Page 74 of River & Rue

rue

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journey to the stars

Hands on my hips, I squint at the giant metal contraption standing in a pool of late afternoon sunlight. On the other side of the clearing, River crouches to wipe debris off a plaque.

For the last few hours, we’ve been working our way around the property. The grounds are littered with small art pieces, and we visited a few of them—including the copper sculpture garden—but the bulk of our time has been spent hunting down the seven large-scale installations spaced along the northern and eastern borders. Each was built and donated by an artist who passed through the summer program.

There was a spiraling structure made entirely of giant wind flutes, a tunnel of interlocking wooden archways filled with gravity-defying cairns, an obelisk with dozens of tiny metal birds suspended in the air around it, and an enormous, lifelike vagina you could walk into. My favorite, though, was the twenty-foot-tall dancing woman molded from wire. River’s was the massive, anatomically correct heart made of steel and stained glass.

The installation I’m staring at is the last of the seven, ambiguously listed as J.S. on the back of my map.

I have no idea what it’s supposed to be or do, but it looks like a decaying metal flower. A small platform with a bench sits in the center of a multitude of oblong metal components. They rest limply on the ground, some solid, others hollow, and still more made of wire mesh.

River’s footsteps approach, and I turn toward him expectantly.

“What did it say?”

“The artist’s name is Spider Jelly, and it’s an interactive sculpture. We have to use the bike pedals on the platform.”

“I’m sorry, did you say Spider Jelly? What does J.S. stand for then? Jelly Spider?”

His grin appears. “Not quite. Journey to Secrets.”

I make a face. “More like Journey to Suffering.”

“Oh, come on. It looks fun.”

“Nope. Uh-uh. I’m not getting in that thing.”

“Coward.”

I give him the stink eye. “That’s rich coming from the person who wouldn’t let me try the tire swing by the Zen garden.”

“The anchor rope was chewed down to three threads, you maniac.”

“Pfft.”

“Just imagine how you’ll feel if I do it, but you don’t.”

“Peer pressure. Classy.”

“Just appealing to your competitive nature.”

I glance at the installation, then sigh. “All right, fine. At least we’ll die together.”

River laughs and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the platform.

“We won’t die. Worst-case scenario, we’ll have side-by-side hospital beds.”

“Expect pudding wars.”

“I’m counting on it.”

He squeezes my fingers. I pretend the simple gesture doesn’t light fireworks under my skin, just as I’ve pretended with all of his casual touches over the last few hours. But mind over matter has only helped so much—the matter doesn’t give a shit about the lies I tell myself.

My underwear is wrecked. My cotton bra is sandpaper on my sensitive nipples. I feel feverish, tender everywhere, sunburned in places that have never seen daylight. If I don’t attend to myself soon, I might lose my damn mind.