Somewhere along the way, my fake smile became real. I was with my best friend, and no one could hurt me. I didn’t even mind when she had to leave to work the debate team’s booth—for two dollars, they’d try to help you win any argument. I wandered through the maze of booths and tents, thinking how much Jesse would have adored the spectacle of it all. He loved anything loud and manic. The laughter and smiles of crowds had given him strength, whereas they drained me even when I enjoyed them.
The Calypso Crooners were hosting a karaoke booth, and I couldn’t listen to one more off-key rendition of “Summer Nights,” so I ended up on the far side of the carnival, where it was quieter. I noticed a blue-striped tent with a meticulously painted sign that read: CALYPSO HIGH ART GALLERY. Diego had mentioned an art show, and I wondered if any of his paintings were on display. I had thirty minutes to kill before Audrey rejoined me, so I decided to take a peek inside.
The outside of the tent may have been dingy, but the inside was wondrous. Framed art hung from the walls and was displayed on freestanding easels. A sculpture of Medusa that bore an eerie resemblance to Principal DeShields haunted a space by the entrance, glowering at all who passed; a cityscape constructed of cigarette butts had attracted a crowd of admirers; and a painting of an ocean sunrise caught my attention. It was so realistic, I could hear the waves and smell the salt water. Each piece of art had a little placard indicating the artist and name of the work. I didn’t want to admit I was looking for one bearing Diego’s name, but I was. I finally found it in the back of the tent, beside an eight-by-ten painting in a simple black frame.
Diego had painted a boy sitting cross-legged in a dark room. He was naked, with shadows for underwear and cracked cement for skin. Sections of his arms, legs, and shoulders had crumbled, revealing a core of rebar rather than bone. As if hinged, the boy’s skull hung open, and the hollow space inside was crowded with familiar faces. I recognized my mom, Nana, Charlie and Zooey cradling a tiny bundle between them, Ms. Faraci, and Audrey. Jesse’s translucent face peered back at me too. It took me a moment to notice, but hidden in the back stood an algae-skinned alien with marble-black eyes mounted on wobbly stalks. The boy’s hand hovered over a button, and his lips bore a cheeky Mona Lisa smile, as if he were hoarding all the secrets of the universe and would never share.
It was me. I tried to digest the details, but there were so many. Rather than beating in my chest, Diego had painted my heart as cut from the night sky—full of stars—and pinned to the concrete skin of my upper left arm, and a crow hovered overhead, so dark it nearly blended into the background. I could have peeled back the layers of meaning for hours and not discovered them all. This was how Diego saw me. I was Henry Denton and I was Space Boy. I was broken and I was beautiful. I was nothing and I was everything. I didn’t matter to the universe, but I mattered to him.
The person in that painting would have pressed the button. The person in that painting with the steel bones and legions in his skull would have saved Jesse. The person in that painting would have fought back in the showers, he would have told the police who had attacked him. The person in that painting wasn’t real.
An average-size human being jumping out of an airplane will reach 99 percent of terminal velocity—approximately 122 miles per hour—within about fifteen seconds. If the body remains horizontal, the air resistance gives the illusion of floating. That’s how I’ve felt since meeting Diego. Like I was floating. But I’d been falling the entire time.
A hand on my shoulder. “Henry?”
Diego.
“Henry, are you—”
“That’s not me.”
Diego’s hand slid away. The ground was rushing to meet me. I was falling and falling. I was running.
But I could never run far or fast enough to escape the impact because gravity is inevitable.
? ? ?
Vega is the brightest star in the constellation Lyra, and the third brightest star in the northern hemisphere. Lyra is traditionally associated with the Greek musician Orpheus, though it is also sometimes referred to as King Arthur’s Harp. Upon the death of Orpheus’s wife, Eurydice, he marched into the Underworld and played his lyre for Hades until the lord of Death, so moved, agreed to return his wife. The hitch was that Orpheus was forbidden from looking backward until he was clear of the dread god’s domain. Failure to abide by this one rule would nullify his victory, and Eurydice would be lost forever. Orpheus looked back. Orpheus was an asshole.
I, however, did not look back. Not even once I reached the football field.
I sat on the bleachers and buried my face in my hands, crying until I couldn’t cry anymore, wondering how I’d fucked everything up. I wasn’t the person Diego thought I was. I could never be that person. I hadn’t even pressed the goddamn button. I screamed as loud as I could, letting the noise explode from my throat and ripple across the world. I didn’t care who heard me.
“You don’t answer my texts anymore, Space Boy.” Marcus startled me when he sauntered up behind me. I hopped to my feet and scanned the surrounding area for Adrian or Jay, but either they were well hidden or Marcus was alone.