“Why was Dorothy proud of you?” I ask as we head down the concrete steps.
“Oh, she was just messing,” Noah says.
“What do you mean?”
“I think it was because I was with you.”
I look at him blankly.
“Because you’re a girl,” he says, the tips of his cheeks beginning to flush. “She’s always on me that I should have a girlfriend—not that you’re my girlfriend,” he adds hastily, his cheeks blushing even redder.
“No,” I say, and we look at each other for a split second.
He shrugs, and then we carry on walking.
But I can’t help feel a glow spread all the way up from my toes. Because even though he’s Rock-God–tastic, and even though he lives in a whole other country, on a whole other continent, and even though I’ll be going back home in two days’ time and will probably never see him again, part of me wants to jump up and down for joy. He doesn’t have a girlfriend.
Chapter Twenty
Once we get to the bottom of the stairwell, Noah leads me over to a door.
“It’s going to be really dark at first,” he says. “Is that all right?”
I nod, but I must look apprehensive, as he instantly takes hold of my hand.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It has to be dark to get the full effect.”
“OK,” I say, not having a clue what he’s on about, but it really is OK—anything would be OK right now—his hand holding mine feels so warm and so strong.
“Ready?” he says.
“Yes.”
I hear him flick a switch and suddenly we’re standing in a beautiful underwater world. At least it feels as if we are. The whole corridor has been painted to look like a seascape. The black walls glimmer with luminous pictures of fish and shells and emerald-green strands of seaweed.
“It’s done in a special paint,” Noah explains, “so that the ultraviolet lights in the ceiling make it glow.” He looks at me hopefully. “Do you like it?”
“I love it,” I say, slowly turning around to take it all in. Every fish, every shell, every tiny detail is a work of art in itself. It’s incredible.
“How does it make you feel?” Noah asks quietly.
I turn to look at him. “How does it make me feel?”
He nods. “Yes. My dad used to say that you should always ask yourself how art makes you feel.”
I look back at the glimmering walls. “It makes me feel calm and peaceful. And it makes me feel as if I’m in a magical world—as if I’m a mermaid.” There’s something about the darkness that makes me feel safe to say exactly what I’m thinking rather than try to censor myself for the sake of being cool.
“You look like a mermaid,” Noah says.
“Really?”
“Yes, with all that long, curly hair.”
I smile. For years, I’ve felt insecure about my hair—that it’s too red, too long, too curly. But now I’m starting to think for the first time that it might not be “too” anything at all.
“I’m kind of glad you don’t have the scaly tail, though,” Noah says, squeezing my hand.
Oh yes—did I mention he’s still holding my hand?
The fluttering feeling returns to the pit of my stomach, as if it’s full of fairies all flapping their wings in excitement. “Yes, I’m glad about that too,” I say softly.
“Come here—I want to show you something.” Noah leads me along the painted seabed, past the picture of a treasure chest overflowing with gold and an old anchor with the name Titanic carved on it. “See that starfish?” Noah points to a bright turquoise starfish with a smiley face.
“Yes.”
“I painted that.”
“What? Really? Did you do all of this?” I stare at him in amazement.
He shakes his head. “No, my dad did. But he let me paint the starfish. I was only about ten at the time.”
“That must have been so cool.”
“It was. He didn’t let me see any of it in the ultraviolet light till he’d finished the whole thing. You know how I brought you down here in the dark?”
I nod.
“That was exactly what he did to me. I’ll never forget it.” Noah is smiling, but somehow he also looks sad.
“I bet. Well, I’ll never forget it either,” I say.
He stares at me for a moment and I feel as if he’s about to tell me something, but then he lets go of my hand. “Come on, let’s go get some lunch.”
I follow him along the magical seabed wondering what just happened. At the very end of the corridor there’s a picture of an octopus—its tentacles glowing in every color of the rainbow. As we get closer, I can hear the muffled sound of voices and the clinking of cutlery.
Noah turns to me and grins. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
He reaches out for what looks like the octopus’s nose protruding from its face and turns it. A hidden door swings open. The octopus’s nose turns out to be the handle.
Noah beckons me to follow him. By this point I’m not sure what to expect. I feel just like Alice in Wonderland when she fell down the rabbit hole. It wouldn’t have surprised me at all to see a mad hatter’s tea party on the other side of the door.
“Oh wow!” As I follow Noah into the café, my eyes widen to take it all in. The room is dark and full of mismatching retro chairs, clustered around chunky wooden tables. Candles flicker at the center of each table, wax spilling down the sides of their wine-bottle holders. Apart from a few lamps dotted about the place, this is the only light. The walls are painted deep red and full of framed photos and paintings. It doesn’t just look amazing, it smells amazing too—a rich mixture of tomatoes and herbs and freshly baked bread.