We’re standing in a room. People are walking around looking at the art on the walls, so Jay guides me out of the doorway and closes the door to the hall behind us. The walls are a pristine white, a sharp contrast to the deteriorating exterior of the building, and the hardwood floor is a clean, light oak. People are murmuring to each other as they peer at the paintings on the walls and sculptures in the corners.
“This is the art exhibit I wanted to see,” I tell Jay, although I’m piecing together that he already knew that.
“Yup.”
I wanted to see this art exhibit, and Jay made it happen. He’sherewith me. Not even my friends wanted to come with me, and they knew how much I wanted to come here. I’ve mentioned it countless times to them, and they didn’t really pay attention. I mentioned itonceto Jay, and not even by name, and here we are. My heart thumps against my chest as I stare up in wonder at Jay. This may be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. How messed up is that?
Jay’s smile is soft as my shock melts away into genuine awe. “Wow. Thank you, Jay.”
I never looked at the address of the pop-up since no one ever committed to coming with me, so I didn’t recognize the street name when Jay pulled up to it. If I had known the location or what the building looked like, I would have recognized where Jay was taking me. But I’m glad I didn’t. I’m glad it was a surprise. It’s the most meaningful, beautiful surprise anyone has ever given me, and I stare at all the frames on the walls, unsure where to look first. I’m so happy to be here, and though we didn’t buy tickets, I’ll buy enough prints to make up for the cost of the tickets.
Jay shrugs like it’s no big deal, but his eyes are bright. “Caleb’s dad was hired as head of security, and he works with him. I texted Caleb and asked him to get us in.” He nudges my arm, still covered in his jacket. “What do you think of the art?”
We move to a piece that’s painted almost entirely black. Harsh red brushstrokes cut across it like slashes, and a thin blue circle sits dead center, delicate and deliberate. We tilt our head at it.
“I don’t get it,” Jay admits eventually.
There’s no foreground, background, or subject. There’s no clear image. But it’s beautiful, and I feel the anger in the piece. “It’s not meant to be a picture of something. It’s abstract,” I explain to Jay.
He waits for me to continue, so I do.
“The red feels aggressive, like the artist was really pissed off. And the blue circle . . . I don’t know, it feels really intentional. Like it’s holding everything together amidst the chaos. Or maybe it’s where the chaos is all aimed.”
Jay frowns at it. “So what does it all mean?”
I shrug. “It depends. Sometimes art isn’t supposed to mean anything. It’s more about interpretation and opening yourself up to understanding the art in the context of yourself. What do you see? How does it make you feel?”
Jay is silent, and for a second I think he’s about to say something deep and meaningful. Instead, he says, “It makes me feel like maybe I should’ve paid more attention in ninth grade art class.”
I nudge him, but I’m smiling. “You’re, like, super brilliant or whatever, but we’re not being graded here. There’s no right answer. It’s just about appreciating the art. Letting yourself feel something, even if it’s weird or uncomfortable or doesn’t totally make sense.”
I look back at the painting, letting myself get lost in new details. In the textures intentionally left in the paint, the flecks of sparkles in some red slashes but not others.
We stare at it together, then move on to the next one. This canvas is filled with colorful triangles of different sizes and types.
I point at it excitedly. “Look, this one’s got triangles—you like triangles. It’s math! Hypotenuse. Cosine. Trigonometry . . . stuff.”
The look he sends me is full of amusement. “Is that what you think math is?”
I did a lot of doodling in the mandatory math classes. “Tangent?” I offer innocently, and he laughs.
“Good thing we’re graduating or I would’ve felt compelled to have you join my study group.”
“You need a study group?” I ask, surprised. “You said you got the math award two years in a row.” If he got the highest math mark out of his entire grade twice, I figured he wouldn’t need extra help studying.
He shakes his head. “Istarteda study group. It’s basically free tutoring for the ninth graders. There’s such a huge curriculum change from eighth grade to ninth, and I remember feeling so lost. So three years ago, I started the group for ninth graders, and it’s continued. We meet twice a week before school starts.” He doesn’t say it like he’s bragging or showing off. He’s just sharing about himself.
When I don’t say anything, Jay looks away from the painting to me. “What’s the face for?”
“Oh, nothing,” I say nonchalantly, my lips itching to break into a grin. “Remember when I said you act like a jerk to hide the fact that you’re a big softie?”
“I’m not a jerk or a softie. I just am who I am.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re only a jerk to me?”
“Ididbring you to this art exhibit of random shapes and patterns.”
He did. When no one else would, he did. I smile up at him and hope my eyes don’t betray any of the weird butterflies in my stomach or the way my heart feels like it’s tripping over itself just standing this close to him.