“Hiding in plain sight,” Rooney says, bumping me with her shoulder.
Above us, clouds are lined up in rows of small puffs like strings of popcorn. Closer to the horizon, the sky is bright orange. It gradually builds in color above it, from yellow to the fuchsia Rooney was eager to see. The clouds nearest us are teal, their shapes more pronounced.
The sky cracks open, revealing a burst of unexpected light blue as the last rays of sunshine take one last stretch. We stand there side by side, the heat from our bodies radiating between us. Before we know it, night has taken over. I sneak one more look at Rooney’s content face, the Big Dipper on her cheek elevated from her smile. I breathe out with a sigh of resignation.
If I don’t get a grip on these feelings, I’m in big trouble.
Chapter 20
ROONEY
Mom and I left three hours early for the art show, and we arrived minutes before it started. This city is too much sometimes. We’re among hundreds of others waiting for Arlo Hart to make his appearance. The son of a famous photographer, Arlo is a twenty-year-old aerial photographer whose work goes for five figures and hangs on the walls of celebrities’ homes. People love sharing on social media that they own one of Arlo Hart’s pieces.
Mom and I stand shoulder to shoulder on Santa Monica Beach, a beautiful location for a show of this size. The warm October air hasn’t gotten the memo that fall is here. In front of us, a helicopter makes lazy circles over the ocean.
“Quite the showman, isn’t he?” Mom asks. “Has the ocean always been this loud?” Waves crash down in front of us, leaving a reflective seismogram of foam as the water pulls away from land.
“This is what nature sounds like. You’ve gotten too used to sirens and honking,” I say.
“At this point, that’s white noise. This is a different beast entirely.”
“The noise is relaxing. It’s supposed to be good for your brain,” I inform her. “You know people pay hard-earned money to have machines that make this sound for them.”
“I’ll take the sound of a screeching subway any day,” she says.
“Spoken like a true New Yorker.” Another wave rolls in, folding in on itself before splashing down on the sand.
Bobbing on the surface of the ocean are thousands of flowers in full bloom. The stems have been trimmed and weighted down so the head of the flowers face up toward the sky, where Arlo will be ready with his camera to get the perfect shots during golden hour. The flowers are guided to shore on the bubbling waves and quickly pulled back out to sea when the water retreats. A rope floats fifty feet from shore so they don’t float out too far.
Apparently, Arlo purposely chose this beach and time because of its incredible sunsets. Minus the traffic, the West Coast may be starting to grow on me, especially when there are pastel blues and oranges coloring the sky like an oil painting. Or a nebula.
As soon as I make this interstellar connection, my phone dings with a text message from Jack. Attached to it is a photo of a thin, wispy cloud that looks like string. I respond with my own photo of the nebula-esque sunset. I go back to my photo gallery and sneak a look at the photo of Jack at the butterfly exhibit. He’s relaxed, caught in the moment in his navy shirt with an orange butterfly on the neckline. Catching him mid-laugh was like photographing an erratic butterfly, rare and magical. I keep my phone in my hand, as though Jack were here with me. He’s just a text away.
I startle at the crowd’s “oohs” and “ahs” as the door to the helicopter slides open. Everyone angles their head up to catch a glimpse of the artist at work.
Arlo’s show begins with him taking photos of the flowers from the sky while nature creates its arrangement. As he does this, his voice booms out of speakers strategically placed around the beach. It sounds prerecorded, the sounds of the helicopter absent.
“Every year, an estimated eight million metric tons of plastic aredumped into the ocean,” Arlo’s voice says. “There are three thousand six hundred and twenty-nine flowers in front of you. Each flower represents two thousand two hundred and five pounds. Now take a look at the flowers on the table.”
Set up in the sand is a folding table with vases containing the same flowers from the water. I lift one from a large round bowl and hold its weight in my hands, only to learn that they’re not actually flowers. This one’s a sunflower made of plastic. Its petals are shiny from what must have been chip bags, the center a navy blue spiky rubber ball cut through the middle.
Arlo’s voice continues, “What you see in front of you doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of what’s out there right now, floating around sea creatures who also call this planet home. Every flower you see was made from plastic found this past year alone. If we don’t take action today, right now, this number will increase. These flowers are for you to take home with you as a reminder.”
“Well, this is depressing,” Mom says, picking up a bundle of purple Mardi Gras beads shaped to look like a lilac.
“I think it’s compelling,” I say. “Without seeing this physical representation, big numbers like that are hard to visualize. People will remember seeing this.”
Mom snorts. “They’ll remember, but it won’t stop them from using a straw with their iced pumpkin spice oat milk lattes.”
I sigh. “You’re still going to buy a photo, aren’t you?”
“He’s my friend’s son. Of course I am,” Mom says with a shrug.
I lift a rose made of the remains of red plastic cups and have an idea for Fate Test 6. I ask the volunteer for a permanent marker and write my phone number on one of the petals.
For proof, I snap a picture and send it to Jack with the message,If I put it up to my ear will I hear the sound of ping pong balls splashing into ale?
Jack responds within seconds.A rose by any other name would smell just like beer.
