“Great,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“Thanks for this,” Sam said.
“Anytime,” Zen promised.
“Mr. Popular,” I said, nudging Sam with my elbow when we were out of earshot.
“I told you—it’s a small town!”
We met Abe and Em in the parking lot.
“This way,” Sam said, pointing around the back of the shop. “Bring the record player.”
I grabbed the Jim Croce record out of the car, and then we followed Sam around the back of the shop to a skinny trailhead that opened up in the woods that bordered the property.
We went single file because that was the only way we could fit. Sam was first, then me, then Abe, then Em. It wasn’t long until the sounds of the ocean grew louder and the path beneath our feet turned sandy and opened up onto a small, secluded beach. We walked toward the water, and I spotted Mikaela’s sculpture immediately. It was hard to miss; it looked like a fully formed tree house in the middle of the sand. It was built close to the water and the tidehad risen since its completion; the bottom two feet were underwater. And it was functional—there was a girl sitting on its small raised platform. Mikaela, I assumed. She’d made a torch out of driftwood. The fire was burning thin but bright.
“Wow,” Em said.
“This is amazing,” Abe added.
“You should have seen her last one. A giant hummingbird. I swore I saw its wings move,” Sam said. He caught Mikaela’s eye and waved to her. She climbed down a rickety ladder to greet him.
“Sam! I was hoping you’d get to see this one. It’ll be swallowed up pretty soon. I’ve already taken my pictures,” she said. Mikaela was a few years older than us and pretty. She had long hair she wore in two braids and there was dirt smudged on her face. Her hands were rough and calloused. “And you brought friends! I guess you’re not such a loner after all,” she said, winking and smiling warmly at us.
“This is Lottie, Em, and Abe. Do you have power?” Sam asked.
“Over there,” Mikaela responded, pointing. Sam took the record player from me and plugged it into a long orange extension cord. I couldn’t see where it originated.
“This is beautiful,” I said. “You made this?”
“Thank you! Yeah, it’s just something I do for fun,” Mikaela said.
“What do you mean, swallowed up?”
“The tide’s coming in, and it will get washed away. Pretty soon, actually. But I don’t use anything that didn’t come from the ocean to begin with, so it’s all just returning.”
“Isn’t that frustrating?”
“Not really. I don’t think everything has to be so permanent. There are plenty of museums. This is just for me, just for now,” she said.
“But isn’t that like creating something for the sole purpose of seeing it destroyed?” I asked. “Sorry, that sounded a little harsh—no offense.”
“None taken!” Mikaela said, laughing. “I like people who ask questions. And I don’t think that’s the sole purpose here at all. It’s just one of the inevitable outcomes of art: eventually, it will all be destroyed. Even theMona Lisawill one day turn to dust; it will just take a little longer than my structure’s destruction. But in the grand scheme of things, in the whole bulk of time, they both exist for just tiny little blips.”
“Harsh,” Sam said.
“Structure’s Destruction! Another excellent name for a band,” Abe said.
Mikaela laughed and walked back toward the structure as the record started playing.
“Your aunt’s favorite song is on this record,” Sam said.
“Did she play it for your class too?”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s where I heard it.”
The music carried surprisingly well over the water as we walked over to Mikaela’s structure.
