Em
"You know, in the original story, Peter Pan was actually a creep," Eliza said, reading the plaque on the wall next to a painting of Pan, bare-chested save for a stray vine here or there, standing over Wendy, clad only in a white nightgown, shot from the heavens by the lost boys, looking concerned. In the painting, he was painfully beautiful, hair tousled, face angled, body lean, on the very edge of boyhood and on the very cusp of manhood. A cowering Tinkerbell, for whom the Wendy bird's demise was to be blamed, hid in the shadows of a tree, glowing faintly.
"Hmmm?"
Em hadn't really heard what her friend, Eliza, had said as she was more focused on getting the perfect angle to take a picture of the painting than on the teenage mess that was Pan. She finally got it right, and the shuttering sound her phone emitted was loud and unexpected and drew more than a few annoyed and curious glances her way. She desperately scrolled through her phone's camera settings, trying to find the setting that would enable her to turn the sound off. She breathed a barely audible sound of relief when she finally found it and muted it.
"…Not to mention that J.M. Barrie was also a creep and probably a pedophile."
Em's head snapped up immediately. "Shh! Not so loud," she hissed, glancing around to see if anybody had heard them. If anyone had, they were doing an awfully good job of hiding it; no one was glancing their way.
Eliza shot her a look. "Well, it's true. He adopted three boys and did inappropriate things with them—"
Em sighed and lowered her phone. "Not everything that's true needs to be said."
"Cut the cryptic nonsense, would you?" said Eliza and leaned against the baby blue walls of the art gallery, her arms still folded.
"Sheesh, sorry. I mean, even if something is true it doesn't mean you need to announce it to the whole world."
Eliza smiled evilly and wiggled her eyebrows. "Like this?" she asked, before taking a deep breath and shouting, "J. M. Barrie was a—"
Em grabbed her friend's arm. "What is wrong with you?" she hissed.
Eliza shrugged out of her grasp. "It was funny, though. I mean seriously, tell me that wasn't funny."
Before Em could answer her, a flash of movement in the shadows of the canvas caught her eye. But she'd imagined it, of course, she had because otherwise, it meant that she was seeing things or that she was crazy, both of which pretty much amounted to the same thing.
She was jolted from her thoughts when Eliza said, quite loudly, "Guess you're not the only one taking pictures."
She pointed to where a boy a couple of years older than them stood, his phone still angled at the canvas.
"Hey, no flash," a security guard by the entrance to the gallery barked, and the boy quickly lowered his phone.
Eliza turned to her. "Why do you like this painting so much?"
She shrugged. "I always listened to a Peter Pan audiobook when I was a kid, and I kind of like the story. There's something about not having to grow up and take responsibility that's kind of awesome."
Another shift in the shadowy eaves in the canvas caught her attention. What was it that seemed to have moved the first time? No, she was being silly. Nothing in the paintings had moved, because these paintings weren't alive; they were dead, as were most of the artists whose works graced the walls of these rooms. Even if the painting of Smaug destroying Laketown seemed all too vibrant and alive, it did not mean that it was.
"Earth to Em!" Eliza said, snapping her fingers in front of Em's face.
Em batted them away. "Cut that out."
"You know that you weren't blinking for, like, two fricking minutes, right? And you had this really weird look on your face."
Em said nothing, but only blinked in confusion. Eliza sighed, leaning away from the wall as a security guard in a starched blue sleeveless shirt, token cap, and a clear plastic earpiece that disappeared behind his ear walked by, and thankfully dropped the subject. She slung her arm around Em and leaned her whole weight on her playfully. "You want to go see the rest of the gallery downstairs for a few minutes and then we'll go home?"
Em nodded. "Sounds good," she said as they walked towards the exit, then, as an afterthought, added, "I still can't believe that you can drive."
With her back turned away from the Peter Pan painting, which, according to the sign on the wall next to it, was called, The Mourning of the Wendy Bird, she didn't see the light around Tinkerbell glow just a little bit brighter. Then again, it could have just been the boy who had decided to yet again risk-taking a second picture of the canvas. Or maybe not.
Em
"You know, in the original story, Peter Pan was actually a creep," Eliza said, reading the plaque on the wall next to a painting of Pan, bare-chested save for a stray vine here or there, standing over Wendy, clad only in a white nightgown, shot from the heavens by the lost boys, looking concerned. In the painting, he was painfully beautiful, hair tousled, face angled, body lean, on the very edge of boyhood and on the very cusp of manhood. A cowering Tinkerbell, for whom the Wendy bird's demise was to be blamed, hid in the shadows of a tree, glowing faintly.
"Hmmm?"
Em hadn't really heard what her friend, Eliza, had said as she was more focused on getting the perfect angle to take a picture of the painting than on the teenage mess that was Pan. She finally got it right, and the shuttering sound her phone emitted was loud and unexpected and drew more than a few annoyed and curious glances her way. She desperately scrolled through her phone's camera settings, trying to find the setting that would enable her to turn the sound off. She breathed a barely audible sound of relief when she finally found it and muted it.
"…Not to mention that J.M. Barrie was also a creep and probably a pedophile."
Em's head snapped up immediately. "Shh! Not so loud," she hissed, glancing around to see if anybody had heard them. If anyone had, they were doing an awfully good job of hiding it; no one was glancing their way.
Eliza shot her a look. "Well, it's true. He adopted three boys and did inappropriate things with them—"
Em sighed and lowered her phone. "Not everything that's true needs to be said."
"Cut the cryptic nonsense, would you?" said Eliza and leaned against the baby blue walls of the art gallery, her arms still folded.
"Sheesh, sorry. I mean, even if something is true it doesn't mean you need to announce it to the whole world."
Eliza smiled evilly and wiggled her eyebrows. "Like this?" she asked, before taking a deep breath and shouting, "J. M. Barrie was a—"
Em grabbed her friend's arm. "What is wrong with you?" she hissed.
Eliza shrugged out of her grasp. "It was funny, though. I mean seriously, tell me that wasn't funny."
Before Em could answer her, a flash of movement in the shadows of the canvas caught her eye. But she'd imagined it, of course, she had because otherwise, it meant that she was seeing things or that she was crazy, both of which pretty much amounted to the same thing.
She was jolted from her thoughts when Eliza said, quite loudly, "Guess you're not the only one taking pictures."
She pointed to where a boy a couple of years older than them stood, his phone still angled at the canvas.
"Hey, no flash," a security guard by the entrance to the gallery barked, and the boy quickly lowered his phone.
Eliza turned to her. "Why do you like this painting so much?"
She shrugged. "I always listened to a Peter Pan audiobook when I was a kid, and I kind of like the story. There's something about not having to grow up and take responsibility that's kind of awesome."
Another shift in the shadowy eaves in the canvas caught her attention. What was it that seemed to have moved the first time? No, she was being silly. Nothing in the paintings had moved, because these paintings weren't alive; they were dead, as were most of the artists whose works graced the walls of these rooms. Even if the painting of Smaug destroying Laketown seemed all too vibrant and alive, it did not mean that it was.
"Earth to Em!" Eliza said, snapping her fingers in front of Em's face.
Em batted them away. "Cut that out."
"You know that you weren't blinking for, like, two fricking minutes, right? And you had this really weird look on your face."
Em said nothing, but only blinked in confusion. Eliza sighed, leaning away from the wall as a security guard in a starched blue sleeveless shirt, token cap, and a clear plastic earpiece that disappeared behind his ear walked by, and thankfully dropped the subject. She slung her arm around Em and leaned her whole weight on her playfully. "You want to go see the rest of the gallery downstairs for a few minutes and then we'll go home?"
Em nodded. "Sounds good," she said as they walked towards the exit, then, as an afterthought, added, "I still can't believe that you can drive."
With her back turned away from the Peter Pan painting, which, according to the sign on the wall next to it, was called, The Mourning of the Wendy Bird, she didn't see the light around Tinkerbell glow just a little bit brighter. Then again, it could have just been the boy who had decided to yet again risk-taking a second picture of the canvas. Or maybe not.
