Page 55 of A Summer to Save Us
“You can’t get through here at the moment, miss. The event is for invited guests only,” a security guard in uniform informs me. “This area doesn’t open again for another two hours.”
I stare hypnotically into his face as if I could force him to recognize my resemblance to Mom by some invisible force, but his face remains expressionless. Since I don’t answer, he turns away.
Damn!
At first, I stand there in a daze before walking back with my head hanging. I’m running away—like always.
Like Mom did .
I suddenly stop.
Don’t you dare just leave, Kansas Montgomery! This time, you don’t run away. You walk through there now, and after the opening, ask your mom why she let you down and if she will help you now for once in her life. With River, with Dad, with Chester, and all the lies from Cottage Grove.
Yes. I have to do that. There is no other option now.
I turn on my heels and target the two guards.
The exhibition is only screened by them, and one of them is currently checking the card of a lady in a midnight blue evening dress that looks like a work of art made of paper.
It reminds me of origami, and River’s dark blue eyes immediately appear in front of me. Hey, Tucks .
No.
He won’t solve my problem for me.
I plan my approach in my head. I know I’ll never get past the guards the normal way.
The shopping mall is only cordoned off with tape, so I could just jump over it.
I look at the poster next to me again. The opening is in the former Tivoli Hall, which is currently empty and will be transformed into a sushi temple in the fall.
Okay. I just need to get behind the tape and find Tivoli Hall.
It can’t be that far away because cordoning off the shops, even if it’s just a small area, would surely cost a fortune.
Even though Frank Fox, Mom’s third husband, is a member of Caesars Entertainment .
The Power of Masks . Entrance 7 p.m . I simply have to make it to Mom. The lady in the origami dress has to be a latecomer since the opening has already begun. Mom has to be there.
I run, determined to use the element of surprise because the guards have their backs to me again.
I’m about seven steps from them when they hear me. Five when they turn. The one on the left widens his eyes, and the other, who previously shooed me away, spreads his arms as if he wants to capture me.
I swerve to the right, jump over the rope like I’m hurdling, and stumble, catching myself with my hands so I keep running.
“Miss, come back! Admission is for invited guests only!” one of them shouts after me, and I hear him following, but I have a head start.
I sprint frantically toward the colossal fountain, climb over the edge, and dive behind Pegasus, his wings spread wide. Thank God this fountain is so huge.
“Entry is strictly prohibited, miss. I’ll have to take you into custody if you don’t come back immediately!”
Shit! In the cold water, I wade past the Roman figures, a sea dragon, and a merman with a trident.
The security guard can no longer see me. Maybe he thinks I climbed out the other side and escape. I think of River’s lessons about escape. Lesson one: Stay close; they won’t suspect it.
Now I know why he’s so good at it. I quickly click the acoustic signal generator off my jeans, clamp the carabiner between my teeth, and lie down on my stomach in the water.
I desperately suppress the cold shiver. The fountain is round, with sea gods enthroned on a rocky landscape in the middle.
From there, water rushes tirelessly down into a wide collecting basin, which is guarded by legendary figures at the outer edge.
Like a seal, I crawl forward along this inner ring of water, three-quarters of the way around, always under the protection of the legendary figures.
Through the rushing noise, I hear a man cursing. He must think I climbed out halfway through.
This is my chance. I crawl to the edge, climb out of the well with my clothes soaking wet, and automatically put the beeper in my pocket as I blink the water out of my eyes.
In the shopping mall directly in front of me, in one of the square’s radial branches, a large crowd of people is gathered in front of a shop.
Flashbulbs go off—of course, the press is present.
Only the crème de la crème are invited to a vernissage: art lovers, politicians, patrons of the artist, usually the gallery owner, maybe the mayor, and members of Caesars Entertainment.
Trying not to make any hectic movements, I keep walking and discover a few paintings on chrome stands lining the passage as if they were appetizers.
They’re oil paintings. One, in particular, catches my eye: a profile of a tiny head with an oversized dark mask that appears diabolical.
It occurs to me again that Demons ’N Saints was supposed to have performed here if Asher Blackwell hadn’t canceled all the concerts.
Oh, River...
As if in a trance, I approach the picture.
Alcohol and drugs, of course. What else, Jamesville? It’s always like that with rock stars, isn’t it?
I close my eyes for a moment because the surreal paintings begin to swirl around me. I still don’t want to believe it.
“There she is!” someone shouts through the passage, and the words break loudly against the vaulted ceiling. I glance over my shoulder. The two security guards are approaching.
Mom! I want to scream, like I used to when I needed help, but the words are sealed inside me. I reflexively tear the painting next to me off its stand and hold it up like a hostage.
Don’t come any closer, or I’ll destroy it! I try to convey, and apparently, people in Las Vegas understand this language.
“Calm down, miss. We can talk about everything.”
I just fucking want to talk to my mom! I want River to be River McFarley again. I want to go back to the river, to the secrets, the kisses, the messy, passionate curiosity, to that happiness and terror where I didn’t need words.
I walk with pictures a few feet toward the crowd of people around the entrance to the hall. Probably over a hundred invited guests are listening to a great story about Mom—how wonderful she is, how perfectly she sees behind people’s facades.
I hate it.
I hate all of this.
I hate her! Because she left and didn’t protect me from the world.
“Miss!” I hear a security guard call out. “Stop, put the painting on the floor, and put your hands up.”
As if in slow motion, I turn and stare at him over the picture. He’s young. Still very young. He has his gun pointed at me and probably thinks I’m an assassin.
“Picture down! Hands so I can see them!” he shouts, approaching me with his weapon drawn. Fear flickers in his eyes—he’s afraid of me, of the girl who’s always the victim.
I just want to go to my mom! Water drips from my clothes, forming a puddle around me. Sure, I seem insane, but I just can’t let go of the painting. It feels like it’s glued to my hands, like I’ll lose everything if I set it down.
Part of my consciousness notices that the speaker has fallen silent. A murmur swells through the crowd, and suddenly, everything is dead quiet.
Except for the steps coming behind me.
“Don’t shoot! Please. You’re scaring her!”
My knees want to give way. Suddenly, he stands next to me and takes the painting from my hands.
I allow it because even when I don’t want it, his presence calms me, just as it has all summer long.
I smell his scent of forest and herbs, of leather, of warmth and coolness at the same time.
He places the picture on the floor in slow motion and stands up again.
Despite my confusion, I recognize the silver lanyard with the VIP pass around his neck.
My mind is empty. He’s not wearing his black wig, cowboy boots, or stupid leather pants. He’s blond and broad-shouldered again and looks like the fallen, broken, beautiful angel he was to me on Old Sheriff.
“All is well, Tucks,” he whispers. He puts the other pass around my neck and calls out to the security guard. “We have VIP passes. She’s with me. She just lost her pass and wanted to come here.”
A new murmur ripples through the arcade.
However, the murmuring is not because of me.
It’s not me they’re staring at.
“Chaos is about to break out, but we can still pull through. Remember the lessons!” River looks at me intently, but I can’t nod.
It’s over. It’s over, but he doesn’t want to accept it.