I set off alone to Le Marais, a neighborhood across town from my grandparents’ home. Weaving my way through its tiny medieval streets, I finally arrived at my destination: the palacelike building housing the Picasso Museum.
Besides the alternate universe offered by a book, the quiet space of a museum was my favorite place to go. My mom said I was an escapist at heart . . . that I preferred imaginary worlds to the real one. It’s true that I’ve always been able to yank myself out of this world and plunge myself into another. And I felt ready for a calming session of art-hypnosis.
As I walked through the gigantic doors of the Musée Picasso into its sterile white rooms, I felt my heart rate slow. I let the warmth and peace of the place cover me like a soft blanket. And as was my habit, I walked until I found the first painting that really grabbed my attention, and sat down on a bench to face it.
I let the colors absorb into my skin. The composition’s convoluted, twisted shapes reminded me of how I felt inside, and my breathing slowed as I began zoning out. The other paintings in the room, the guard standing near the door, the fresh-paint smell in the air around me, even the passing tourists, faded into a gray background surrounding this one square of color and light.
I don’t know how long I sat there before my mind slowly emerged from its self-imposed trance, and I heard low voices coming from behind me.
“Come over here. Just look at the colors.”
Long pause. “What colors?”
“Exactly. It’s just as I told you. He goes from the bright, bold palette of something like Les Demoiselles d’Avignon to this gray and brown monotone jigsaw puzzle in a mere four years. What a show-off! Pablo always had to be the best at everything he put his hand to, and as I was saying to Gaspard the other day, what really ticks me off is . . .”
I turned, curious to see the origin of this fountain of knowledge, and froze. Standing just fifteen feet away from me was Vincent’s curly-haired friend.
Now that I saw him straight on, I was struck by how attractive he was. There was something rugged about him—unkempt, scruffy hair, bristly razor stubble, and large rough hands that gesticulated passionately toward the painting. By the condition of his clothes, which were smudged with paint, I guessed he might be an artist.
That came to me in a split second. Because after that, all I could see was the person standing with him. The raven-haired boy. The boy who had taken up permanent residence in the dark corners of my mind since the first moment I saw him. Vincent.
Why do you have to fall for the most improbable, inaccessible boy in Paris? He was too beautiful—and too aloof—to ever really notice me. I tore my gaze away, leaned forward, and rested my forehead in my hands. It didn’t do any good. Vincent’s image was burned indelibly into my mind.
I realized that whatever it was about him that made him seem a bit cold, almost dangerous, actually heightened my interest instead of scaring me off. What was wrong with me? I had never gone for bad boys before—that was Georgia’s specialty! My stomach tightened as I wondered if I had the courage to go up and talk to him.
But I didn’t have the chance to put myself to the test. When I raised my head, they were gone. I walked quickly to the entrance of the next room and peered in. It was empty. And then I just about jumped out of my skin as a low voice from behind me said, “Hi, Kate.”
Vincent loomed over me, his face a good six inches above mine. My hand flew to my chest in alarm. “Thanks for the heart attack!” I gasped.
“So is this a habit of yours, leaving your bag behind in order to strike up a conversation?” He grinned and nodded at the bench where I had been sitting. Lying beneath it was my book bag. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just walk up to a guy and say hello?”
The slight trace of mockery in his voice evaporated my nervousness. It was replaced by a fiery indignation that surprised us both. “Fine! Hello,” I growled, my throat tight with fury. Marching over to the bench, I picked up my bag and stalked out of the room.
“Wait!” he called, jogging over to me and matching my pace. “I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant . . .”
I came to a stop and stared at him, waiting.
“I’m sorry,” he said, exhaling deeply. “I’ve never been known for my sparkling conversation.”
“Then why even make the effort?” I challenged.
“Because. You’re—I don’t know—amusing.”
“Amusing?” I pronounced each syllable slowly and shot him my You’re a complete weirdo look. My clenched fists rose automatically to rest on my hips. “So, Vincent, did you come over with the express purpose of offending me, or is there something else you want?”
Vincent put his palm to his forehead. “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. Can we . . . can we just start over from scratch?”
“Start what over from scratch?” I asked doubtfully.
He hesitated for a second and then held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Vincent.”
I felt my eyes narrow as I weighed his sincerity. I gripped his hand in mine, shaking it a bit rougher than I meant to. “I’m Kate.”
“Nice to meet you, Kate,” Vincent said, bemused. There was a four-second silence, during which I continued to glare at him. “So. Do you come here often?” he murmured, unsure.
I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. He smiled, obviously relieved.
“Um, yes, actually. I’ve kind of got a thing for museums, not just for Picasso.”