had come here to clear her head. She was still reeling from that unexpected meeting yesterday, and Leda’s revelation that Mariel’s death was now under investigation. Now that her family’s entrance to the roof was closed, the trapdoor in their pantry sealed off, the Met was the only place Avery felt like she could escape.
The museum rose alongside the bubble of Central Park, its iconic pillars overlooking the diamond of the softball fields and the famous pale-pink ice rink that was always frozen, no matter the season. Supposedly the rink had been meant to change colors, but it froze at this shade of pink the week the park opened—and in that typical New York way, now no one would ever dream of changing it.
Avery took a deep breath. You could taste the difference in the air, in here: It was completely sterile to protect the art from oxidation or corrosion. The whole entrance to the museum felt oddly like a vacuum chamber, as if you were stepping into space, some grand new universe of artistic beauty.
“How was your first week?” she asked Max, trying her best to sound normal.
“It was incredible. Dr. Wilde is an even better lecturer than I expected! She’s actually agreed to read my thesis herself, instead of assigning it to a TA.”
Avery smiled. “That’s fantastic, Max.”
“And last night I went to a party in my hallway,” he went on, his eyes dancing. Max remained amused by the way American college students partied in whatever spaces were available to them, their parties spilling out into study rooms and dorm kitchens. “You’re going to love my neighbors, Avery. One of them is a sculpture student named Victoria who specializes in spun-wire.” He stumbled over the phrase, as if scared that he didn’t know what it meant, then declared, “I told her all about you.”
Avery reached to twine her fingers in his. “I can’t wait to meet them.”
Max had moved into one of the Columbia dorms on the 628th floor. Avery was secretly glad that he hadn’t asked to stay at the Fullers’ apartment. Her parents would never have allowed it. They had three guest suites, but no one actually used them, not even Avery’s grandparents when they came to visit. The rooms were just additional square footage meant to display Mrs. Fuller’s extensive collection of antiques, each surface carefully arranged with ceramic Staffordshire dogs or terra-cotta Chinese figures or blue-and-white Delft candlesticks. Each room had been featured in Architectural Digest or Glamorous Homes at least once. Besides, Avery had thought, it would be kind of weird having her boyfriend live down the hall from her and her parents.
She didn’t exactly have a good track record of dating boys who lived on the thousandth floor.
But to her relief, Max seemed absolutely thrilled to be living in a tiny dorm room. He kept talking about what an authentic, important part of the study abroad experience it was, to be immersed in school life. Already it sounded as if he’d made friends with everyone in his hall, and found the nearest coffee shop and twenty-four-hour diner.
They headed down the Impressionist wing. Light spilled through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the broad canvases with their loose, spontaneous brushstrokes. Avery had always loved the Impressionists, if only for their manic obsession with color. None of their works had a drop of white or black paint. If you looked closely, you would realize that even the shadows, even the eyelashes, were done in greens or purples or shades of bronze.
“You okay?” Max asked gently.
I’m worried about an investigation into the death of a girl I barely knew, because it might uncover my secret relationship with my adopted brother. Oh, and also the fact that I lied about my friend Eris’s death.
She couldn’t say any of that, of course. Max wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t love her anymore, the moment he knew about her history with Atlas.
“Stressed about the election?” he guessed, and she almost laughed. In her worry about the police investigation, she’d half forgotten that the mayoral election was next week.
“I turned in my Oxford application last night. I guess that’s put me on edge,” she offered. Among other things.
“You’ll get in,” Max assured her.
Avery nodded, but she still felt nervous. It seemed as if more was riding on this application than just her college plans—because if she got in, then she and Max would probably be together for at least two more years after this one. And who knew what that might mean?
“How was school today?” Max pressed.
Avery thought of Leda, who still had a haunted, hunted look about her that made Avery’s heart break. She thought of how empty everything felt without Eris. “You know, typical high school drama,” she evaded.
Max grinned. “Actually, I don’t know. I went to the Homburg-Schlindle Academy for Boys. Very little room for drama.”
“No drama!” Avery gasped in mock horror. “How on earth did you entertain yourselves?”
“Fistfights, mostly.”
“Right, of course.” She tried unsuccessfully to imagine Max getting into a fight with someone. More likely he’d challenged anyone who bothered him to an epic chess match.
A pair of girls walked past, probably around fourteen. They were both wearing blouses stitched with buttons: along the collar, the wrists, even the hemline. Each row had at least one button that didn’t match the others.
The girls smiled shyly when they saw Avery, then tipped their heads together to whisper, gliding quickly past.
“You did that!” Max exclaimed in a low voice.
“I don’t know,” Avery hedged. The whole thing made her feel kind of weird.
Max just laughed. “You started this button frenzy, you might as well take ownership of it. Though I suppose I am the muse behind it all,” he couldn’t resist adding. “It’s a good thing I have such abysmal fashion sense.”
“Right,” Avery replied, playing along. “Otherwise where would I get my inspiration?”
They kept walking down the hallway, past Impressionism and into the early modern portrait galleries. Avery’s eyes skimmed over each canvas in turn, pausing over their familiar compositions. Max pretended to be looking at the paintings, but Avery saw that he was really looking at her.
“Which is your favorite?”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t pick a favorite.”
“Of course you can,” Max insisted. “Pretend the museum is burning down and you only have time to save one thing. Which is it?”
For some reason, Avery didn’t like these what-if games. It wasn’t the first time Max had asked this sort of question; he was always trying to summarize his surroundings, organize things into clearly discernable categories and keep them there. He wanted to know Avery’s favorite painting, so if someone asked him about Avery’s art history classes, he could say, Yes, that’s what she studies, and she loves this work of art most of all.
Art history wasn’t about ranking or maximizing things. It was about thoughtfulness, and appreciation—the search for a cohesive thread among all the wondrous things people had created
