Page 29 of Icarus

He liked it warm. He liked orange.

The hotel shampoo made for slicker bubbles than the stuff Icarus had at home. He dunked his hair under the water and scrubbed his fingers into his scalp. Then he rinsed off, cold and crisp, and tucked himself between the sheets to dry off in the gloom.

Thrum

Angus walked past him in the hotel café at 9:30 a.m. on the dot. He tossed a firm “Let’s go,” over his shoulder as he headed toward the door.

Icarus scrambled up, threw his continental breakfast coffee cup in the trash, and followed.

The skyscrapers here seemed to never cast a shadow; there was just sun and lesser-sun on the streets downtown. Big families with wandering children sluggishly made their way down Michigan Avenue, popping in and out of shops, gaggling in front of store windows, lining up next to men selling ice cream and cotton candy on a stick.

Angus wove in between them with ease, leaving Icarus to bump into people, stuttering out excuse me and pardon me, jogging every so often to keep up. As they got closer to the Art Institute, the sound of street drummers got louder.

It was a pretty common sight on many street corners: Black men and boys with paint buckets upturned in their laps, giving symphony orchestra–level performances in percussion.

Tourists gaped or sneered as they walked past, while the native Chicagoans bobbed their heads, danced, and threw a few bucks in their pails on the ground. Academics sat on the stairs of the museum, eating their lunches and watching behind their glasses.

Angus took out his wallet, without breaking stride or slowing his pace, and tossed $50 in. Ticket prices, he used to say when Icarus first asked him about it. “I won’t pay more to sit in an amphitheater and I won’t pay less just because they’re outside.”

Icarus followed him up the limestone steps, past the grand bronze lions, and into the museum lobby.

Brow

Icarus’s eyes darted to the ceiling, then scanned the lobby. Visitors entered through four doors made of glass. Each was twice as heavy as a normal door, but half as wide unless you pulled them both open at the same time. Security was planted by the entrance, next to each ticket counter, inside the info desk, next to the bag check, and in front of the gift shop, making for a grand total of seven officers with eyes on all entrances and exits.

The security at the ticket counter was plainclothes. None of the security officers in this section was over forty years old. There were cameras, of course, and the obvious ones were easy to spot with a quick eye flicker. The halls were wide, but the floors were a bit slippery and not conducive to running. The floorplan guided people to move throughout the space in a way that created obstacles. There were always two streams of traffic on both sides of any room, one going forward and one going backward. Any deviation from—

A hand clamped down hard on Icarus’s shoulder.

“Stop casing the museum,” his father hissed, tightening his grip painfully for a second before letting go.

Icarus tore his eyes away from the walls and pinned them to the ground. He followed his father’s feet through the main entrance, past the Asian sculpture wing, and toward the members-only area.

He had been here only once before, when he was much younger, and it was tempting to continue looking around. The museum had very high ceilings with clean lines of steel and caramel-colored wood. There were multiple skylights and large windows to fill the rooms with natural light, and enough space between the pieces to see from all sides without congestion.

It was a large museum, and difficult to visit all the different sections in one day. Icarus knew there was a good photography section here, and an interesting architecture wing in the contemporary art section, but he’d never been here long enough to get to them.

Icarus followed Angus quickly away from the art and down to a plain white greenroom. Icarus’s father immediately started unpacking his things.

“Mr. Gallagher!” They both looked up in unison to see an older woman with bright red hair, chunky glasses, and a big smile rushing toward them. “It’s good to see you! Do you need anything? Coffee, water, a back rub?” she joked.

She pulled Icarus’s father into a hug, which he barely returned, patting her crisply on the back.

“Good to see you, Wanda,” Angus said, clearing his throat sharply. “Which hall am I in?”

The woman leaned back and pulled her glasses down a bit. “This must be Icarus, then,” she said, ignoring Angus’s question. Icarus grimaced and rubbed at his bruising shoulder.

“You’re almost as tall as your father, and the spitting image of him,” she said, looking him up and down. “What a thing, genetics.”

“Thank you,” Icarus said, glancing anxiously at his father, who just seemed angrier.

“Well, I’m sure you don’t want to sit and listen to this old windbag talk for a few hours. Do you think you could spare him, Angus?”

“Which hall, Wanda? Concentrate,” Angus snapped.

Wanda rolled her eyes at him and waved a hand. “Fullerton Hall. They have a podium set up and everything.”

“Thank you,” he replied curtly. “Go with her,” he told Icarus, “and be on your best behavior. Don’t touch anything.”