The Checklist

by Addie Woolridge

  Slowly, Mike made his way around the room, letting the minutes tick by, before coming to a stop in front of a crate of rubber creatures.

  “That is about all there is to see. Unless you want to check out the rest of the museum.”

  “Do we have time?”

  “The schedule is entirely up to you. My time is yours.”

  Dylan froze for a second, torn between her need for expediency and her desire to look at the giant fossil in the corner. The battle between her inner list maker and her six-year-old self had the potential to be a long one. Mike must have seen it on her face, because he shifted his posture toward the door and smiled before adding, “I can always come back with you. We can literally come anytime you want. Does that help?”

  “I’m going to hold you to that promise.” Dylan’s mouth quirked up. “I have one request. I want to look at that one over there. Then we can go.” Dylan pointed at the fossil, not bothering to hide her enthusiasm.

  “I knew it.” Mike chuckled and started walking over to the piece. “Everyone loves that one.”

  “You mean everyone under the age of ten? Because that seems to be the crowd.”

  Mike shrugged. “I’m not here to judge. But we’re lucky we are tall. We won’t be able to get any closer. At least not without pushing a few first graders.”

  Dylan was nearly finished squinting at the plaque that read DASPLETOSAURUS when she took a shoulder to the thigh, sending her off balance and straight into Mike’s side. He wrapped a steadying arm around her, driving a warm shiver right through her. Dylan blinked up at him, enjoying the feeling of his touch lingering for just a fraction of a second longer than she expected. Mike gazed down at her for a moment, licking his lips, before dropping his arm and breaking the spell.

  “Ouch,” Dylan mumbled, feeling the absence of his closeness more than the pain of taking a shoulder to the leg. A light-headedness set in so swiftly that it caught her off guard. It wasn’t that she desired Mike, per se, she reassured herself; it was more the missing feeling of physical closeness that made her head spin.

  “Doing okay?” he asked, his voice low over the hum of activity.

  “I’m all right,” she said, in response to her mind as much as her body. Dylan reached down to rub her leg, hoping she didn’t bruise. “I think it is time to give my spot to the future linebacker over there.” The healthy-looking nine-year-old who’d pushed past her didn’t seem to notice she had knocked into anyone.

  Mike laughed gently. “The Seahawks could learn maneuvering tactics in a children’s museum. Don’t worry—you take enough shoulders to the knees, and you toughen up,” he said, cutting through the crowd toward the car.

  “Where to next?” Dylan asked as they ambled across the parking lot.

  Mike squinted, unlocking the car as his eyes adjusted to the new light. The Seattle gloom had a living quality to it. It had shifted while they were inside, and the gray now made the world look like it was bathed in a bright smoke. It wasn’t anything close to sunny, but it was as close as the city was likely to get. The familiarity of it made Dylan feel at home.

  “I’m thinking MoPOP next.”

  Dylan smirked, thinking about the neon Gehry at the heart of downtown. “My mother called it ‘ghastly’ the other day. I can’t wait to tell her I visited.”

  “She is still holding a grudge, then?”

  “I think she wants to be. In reality, she wishes she thought to put that much shiny metal over the train.” Dylan was only half telling the truth. MoPOP was a target of constant derision for longtime Seattleites. Designed to look like the sections of a heart, it was kindly described as bold or bizarre. If the person describing the museum was less charitable, they would call it ugly.

  “Mom still thinks it looks like someone had too much time and money on their hands and not enough common sense,” said Mike. “Don’t tell them they agree on something.”

  “Oh, certainly not. Linda and Bernice will never know we were together. That can only make the grudge match worse.”

  “I gotta say, risking parental wrath is worth it. I like hanging out with you.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” Dylan said, catching his eyes for a second. With the change in light, they looked closer to a smoky green than the honey brown they had been in the museum. Not that she noticed his eyes. Or remembered their shifts or anything. That would be inappropriate. And driving around laughing at their mothers was not inappropriate.

  A shiny baby-blue artery loomed overhead, signaling their arrival. Dylan had to admit that as absurd as an acid-trip-inspired heart-shaped museum was, the space was impressive. Someone had put tremendous thought into the museum’s playground, which soared in a whirl of colors and sounds as they walked past it. A massive sculpture with cranks stood on one end, surrounded by people of all ages pulling different levers, which caused bells to chime. Dylan looked up, expecting Mike to start explaining the academic concepts behind the park. As if reading her mind, he stated, “I love this park.”

  “It’s clever. A musical park in front of a music museum.”

  “It encompasses more than one of the senses and links action to reaction. It’s so well done.” Mike took an extra second to smile at the kids who were careening wildly down a metal slide, their backsides soaked through with rainwater, as a gust of frigid air rushed off the sound toward them.

  Dylan shivered and rubbed her hands together, wishing she had thought to bring gloves. Slowly, Mike took his hands from his pockets and turned to face her, wrapping his around hers for a moment. Looking down at their hands, Dylan could have sworn her heart and every other part of her body had frozen. Except for her hands, which were growing warmer with Mike’s touch. Looking up at Mike, Dylan realized that the heat coming from his hands was nothing compared to the four-alarm-fire look in his eyes.

  She swallowed hard as her thoughts began to collide with one another. Dylan knew she should move. It was one thing to help Mike with a project; it was another thing entirely to let him hold her hand when she had Nicolas waiting for her. It was just that she enjoyed the feeling of being wanted, even if it was in the smallest gesture or casual glance. But it was unfair to Mike for her to pretend her loyalties didn’t lie elsewhere. She had Nicolas, and that was, mostly, enough for her. Dylan looked up at Mike. Before, she could chalk the flirting up to harmless banter, but this was something altogether different. That look was asking her for permission to take something she couldn’t give.

  Reluctantly, she pulled her hands from Mike’s as another gust of wind ran off the water. “Should we go inside?”

  “I think that’s a good idea. Otherwise, we’ll freeze out here.” For an instant, Mike’s face flickered with disappointment, but he managed to force a little brightness into his tone before walking toward the door. He rubbed the warmth back into his own hands as they stepped through the front entrance. “How about you hang here for a second and I’ll grab our tickets?”

  “Sure.” Dylan was only half listening as her guilt was pushed to the side. The rest of her attention was dedicated to the chaos around her.

  Every nook and cranny of the space invited staring. While the outside of the building was covered in shiny sheets of brightly colored metal, the interior’s vaulted ventricles were mostly the hue of wet concrete, with strategically placed bursts of orange and pink drawing crowds to the museum’s basics. Sound poured from an absence of color to her right. Curious, she wandered toward the blackness, grateful her height let her see over most of the people waiting to enter. She recognized the slow weight of Eddie Vedder’s voice, singing something off the album Ten—Dylan couldn’t quite remember the title. Something about fleeting thoughts . . .

  “Ready?”

  Dylan looked up to see Mike holding more stickers and looking like a kid on the playground outside.

  “Do you remember what this song is called?” she asked, reaching up to take the sticker from him. Mike stopped, looking at her quizzically.

  “What? I know it�
�s Pearl Jam, so spare me the pained native-Seattle-grunge-child look.” Dylan rolled her eyes.

  “‘Even Flow.’ You have been gone a long time,” Mike said, leaning his sculpted shoulder into the word have for extra emphasis.

  “Are you sure you and my mother aren’t best friends? Bernice says the same thing all of the time.”

  “Did you forget who Chihuly is too?” Mike laughed at his own art joke, and despite her best efforts not to, Dylan found herself giggling. It was impossible to forget the man behind every piece of large-scale glass art ever. That would be like forgetting who’d painted the Mona Lisa. Mike nodded as they passed the man working the entrance to the dark room.

  “I’m not that—wow.”

  Dylan stopped flat, suddenly understanding what the dark room was. And why the space was called the Sky Church. The cavernous room was mostly empty, save for a few small white couches in the center. What looked like enormous billowing clouds lit with a black light floated from the ceiling, lazily dipping in and out as she tipped her head back. Dylan felt herself trying to breathe in time with their movement as the walls around her shifted. Children sprawled on the floor in front of colossal screens, which wrapped a two-story-tall crooning musician around the building.

  “Cool, huh?” Mike whispered at her side. Gently nudging her elbow, he inclined his head toward a spot on the couches vacated by two petite men. Mike and Dylan glided across the floor and squeezed onto the couch to watch the rest of the video. The room was so vast and so personal that it felt like Dylan was melting into the music and darkness, becoming part of the building itself. She ignored how tightly she and Mike had packed themselves into the couch. And how the lights played with his features, highlighting his nose and the muscles in his neck. Instead, she directed her focus toward the room, shimmying down the couch so she could watch the ceiling and the screen at the same time.

  The next video hit the walls with a blunt force that made both of them jump. Dylan’s hand flew to her scarf with a compulsive urge to put her heart back where it belonged. Laughing next to her, Mike leaned in. “Ready to go upstairs?”

  She felt her cheeks heat up as his words brushed the soft spot on her neck below her jaw. Was she going to spend the rest of the afternoon looking like she had just gone for a run, or was her body going to give the hyperactive-spatial-awareness thing a rest? Giving her head a shake she hoped passed for a nod, she stood up and tried to duck out of the view of the people watching behind her, slinking toward the elevators.

  “The children’s area is on the third floor. This space is the closest to what I hope to do at Crescent.” Mike sounded giddy as he spoke over the heads of several people who had managed to pack into the elevator with them.

  “This is bound to be exciting,” Dylan said, giving Mike a bit of side-eye as he rocked on the balls of his feet.

  “Be as sarcastic as you like. Your mind is going to be blown.”

  Mike strode out of the elevator like a dog being let loose from his crate. Noticing she was about ten feet behind him, he stopped short, joy radiating from him. The floor was covered with kids, the most excited of them being the grown man in front of her.

  “Tell me about this place.” Dylan gestured around before carefully tucking her hands in her pockets, away from fourth-grader germs.

  “I don’t have to tell you; you’re going to experience it,” he said, leaning heavily into the word.

  “Did you just make a pun out of the Experience Music Project?”

  Smirking like a cat who’d caught a canary, Mike wiggled his eyebrows.

  “Punny! Your soccer dad is showing.” Dylan laughed despite herself.

  “Before I show you around a truly wonderful interactive children’s exhibit, I’d like the record to reflect that puns are really more grandpa-joke territory.” Mike flashed a hundred-watt smile.

  “Fine, old man, lead the way.” Dylan extended her arm in an after-you gesture as he reached for a set of double doors.

  The reason for his enthusiasm slammed into her like a brick wall. The space was soundproofed well enough that she hadn’t been able to hear what was going on behind the doors. Once inside, she could see that every corner was covered in instruments. At the center of the room, a giant screen was surrounded by children tapping at digital versions of drums, while small sound studios held guitars, keyboards, and other instruments hooked up to monitors. Mike made a beeline for one of these rooms, grabbing Dylan’s hand and weaving around the children yelling to one another.

  Inside the small room, things quieted down again. In front of her was a keyboard and a computer screen listing exactly three songs: by Journey, the Beatles, and the Jackson 5.

  “Isn’t it great!” Mike’s smile was bordering on Christmas-level big as he gestured to the panel in front of him. “This software is so cool. Pick a song.”

  “And do what with it?” Dylan looked down at the keyboard and over at Mike. “I don’t have a musical bone in my body. I know you know this; you can hear my dad hollering clear across the street.”

  “That’s the best part. You don’t need skill. The program is here to teach you, in a soundproof, almost judgment-free setting.” The corners of his mouth quirked as he said this, giving away what little sincerity he managed to muster. “Besides, you aren’t required to sing. Just play.”

  “Oh, is that a challenge? ’Cause I’ll sing if it’s a challenge. Then we will see who’s laughing.” Dylan poked at a button marked I’ll Be There and shook off her inhibitions. Outside of one drunken karaoke mistake roughly five years ago, she had yet to sing in front of another soul. For one thing, she was terrible, and for another, Nicolas didn’t like her to drown out the car stereo. He claimed the sound from his speakers was too nice to spoil with her screeching. Luckily, Nicolas isn’t big on road trips, she thought, stretching out her arms and half watching as the computer walked her through a series of quick keyboard exercises.

  “Let’s try again,” the robot voice said as she mashed at the keys with one finger, trying to remember the pattern the software had taught her. She was vaguely aware of Mike laughing as she squeaked in frustration.

  “Hey, buddy, you think this is easy?”

  “No. Not at all. I think the kids around us are tiny musical prodigies, and that’s why they picked it up so fast.”

  “I’m sorry not all of us played the tuba in middle school.” Dylan sneaked a look away from the screen to catch him wrinkling his nose.

  “I’d pay money for you to forget about that.”

  “Never. I’m going to ask your mom for pictures, then mail a copy to you on your birthday every year so you don’t forget where you came from,” Dylan said, managing to properly execute the pattern despite the distraction.

  “That is low. I’ve grown as a person. My musical taste has improved dramatically and—”

  “Congratulations! Let’s put it all together,” the computer cheered, cutting Mike short.

  “Wait, there’s more?” Her triumphant smile faded as the screen split. On one end was the piano part, and on the other a young Michael Jackson clutched his mic, ready to croon his twelve-year-old heart out. “Shoot.”

  “Hope you are ready to sing,” Mike crowed as Dylan hacked away at the pattern she had already forgotten. Fortunately, she knew the words. She packed away whatever inhibitions she had. This was the two of them in a soundproof box, so what did she have to lose?

  Taking a deep breath, she let loose the opening line of the song.

  Mike grimaced as Dylan continued to poke at random notes with one hand, gesturing wildly with the other. “You better start singing!” she threatened in between verses over the sad protestations of the keyboard.

  “I was wrong. No need for me to sing too.”

  “Do it,” Dylan demanded.

  Mike’s mischievous grin lasted a beat before he joined in with his own interpretive gestures, his appalling falsetto testing the padded walls. Risking a glance at the booth window, Dylan could see several kids gigg
ling at him. He either didn’t know or didn’t care. Dylan had to admit that if she was going to howl with someone, she was glad it was someone who also knew the words to a Jackson 5 song and made up his own dance moves.

  By the time the Jacksons wailed their last “la la las,” Dylan had given up on hitting a single key and resorted to voguing over Michael’s wails. She descended into cackles as she struck a final pose, and Mike bowed to the not-inconsiderable crowd of children who had gathered to watch two adults lose their marbles. Tapping her elbow, he waved to the door. “We should let them use the room for its intended learning purpose.”

  “Being an adult means sacrificing for the next generation,” Dylan sighed, taking the scarf from around her neck and reaching for the door.

  Within three seconds several kids had rushed into the room, excited to try.

  “As much as I want to relive every tragic-sounding episode of Carpool Karaoke with you, I feel like we should try to hit one more place. I don’t want to take up your entire day.” Mike moved back toward the elevator, smiling at her over his shoulder as he wove around the other guests. She felt her heart squeeze, even as she mentally listed all the other things she should be doing with her time. As much as Dylan didn’t want to admit it, her family might be on to something with the whole spur-of-the-moment-plan thing. Being spontaneous could be fun. Or at least it could be fun depending on who she was with.