We made our way down the warren of hallways and through an unmarked door that led into the annex of Slay Gallery. Everything was painted a blinding white—floor, walls, and ceiling—and recessed lights filled the rooms with a cold, bluish glow. I could hear the buzz of conversation and shuffling of feet around the corner. The main gallery was jammed full of visitors, all awaiting the inaugural performance at River Heights’s first contemporary art gallery. I glanced at a few of the paintings as we hurried past. They were all portraits, ink on thick paper scrolls, and every face looked oddly familiar to me. One drawing looked just like the postal worker who always gave me a peppermint from the ceramic frog by her station. Another resembled my old orthodontist. And a third looked like—my dad? I didn’t have time to stop for a closer look. In the main gallery, a bell was ringing.

It seemed like everyone in River Heights had turned out to see the Goddess Collective perform, along with a contingent of out-of-town visitors. If I stood on tiptoe, I could see a stage at the other end of the room, obscured by a pair of thick white curtains.

I spotted George in the crowd. As usual, her hair was mussed and her shirt was wrinkled. She waved at us with both arms. Bess and I made a beeline for her while Sven duckwalked ahead of us, his hand stuck out, ready to shake.

“Hi, guys!” said George. “I see you brought the infamous Sven.”

He frowned and pulled back his hand. “It is so exhausting, to be a legend among men.”

George widened her eyes.

“I’m … sorry?”

“Your apology is unnecessary and unwanted,” Sven said loftily before duckwalking away.

“Jeez,” said George.

“He’s just in a bad mood,” Bess explained. “I don’t think he’s very good at watching other people succeed.”

“Can’t say I’ll miss his company. When is this art happening getting started, anyway?” George asked.

“Should be any minute,” I said.

Bess elbowed me in the ribs. “Cutie in a green cape, four o’clock,” she whispered.

On the other side of the room, I spotted a tall black boy in a grass-green wool cape leaning casually against the gallery wall, listening to Mr. Covarrubias, the high school art teacher. The boy scribbled something in a small black notebook, then caught us looking and winked. Bess gave him a little wave. The boy smiled.

The bell rang a second time, echoing against the gallery’s high ceiling, signaling the beginning of the Goddess Collective’s hotly anticipated performance. Four large men filed out in front of the curtains, holding wooden flutes up to their beards. The men tooted their flutes and stomped their feet out of rhythm. When this “music” came to a crescendo, two mysterious figures appeared on the stage in front of the men, wearing suits made of patches of multicolored faux fur that covered their bodies completely. One dancer wore a mask, but the other’s face was visible. She had black hair and dark, shy eyes, and she danced, fluttering her hands.