Romancing the Dark in the City of Light by Ann Jacobus Page A

look at Kurt who is suddenly interested in a John Singer Sargent portrait of a nineteenth-century ambassador’s wife farther down the gallery. A tiny part of her is glad this guy showed up.
    “Absolutely no smoking in here. Would you please take it outside?” asks security. He points in the appropriate direction.
    “What about him?” Summer demands, thumbing at Kurt.
    “Excuse me?”
    She turns. Kurt’s gone, slick as oil.
    “Fine.” She stomps to the nearest door, grabs the handle and shakes. It’s locked.
    “Miss Barnes? To your left.” He gestures. “Your other left.”
     
     
    Outside in the courtyard, she smokes, chugs what’s left in her flask and paces. She cannot go back into the salon and sit still. The icy black weight of something terrible that’s going to happen is getting heavier and closer. It’s like she’s held it off for a long time, but now there’s nothing she can do to get out of its way.
    Finally, people amble out. It’s over. Summer scans the crowd to find Moony, and to avoid Kurt. Moony limps out late looking sullen. She waves in relief and falls in step beside him.
    “Thought you took off,” he says, not looking at her.
    “I—I just came out here, and … smoked.”
    “He was good,” Moony says coolly.
    “I—” She wants to explain how she couldn’t stay in there anymore. That she feels unhinged—loose and lost as a polar bear pup drifting on an ice floe. She didn’t know Grandpa stripped Dad of his part of the company. And gave it to her. Of course Dad knew.
    She’s been trying to get it all to blow away. Freeze and float off in the frigid air! But it won’t.
    She can’t get into all this with Moony of course, but she could tell him about Kurt. How he keeps showing up. She was wrong before about being able to take care of herself and that it’s not anyone’s business.
    But Moony is grim faced, and limping ahead of her, not waiting. She embarrassed him, left him alone, and there are plenty of other reasons, too. He doesn’t want to talk to her at all. He hates her.
    “He was Big Bird in a turtleneck,” she mutters. “And his poetry sucks.”
    Moony climbs on a bus, and she hails a taxi. Her only friend and she’s doing it again.

NINETEEN
    The next day Summer does not go to school or even get up. When Ouaiba taps on her door midmorning, she calls from her bed, “ Je suis malade .” She does feel sick, flu-ish, and a day off to rest is a solid idea.
    At midday when she reawakens, she rethinks her decision. These are the kinds of choices that have not paid off well in the past. Cutting classes. Staying in her room. She feels ill, but it’s a freaking hangover, not a virus. She can still salvage this. Just go late, turn in her paper, get her assignments. Apologize. Do her work. Try again tomorrow. Stop being a chicken liver.
    James Brown sings in her head, Get up offa that thing! Beat, beat. And dance ’til you feel better .
    Get up offa that thing! Beat, beat. And try to relieve that pressure.
    She can get back on track. The only thing she needs to worry about is getting a high school diploma. Forget all these ridiculous male distractions or getting anywhere near their hands. Holding hands. What was she thinking?
    Just. Do. Homework.
     
     
    She walks to Place Victor-Hugo to get a taxi. She forgot to eat and her stomach is unhappy. She used to live to eat. Now she can hardly remember to.
    A high-tech ice cream shop, walled inside and out with polished black marble, looks inviting. Some chocolate ice cream might hit the spot. She’ll order one to go and then hail a cab.
    She just turned in the history paper online that was due this morning, but needs to talk to the teacher about some extra credit or something. The paper is not her best effort, but it’s done. Now she needs to show her face in her other classes. If only going there didn’t feel like scaling Mt. Everest.
    In the queue, she thinks about Moony and what she’ll say to him. She will see him,