Portrait of Us by A. Destiny

how that would be an interpretation. But who was to say it was the right one?
    â€œWell, that’s the way I see it,” he replied. There was no embarrassment, no wavering in his voice. “But someone else in a different place might see it another way. What do you see?”
    I had to admit, after he pointed all of that out to me, the artwork started to come to life. The teardrops on top of the spike. The rubble on the ground, like artillery shells. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced before.
    I licked my lips and stared at him over the top of the sculpture. “I never would have seen that if you hadn’t pointed it out.”
    He shrugged, giving a shy smile. “Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t have seen something. And next time you see this piece, it might look different to you.” He stepped around and grabbed my fingers, and I almost stumbled from the feel of our skin, from holding hands. “There’s more I want you to see.”
    Matthew stayed close to me and took me to several of his favorite pieces. I could tell he’d been here a few times by the way he gushed about them. His enthusiasm was infectious. Though some of the stuff went right over my head, especially the one with doll heads glued to plastic cups.
    â€œMy brother could make that in five minutes,” I said with a snort, staring down at the “art” resting on a low table. “What could this possibly be saying?”
    â€œLook closer. What do you notice about these doll heads?”
    I furrowed my brow and scanned down the row. There had to be a hundred blond heads stuck in the cups. Then I saw one in the very back corner. It was a black doll—the only one in the whole group of white dolls.
    â€œThis piece makes me angry,” he said quietly. I heard the thread of strength in his voice. “There’s a lot I see here. Race, of course—how monochromatic almost everything on here is. But also how fake and plastic we as a society have become.” He glanced at me. “What does this make you think about?”
    I blinked and rubbed a hand on my upper chest, right undermy throat. Once he pointed it out, a bunch of contrasting emotions fluttered in my stomach. I picked a memory that flew right to the front of my mind. “My mom gave me both black and white baby dolls as a little kid.” I paused. “I’ve always been aware of race, of course. As a black girl, that’s inevitable in our society. But the color of my friends has never mattered to my family.”
    He crooked a grin. “I bet you were a cute kid.”
    I shrugged. “I had a bit of a mouth. Always stubborn.”
    â€œI believe that.”
    I nudged him in the side, and he chuckled. Sometime over the last hour, the walls had slowly dropped between us. I could feel a difference already. Less hesitation when we spoke to each other. More honesty.
    Matthew was smarter than I’d given him credit for. Way smarter. I’d seriously misjudged him, had assumed he was just a flake who didn’t care about anything but sports. But he had lots of passion, and the skill to rouse that feeling in others. Even just walking around with him, I could feel his intensity about art.
    Had I ever been that strongly vocal about anything I believed in?
    Something about him sparked a feeling deep in my heart that I wasn’t about to label yet. It made me uncomfortable, aware of myself, of him. All I knew was that despite my discomfort, I wanted to feel it more.

ChapterNine
    H e and I walked a little more around the gallery wall in silence, taking in a series of similar paintings hanging on the far wall. They were a theme of colors. I stood there and just absorbed. Turned off my inner judgmental side and made myself stare at the image, let it present itself to me.
    Then I noticed the pattern. The one square of red that made its way marching across the paintings. What did it mean?
    I turned to him,