She took a hard left onto the Benjamin Franklin Parkway as she rode away from the Center City region of the city and towards the Art Museum neighborhood, and went up the long strip of road that led up to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. A mile of museums, with beautiful buildings that thrilled her. Like the Academy of Natural Sciences, a place dedicated to the history of the planet, with dinosaurs, plants, weird insects, and live animals. And then there was the Franklin Institute, a science museum that she and Sarika used to get lost in on school trips, ducking in and out of a giant, to-scale human heart you could walk through and hole up in. Museums dotted the mile, most of which were easier to visit in the evenings, when tickets were discounted and the lighting was low. It set the mood for some and dished out the opportunity to hide, or sneak in, for others. At the end of the mile was the museum that housed most of the artwork in the city.
Leila squinted as she approached the Philadelphia Museum of Art, looking for a sign of Shawn. She cursed herself as she stopped her bike and leaned it against one of the columns by the long steps leading up to the museum. Why hadn’t she asked him what he’d be wearing, or maybe something about his bicycle? Even at this hour on a Sunday, late afternoon when you’d think people would be snuggled in on a blustery day or grabbing brunch someplace, the front of the Philadelphia Museum of Art was swarming with people. Runners used the stairs as a workout routine and tourists meandered about, absorbing everything with their cameras and smartphones, and some, embarrassingly, with their giant tablets. Leila grinned at an older man holding up an enormous iPad to take a picture. She opened her backpack and had just flushed her phone to text Shawn when the wind picked up, tickling her neck.
Carrying the voices.
Ley . . . ga . . . co . . . hel . . .
They came in and out, half-formed words that sounded like they were on the other end of a bad cell phone connection. Leila winced and closed her eyes, gritting her teeth against them. She thought of what was around her. Get grounded. Be present. She whispered to herself.
“Museum. Stairs. Concrete. Leaves. Bike.”
Suddenly a hand grabbed at her shoulder, the fingers grasping tight.
“Get off!” she shouted, and swung at the hand’s owner, her fist connecting squarely with a shoulder. She bounced back, and despite the stinging pain that buzzed along her knuckles and down into her wrist, balled her fist up again to strike again. The figure stumbled back and fell onto the hard stone steps, their backpack slapping against the beige stairs.
Their beat up, slightly military-surplus-looking backpack.
Leila groaned.
Oh no.
It was Shawn.
“Damn!” he shouted, looking up at her with pained eyes as he got back to his feet, brushing himself off. A few people scaling the steps slowed to look, and then kept going. “You sure know how to throw a punch.”
“Oh, hell,” Leila muttered, walking over to him and flexing her fingers in and out. “Sorry, I really don’t like people sneaking up on me.”
Her thoughts ran.
Or touching me. Or looking at me. Or speaking to me.
“It’s, uh, nothing personal.” She shrugged.
“Noted, noted,” Shawn said, gripping his shoulder. He smiled that crooked smile of his and ran his hand through his hair. Leila relaxed a bit, and then tensed back up immediately as a runner brushed by her, bounding up the stairs.
“Excuse me!” he shouted as he darted by, leaving the smell of sweat and coffee in his wake. He moved strangely fast for someone with a medium-sized cup of coffee in his hand. He made quick work of the stone steps with his bright-red sneakers and neon-yellow, stretchy pants.
“Watch it!” shouted Shawn, and the runner turned back for a second, locked eyes with the two of them, and turned back, continuing up the stairs while sipping from his coffee cup.
“Ass,” Shawn muttered. He turned back to Leila and smiled. “Question: And I’m sure you have, but have you ever, you know?” He nodded at the stairs and grinned.
“What?” Leila asked.
“I mean, I guess it’s kinda silly,” Shawn continued, gesturing over at the stairs, that confidence he seemed to ooze fading just a little.
Leila looked over at the stairs and up to the top, where the coffee-drinking-while-running guy had reached the final step. He placed his coffee down and jumped up and down, his fists in the air, and promptly knocked over his own coffee with a careless foot. She laughed as the man muttered some kind of inaudible swear, bending down to fumble with the coffee which was now making its way down the steps, streaming and hot. Served him right.
And then someone next to him did the same thing. Jumping up and down, fists in the air.
And then a couple, who promptly kissed at the top of the stairs.
And another person, cheering alone.
Something clicked.
“Oh,” Leila said, turning back to Shawn. “You mean the whole Rocky stairs run thing? You know a couple of years ago, someone knitted a sweater that said ‘See the Art’ on that statue, right?”
“Yeah, I saw that on Tumblr,” Shawn laughed, looking over at the nearby statue. A massive statue of Sylvester Stallone as the iconic underdog boxing champ, Rocky, stood on a small platform in bronze. Tourists were lined up to take photos of it, and a family posed in front of it, two parents and their two children, all their hands raised. A man took the photo and handed it to one of the kids, who looked at the picture and smiled brightly.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Shawn said, his voice practically a nudge. “You’re new to the city, right? Or is it just the school? It’s like, a total rite of passage.”
“Shawn, you, um,” Leila started before fading off. “You really don’t know that much about me just yet. I’ve lived in Philadelphia almost my entire life. My . . . um, adoptive parents and I don’t live that far, we’re right in Manayunk.”
“Adoptive parents?” Shawn asked, his eyebrows arching up. “I didn’t know you were adopted. Were you born here? Where in Philly were you before you were adopted?”
“Little bit of everywhere?” Leila said, shrugging, trying to steel herself against the questions. “My old group home is down in South Philly, not too far from the stadiums. I lived with one foster family in Frankford, another in West Philly.” She looked up at Shawn to find his mouth open, agape. She fought the discomfort rising in her chest as the thoughts of each of those places rushed in. The couple in Frankford filed for divorce shortly after bringing her home; evidentially having a kid wasn’t a good way to save a marriage. The family in West Philly had a number of foster kids, and were clearly in it for all the wrong reasons. She’d heard about that before, seen kids come back to the group home with stories of homes far too full of children and never full enough of love.
“Yeah, like I said, there’s a lot you don’t know.” She sighed, feeling the return of the pressure from that meeting last week, in that classroom with all those eyes on her. People ran by, charging up the stairs, or casually strolled too close, holding hands, bodies and backpacks brushing against her. “Maybe, um, maybe this wasn’t the best idea.”
Leila felt a rush of warmth course over her, the anxiety heavy and hot. All these people everywhere, all these things to talk about, secrets she didn’t really want to share with anyone. Was this what it was going to be like? Dating? Meeting boys? That wasn’t something she did back at the group home, back at any of the old schools she’d gone to, where things were temporary. Where questions were even harder to answer. And making friends other than Sarika or the people at Adam’s Café? She’d have to explain things to them. Her life.
“Wait, no,” Shawn said, holding out his hand. Leila flinched, and Shawn retracted. “I just . . . that’s what dates are for, right? Getting to know each other and all that?”
“I suppose,” Leila said, fighting the urge to shrink back into herself.
“I mean, you already know a, um, rather embarrassing thing about me. You saw it in the class, with, you know.” He shrugged, stammering a little. “She who will not be named.”
“Your ex-girlfriend isn’t Voldemort, Shawn.” Leila laughed, shaking her head. “There are far worse villains in the world.” She thought back to the incident in the hallway with Sarika. “Though I suppose not too many.” She grinned.
“I knew I liked you,” Shawn laughed. “Look. You shared some truths with me, and I’ll share one with you,” Shawn said, extending his hand again. Leila looked at it hesitantly, and then up at his face. His smile was warm, that dimple a crater on the side of his mouth, his eyes kind and welcoming. Leila closed her hand into a fist, backed up, and then opened it, grabbing his hand.
Shawn pulled her forward, and Leila felt her whole body tense up.