“Calculus?” Passion squawked, glancing at me in alarm. The last time Passion and I had been in a calculus class together things had not exactly gone well.
“We could skip out,” Samantha added quickly, “if you don’t think you’re up to it.”
“That would be great,” Passion said eagerly, raising a questioning eyebrow in my direction.
I looked back at her and shrugged. She was in the driver’s seat now. I was just along for the ride.
“Cool,” Samantha said. “My house is really close.” She took out her cell phone and tapped a text into it. “And don’t worry about the office marking you absent. I can take care of that.”
“Sure, okay,” Passion said. “And maybe later you can come to our place. I’d love for you to meet my cousin and his college friends.”
And we were back to Marcus’s plan. True, we hadn’t exactly gotten there the way he’d mapped it out, and it looked like we were going to make an extra stop along the way, but the important thing was, we’d get there.
That’s what I told myself anyway, as Samantha, Passion and I snuck out a back door of Edgemont High. Nothing like ditching school on your first day.
“And where are you ladies going?” I heard a deep authoritative voice ask, and I looked up to see a black, dark-windowed car pulled up in front of us, blocking our escape, a large beefy man frowning at us out the driver side window.
Passion and I both froze like startled rabbits. I glanced at her and I could see the same thought spinning behind her eyes that was spinning behind mine. CAMFers.
“We’re going home, Leo,” Samantha said, pulling open the car door and jumping into the leather back seat. “I told you that in my text when I called the car around.”
“And why, may I ask,” the man said dryly, “am I driving you home in the middle of the school day?”
“Feminine issues. And my friends here are coming with me for moral support. Do you want the gory details?”
“No, please, spare me,” Leo said, looking in the rear view mirror.
I followed his gaze and saw another dark-windowed car pulling up behind his, peopled by men in dark suits. These weren’t CAMFers. This was Samantha’s security detail.
“Well, come on,” Samantha called to Passion and me. “Get in the car.”
And so we did. Passion climbed in to sit in the middle next to Samantha, and I climbed in after her. It was a big back seat. We weren’t scrunched. But Samantha managed to sit as close to Passion as possible.
“Sorry about the goonish entourage,” Samantha said, looking slightly embarrassed. “My dad is crazy protective. I hope you don’t mind or think he’s psycho or anything.” She looked at me as well this time, instead of only addressing Passion. Apparently, the one thing in the world that made Samantha James insecure was her security.
“No, it’s cool,” Passion said. “It kind of feels like we’re movie stars or something.”
Then Leo drove us exactly four blocks to the gated entrance of a wooded estate straight out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. The other car followed close behind, but when the gate opened, it parked outside, letting us make our own way up the long, tree-lined lane to Samantha’s house, which looked like the front of some art museum in Europe.
Passion was sitting next to me with her mouth hanging open, and I wondered if I looked that awestruck.
“Come on,” Samantha said, stepping out of the car. “We can grab something to eat, and don’t worry; once we’re inside, security will leave us alone.”
16
ART HISTORY AND RELIGION 101
Ditching school is never as exciting as it sounds. Somehow, you imagine you’ll do something daring and different with the time you’ve stolen. But the truth is you’re usually at home feeling bored to death while everyone else is where they’re supposed to be. And despite the opulent surroundings of Samantha’s house that seemed likely to hold true.
We were met at the door by two huge, white, shaggy dogs, who inspected us exuberantly with their long curious noses.
“This is Claude and Pablo,” Samantha said, introducing them as she rubbed each one on the head. “They’re Afghan hounds.”
Passion gave each one an enthusiastic back scratch, but I only managed a tentative pat. My mom was allergic to dogs and cats, so the only pet we’d ever had was a zebra finch. I had heard of Afghans though. Picasso had owned one.
After the dog greeting, Samantha led us through the three-story high foyer past a grand staircase to a kitchen straight out of a cooking show. She snagged some chips and soda for us and we all sat down at the table. The dogs positioned themselves on either side of Samantha’s chair, like sentinels, waiting for the smallest crumb to drop from her lips.
Samantha and Passion chatted away, and Passion got to use almost all the lies we’d made up about our fake life; how we’d moved from Chicago because my dad, her uncle, had gotten a great job in Indy. How she lived with us because of her parents recent and nasty divorce. How my parents were on a trip for their anniversary, and we had the house to ourselves, and it would be totally cool if Samantha came over and met the guys.
I didn’t listen to most of it. I hated small talk, even when it was true. Plus, Samantha didn’t care if I participated or not. I was a non-entity, and not only because she thought I was a fleshy. It was pretty obvious by now that she was into Passion in more ways than one. The tucking of her hair behind her PSS ear seemed to be one of her flirting tells.
As for Passion, she didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, she was doing an amazing job of playing the shy, coy flirt right back, teasing Samantha with just enough information about herself to keep her interested. Or maybe Passion wasn’t playing, and she was truly into Samantha James. I had no idea.
While they were talking, fixated on each other, I glanced around the kitchen. It was clean and spotless, almost freakishly so. There weren’t even any family pictures on the gleaming stainless steel fridge, but there was a brochure fixed to it with a magnet, the front boldly marked with the arm-wrestle icon of The Hold. I shifted in my chair, trying to see what it said, but it was folded up too tightly. Still, maybe I could snag it when no one was looking.
“So, Samantha, do you go to church?” I asked, interrupting their conversation.
They both turned and stared at me like I’d sprouted a unicorn horn.
“Because, I mean, Passion is religious and you might have that in common or something,” I added lamely. Like I said, I don’t do small talk.
“Passion is a family nickname,” Passion rushed to explain, answering the confused look on Samantha’s face.
Crap. I’d called her Passion, not Mirabelle. I’d just blown our cover, but Passion had smoothed over my mistake, thankfully.
“Passion suits you better,” Samantha said. “Do you mind if I call you that?”
“No, that’s fine,” Passion said, blushing.
“And as for Anne’s question,” Samantha said, sounding cautious. “I am a spiritual person. I believe in the divine, and that humanity needs saving, and that we were put on this planet for a purpose, but I don’t go to a traditional church, no.”
Did she mean “we” as in humans, or “we” as in people with PSS? I had a feeling it was the latter.
“I believe in those things too,” Passion said, following my lead, but I could tell she had no idea why. “I’m a Christian. My dad’s even a pastor. But I never feel God in church the way other people seem to. Sometimes I think I feel him when I see a good movie, or look at a beautiful painting, or hear some amazing music.”
“Me too!” Samantha said, beaming. “That’s exactly how I feel. All art is a form of worship. But I’ve never met anyone who expressed it so well.”
I stared at Samantha, warming to her a little. My dad had always said that anyone who appreciated art couldn’t be all bad.
“I have something to show you,” Samantha said excitedly, getting up from her chair and pulling Passion by the hand. “Anne can come too. I
think she’ll like it.” Wow. Samantha had included me by name and actually considered what I might like? I guess I’d earned worthiness points for bringing up the religion question.
Excited dogs in tow, Samantha led us through the grand foyer, up the stairs, down several hallways to a metal door that looked like a cross between a space ship lock and a bank vault. There was a security panel to the right of the door, a camera above it, and a monitor to the left that displayed readings for temperature and humidity.
As soon as we arrived, the dogs both lay down in the carpeted hallway and rested their heads sadly between their outstretched front legs. They obviously knew they would not be invited into that room.
“Like I told you, my dad is an art collector,” Samantha explained. “And this is where he keeps his most valuable collection. I’m not really supposed to show people, but I know you’ll be able to appreciate it,” she said, squeezing Passion’s hand.
“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Passion protested.
“No, you won’t,” Samantha assured her. “He’s a big softy when it comes right down to it.”
“Okay, if you’re sure, I’d love to see,” Passion said.
“Good.” Samantha punched a code into the panel, turning the huge metal handle and ushering us in, the door closing with a hiss behind us.
The room we found ourselves in was huge and set up like an art gallery, with long white walls for the larger pieces and carefully lit alcoves for the smaller, more intimate works. The air held a hint of hush and magic, and a unique silence settled over us as we entered, the silence of humans in the presence of things beyond our banal existence. This was a very special place. And if I hadn’t been a good little agnostic like my father, I might have believed, for a moment, it really was a place that God might dwell.
“Just don’t touch anything because it’s all alarmed,” Samantha said, leading Passion into the room and up to the first painting.
My father had raised me to know my art. You don’t grow up in a painter’s house without learning to distinguish your Rousseau from your Dali and your Monet from your Renoir. I’d been visiting galleries and museums since before I could walk. And I knew, even from a distance, that the first painting Samantha was leading us to was a Grimshaw. I had always loved John Atkinson Grimshaw’s work, but this was a Grimshaw I had never seen before. It was a moody moonlit landscape with a lone shadowy human form, as he often painted—but the figure receding down the rural road, obviously a woman, was not completely dark. One of her arms was glowing, blue and radiant, the faint hint of the landscape beyond showing through it.
“That’s not a Grimshaw,” I said, stepping closer and looked at the signature in the lower right-hand corner of the painting. It said Marion Grimshaw Bennet.
“Do you know his work?” Samantha asked, sounding surprised.
“A little,” I said, shrugging. I was supposed to be Anne Clawson and her dad was not a dead painter. “I remember him from freshman art class.”
“This painting is by his grand-daughter,” Samantha explained. “It is a very early piece of hers, painted eighteen years before the first occurrence of PSS.”
“It’s beautiful,” Passion sighed.
“Yes, it is,” Samantha said, “and it’s prophetic.”
“What do you mean ‘prophetic?’” I asked. “You mean like she was predicting PSS or something?”
“Well, what does it look like to you?” Samantha asked.
“Like she was painting a ghost. Ghostly figures are one of the most common symbols used in classic and modern art to represent mortality, death, the ethereal nature of human existence—” I stopped because both Passion and Samantha were staring at me.
“True,” Samantha said, her eyes meeting mine for the first time since we’d met. She wasn’t just looking at me—she was finally seeing me. “But then why only paint the arm that way? Why not the whole body?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because she was only feeling her mortality a tiny bit on the day she painted it. It doesn’t mean she was predicting PSS. It’s only one painting. Besides, people can’t predict the future.”
“Can’t they?” Samantha asked smugly, like she’d somehow won the argument. “Why don’t we look at the next painting?”
As we approached it, I recognized the next painting as a Vermeer. It was a portrait of a servant girl wearing a blue head scarf, caught giving a pensive glance over her shoulder. But as we got closer I realized that the girl, dressed in circa 1600s domestic Dutch attire, had been painted with one very unusual feature: she had a PSS ear.
“Oh!” Passion exclaimed, turning to Samantha. “It looks like you.”
“It does a little,” Samantha agreed, smirking in my direction. “But it was painted by a descendant of Johannes Vermeer fifty years before I was born.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I protested. “It’s a complete knock-off of The Girl with the Pearl Earring.”
“This ‘knock-off’, as you call it,” Samantha said sternly, “is worth two hundred thousand dollars.”
“What? Why? Because it’s by a descendant of Vermeer?”
“No.” Samantha shook her head. “Because of its place in this collection.” She gestured around the room. “This is the largest body of proof in the world that humanity knew its ultimate destiny long before the first baby was ever born with PSS.”
I looked around the room, at the various paintings and sculptures. Every one of the pieces within my view had a glowing, blue, ethereal element. Samantha’s father didn’t merely collect art; he collected a very specific kind—art that he thought depicted PSS. And under normal circumstances, I might have found that both cool and thrilling, but not when someone was trying to use it to ram their crazy PSS-worshiping cult down my throat.
Passion was also looking around the room, and I could see the wonder on her face, the look of pure adoration she gave to Samantha when she turned back to her.
“This is incredible,” Passion said. “But what do you mean about humanity knowing its destiny?”
Here we go, I thought. Now we’re going to get the full regalia of cultish proselytizing, and Passion will learn all about The Hold, and she’ll probably want to join it. No, this was not going according to plan.
But, much to my surprise, Samantha didn’t launch into a sermon. Instead, she said, “Follow me. I want to show you the most valuable piece in the collection.” She took off toward the end of the room, pulling Passion by the hand.
I followed reluctantly, dragging my feet and trying to figure out how best to use this whole art angle to our advantage. We needed to get Samantha out of this guarded fortress of a house so Marcus could talk some sense into her. And obviously Passion could be bait, but I doubted that Marcus realized the work he had cut out for him. This was going to be way more difficult than getting me out of Greenfield, and that hadn’t exactly been a walk in the park.
Ahead of me, Passion and Samantha disappeared around a walled partition into one of the smaller alcoves.
“Oh!” I heard Passion gasp in awe.
God, I hoped she was only pretending to be this easily impressed.
“This piece is worth 1.5 million dollars,” I heard Samantha boast as I stepped around the corner into the gently lit area, but all I could see was Passion’s back. “It is the pinnacle of the collection because it symbolizes the fulfillment of that destiny I mentioned earlier. You see, humans weren’t meant to be flesh forever.” Here came the sermon. Her voice was trembling with conviction and emotion. “We weren’t meant to have PSS in part, a piece here or a limb there, or hidden away like yours. That’s only a step in the process of our evolution as men and women of the new spiritual era. The goal is pure ethereal existence. And, just like those other paintings predicted what was going to come, this one does too. It shows us our future.”
Passion turned toward me, the strangest look on her face, and I looked past her, finally able to see what amazing piece of “prophetic” art had Samantha?
??s religious undies in such a bundle.
The painting hanging in front of me was The Other Olivia.
17
THE OTHER OTHER OLIVIA
Sometimes there is a darkness you can hear, a swallowing of your senses that blots out everything going on in the world around you, leaving only the chaos colliding and exploding in your own head.
I knew that Passion was talking to me, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying.
Probably because I wasn’t even in that special locked-down art gallery in Samantha’s house anymore.
Instead, I was four, sitting at my father’s desk, my legs dangling off the chair in his study where my parents had sent me while they fought. Again. We’d just gotten back from Grandma’s in Orlando, and I’d so hoped the fighting would be done.
I hadn’t seen my father for over a month, and he’d greeted me at the door and hugged my guts out, and then my mother had said, “I’m sorry, Stephen. I never should have pressed you to destroy it.”
And he’d said, “No, I’m sorry. I’ve had a long time to think about it, and I never should have painted it without asking you. But it’s taken care of now. While you were gone, I got rid of it.”
“What do you mean ‘You got rid of it?’” my mother asked, the blood draining from her face.
“I sold it,” he said.
That’s when my mother had stuffed a box of crayons in my four-year-old hands and sent me to my father’s study to color with the door closed while the grown-ups talked.
There wasn’t any paper in Daddy’s scrap box to color on. There wasn’t any blank paper anywhere, but there were papers on his desk, important papers with important writing on them that I knew I wasn’t supposed to mark up.
But I did it anyway. I grabbed the nearest paper, and I colored all over it, scribbled on it until my crayon broke, and then I scribbled some more and more, until every crayon but my favorite, the black one, was broken and Daddy’s papers were a mess.