Part Six: An Impulsive Escape

Maple here - Welcome to Part Six of my story about my friend Stella!

Enjoy!

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As I slept on my bedroom floor, I dreamt of my first day of school as a senior. I had just spent the summer soaking up the rays on the French Riviera. As I walked into the school’s main lobby, everyone stopped to look at me. Some people held Time magazines in their hands and whispered my name. My face was on the magazine’s cover with the headline “Supermodel Serves as CIA Spy in L.A. High School!” My secret had been exposed! Now they all knew the truth!

I woke with a thunk, having rolled my head into the leg of my desk chair.

What a bizarre dream. I was neither a supermodel nor a CIA spy. Nor had I ever hoped to be either one. Though I wouldn’t mind this dream coming true. Then all my classmates would know they had underestimated me all these years. Being a gorgeous undercover agent was a lot better than being the pale, hopeless idiot I had really been (and still was).

I suppose everyone wishes that they were a more exciting version of themselves. And in high school you want to rub that more exciting version in people’s faces. Sure, it is totally superficial and tasteless, but you still want to do it.

Now I was moving. A new home. A new school. New math classes to fail. New gym classes to embarrass myself in. And a whole new batch of people who will learn how unimpressive I really am. I wouldn’t get the chance to show my current classmates how awesome I could be. Then again, I didn’t really think awesomeness was in me. I wanted to bang my head against the chair leg on purpose, but noises from downstairs distracted me. I heard my Dad talking to someone about boxes and dishes. Could the movers be here already?! How long did I sleep for?

I got up off the floor and inched open the door.

“Yeah, just pack up the whole kitchen. I know if I do it, everything will break.” My father’s words floated up from the kitchen.

I eased the door closed. This was really happening. I must have slept the whole night. Time was marching steadily forward while I drooled on my rug.

I decided to not think about that and instead packed my biggest purse with supplies. I was leaving. Why would I want to stay here and then be dragged to who knows where? Maybe L.A. and I hadn’t ever really clicked, but it was the only home I had ever known. It was familiar. I changed my clothes, grabbed my purse, and snuck down the stairs and out the back door. My Dad, in the center of a swarm of movers, didn’t even notice.

Running away wasn’t going to do any good. But I felt like leaving so I did. I never said I wasn’t impulsive.

I headed to the art museum. I knew nothing about art, but I liked their gardens, so I often hung out there after school. I boarded the museum tram and zipped along the California hillside toward my destination. People around me chatted and looked excitedly out of the windows. It must be nice to be a carefree tourist. As our ride ended at the front courtyard it started to rain. One of the five days of the year that it rains in L.A. had to be today.

I dragged my feet across the plaza and begrudgingly went into the museum lobby and followed the hallways to the indoor galleries. I wanted to see the gardens, but I certainly didn’t want to be wet as well as depressed.

For a while I just looked at the floors and ceilings as I trudged along. My eyes floated over paintings, guards hovering in doorways, statues on pedestals and tourists listening to headsets. But then a woman caught my eye. She stared at me with an air of melancholy — from inside a painting. Even though she was formed of paint, she seemed to be judging my appearance and movements. She looked vibrant enough to open her mouth, take a breath, and tell me her name. I looked at her prim hairstyle with funny looped braids, her modest black and white dress, her tiny hands, her wedding band, and then I stared back into her sullen brown eyes.

She appeared too young to be married, and too sad to have ever been happy. She looked how I felt. Her life had changed, but not by her choice. Her father probably had a conversation with some guy and suddenly she was ripped from her home. Sent off to marry and live with a stranger. A new home. A new life. And there was no going back.

Without realizing it, I had been humming a song as I studied the painting. My headache started tapping at my temples along with the beat. I felt the room begin to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster.

All I could do was hope I wouldn’t pass out and fall on my face in the museum. The room flipped upside down around me. I closed my eyes to block out as much as of this roller coaster as possible. When I opened them, the young woman was still looking at me. Except I was standing right next to her, and she was just as alive as I was.