While You Were Gone by Amy K. Nichols

the dairy section, pick up the mess I made and try to remember what I’d been doing there in the first place.
    “Well, that was annoying.” Dad walks up, holding a pizza box. “What’s the matter? Couldn’t find the milk? It’s right here.” He grabs a half gallon from the case. “Come on. Let’s go pay for this stuff.”
    My eyes search the aisles as we walk to the front of the store. It’s like she’s just disappeared. By the time we leave, I’m almost convinced I imagined the whole thing.

Sunday morning, the reality of the last forty-eight hours rushes at me, bringing with it a sense of dread. Images flash through my mind: a shopping mall in ruins; reporters gathered; Dad at my bedroom door; Mom’s whisper in my ear; a column of white smoke; a red
X
amid yellow dots; his face just before the lights went out.
    Friday morning, Vivian Hayes was the worst of my problems. Now look at the world.
    I roll onto my back to see the stars swirl above. My eyes follow the blue and yellow brushstrokes making their way toward the orange moon shining over a sleepy village. My breathing slows. My hands stop strangling the sheets.
    I reach under my mattress and pull out the Retrogressives book. Someday I’ll return it to the Archives. But not today. My fingers flip through the pages, pausing on Klee’s
Dance of a Melancholic Child II
to trace the girl’s delicate fingers and heart-shaped lips. Her teardrop eye and umbrella nose. I hold the book close, studying how the colors blend behind her, creating a kind of red halo. Looking across the room at my own version on the easel, I see how much I still have to learn.
    My fingers continue their journey, passing Picasso’s
Old Guitarist,
Chagall’s
Between Darkness and Light.
Another Klee,
Blossoms in the Night.
Van Gogh’s
At Eternity’s Gate.
The last page is where my fingers stop, on Ramsey’s
Iterations.
    I can’t believe I saw him again, and in a grocery store, of all places. So strange. I run my hand over the smooth photo, remembering the feel of the real thing, remembering the night of Bosca’s exhibit.
    I was angry after he demoted me. But not just at Bosca. At Vivian, too. And at the ones who decide what is and isn’t good, who watch everything we say and do and tell us to rat out those who think or act outside the norm.
    It’s like there are two sides of me. The good girl—the governor’s daughter, the face of polite society—and the other girl, the one who steals books of banned art and finds beauty in what others consider ugly and unfit.
    I walked the museum’s back hallways that night, feeling the two sides wrestling for control. When I came across a service door leading outside, I propped it open with one of my shoes—last thing I needed was to get locked out—then leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. The city hummed around me. People meandered toward the museum entrance. Traffic streamed by on Central. The light-rail whooshed along its tracks.
    When I opened my eyes, I saw him standing there, watching me.
    “You’re not supposed to be here,” I said.
    He shrugged, like the rules didn’t apply to him.
    I walked across the loading dock, the asphalt rough beneath my feet. Half of his face was in shadow. As I moved closer, a feeling came over me. I felt intrigued. Inspired.
    Alive.
    He was a total stranger, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was that I take that moment and make it my own. My rules. My decision.
    So I kissed him.
    And then I walked away.
    “Hang on,” he said. I thought he’d run over to me, maybe, or want my name. Instead, he simply asked, “Why?”
    I shrugged, just like he had. Maybe the rules didn’t apply to me either. Then I walked through the door, leaving him outside.
    I got about five feet and stopped.
    Looked back.
    One last hurrah for bad Eevee: I propped the door open just long enough for him to grab hold, then I hurried off to be the good girl again.
    I saw him a couple of times during the show, but I