like fifty thousand followers!”

“Are you sure he’s a good match for Harrison?” Georgia whispers in my ear.

“Harrison will bring him down to earth.”

Behind me, apparently eavesdropping, Miles chuckles. I frown—I’d forgotten he was here and was happier for it.

“So how do we do this?” Georgia asks. She might be my only ally in all this, so I should use her, I think. Even if she’ll probably squeal irritatingly when they finally kiss.

“See, look at his composition,” West is saying, pointing at the projection. Taylor and Harrison are raptly listening to him explain the painting. “The way he sets up the actual framing, where things are. That’s probably all fake. And he based this—this whole idea of beauty—on English landscape paintings. He made it look more English.”

“Harrison, go stand with Clarke,” I suggest. “Maybe the petal rain only works if there’s two of you.”

“The canoes do look more like gondolas,” Harrison says, fascinated, and ignoring me.

“Harrison doesn’t want to stand with me,” Clarke says, pouting.

Harrison glances over, everything we’ve said apparently catching up to him. “Oh, sorry!” He hops over to Clarke, standing next to him, but not close. They both look up at the ceiling. Nothing happens. I frown.

“Maybe get closer?” I ask, holding up my phone to take a photo.

They inch closer.

“Put your arm around his waist,” Georgia says. Harrison nervously puts his arm around Clarke’s waist. I smile. It’s a start. But still no flower petals.

“The idea of the ‘noble savage’ was really popularized because of these,” West says, pointing at one of the men in the painting. Harrison looks over, clearly wanting to be in the audience of that lecture.

Clarke sighs. “No, no petals.” He pulls away from Harrison, who walks over to West. The moment he’s on the other side of the room, the petals start to fall, in a shower of color, over Clarke. His phone is out and he’s posing for a selfie within moments. Harrison doesn’t seem to notice. I sigh.

“Who thought love would be so hard?” Georgia asks.

“Oh my god, that was so fun,” Clarke says, walking over to us. “Look.” He shows me and Georgia a video of himself smiling as petals fall down around him. “So cute.”

“Yeah.”

“Great shot,” Miles adds, his voice smug. He’s so insufferable.

“We should see what’s in the other rooms,” Clarke says, and is out the door. West is still lecturing Taylor and Harrison. I look over at Georgia. “We need to get them in a room together, without anyone else,” I say. “They need to talk. They’ll like each other.”

“You seem to know a lot about relationships for someone who’s never been in one,” Miles says, folding his arms.

“Coming from someone who also hasn’t been in a relationship…,” I say, matching his condescension level. “Are you saying that thinking about what you might want in a relationship, what that might look like, what you might be willing to give of yourself to get from someone else… that thinking about all that means nothing?”

“I… fine. Sorry,” he says.

“Plus I know a lot about gay dating from memes,” I say, just to annoy him.

He sighs and I grin as West, Taylor, and Harrison walk toward us.

“Clarke went on to the next room,” I say to Harrison, who pales slightly and quickly follows Clarke out. We turn to follow him, Miles and I last, but just as we’re leaving, a bunch of petals fall on the two of us. I grab one from my hair. It’s real.

“This must have quite the budget for fresh petals every day,” I say.

“Yeah,” Miles says, taking another petal off my shoulder.

We walk back out to the galley and head into the room across from us, where Clarke is already taking photos. This one is the same as the other, but the painting projected on the walls is more of a marsh, though again surrounded by mountains. Two palm trees seem to sway in the breeze—a breeze I can feel coming from somewhere. The floor, also, is grass, but with water on one side of the room.

“Just as I was coming in, it rained,” Clarke says. “Like just a light spray. It was so pretty, but I got a little wet.”

He points at his shoulders, which are damp with water.

“Oh no, I’m not getting my hair wet,” Georgia says, leaving. “Maybe the sailor will give me an umbrella.”

“I like rain,” Taylor says, putting her arms around West’s waist. “And this room is pretty. It’s peaceful.” She leans her head on his shoulder and as if triggered, a faint mist pours in, and then a light rain showers us. The lights flicker and there’s the sound of thunder. West and Taylor kiss. I look over at Harrison, who is staring at Clarke, who is taking a selfie.

“Go get in the photo,” I whisper to Harrison. Harrison takes a few nervous steps toward Clarke but slips on the wet grass and falls on his ass.

“Almost,” Miles whispers in my ear. I can hear the laughter behind his voice.

“That’s not nice,” I say.

“You’re right,” he says. “But I don’t think Harrison or Clarke want this.…”

“Harrison wants a boyfriend, and I said I’d find him one—”

“So that it didn’t have to be you?” Miles asks, his voice low. I turn to look at him; his face is wet from the rain, which is stopping.

“Because he’s my friend,” I say.

“See, this is the whole English landscape arrangement again,” West says. Clarke is helping Harrison up.

“I slip all the time during rehearsal if the grass is too wet,” he says.

“Still embarrassing,” Harrison says.

“Oh please,” Clarke says. “It’s fine. It’s fun, right? Art with rain! Look at this video I got.” He shows the screen to Harrison, who leans in over his shoulder, their cheeks almost touching.

“See?” I whisper to Miles. He doesn’t respond.

They watch the video while West tells Taylor about the way landscapes are set up. Two couples enjoying the work. I walk out of the room, motioning for Miles to come with me. Outside, the sailor is waiting with towels.

“Well, that’s thoughtful,” I say.

“Sometimes a real squall can rise up in that cabin,” he says, terrible accent at full force.

“I guess so,” I say, drying myself off.

“You got them alone with the other couple,” says Georgia, who apparently has just been waiting for us. “Think it’ll work?”

I shrug. “I hope so.” But as I say it, Clarke comes out, Harrison not with him.

“Let’s do this one next,” he says, pointing at a nearby door.

“Should we wait for Harrison?” I ask.

“Oh, he’s fine. West is talking about English composition or something, so he’s enthralled.” Clarke pauses. “Are you two like…” He points at me, his finger waving vaguely between me and the room Harrison is still in.

“No.” I laugh—he’s checking that Harrison is single. That’s good. “We’re just good friends.”

“And Emmett tutors him,” Miles says next to me. I don’t have to look at him to feel the smirk.

“Okay, cool,” Clarke says.

I’m about to suggest that if he likes Harrison he should ask him out, but at that moment, Harrison emerges, followed by West and Taylor.

“See, this is what’s so interesting about him. It’s the kind of colonialism we don’t talk about, the propaganda that no one realized was propaganda. Here’s how these beautiful countries look, different, but still British. Still ours. I hope they have some of his Indian works. Those were after Cook, but same vibe, for sure. Making these places look like they already belonged to the British.”

“Also how the British looked at the world, right? Like it was just there for the taking?” Taylor asks. “But it is insidious to see it like this and hear you talk about it.”

“Insidious is the perfect word,” West says. “Wanna see the next one?”

“Yeah,” she says. They go into the next room, and we all follow them. This one has a beautiful water scene depicted on it, like we’re in a lake and staring at a building with steps right down to the water, flanked by trees in green and brown, the domed tops of buildings in the distance. The floor here is glass, and underneath is actual running water.

“This is from his India period,” West says, nodding. “See how it looks like a little country house on the river, but it’s a whole city made of stone.” He holds his hand out, and then the leaves begin to fall, green and brown. I look over at Clarke and Harrison, but Clarke is taking selfies and Harrison is looking at the water.

Georgia hip-checks Harrison, nearly sending him into Clarke, who dodges and laughs.

“This is so fun, right?” he says to Harrison. “Here, catch a leaf.” He turns the camera on Harrison, who looks confused for a moment but reaches out and snags one.

“Great,” Clarke says. “I’ll tag you. What are you on KamerUhh?”

“Oh, um… Harrisonofagun,” Harrison says. “I made it when I was younger, I should change it.”

“It’s cute,” Clarke says. “There: tagged, followed.”

I smile and nod appreciatively at Georgia, who nods back, then clasps her hands together and jumps in place, ruining it. But at least we’re making some progress. Clarke following Harrison is practically him sending flowers.

As we walk out and to the next room, Taylor takes my arm and lays her head on my shoulder. “You think I’ll ever have an interactive art show dedicated to my stuff?” she asks.

“Absolutely,” I say.

She laughs. “How are you so sure? How are you so sure about everything?”

“Things can happen suddenly—and with finality,” I say. “If you’re not sure about what you want, what you’ll do to get it… then when something you don’t count on happens, you… I think you can break a little. So you have to be sure. If you get lost in the minutiae of what could go wrong, or what happened that you weren’t prepared for… you’re lost. You can’t stray from the path, you know?”

“Emmett…,” she says, squeezing my arm. She opens her mouth, then closes it again. “I feel like I can see so many possibilities—like when I’m working in the wax; it can become anything if I use my hands right. But stuff like this… college, futures… I don’t know how to sculpt that. How do you know I’m going to carve something brilliant out?”

“Because you’re brilliant, and you know what you want, and you’re going to do everything you can to get it. You just need to forget the other possibilities you’re seeing. If you get caught up in second-guessing yourself, then you’ll lose sight of that. So I will always be here to make sure you don’t do that. I’m certain enough for both of us.”

She squeezes my arm again and is quiet for a moment. We pause outside the room as the others go inside. “What would an interactive jewelry exhibit even look like?” she asks.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’ll be the future. Maybe we can try on the jewelry holographically.”

“Put yourself in a 3D-printed cameo necklace.”

“That’s a great idea.”

“Actually,” she says, turning to go into the room, “it is.…”

The next room is freezing cold. Which makes sense as the art around us is ships on an ocean, surrounded by icebergs. The floor isn’t slippery but looks like ice, and there’s the sound of waves as everyone shivers, looking around. Somehow, impossibly, it starts to snow. I catch a flake in my hand and hold it, but it doesn’t melt. Glitter. There’s never real snow in Southern California. Except in the mountains, but Dad doesn’t like us going that high up because he’s afraid the transition to thin air pressure might give us altitude sickness.

I throw the glitter down, a little disappointed. I like snow. At least, I like pictures of it. I’ve never seen real snow, aside from, like, the fake stuff they spray at the winter carnival. I know, you’d think I’d at least have gone skiing, but Dad is a homebody, and when we do take a trip, he always insists we go somewhere where flowers are blooming… and with a “healthy temperate climate,” and “not much risk of catching disease”—London in summer, Paris in spring, Barcelona in fall. And he’s never okayed me traveling without him. Last year, Taylor tried to sneak me out and drive up to Big Bear, just to make snow angels, but there was a traffic accident that caused a major delay and we had to turn around before Dad got suspicious.

So I’ve never seen actual real-life snow. It always looks so pretty in photos. It looks pretty in this painting projected on the walls, too, soft white icebergs like marshmallows or whipped cream on the ocean. I wish it were the real thing.

“He painted from the boat, too,” Harrison says. “So this is… Arctic… or Antarctic waters… right?”

West nods, hugging himself. “It’s pretty.” He looks over at Taylor, who walks closer, and he wraps his arms around her to keep her warm. It’s cute, so I try not to roll my eyes.

“How did they get it so cold in here?” Miles asks. “It must be so bad for the environment.”

“Good for cuddling up, though,” Georgia says, smiling mischievously at Harrison. She’s not subtle, but he gets the hint and goes to Clarke.

“Want a hug for warmth?” he asks Clarke. Bold. That’s more like it.

Clarke laughs and gives him a hug. Not as tender as I’d like, but at least it’s touching. Brief, though, before Clarke skips out of the room.

“Almost snow, right?” Miles says as we’re walking out. “You don’t want to stay longer?”

“I forgot I told you that,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“That you want to see snow? It’s not a secret, is it?”

“No,” I say, leaving the room. “Just… it’s not snow. It’s fake. Glitter. I want the real thing.” More glitter tumbles down on us and I sigh.

He laughs. “One day,” he says, brushing it off my shoulders. So condescending.

I walk quickly to the next room, which is an interior, surprisingly. The painting that wraps around the circle of the room seems to be a large, roofed plaza, with almost Roman columns and doors, people in nineteenth-century dress walking among them, and above, a large domed ceiling, with a single hole in it. The ceiling of the room itself is domed, so it matches the art, and with a hole that light falls through, almost blindingly, creating a spotlight on the center of the tiled floor. The room sounds like footsteps and people chattering in English accents, but faint enough that I can’t quite hear them.

“Dramatic,” Clarke says happily, immediately standing in the center of the room under the light. He holds his phone up and tries a few angles, then shakes his head. “Too dramatic up close. Hey, Harrison, could you snap a few photos of me?”

“Oh, sure,” Harrison says, shooting me a grin before taking the phone from Clarke’s outstretched hand. Suddenly Georgia is next to me, grabbing my wrist and clutching it tightly as we watch Clarke pose under the spotlight while Harrison snaps pics.

“I think we’re doing well, right?” Georgia asks.

“Yes, because as we all know, cameraman and boyfriend are practically the same,” Miles says on her other side.

“It’s the gay version of holding your wife’s purse,” I say.

“I think I’d want to be more than a purse rack,” Miles says.

I look over at the two of them, Clarke posing, doing splits, as Harrison keeps snapping. They’re both smiling.

“I think if you really loved someone, you wouldn’t mind it,” Georgia says, surprising me. “Right?”

I look at Miles, who looks surprised, too.

“You might be right,” he says.

Suddenly the murmuring noise shuts off and is replaced with the sound of a string quartet, and doors slide open in the walls. Two couples, in full Regency dress, emerge from the wall, already clasped together and dancing to the music. Everyone immediately gets out of the way, watching them dancing in circles around the beam of light, where Clarke still stands, watching, smiling. He catches me looking and grins wider, pointing at the dancing couples and then rolling his eyes. I look over at Harrison, who’s watching the couples with a different sort of smile. He’s actually enjoying it. Of course he is.

I look back at the dancers, moving perfectly in time, practiced. West takes Taylor and tries to join them in the circle around the center of the room, and though they’re less elegant, the way they look at each other is open in a way the dancers aren’t.

“I wish I had someone to dance with,” Georgia says, sighing. “It looks like fun.”

“I’m sure you will soon,” Miles says, which makes me frown. It’s almost flirtatious, and Miles and Georgia together would be awful. Though maybe it would take them both out of my hair.

“Get photos!” Clarke says to Harrison, who’s too busy watching the dancers to realize it’s directed at him, so I go over and poke him, motioning to him to take photos of Clarke in the center as the dancers frame him and he takes dancing poses. He looks good. I know it’s crude to judge every man I meet on if I’d like to take him to bed, and I don’t usually, but sometimes, it just strikes you. The way Clarke moves. The way his shorts hug his thighs. If I weren’t setting him up with Harrison, I’d consider him as a replacement.

A moment later, the music fades and the dancers go back into the wall, like cuckoo-clock figures.

“That was great,” Harrison says.

“Did I look good?” Clarke asks, coming over to take his phone back and looking at the pictures. “Oh yeah, this is great. You’re the best, Harrison. I should keep you around for all my photos.”

I look over at Miles and smile. Sometimes being a camera is close enough to being a boyfriend, at least at first, right? But he’s just glaring at me like I did something wrong. I sigh and lead the others out of the room and back to the ship, and then across to the next room. I almost gasp when I enter it, though, it’s so striking.

In the center of the room, hanging as low as my knees, is an elaborate floral arrangement, like a chandelier. Dad would love it. The room is white except for one space where the painting is projected. It’s of a castle, and in front of it are a horse and cart, a man driving it, though we can’t see his face. To the side, a woman looks over her shoulder, back at them. But the focus is the horse, white, with a black mane, about to cross the bridge. I look at the horse. He seems to be going toward the woman, who stares back with some affection, like she’s waiting for him to catch up. But still the horse looks…

“Lonely,” Miles says, next to me.

“What?” I ask, annoyed. “There are seven of us.”

“I meant the horse,” he says, almost laughing at me.

“Oh…” I look back at the horse. “Yes. But look, people are waiting for him.” I point at the woman, patient, her head turned back, smiling.

“This is Ludlow Castle,” West says. “One of his English pieces. Very classical composition. So, like, he arranged the paintings he did of the islands to look more like this, see?” He’s talking to Taylor, but Harrison is listening again, while Clarke takes selfies in front of the floral chandelier, Georgia getting into some of them. So much for helping me out with the matchmaking.

“The castle is a ruin,” I say to Miles, trying to tease him.

“This is my favorite room so far,” he says, genuine. “It’s so beautifully done—look at the way the castle is ancient but still there, the way it makes everything around it seem like they’re aware of time, aware of how young they are in comparison to everything… but none of them are looking at the castle.”

I stare at the castle again, seeing what he means. Time moves on, but it also stretches out forever.

“I wonder why they put the flowers in here,” Taylor says. “There aren’t flowers in the painting.”

“It’s the light,” I say. “The light in this painting is, like, flower light.”

“Flower light?” Miles asks, his tone so condescending I want to slap him.

“Yes, it’s warm, and it feels like the sun,” I say, pointing at the painting.

“Flower light,” Miles says, smiling, locking eyes with me. Suddenly, flower petals, in red, yellow, and orange, all fall from the ceiling, everywhere. They feel soft as they land on my neck and arms, and raise goose bumps, but I stick my chin up, triumphant.

“Flower light,” I say, hands on my hips.

Miles laughs, turning his face up to watch the petals fall. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Clarke is taking a photo with Georgia and Harrison, and West and Taylor of course are kissing, but I look at the painting, and the horse and the woman, and let the flowers fall on me. They seem to keep coming, and I look up to see if the machine throwing them down is broken, but I see Miles, staring at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You have one…” He reaches out and plucks an orange petal from my hair.

“You have several,” I say, looking at him. He laughs, and for a moment, something feels different, older, or maybe newer, and then the flowers stop, and Clarke stops taking photos and instead walks to the door.

“Let’s go see what’s on deck,” he says, leading us out, and then up the stairs of the ship, onto the deck. I hear him gasp as he reaches the top. And when we all get there, I can see why. Whereas every room before wasn’t small, they felt contained; the curved walls with the projected art felt like boundaries. Up here, it seems they’ve put some kind of dome over the entire space, and it’s far out enough that the night sky projected on it feels real. The upper deck of the ship is as well made as the lower, too, so it actually does feel like we’re on a ship, rocking, sailing in the night. There’s a breeze, and when I look over the side, there’s water. It’s still, not waves, but it’s very realistic. It feels like we’re suddenly in another world.

The railings of the deck and the mast have all been decorated with garlands of flowers, too, pastel petals, the stems and vines barely visible under the blooms. When I approach them, they smell and feel real, too, their scent mingling with the smell of salt water, which they must be pumping in through the fans. It’s quite the illusion.

And then, to top it all off, in the center of the deck is a string quartet, all dressed as sailors. I recognize the cellist as the one from school. They’re playing what I’m almost sure is Lil Nas X’s “Montero,” which is perhaps the main thing that makes it feel like we haven’t gone back in time but is also splendid.

“You may approach the ship’s wheel,” says the actor who first let us in. He’s followed us above deck and gestures grandly at the wheel at the end of the deck. The bow? I don’t know. We walk up to the wheel, which isn’t really a wheel, as it turns out, but more of a frame in the shape of a wheel. The center of it is a large screen, and the spokes of the wheel pull out—they’re brushes and pens, the kinds for touchscreens. Georgia reaches out and taps the screen, and it turns on, showing a sky similar to the one above us, but with menus underneath. She taps the one labeled BACKGROUNDS and a whole slew of backgrounds pop up—from the paintings downstairs, or blank colors, or other landscapes that look like things Hodges painted. She taps the one that looks like a beach scene, and suddenly the stars around us change to that scene.

“No way,” she says. She taps another menu, labeled PAINTS, which opens an array of colors. Taking one of the brushes, she taps it in the purple, then on the screen. She paints a heart in the sky, and one appears above us.

“Oh wow,” Taylor says, her eyes going wide. “Imagine all the things we can do.…”

For the next hour, as the string quartet continues to play pop hits from the past decade, we paint. There are stamps, too, so we can take trees from one Hodges painting and plop them in another: palms on icebergs, flowers falling from the sky, and they appear around us. Taylor and West work on using these to decolonize his paintings, rearranging things into new landscapes for us to pose in front of.

It’s amazing the way it projects behind us—like we’re suddenly empowered to alter our own world. Taylor of course is the most skilled of us, creating cameo portraits of us to stand in front of, like they’re wearing us. West assembles a beach scene. I make the sky blank and tell Harrison to hold still while I paint him in the sky. I’m not an artist, but it looks kind of like him, and when I’m done, Clarke takes a selfie of the three of us—him, me, and Harrison, with Harrison in the stars behind us.

“This is going to be my new lock screen,” he says, and I turn to Harrison and see him blushing but happy. Lock screen is definitely a success.

Eventually, we finish drawing in the sky, and we leave the way we came in, the light outside strangely dim after all the bright screens and virtual paintings. I’m hoping Clarke might ask Harrison out before he goes, but instead, everyone just sort of hugs each other before getting in their cars. But when I get home I see I have a text from Harrison:

And I smile. Making love happen. What’s nicer than that?