The Wonder of Us by Kim Culbertson

Author:Kim Culbertson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2017-05-20T16:00:00+00:00

“Can we go?” Riya asks the next morning. “Seriously, you don’t have to do this. Dad doesn’t care.”

I shake my head, peering at Dean’s painting. Riya had other plans for our morning, but when her dad mentioned the gallery, I’d jumped at the chance to see his new work. Now Riya keeps flashing me skeptical looks each time I beg to stay “just a little longer.”

“What are we doing here?” she whispers again, scanning the gallery tucked into a narrow industrial space that seems made entirely of glass and white-painted wood.

“Enjoying amazing art.”

Her dad paints large, bright canvases that have always, for some reason, reminded me of the circus. They are never about the circus or feature anything relating to the circus; in fact, Dean and Anju have always been vocal about their loathing of the circus on the grounds of animal rights. And maybe also clowns. No matter, his paintings scream circus to me. I just make sure not to mention this.

“You hate art galleries,” she reminds me, checking her phone for the tenth time in ten minutes.

“I don’t hate art galleries,” I insist, even if I sort of do. I love museums, so it seems reasonable that I would also love art galleries. They are essentially the same beast. People wander around staring at beautiful and interesting things, titling their heads, peering in or stepping back, depending on the piece. They both have helpers milling around should people become confused about what it is they are observing or where they should be heading next.

Only art galleries make me feel the opposite of museums.

Instead of relaxed, at home, engaged, I’m tense, dry-mouthed, planning my escape. So Riya has an excellent point. Why am I here?

Because here I don’t have to talk about Kiara or Tavin or how I almost kissed Neel last night in a dingy alley.

“I like art galleries.”

“Do not.”

Maybe because at a museum I can sink into the history and the information, casually buying a postcard or a ten-dollar book upon exiting instead of feeling like I should be considering one of the five-hundred-dollar smaller pieces or I’m wasting everyone’s time. Dean has tried to tell me over the years that I should never feel pressure to buy. The artist wants his or her work seen. Being here supports the creative world. But I always feel like a woman with a severe chignon and dagger heels expects me to either buy something or get out.

I feel like that now, for example.

Lovisa, with her lavender-dyed pixie cut, four-inch heels, and dress that seems like its own art installation (medium: indigo Saran Wrap?) hovers nearby, eyeing Riya and me as if we might suddenly set the place on fire. Or wet our pants. Probably the latter, since she clearly thinks we’re still in diapers. When Dean introduced us, she spoke to us in the kind of high, singsongy voice reserved for babies and small dogs who wear fashion sweaters, then asked us if we wanted some “pressed juice” or “nibbles.

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