Page 4 of The Art of Exiley

“I do, actually,” Michael replies.

“Iknewit.” I’m grinning too big again. “Okay, but what’s the real answer?”

“Well, I have a vested interest in Michelangelo because I was named after him.”

It takes me a moment for it to click. Michael, Michelangelo. My eyebrows rise.

“I applaud your valiant effort not to make fun of me,” Michael says.

I scrunch up my nose. “No! I was just… thinking about what kind of parents you must have.”

“Ha. The kind who read Machiavelli and Maimonides to my sister and me before we were old enough to read on our own.”

“I see. I was only getting Shakespeare at that age. My grandfather didn’t graduate me to the philosophers until middle school.”

“A kindred spirit! Have you too been raised constantly terrified to fall off the pedestal you’ve been placed on?”

“Oh, no. I fell off my pedestal long ago. I’m now officially ‘the disappointing one.’?”

“You? Disappointing? The standards must be high.”

I feel a blush creep up my cheeks. “You have no idea.” He really doesn’t. The standards I’m compared to are ridiculous. Kor is at Columbia with a growing collection of honors, has his artwork displayed in various prestigious galleries around New York City, and have I mentioned his recent Grammy nomination? Izzy’s in her first year at MIT, and an app she designed was just bought by one of the world’s most successful companies, Ozymandias Tech. Meanwhile, I—though I’ve been aggressively avoiding thinking about it—have already missed the deadlines on some of my (very mid-tier) college applications.

I brush my bitter thoughts aside and ask Michael, “What has you worried about falling from your pedestal?”

He looks away, talking to the statue instead of to me. “Sometimes… I want to question the status quo. Do what I think is right instead of what I’ve been taught is right.”

“What’s the worst that could happen if you do?”

“I’ll let people down, lose their trust.” He pauses and then adds, “Not know who I am if I’m not who I’m expected to be.”

It scares me just how well I know what he means. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this connected to someone this quickly. And that’s scary too, like holding something impossibly delicate, just waiting for it to fall apart.

“And what’s the best that could happen?” I ask.

He looks at me contemplatively without answering.

I teasingly poke his arm. “What happened to seeing the truest potential instead of the most negative outcome?”

He cocks his head, watches me for a moment, then says, “I needed to hear that. I feel like meeting you today was meant to be.”

Meant to be. It does feel that way. But I’m not about to admit it. “I don’t know. That sounds an awful lot like something a kidnapper would say.” I jokingly back away.

He lifts his fingers toward his mouth as if to continue the decimation of his nails, but he catches himself, lowers his hand, and instead says, “Come out with me for a drink.”

My heart is thumping so fast. I want to say yes. But there’s a small tug at the back of my mind telling me that he’s too handsome, too sophisticated to actually be interested in very averageme. I can’t help but wonder if he’s taking interest for another reason. He does know an awful lot about Renaissance history….

No. I’ve given him no reason to suspect who I am. He’s asking me out for real.

“A drink sounds lovely,” I say.

When we exit the museum, the sun has mostly set. The days are short during these winter months.

Mom would not be happy. Me going out with a boy was definitely not something she had in mind when she agreed to let me go on this assignment during my winter break. To alleviate my guilt, I send her a quick message saying that I’ll call her before I go to bed. I’ve been good about calling her daily, though I don’t know why I bother since she’s always too busy to talk. I also text my aunt who I’m staying with to let her know I’ll be back late.

Apparently, in addition to art, Michael is also extremely knowledgeable about Florence, and as we walk to a restaurant he recommends, he tells me about the different churches and piazzas we pass. We stop a few times to listen to buskers filling the squares with their crooning covers of every generation’s greatest hits. I even hear a rendition of “Mona Lisa Smile,” the single that skyrocketed Kor from playing the underground Columbia University music scene to the top of the Billboard charts last year. He’s still pissed about it, considering that everyone thinks it’s a love song, and he insists that it isnota love song.

But even though I know Kor’s intention with the song, I can’t help but find it romantic when the lyricsYou’ll see whatever you want to see, her truth is whatever you want it to bepull Michael’s gaze to mine. And when the lineIf that’s what you seek, then she’s sure to beguile, but don’t lose yourself in her Mona Lisa smiledraws his gaze down to my lips, I don’t think I’m reading this wrong. I’m pretty confident I’m getting kissed tonight.

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