Em

"Hey, how about getting a head start on this project at your house tonight?" said a voice from behind Em's open locker door.

She gasped and clutched her chest. "Oh my god, Liz, you scared the hell out of me."

Eliza folded her arms and looked at her pointedly. "I'm waiting for my thank you."

Em stared at her. "Huh?"

Eliza smirked. "Well, now you're going straight to heaven."

It took a moment for Em to understand what her friend had meant, but when she did, she rolled her eyes, and said, "But seriously, you really scared me."

"I'm sorry," Eliza said, as Em shut her locker door.

Em turned to her as they headed down the hallway, towards the school exit. "So, what were you saying before?"

"Hey, Em, wait!"

Em stiffened because she knew who that voice belonged to. "Hey, Tina," she said, an edge creeping into her tone and her body tensing.

Tina finally caught up to them. She was already out of breath and had both a frantic and nervous air about her. "What can you do about those history notes? I know that this is really last minute, but maybe you could – it's just that – Sarah takes good notes, but hers always come out too light. Eric also takes good notes, but he's the only one who can read them. And Hannah uses too much shorthand. Do you think you could send your notes out to Beth? She'll send it out to everybody, so you don't have to worry about that – I mean, you're notes are super neat, right? And Dawson said that you clarify parts of the notes in a different color, so that would be really helpful. Also, could you try to do it as soon as you get home – or as soon as you can? No pressure or anything. You don't have to."

Em sighed. "I sent it out for the last test. And the test before that. Actually, come to think of it, yeah, I also sent out notes for another history test before that. And they never end up getting sent out and they always use someone else's anyways, usually Sarah's. Why not just use hers?"

Tina huffed. "Well, I'm sorry, but that has nothing to do with me, but Sarah's notes print out way too light. And your notes are really dark, so…"

Em knew she shouldn't give in. If she agreed, she knew she'd spend hours wondering if the email with her notes attached as a pdf file she'd sent to Beth or Tina had gone through. She would be a mess, and then, in the end, they wouldn't even use her notes, but Sarah's or Tina's. But Em still found herself saying, "Okay. I'll text you before I send them."

"Thanks," Tina said, her voice and expression colored in stark relief. She waved at Em and nodded at Eliza, then hefted her bag higher on one of her slim, cream-colored shoulders, and hurried away, her long, sleek dark ponytail swinging madly behind her.

"Why do you always do that?" Eliza asked as they resumed walking.

"Do what?"

"You know," Eliza exclaimed, waving her hands around. "Give in. You spent at least fifteen minutes complaining about how unfair it was and how you'd never do it again after the last time you sent them notes."

Em shrugged. "I have no idea. I just feel bad, I guess."

She did know why she did it, though, or at least, partially why. It made her feel wanted, needed, necessary and relied upon. In small doses, those feelings were powerful, too much, and they became almost addictive, like psychoactive drugs or coffee.

"How ?bout we meet at your house, and we can do some recon for the project on the web. Hey, I have a really good idea. Maybe we can ask your mom for some help? Wouldn't that be awesome?"

Em turned to her, confused. "Why?" she asked, then let out a loud, "Ohhh," when she understood. "I am so stupid. Yeah, that's a really great idea, but wouldn't having an art museum curator help us give us an unfair advantage?"

Eliza slung an arm around her. "Didn't you read the requirements for the assignment? We need, like, all the advantage we can get, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I do," Em said, shrugging off her friend's arm from her shoulder. "I think you meant, 'we need all the help we can get.'"

Eliza wrapped her arm around Em again as they walked through the school doors out into the afternoon light. "No, that's not really what I meant—"

"Yeah, I think it is. You mixed up 'take advantage' with 'we need all the help we can get.'"

"I'll call you when I'm ready to come over, okay?" Eliza said, changing the subject abruptly, not even trying to be subtle about it.

Em nodded. "But let's just try not to start too late, though."

Eliza began to walk backward, still facing Em. She raised both arms and gave Em a thumbs up. "That's my girl!" she called, drawing further away.

"See you later!" Em called back, and Eliza waved, before turning around and beginning her walk home.

"So," Eliza began, as she walked through the front door that Em had just thrown open. "What should we do? Or do you already have an idea?"

Em shook her head. "I don't know. What do you want to do?"

Eliza folded her arms, which was her default pose, and settled herself on Em's couch, which was dark and embroidered in maroon and tan flowers, with red and black pillows arranged neatly on each side of the couch by the armrests. Em paused, before saying, a bit awkwardly, "Oh, I, uh – I just thought it'd be better if we worked at a table. Or a flat surface."

Eliza got up. "Sure," she said, picking her briefcase up from beside the couch where she'd first dropped it. They made their way to the dining room table and set their binders on it, before settling across from each other.

"Hey, do you remember that time you almost ate one of those yellow tickets to ride trains because you thought it was a French fry?" Eliza asked.

Em groaned. "You are never going to let me live that down, are you?"

There was an uncomfortable silence, before Em asked, "So. What do you want to do?"

Eliza shrugged. "I don't know, what do you want to do?"

"I have no idea. Whatever you want."

"Well, I don't know either!" Em pressed her face against her forearms that she'd set on the table and let out a muffled groan. "We aren't going to get anywhere like this!"

Just then, Mrs. Summers, Em's mother, poked her head into the dining room, her platinum blonde hair and blowout as immaculate as ever.

"Hi, girls. Need any help with your project?"

Eliza waved. "Hey, Mrs. Summers. Love the manicure!"

Em's mother lifted her hand away from the doorpost it was gripping, raised them in front of her face, and admired them. "Thanks, Eliza, dear."

"Mom, how do you even know about the project?" Em complained.

Her mother winked, then said, "Your school contacted us to make a list of our paintings. Oh, I am so excited!" she practically danced her way into the dining room. "So the museum called, and in honor of Sophia María Castella, they are going to have a special exhibit this month!"

"Who's Sophia María Ca – whatever?"

"Oh my gosh!" Eliza exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly. "Isn't that the Belgian artist who people only found out about because her children were going through her things after she died? Like the one whose paintings go for millions of dollars? The one who painted Midnight Shadows and The Clock Strikes Twelve?"

Mrs. Summers nodded, visibly pleased. "Well, at least someone from the younger generation has heard of her," she said, looking pointedly at her daughter.

"What? Just because I don't know who Sophia María Castella is, I know where Thisbe originally came from. I know a lot of other things."

"Wasn't Thisbe from Shakespeare?" Eliza asked.

"No, from mythology, actually. Shakespeare just borrowed her. Their story's almost Romeo and Juliet, did you notice?"

"No, I didn't. What's this special exhibit on, Mrs. Summers?"

Em's mother beamed. "Because Sophia María Castella was known for her series of paintings, not just individuals, the museum is putting together an exhibit with series of paintings that are usually kept separate. Different museums will be lending us their paintings for the month. We'll be displaying Rhinehart's, Dimitri's, some of Castella's, Morgenstern's, and a lot more."

"Hey, wasn't Morgenstern the guy who painted that The Mourning of the Wendy Bird you kept looking at the other day?" Eliza asked, turning to Em, who nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

Mrs. Summers clapped her hands. "Morgenstern would be a great idea to do your project on. He was inspired by J.M. Barrie's story of Neverland, and he was also influenced by other works pertaining to eternal youth."

"Eliza, what do you think?" Em asked.

"Yeah, I think that's an excellent idea. Thanks, Mrs. Summers."

Em nodded. "I also think Mrs. Doe will really love it because it's less conventional. I don't think anybody else will think of doing it. And Eliza knows so much about Peter Pan."

Just then, Eliza's phone, which was face down on the table, rang. The ring tone was unmistakably Billie Eilish's bad guy song.

"Seriously?" she said, as Eliza picked up her phone and swiped answer.

"Hey, mom, what's up?"

Em could hear her friend's mother's voice through the phone, not quite shrill but somewhat desperate, nonetheless.

"Slow down, I can't make out what you're saying. Are you on speakerphone?" A pause. More noise. "Are you serious? I told you and Jason that I was working on a school project tonight! How was I supposed to know Brian was coming over? Fine, fine. I'll be there in ten." Eliza turned to them. "I have to go babysit my stepbrother since apparently both my mom and Jason forgot I was working on a school project. I'm really sorry, Em, but I'm gonna have to bail on this one. Good night Mrs. Summers."

"I'll walk you to the door," Em said, as she followed Eliza out onto the porch, down the steps, and to her van.

"I'm really sorry," Eliza told her again, as she closed her door, and started backing out of the driveway. Em waved and watched her friend's van disappear around the street corner.

"Em, come back inside, I have something I want to tell you!" Mrs. Summers called from inside. Em trudged up the steps and back into the house, disappointed about how the night was progressing. Her mother was in the living room, her Michael Kors bag slung over one shoulder. "The Morgenstern collection just arrived at the museum. I already need to go, so I thought maybe you'd like to come along and check it out. Familiarize yourself with it, take some pictures, and you can update Eliza tomorrow."

Em's spirit began to lift. "Yeah. Let me just go to the bathroom and grab my phone."

Her mother nodded. "Great. I'll be waiting in the car. I'm calling your father to let him know supper's in the fridge. Leftovers from last night. And lock the door on the way out, won't you?"

It felt weird, entering the museum after hours when everything was dark and relatively silent. It seemed as if the museum, with all its paintings and displays, could come alive, as if the wicked witch of the west would burst from her canvas and start cackling, or demand that Dorthy over her magic slippers.

Her mother led her to a boy who was standing nervously by the front desk. "Henry," her mother said, magnanimously, "can you show my daughter to the Morgenstern collection?"

Henry nodded and swallowed nervously. "Yes, Mrs. Summers." He turned to Em. "Come, follow me," he said and began walking down the hallway. He walked through an arched entrance into a darkened room and switched on the lights. He led her through the large room through another arched entrance, then turned through the door on the right.

"Here," the intern said, motioning to a series of vibrant paintings that covered the baby blue walls.

"Thanks," Em said uncomfortably, as the intern continued to just stand there, awkwardly.

"Well, I'll just be going." The intern motioned in the direction they'd just come from. "I'll be there if you need anything. Or anything else."

"Thanks," Em said again, wishing he'd just leave. He did, and she finally breathed a sigh of relief. She began to study the paintings, taking in the paintings themselves and their names. The Mourning of the Wendy Bird had been moved to the gallery, finally joined with its brothers and sisters. There was Tiger Lily's Abduction, Second Star to the Right and Straight On 'Til Morning, The Lost Boy's Adventures, Hook's Demise, The Kidnapping, Wendy Tells the Lost Boys Stories, Pan's Shadow, The Treehouse, and others which she couldn't make out because they were too high up. Em fished her phone out of her jeans pocket and began to snap photographs of the paintings, careful not to miss any of them. She was almost done, with only one more left to go. It was The Treehouse, which was right in front of her and the easiest one to take, which is why she had left it for last. Best to expend her energy on the harder ones. She was about to snap a picture and call it a night when she noticed something very wrong with the painting. The paint on the canvas seemed almost wet. No, it was wet. But that was wrong, it couldn't be. Why would the paint be wet? Had it rained? But if it'd rained, the paint wouldn't just be wet, it would be streaked, smeared, a total mess. It would be ruined. The paint seemed wet, as if the artist had just finished it and left it out to dry. Which was very, very wrong because it'd been painted in nineteen-sixty-one, years and years ago. It was the twenty-first century now, and the paint had no business being anything other than bone dry. But it was wet. Em suddenly had the sensation she had when she was dreaming and suddenly became aware that all was a dream. She often had that sensation, where her waking life seemed entirely surreal. It was because she suffered from intensely vivid dreams and often had lucid dreams, dreams where she knew she was dreaming and could control them. It felt like that now, where this was a dream and she'd suddenly become aware of it. When this happened, she felt like she could do anything, and there would be no consequences. And then things got even stranger. She could hear the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves and smelled the distinct scent of summer. She reached forward to touch the painting, to see if it really felt as wet as it looked, and choked on a dry gasp when her fingers passed through the image on the canvas. She jerked her hand backward, and the only thing stopping her from having a full-blown panic attack was the underlying sensation that all of it was a dream. She looked down at her fingers, expecting them to be coated in paint, but they weren't. Curiosity overcoming her initial fright, she reached out and placed her fingers against the surface of the canvas once more. She stroked it, expecting her fingers to brush rough canvas, expecting what had happened to be a product of her imagination, but her fingers…her fingers passed through it, disappearing into the painting. Further and further she pushed, first her wrist, then her elbow, and finally her shoulder vanishing into the canvas. And then, then it felt as if something or someone, some force from the other side of the painting was pulling on her, and she felt herself being drawn into the painting, and everything became a blur of color and the smell of paint, as the museum disappeared around her.