As he reached for her hand, he looked intimately into her eyes, and Aria held his gaze. She wanted to go slowly with Harrison, but whenever he looked at her like that, it felt like there were horse hooves pounding in her chest. Which was a welcome feeling, especially after seeing Noel and Scarlett in Best Buy.
Not that she was really dwelling on that or anything.
They started up the stairs toward the museum. Everyone was streaming out instead of going in. “How’d you manage to score an after-hours tour, anyway?” Aria asked.
Harrison smiled. “The perks of being just the teensiest bit connected. A lot of art critics get to go after-hours to all the museums—that way they can really see the works without fighting the tourists. All it took was one phone call—and a mention of your name.”
Aria gasped. Her name had clout?
Harrison held the door open for her. “But actually, I was hoping you’d give me the tour. The Philly Art Museum, Aria Montgomery–style.”
Aria cocked her head. “I’d be honored, Mr. Überblogger.”
They walked into the lobby, which Aria knew like the back of her hand. It was strange to see the place so empty, no hustle and bustle of kids racing for the armor and weaponry rooms or the gift shop. An echo spiraled from high above, and then came a loud clank. Aria looked around nervously. She didn’t like the idea of being totally alone.
But then a guard appeared from around the corner. A girl stepped out of the coat-check room, shrugging into a jacket. Aria breathed out.
She and Harrison walked past a table of flyers about upcoming events and a large desk about membership opportunities. Then Aria felt the slightest pang. She and Noel had come to the museum a few months ago, and they’d stood right in front of the membership desk, arguing about what to see. Of course Noel wanted to visit the ancient hatchets and swords, but Aria had insisted on seeing a new exhibit of eighteenth-century children’s apparel first. In the end, she’d gotten her way.
She winced. Was she always that pushy? Was that why Noel didn’t want to see her anymore? Maybe he’d taken stock of all their differences and realized how little they really had in common. That had to be it, because last night, when she’d stalked Scarlett on Facebook—the girl had been asking for it by giving her last name—she’d discovered that she went to a preppy private school in Devon, was totally into horses, was the captain of her cheerleading team, and almost certainly had no idea what differentiated a Kandinsky from a Rothko. In other words, the complete opposite of Aria.
She caught herself. You don’t care. She was here with a boy, after all. She’d moved on just like Noel had.
A docent rushed up to them, a big smile on her face. “Mr. Miller! Ms. Montgomery! It’s lovely to see you. I’m Amy, and I’m so thrilled you made it.” She pinned little buttons that had pictures of the museum’s winged-horse logo on their shirts. “Do you want a guided tour?”
“No, we’ll be all right on our own,” Aria insisted.
Amy scuttled off, saying she’d check on them later.
“Come on,” Aria said to Harrison, skipping up the marble steps, suddenly filled with confidence. “Our tour starts now.”
She led him to her favorite part of the museum, the contemporary-art wing. The rooms were empty, and only one guard stood at the main entrance, tapping on his phone. At first, Aria and Harrison walked around the perimeters, silently studying the art. Then Aria began to pick out her favorite pieces. She pointed at Three-Part Windows, by Robert Delaunay, a Cubist masterpiece of shapes signifying the Eiffel Tower views out a window. “I wish I could paint something like that,” she sighed. “It’s so evocative.”
Then she moved on to another Cubist work, Nude Descending a Staircase, by Marcel Duchamp, then pointed at some of the graphic compositions by Jean Hélion. “For whatever reason, I was always drawn to these,” she said.
“Mmm,” Harrison said, his chin in his hand.
Aria swallowed hard, suddenly unsure. All at once, she remembered how cool and opinionated and cultured Harrison was. Were her choices small-timey? Prosaic? “I mean, there are probably works in here that are better examples of the form, or the time period, or a particular movement,” she said quickly. “I’m no art-history major.”
Harrison looked at her. “Art is subjective. You know that. You like what you like.” He squeezed her hand. “You know, this is why you’re so unique. You’re so . . . humble. I’m around self-obsessed artists all day—it’s really refreshing. And you’re not like a high school kid, either. You’re so mature.”
Aria blushed. “Well, thanks, I guess.” She wasn’t used to receiving so many compliments.
Then she walked toward a room full of sculptures, her heels clacking loudly on the marble floor. “I used to come here when I was younger, like, in fourth and fifth grade, and sit here for hours,” she murmured. “And when I was older, my junior high class came as a group. I wanted to see all these paintings again—they felt like my friends. But my real friend, the girl I was with, wanted to go back to the steps and flirt with some boys from Penn. I was kind of bummed.”
A sour feeling filled her. She’d told that whole story without being totally cognizant that the friend had been Ali. Not crazy Ali, but Courtney had been crazy—and pushy—in her own way.
Harrison clucked his tongue. “I used to think the paintings were my friends, too. I never knew anyone else thought like that.”
Aria blinked hard. “We seem to have a lot of funny things in common.”