The Museum of Intangible Things Read Online Free PDF Page A

In spite of that, you showed up. And you care. And you should be proud of yourselves, because obviously, no one else is going to do it for you. You guys are strong, intelligent, caring warriors, and I’m
so
happy I got to know you! I’m proud of you, and Mr. and Mrs. Le over there are proud of you.” Mr. and Mrs. Le nod enthusiastically. “And Joe and Thalia are proud of what you’ve accomplished.”
    “I’m proud, too!” a voice announces behind us. Zoe suddenly sweeps into the gym with Noah, the clonking of her high-heeled boots echoing across the otherwise silent, practically empty, pathetic, half-dark gym.
    “And I’m proud as a peacock,” Noah says. “I learned
proud
last week!” He walks and then gallops a little, his hand letting go of Zoe’s to engage in some enthusiastic flapping. A little chick trying to take flight.
    “Sorry we’re late,” Zoe says. She hugs me. I was hoping maybe my dad would come. I knew Zoe would show up, though. She’s very good at feigning interest in my pursuits. She is, when I stop to think about it, my entire family. Some people have whole rooms full of people to feign interest in their pursuits. Large Italian families full of sisters and brothers and cousins and aunts and uncles. I have Zoe. And Noah, of course, but feigning isn’t his best talent. He tries for a second to be interested in genetics, but then darts over to Simon O’Malley’s exhibit on “String Theory and the Ever-Expanding Universe,” which Simon basically copied verbatim from a PBS
Nova
special.
    “Here,” Zoe says, and she hands me a brown shopping bag with pink ribbon handles from some boutique.
    “What’s this?” I ask, peeking inside.
    “Clothes,” Zoe says, without looking away from my painting. “This is so good. The brushstrokes around the eyes and the fluorescent light from the tunnel . . .”
    “Thanks,” I say. “Why clothes?”
    “Party. Eight o’clock.”
    “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” As much as I like rules, I have trouble with the rules of fashion. I wear clothes to cover my skin and stay warm. If it’s cold, I wear more clothes. If it’s warm, I wear less. I’m not particular about the intimate details. Which I’m sure is true of teenagers in Scandinavia. There, it’s too cold to be vain.
    “Full details or big picture?” Zoe asks.
    “Big picture.”
    “Well, UGGs are for walking home from the beach after surfing in Australia. They are shapeless and bland and sloppy and will give you shin splints if you wear them for more than an hour. We’ve also talked before about avoiding trends and dressing for the shape of your body. If you’re wearing pants, they need to be . . .”
    “Boot cut or flare,” I finish.
    “And those?” she asks, pointing to my legs and taking a sip from her water bottle, which I’m guessing is filled at least partly with vodka.
    “Are skinny jeans.”
    “And you are . . . ?”
    “Not skinny.”
    “Which is . . .”
    “Good. I should accentuate, yet balance my curves with proper proportion.”
    “Right. We need to go.”
    “Where?”
    “Ethan is having a party.”
    “Ethan Drysdale?”
    “Yup.”
    “What about Noah?”
    “He can come. Let’s go, Nos,” Zoe lifts her poncho-covered arm like a bat wing and gestures for Noah to wrap up his ramblings about the cosmos. I consider her poncho and why that would be an impossible choice for me. Where would I put my backpack? Under it? Like a turtle? Or a soldier trudging through the trenches in the rain?
    She does look good, though. Everything she’s wearing is the same tone of steely gray. Even her fingernails. Which are polished. Something I’ve never even bothered to try since they’d just get chipped in ten minutes anyway.
    I pack up my stuff and obediently go to the girls’ locker room to change for our Ethan Drysdale manhunt. I have my reasons for accompanying her. There’s the anthropological curiosity: How do rich kids behave at a party?