Cross Country Hearts by Suzanne August
Six
“What’s stopping you?”
Ibriefly consider lying to Jasper and driving right past New York City. After all, he’s not insane enough to jump out of a moving car on the highway, right? Even more encouraging is the fact that if we skip New York—which brings with it the possibility of adding yet another night to the trip—I won’t have to explain to my mother the additional night. She’s already disappointed in me, like always.
And then when I think that, I get annoyed. While I try to live up to her expectations of good grades and excellent behavior, I still feel as if my mother has never taken the time to try and see me as someone on the verge of adulthood. A part of me—some rebellious inner part of me—wants to go to New York just because I can. And then I remember how Jasper said that I try to please everyone.
I head straight for the city.
I’ve been to New York only once before when I was five years old. I remember the whole experience as being surreal and fun. It was like Boston but on a grander scale. It was a whirlwind of an adventure for me and my sister with my parents, back when we still had our dad, and my mother was happier in life.
What I don’t remember about the city is the traffic. Maybe it’s gotten worse in the ten-plus years since I visited, or perhaps it’s only today that it’s horrible. Perhaps New York’s traffic is a nightmare day in and day out. It’s past noon when I finally make it into the city. By now, hours have passed since Jasper and I left that small town in Connecticut behind, and it seems he can’t take my jitteriness anymore.
“It’s only one day,” he repeats to me for the umpteenth time. He’s been watching me from his seat for the past twenty minutes or so, hand gripping the handle above the window. I try not to feel offended that he’s scared of my driving.
I try to squash my anxiety, but this is wholly different from driving in the suburbs of Boston. The congested and slow traffic mixes with blaring car horns and people everywhere, presenting so many opportunities to accidentally run someone over or scrape past a car. How could it not be stressful?
“We’ll never get to the Met,” I say to Jasper. “Even if we do, we’re never going to get out.”
“We will,” he assures me. He points somewhere to my right. “Park right over there. We should be close enough to walk.”
“Walk?”
“You can take a little exercise. It won’t kill you.”
“I play soccer,” I snap. “It’s not like I’m lazy.”
He glares at me.
I try to relax my grip on the steering wheel. “I don’t even want to go to the Met. I can drop you off and drive around until you’re done.”
I feel his gaze on me and, even though I try to ignore it, it makes me uncomfortable. He says simply, “No, you’re going to want to see this.”
“You might be into art, but I’m not,” I say, matter-of-fact. “I’m into sports. History. Not art.”
He repeats, “You’re going to want to see this.”
I don’t argue with him. I’m too busy trying to navigate the roads, anyway. I do find a parking spot sometime later in the direction Jasper pointed in. As he slips out of the car, I begrudgingly follow him. I have to admit that I don’t want to be alone in this huge city, even if it means I have to hang around Jasper King.
Jasper pulls out his phone and opens the map app. I don’t have to ask to know he’s looking up the directions to the Met. As soon as we’re out and onto the streets, he sets a fast pace, weaving around people as if he knows exactly where he’s going. It’s almost like he’s a natural in the city. Like he’s exactly where he belongs.
“Have you been here a lot before?” I ask.
He doesn’t spare me a glance. “No.”
That doesn’t leave much room for discussion. It’s a windy day, so I stuff my hands in my hoodie pockets and walk a few paces behind him.
When we finally arrive at the Met, I pause outside its entrance. The building is made of stone, with long Greek columns decorating the sides of the tall windows and large doors at its center. There’s a grand staircase leading up to the doors. It strikes me as the same as all grand buildings.
“I thought it would look more spectacular,” I say to Jasper.
He gives me a glare that, if he could, would send me to my death. That glare alone tells me how much he already treasures this place, and he hasn’t even been inside yet.
“Give this place a chance,” he says.
I shrug and start up the steps. Seconds later, Jasper’s steps fall into sync with mine. There’s a large mass of people inside, and I have to weave around them to make it to where we pay. I hand over two dollars, but Jasper gives up a whole Alexander Hamilton. That’s a lot for a high schooler who doesn’t have a job.
I separate from Jasper as soon as we’re inside. If I’m stuck here with him, I still don’t have to be by his side the whole time. I at least try to find something that is interesting here to me. The first hall I emerge into is that of Greek and Roman art.
Do I want to look at busts of people I don’t even know? Not really. I recognize that they’re beautiful, but I’ve never been interested in going to museums to look at them. There’s a beautiful fountain, though, and I spend a nice five minutes near it.
I wander around a few of the exhibits, but I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to be doing. My parents always took April and me to children’s or science museums. What’s more, I haven’t been to a museum since I was in middle school, and never once have I been to an art museum. I see busts of famous people or paintings made by famous people. They are beautiful. I’m just bored looking at them.
I wander around for somewhere close to an hour, wondering how long Jasper will want to stay. Eventually, I start looking for him. It takes a long time because we’re in such a large museum, but I find him in American Decorative Arts.
He’s standing by some old couch that has no importance to me and shouldn’t to anyone else. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence as I draw close. I follow him as he moves on to look at some textiles. “How much longer are you going to be?”
He doesn’t give any indication that he’s heard me. Just as I decide to give up before I even try—because I am not in the mood for any more arguments—he says, “I’m not going to rush for you, Pierce.”
I take a moment to respond. I need it; otherwise, I’m going to snap at him. “I’m not asking you to. I just want to know.”
“I don’t know. Maybe another hour.”
“Seriously?”
He finally graces me with his acknowledgment. His expression is back to an open book, most likely deliberately, because what they’re telling me right now is how much I’m annoying him. “I’ve never been here before. I’m going to take all the time I need.”
“We need to get to Jacksonville by tomorrow night,” I remind him.
“They won’t miss us for another day if it comes down to it,” he shoots back. “I don’t know when I’m going to get another chance to come back.”
“You’re eighteen. You’ve graduated high school. Do whatever the hell you want, but after the wedding.”
He rolls his eyes and turns away.
“Hey, you can’t blame me,” I say. The words fall at his back. “I have no artistic talent. This stuff is boring to me.”
He glances over his shoulder. “It can’t all be boring.”
“Well, it is.”
He sighs. “You’re missing the point of this, Pierce.”
“Oh,” I say. I almost laugh. “There’s a point to showing off art and non-art in one huge museum?”
I understand it’s a collection of cultural heritage and a celebration of the art in this world. I just don’t think some of it needs to be on display, like the old and worn couch in the corner over there.
Jasper shoots me another glare. “Everything here is art. But it’s more than that. It’s history.” He spreads his hands to gesture to everything, including the whole museum rather than this room. “This entire exhibit might just be full of furniture and textiles and architecture, but it’s the art of America’s beginning. It tells us something about people who lived during this time.” He gestures to a textile. “Someone made this. Someone who lived hundreds of years ago laid their hands on this and created it. That’s not only art; it’s history.”
What he says sounds like grandeur, but I look around dubiously. I guess I understand how he sees this as art, but I still just see that couch.
“You said you were into history,” he reminds me.
“I am.” I point to the couch. “But are you going to tell me that that couch is history because someone famous sat on it? Because they had it in their home? That’s not art, and it’s not history. It’s only a couch.”
“Forget about the couch, June.”
I give him a bland look.
He raises his eyes to the ceiling. “You’re still not seeing the point.”
“I told you I’m not into it.”
He twists around to face me again, his gaze landing on mine. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He studies me, eyes narrowing before he glances around. He’s thinking hard about something, but I can’t fathom what would be worth so many thoughts.
Finally, he rolls onto the back of his heels. “All right, let’s go.”
My eyes widen. “Really? We can go?”
At my excitement, he glowers. “No, not back to the car. I mean, let’s go. I’m going to show you why all of this is art.”
I squint at him as he turns, heading for the exit. I’m not sure how I feel about him trying to explain to me what art is. I think it’ll make me more frustrated with him and vice versa, but I follow him anyway. It’s better to do what he wants if it means we can get out of here faster.
He leads me through the museum with the same assurance he possessed when we walked the streets of the city, and I wonder again how it is he can do that when he’s never been to this museum before. If I think about it, Jasper always has this air of assurance around him. It’s a sort of stroll. It’s in how he always stuffs his hands in his pockets and leans slightly back, eyes forward like he doesn’t need to look for directional cues.
I’ve always thought that it made him look arrogant. Now I’m starting to think that maybe he’s just comfortable with who he is. He acts like it, anyway.
After a few minutes, we finally arrive at wherever he wants to go. We stop in the middle of the Greek and Roman exhibit, where all the busts of random people I’ve never heard of are.
“So, how into history are you?” Jasper asks.
“It’s my favorite class in school,” I answer. “But ancient history isn’t my favorite, King. I like modern history, like the history of the World Wars.”
His eye twitches. “Just follow me.”
So, I do. He leads me into a long room with polished white floors. Old and deteriorating paint covers the walls. In the back, there’s a single window with broken bars. I’d seen it earlier when I was passing by but didn’t find it interesting enough to stop and look at it closer. In fact, I walked by most things. At least in this room, no one is claiming furniture as art.
Jasper stands beside me, almost shoulder to shoulder. He says, “Do you know what this is?”
I didn’t look at the plaque this time or an hour ago. “No, but I’m guessing some old Roman guy painted these a very long time ago.”
I think my reply is smart, but Jasper doesn’t seem amused. If anything, he looks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “It’s more than that.”
“Hm.” I press my lips together. “You think so?”
Jasper spreads his arms, gesturing to the room as a whole. “This is from a room in a house near Pompeii. You know what happened to Pompeii, right?”
Seems like Jasper is going to be a teacher right now. “Yeah. A volcano erupted in the first century and buried it in ash. Everyone died.”
He nods. “Look at these wall paintings, June. Imagine how long they stayed buried and unseen.”
I frown. If it gets us out of here faster, then I’ll indulge him. I try to give a closer look at the paintings surrounding me on three sides. Even though they’re old and ill and have patches of the bare wall where the paint has almost completely come off, I’m struck by how well some of the colors have stayed, if it’s been nearly two thousand years.
There’s the deep red of pillars that frame a depicted city. The detail given to the buildings is striking—I’ll give it that. They’re surrounded by baby blue hues of the sky. There are vases and columns, leaves and statues, all heavily detailed. They come together to create a magnificent scene.
My frown deepens. “How long were these buried?”
“They were recovered a little over a hundred years ago and brought here from Paris.”
I take another step forward to study the paintings closer. I don’t like it, but I have to admit that Jasper has a point. Before he told me the volcano buried these, I looked at the painted walls as just another painting created by some admired Roman artist. When I think about it, though, ash and earth buried this room for almost two thousand years. I remember a history teacher saying there was a time when people thought Pompeii was a myth. Then someone rediscovered the city buried by ash, and its last moments preserved for the world to see millennia later.
There is something incredible in that, even if I won’t admit it aloud to Jasper right now. The paintings are old, and when in a building filled with magnificent art, it probably can’t compare to something else. They’re damaged and faded, but I’m struck that I’m looking at the same walls someone looked at two thousand years ago.
Admittedly, it’s kind of mind-blowing.
How could all this have survived so long under ash that came from an angry and pulsing volcano? Shouldn’t these paintings be destroyed, lost through time because of circumstance?
“This isn’t just art,” Jasper says. His voice has lowered to a near whisper over my shoulder. “This is history.”
And he’s right. The volcano meant the ugly and awful ends to countless people’s lives so long ago, but it saved this room from what would have otherwise been an early demise.
Almost as if he can hear my thoughts, Jasper adds, “The volcano preserving this helps us understand what these people were like. When you get rooms like these around the world, they contribute to what we understand about people from the past. It shows us something we would otherwise never know.”
Even though Jasper is talking about these paintings, I sense something more in his tone. Another meaning. I turn around to face him. “Is this why you paint?”
He studies me. “Yeah.”
I tip my head back and glance at the paintings again. “I never thought of art as history.”
“Everything is history,” he tells me.
I make an agreeable noise and realize we’re in dangerous territory. This is the first time Jasper and I aren’t at odds—aren’t fighting. Saying the wrong thing could set either one of us off again. But I have to ask it. Before we left Boston, Jasper never asked about coming here. He only asked after he told me about his parents. “Did you start to paint after your parents were gone?”
Jasper sucks in a breath, and my heart drops. I have to look away, thinking I’ve made a mistake in asking. If asking that question will make this trip a hundred times more times worse than what it already is, I can’t look at him. He’s probably giving me another death glare.
But then he says, voice soft, “Yeah.”
I close my eyes, and the amount of relief I feel at having not set off another argument surprises me.
“They died when I was ten, right before my birthday,” Jasper goes on, surprisingly. I bring my gaze back to him, and although his eyes are on me, I don’t think he’s looking at me. He adds, “They promised we could go to New York and see the Met. My mother was an artist too.”
“Would you really not have gotten in the car if I didn’t agree to take you here?”
The corners of Jasper’s mouth twitch, almost like he’s going to smile, but he doesn’t. “I don’t want to ruin Carlisle’s wedding just like you don’t want to ruin April’s. So yeah, I was bluffing.”
“Asshole,” I say, but only half-heartedly.
Jasper doesn’t take offense. “I’ve always wanted to come here, and we do have plenty of time before Saturday rolls around. Isn’t there a place you’ve always wanted to go?”
I ponder that for a moment. “I’ve always wanted to go to Hersheypark.”
“What’s stopping you?”
I study Jasper again, then. He’s studying me too, and his book is closed. Maybe Jasper is right. We have five days to get to Florida. I have a car, and we’re driving down the East Coast. I understand that he’s saying this is a road trip, and what’s the point if we don’t go places along the way?
For one, Jasper and I don’t like each other. It borders on hate, yet we’ve been able to get along for the past half hour, which is a record. Secondly, I know my mother wouldn’t be happy, but I’ve already disappointed her.
A part of me wants to tell Jasper that we can’t go on a road trip. Besides the two points, though, there’s another part of me that wants to live a little. That wants to not only rebel but to have an adventure. There’s a part of me that wants to be spontaneous.
There are five whole days before Saturday morning. That’s five days of road trip adventure.
And what sets me over the edge is when, ten minutes later, Jasper brings me to an open, beautiful room showcasing a two-thousand-year-old Egyptian temple.
“You’re right,” I hear myself say. “Let’s go.”