Page 50 of The One Who Won’t Get Away
Nadya stared at the portrait, and the air around her seemed to get colder.The muscles in her jaw tensed, and her hands curled into a fist at her side.
After a minute, she said, “I hate how they made kids sit so still for these.I tried modeling one time.One time.That’s it.I couldn’t handle sitting for that long.”
“Having cameras is definitely an improvement,” I offered even though I wanted to say so much more.Her reaction didn’t seem to be just about posing.
Instead, I guided Nadya away from this exhibit.The further we got from the heavy old portraits, the lighter Nadya became.In the sculpture room, she circled a piece of twisted metal and declared it “the world’s most dangerous playground.”
In the photography wing, she dragged me in front of a series of black-and-white portraits—stark faces against charcoal backgrounds, some smiling with teeth too white, others staring with hollow eyes.Nadya's fingers wrapped around my wrist as she pulled me closer, her shoulder pressed against mine.
"Let's play a game," she whispered, her breath warm against my ear."Which one's the serial killer and which one's the petty thief?"She pointed to a man with slicked-back hair and a woman whose smile didn't quite reach her eyes, both frozen in time behind glass.
I pointed at the guy with the slicked-back hair, his tie only slightly off-center.“That one’s the killer.No one puts that much product in unless they’re overcompensating for a personality disorder.”
Nadya eyed him, then grinned.“You do know how to profile.”
“Years of training.”I tilted my head at the woman, whose fingers gripped her purse strap.“That’s a petty thief right there.She’d break into your car for quarters but feels guilty about it after.”
“You’re full of shit.”Nadya’s voice was soft, but there was a spark in her eyes.She leaned closer, squinting at the nameplate.“Look—he’s a priest.And she’s a city councilwoman.”
“In my experience, the councilwoman’s more likely to bury you in a shallow grave.”
She laughed, the sound raw and unfiltered.I wanted to bottle it so I could listen to it whenever I needed to lift my own mood.But Nadya was already pulling me further, having me guessing the secret lives of strangers, making up stories for every frozen face.
The last gallery opened up into a huge atrium, light flooding through a domed ceiling onto a massive installation of paper cranes, hundreds of them suspended by invisible wire.Nadya stretched on her toes, counting under her breath.
“The plaque says there’s a thousand,” I said.
She raised her eyebrows.“Yes, but how do you know they’re not lying?”
“Good point, but I’ll let you check on your own.”
She circled under the cranes, face relaxed.“Vera used to fold these out of junk mail and leave them all over the apartment.”Nadya’s eyes tracked a single slip of white printer paper, dangling above our heads like bait.“So, I started making paper chickens.The kind that if you tug on their legs the right way they look like they’re pooping.It turned into a contest of who’d get the junk mail first.”
I watched her watching the cranes, the afternoon light reflected in her eyes.What would it take to keep her in this light mood?
She caught me looking and rolled her eyes.“Don’t get sappy on me.”
“Too late,” I said.
She gave me a shy smile that looked so odd on her.It’s like the mask of this happy-go-lucky woman who laughed too hard slipped, and the real Nadya emerged.
She pulled me through the rest of the museum until somewhere around the exit, we passed a wall of community art—paintings and sketches from local students.One of them caught Nadya’s eye: a mess of color and texture, wild and unfiltered, with a tiny figure peeking out from a corner.
She stood there, staring.“See?That’s art.It doesn’t pretend.It just...is.”
I tried to read her mind, but she shook her head like she could feel it happening.“Don’t analyze me, Tuna.”
“I wasn’t,” I lied.“But if you want my expert opinion, I think you’re better than anyone on this wall.Talk about having art evoke emotions.”
She rolled her eyes.“It must’ve been someone too high on his own self-importance who came up with the idea that art must inspire emotions.Sometimes, art is advertising.Sometimes, it’s storytelling.Sometimes, it’s an illustration.”She waved at the massive chandelier above us.“Look at that thing.Someone designed it, and its purpose isn’t emotions, but it sure as hell looks like art to me.”
I squinted against the light spilling from the giant contraption made of hundreds of crystals.
“I used to like art in comic books better than pretty much everything we’ve seen here,” I agreed.
Maybe I wasn’t a complete idiot when it came to art.I just enjoyed different kinds of art from what was shown here.
We circled back to the lobby to find the place was a little busier—a couple of families with strollers, a pair of college kids holding hands.Nadya’s expression was unreadable, but I got the sense she was building a whole story for each of them in her head.
