6.

Inside, their tour leader, a gap-toothed young woman in a tweed jacket, brought the group to a small room where they hung their damp coats. “Keep those eyes open for your project,” said Mr. Crane.

The museum was endless. Several rooms were packed entirely with headless and armless white marble torsos. In other rooms, giant canvases stretched from floor to ceiling and were so old, tiny cracks formed in the paint. There were rooms filled with tall glaring totem poles and long wooden canoes; rooms with mysterious obelisks carved with hieroglyphs; hallways of glass cases stuffed with tiny pieces of colorful ancient jewelry.

As Timothy followed the tour, though, he found himself staring more at Abigail than at the artwork on the walls or in the cases. She was strange and quiet, walking as if in a dream or a daze, as if she was seeing the world in a way the rest of them couldn’t.

Eventually, in one small dark room, he came upon a large poster on the wall that read, Magic and Religion in Prehistoric Scandinavia. Magic? Maybe, Timothy figured, they could choose one of these artifacts for their project. Glancing into a glass case nearby, he read a small placard that was supposed to mark an ancient “magical” jawbone with a “primitive artificial tooth.” The placard explained that the jawbone was connected with a dark goddess called the Daughter of Chaos. The bone was actually used as a tool during revenge rituals. The description continued, “The myths explain that a member of the tribe would hold the jawbone in his fist, name the person he wanted revenge upon, and a curse would be placed. The tribe believed that this curse made the victim see all his worst fears come true. Whoever held the bone could read the victim’s mind and use the victim’s fear to force him to betray an ally, attack a family member, or even destroy himself.”

This artifact sounded totally amazing.

“Too bad,” said a voice next to Timothy. To his surprise, he found that Abigail had been standing beside him, reading along.

“Too bad what?” said Timothy.

She nodded at the case, where the jawbone was supposed to be. In its place was a piece of paper that read:

ITEM REMOVED FOR CLEANING

“Would have been a good one. Don’t you think?”

The woman in the tweed jacket led the class to one particularly cavernous room on the fourth floor. While the group listened to the tour guide’s speech on the far side of the room, Timothy and Abigail stopped in the opposite corner and stared at a large dark canvas.

“Many of the most recent acquisitions were brought to the museum by our new director,” said the woman. “We’re quite lucky to have such a distinguished—”

Someone in the group made a farting sound, and the class burst into laughter.

But Timothy barely registered the noise. His mind was elsewhere.

The painting on the wall in the far corner was an enormous landscape. In the sky, at the canvas edges, clouds roiled, blacker than night. Below the clouds, a stone temple, which resembled the museum’s own classical façade, trembled on the precipice of a deep chasm from which spewed brilliant red flames. On the cliff’s edge, a man stood, dressed in black robes, arms raised, face turned in anguish toward the sky. In the center of the painting, just above the burning pit, the clouds glowed yellow, as if answering him. The title of the painting, noted on a small placard to the right of the canvas, was The Edge of Doom.

Abigail pointed at the painting, then, almost smiling, she said, “That’s the one. It’s so amazing.” She turned to look at him.

“Yeah,” said Timothy. “Really cool.” He pointed at the man in the center of the painting. “What do you think that guy’s saying?” He made his voice really low and grunted, “Um, I could use a little help here? Hello? Anyone?”

Mr. Crane interrupted from across the room. “You may break into your pairs for one last wander around the museum. Meet in the coatroom in an hour, and don’t be late. The bus leaves promptly at noon.”

Timothy turned back to find Abigail now glaring at him.

“What?” he asked. “What did I say?”

“Are you making fun of me?” Abigail said.

“About what?”

“Because I actually like the painting.” Her eyes were filled with fire. For some reason, Timothy remembered her socks. Even though it was a stupid thought, he couldn’t help but laugh a little bit. This only made the fire in her eyes grow brighter. “You’re laughing at me?”

“No, I’m not laughing at you,” Timothy tried to explain, pointing at the painting. “I’m laughing because …” You keep trying to light yourself on fire, his brain finished the sentence silently. But he couldn’t say that to her, at least not now, while she looked like she wanted to kill him.

“You know what?” said Abigail. “Just forget it. Do the project by your stupid self. I don’t care.” She turned around to face The Edge of Doom.

After a few seconds, Timothy tried again. “I said it was really cool. How is that making fun of you?”

Abigail continued to stare at the painting, her arms hugging her torso. Timothy took a deep breath. This wasn’t what he’d expected to happen.

“I’m sorry you thought I was making fun of you.”

Without turning around, Abigail said, “You’re sorry for making fun of me or you’re sorry I thought you were making fun of me?”

“I wasn’t making fun of you,” Timothy answered as simply as he could. “I was just being a … butt-munch.”

Finally, Abigail turned around, amused. After a few moments, she said, “A butt-munch? No. I’d say more of a … fart-slap.”

Timothy laughed. Fart-slap was funnier than anything Stuart had ever come up with. Abigail chuckled too, then stepped closer to the painting. “What do we have to do? Make a chart or a graph or something?”

“I have no clue.”

“I actually wasn’t paying attention in class at all.”

“I noticed,” said Timothy. He could almost hear the click of her little lighter in his memory. “I mean, none of us were.”

“Hey, Abigail!” a voice called into the room, resonating off the walls.

What happened next, happened so quickly, it took Timothy several seconds to even realize he was soaking wet. Abigail screamed. Timothy jumped and nearly slipped as his feet slid across the now-slick marble floor. When he spun around, he saw Abigail holding out her arms helplessly in front of herself. Her T-shirt was drenched. Her face was dripping with water, and her long red hair was plastered to her head.

“What the heck just happened?” Timothy heard himself say.

Some of the class had gathered and were staring and pointing. Laughter echoed throughout the cavernous room. Other museum guests had stopped to watch the commotion too. Timothy felt his face turning red as he noticed a small blue dot on the floor next to his foot. It looked like a thin piece of peeled paint, or maybe rubber. He kicked at it, almost unconsciously, and the answer came to him.

A water balloon.

Someone had thrown a water balloon at Abigail.

Stuart.

Timothy wanted to scream. Carla, Stuart’s partner, stood next to Mandy and Karen in the doorway, but the culprit was gone.

“Are you okay?” he said to Abigail instead. She only stood there, dangling her arms, looking like a wet cat. She shook her head slightly, but Timothy couldn’t tell if she was just trying to dry off.

Through the crowd of his classmates, Timothy watched a couple of security guards push their way toward him. He glanced at The Edge of Doom. Droplets of water clung to the black clouds and the open chasm, as if the painting itself had started to precipitate.

Oops.

Before the two large men in uniform could make their way to him, Timothy felt Abigail rush past him, through the door on the far side of the room. “Wait,” Timothy called, running after her, trying not to slip on the wet floor. Peeking over his shoulder, he noticed that one security guard had stopped to examine the wet painting. The other guard, however, was coming after them.