The Alchemy of Forever

so are plenty of sociopaths.”
    Noah laughs, a deep warm sound. In spite of myself, I smile. I know I sound paranoid. A terrible thought occurs to me. “You didn’t say anything to him about my car accident, did you?”
    “Of course not.” He looks puzzled, but also hurt. “I promised you I wouldn’t say anything. And why would that even come up?”
    “Sorry, I know. There’s just something I don’t like about him.”
    “Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Noah replies. “Oh, and Kailey?”
    “Yes?”
    “In the immortal words of the Kinks, ‘paranoia will destroy ya.’”
    I laugh. “I don’t think that’s exactly how the song goes. But I get the point.”
    We spend the rest of the lunch period talking about other things: Noah’s parents, the possibility of art school, where we should go for a proper date. But I’m only half there. There’s a shadow hanging over my mind. There’s more than one way for Cyrus to hurt me, I realize. Now that there are people here that I care about, I’ve made myself vulnerable.
    I lean back against the oak tree. It’s so strong, so solid. It’s probably hundreds of years old, like me. And yet it could be cut down in a matter of minutes. I feel like everywhere I turn, Cyrus is there, anticipating my next move. It’s a game I can’t lose.

twenty-nine
     
    The next afternoon, I get a text from Leyla:
    art murmur tonight? i can pick u up.
     
    I’m not sure what an “art murmur” is, but Google informs me it’s an open art studios event in downtown Oakland. I text Noah, and he writes back immediately that he’d love to join us. On impulse, I pop my head into Bryan’s room.
    “I’m going to the Art Murmur tonight. You want to come?”
    He groans. “Ugh, art and hipsters. I don’t think so.”
    “You sure? Leyla’s going to pick me up in ten minutes,” I say casually.
    “Oh? Leyla’s . . . driving? Well. Um. Sure, why not.” He grabs a pair of Chuck Taylors from his pile of shoes, and I make no effort to conceal the satisfied smile on my face.
    Leyla arrives, looking embarrassed about pulling up in her old Honda. “My parents gave it to me,” she explains to Bryan as he climbs into the front seat. “They said these things run forever.”
    “Reliable is good,” says Bryan, adjusting the collar on his letterman jacket as he buckles his seat belt. “I’d take a boring ride with a strong engine over some weirdo car that will leave you by the side of the road.”
    Noah and I burst out laughing in the backseat.
    “What’s so funny?” asks Leyla.
    “Nothing,” I answer. “Bryan and his strong engine are right.”
    We park on Twenty-Fifth Street and wander over to the galleries. The atmosphere is festive. People fill the sidewalks and the streets, drinking out of plastic cups or bottles in paper bags. A group of boys rides by on bikes with brightly colored foil triangles woven into the spokes, like a fleet of pinwheels. There are tables set up where people are selling screenprints and jewelry, wallets made of duct tape, and knitted hats. We stop in front of a woman selling cupcakes, and Leyla asks what flavors she has.
    “Pumpkin, lemon, and fried chicken,” the woman replies, with a smile.
    Bryan’s eyes light up. “Did you just say fried chicken cup-cake? Is this possible?”
    “Seriously,” Leyla agrees. “I’m afraid if I eat that, I’ll realize I’m dead, because putting those two together could only happen in heaven.”
    Bryan buys each of them a cupcake, raising his in the air in a mock toast. Leyla plays along. “To the perfect combination of sweet and savory,” she declares. “Clink!”
    We walk through the galleries, looking at portraits painted on bowling balls, dreamcatchers made of electrical wire, maps of imaginary lands, and Art Nouveau mosaics made out of bottle caps. Noah is drawn to a series of black-and-white photographs of children in makeup for the Day of the Dead, little boys and girls in suits and dresses with painted-on skeleton faces. “That’s seriously creepy,” says Bryan.
    We stop in front of some paintings that remind me of Kailey’s work, lush watercolors of young girls lying in fields of patchwork or sleeping in a pool of stars. I wonder how these would look through Kailey’s eyes. To me, they tell a story. But would she concentrate on the technique? Would she want to know how they were made? The artist approaches us, a girl in her late twenties wearing a ruffled plaid skirt. “These