Now That You're Here (Duplexity, Part I) (7 page)

I watch Eevee walk down the street and, for the millionth time, think back to the night we first met.

For weeks they'd had us under curfew, their typical response to unspecified threats. No one was allowed out after dark—for our own protection, of course. Anyone caught breaking curfew faced fines, interrogation, the usual. As always, we adapted, changing our personal routines to comply. Then, just as quickly as they'd initiated the regulation, they lifted it. To an extent. We could move freely after sundown within a secured zone: namely, the lower downtown corridor, all conveniently arranged to coincide with the opening of a new exhibit at the Phoenix Art Museum. I was sure it would be mostly propaganda but I didn't care. I would have watched paint dry or cars idle just to
be
out.
The fact that I didn't have a ticket didn't stop me either. I'd find a way in. Somehow.

After clearing facial recognition and pat-downs, I boarded the light rail with my approved group. By the time we reached Lower Downtown, the sun was setting, turning the sky to sherbet soup. Our group moseyed along the rail lines, joining up with the other security-approveds slowly making their way to the museum. The show started at seven, but no one hurried. Instead, people carried on conversations, pointing out this and that. The spinning restaurant at the top of the Hyatt. The dancing statues in front of the Herberger Theater. A busker belted out patriotic songs at the corner of Central and McDowell. I listened for a bit, wondering if he'd slip any anti lyrics in, but he stuck to the script. Everyone did. From the lampposts and building cornices, Spectrum kept watch.

I shadowed a group of women, shuffling behind them toward the museum entrance, and slipped away to the side door when I thought there might be a break in cover.

The door was locked.

I leaned back against the building, trying to figure out my next move. I could either hang out there or risk my luck and slip outside the authorized zone. Hit Falcon Park, maybe. See if there were any other artists around.

An old man walked toward me. “Is this the entrance?”

“Around the front.”

He thanked me and left. I tried the knob again, just to be sure. Still locked. Time to find another way in or move on.

I'd only taken a couple of steps when the door hinges creaked behind me. I turned and saw a girl in a red dress.

A gorgeous girl.

A little red dress.

She took off her shoes and used one to prop open the door. Then she leaned back against the wall, her eyes closed. The streetlight spilled across her face and shoulders, leaving a shadow in the hollow of her neck.

I tucked my hands in my pockets and waited. Watched. When she finally opened her eyes and saw me, her mouth made the shape of a perfect O. Then she replaced that O with a smile that sent chills down my arms.

“You're not supposed to be here,” she said.

I shrugged. A dare.

She looked left and right, moving only her eyes. Then she slunk toward me, stopping just inches away. She leaned in and touched her lips to mine. Snaked her hand around the back of my neck and pressed that red dress against me.

What was I supposed to do, being kissed like that by a girl who looked the way she did?

A. Maze. Ing.

A car over on Central honked and she stepped back, one hand still on my chest and her lipstick smudged outside the lines. The neckline of her dress moved with her breathing. She adjusted her shoulder strap, smiled and turned back toward the door.

“Hang on,” I said.

She looked over her shoulder.

So many questions. I chose the least obvious. “Why?”

She shrugged, then picked up her shoes and walked back through the door, leaving me in the shadows.

Outside.

I tried to make sense of what had just happened, but came up empty.

After a moment, the hinges creaked again. The long arm that'd just been wrapped around me held it open.

Don't have to tell me twice.

But as soon as I walked in, she was gone. If it weren't for the lingering scent of her perfume—sharp, like ginger—I probably would have thought I'd imagined it all.

I searched for her through the back rooms and side galleries until I ended up in the main exhibit hall. The place was packed. Wall-to-wall people wandering around whispering, drinking wine. From what I remember, the art was incredible, but it was pretty much lost on me at that point. All I could think about was her. I scanned the crowds. Room after room, nothing.

When I was about to give up, I caught a glimpse of red disappearing behind a huge sculpture of two black spheres. I pushed my way through the crowd, pissing off lots of people in the process. Turned a corner and saw her leading a group of suits toward a painting. Couldn't hear what she said, but I was transfixed by the way she talked with her hands.

I grabbed some poor museum volunteer by the sleeve. “Who is that?”

He followed my pointing finger. “Eve Solomon.”

“Is this her work?” He raised his eyebrow at the way I was gripping his sleeve. I let go. “Sorry.”

He straightened his shirt. “She's
an
artist,” he said, “but not
the
artist. Antonio Bosca is
the
artist. Miss Solomon is Mr. Bosca's apprentice.”

“Eve Solomon,” I whispered. The guy rolled his eyes and walked away. I watched her circulate through the room, pointing out the details of Bosca's artwork, laughing when her audience laughed and answering questions with her delicious, smudged lips. At one point, her eyes flicked over to me and she paused midword. Then she finished what she'd been saying, still smiling.

Standing here in this upside-down version of Phoenix, I can just see the back of Eevee's head as she turns the corner of the street and disappears from view.

She's nothing like the dangerous girl who kissed me without warning. That girl fascinated me for obvious reasons. This Eevee, though. She's like one of those van Eyck paintings where the closer you look, the more you see. Or an Escher drawing where, just when you think you've got it figured out, the whole thing flips.

She's a puzzle.

And so is this Phoenix.

I pull the printout from my pocket. Better get moving. It's time I start figuring out how I got here. And how to get back.

I dart into first-hour physics. Class has already started, and Mac is standing at the front of the room, lecturing from behind the demonstration table. A contraption of coiled metal and wire takes up most of his workspace. As he talks, he paces back and forth, tossing an apple into the air. I break up Warren and Missy's whisperfest when I take my seat between them. She looks annoyed that I interrupted their conversation. Warren turns his back to me.

“Hey.”

He doesn't look up.

Mac continues to talk, his eyes distant, like he's talking out loud to himself rather than teaching a class. “The repulsive force on diamagnetic materials is too small to measure when using a standard electromag
net.” He trades out the apple for a marker and writes a formula on the whiteboard. The class follows suit, copying the information down.

The zipper of my backpack is painfully loud. I pull out my physics notebook and a sharp pencil, then zip the bag back up and set it on the floor. Ugh. If anyone missed the fact that I was late to class, it's obvious now.

Mac picks up the apple again. “But in the presence of a hybrid magnet, the magnetic field counterbal
ances gravity.”

I scribble down the formula while trying to keep up with Mac's lecture and also trying to ignore the looks passing between Warren and Missy.

“Of course,” Mac continues, “electrons don't like being in magnetic fields. How do they react?”

A number of hands go up. He chooses someone at the back of the room.

“They modify rotation to compensate?”

“Correct.” Mac tosses the apple and catches it. “They work in opposition to the external influence.”

Warren's arm slides a note across our table. My mood lifts. Maybe the situation isn't as bad as I thought.

I reach for the note, but he jerks it away and slides it past me.

To Missy

Missy smiles and takes the note with a dainty index finger and thumb. Warren pulls his arm back.

“If nature is anything, it's consistent,” Mac says. “Whenever a force disturbs or acts against it, the reaction is always negative. Behold.” He drops the apple into the cylinder and switches the electromagnet on. The apple rises inside the tube, bobbing slightly. The class whispers a collective “Whoa.”

Except Missy. She unfolds the note. I'm torn between the coolness of the experiment and my curiosity about what Warren has written.

“As long as the external force is present, the internal force reacts. The result, at least in this case, is levitation.”

I set my pen down and pretend to stretch, leaning back so I can peer over Missy's shoulder.

Tonight,
the note says.
7 p.m. Rooftop.