Fang: A Maximum Ride Novel by James Patterson Read Free Book Online Page B

ago, Fang sure seemed to be getting into the art museum. I mean way into.
    “Were you, like, Indiana Jones or something in a former life?” I quipped as Fang dragged me through the fifth or sixth hall of ancient artifacts.
    “Maybe,” Fang said in a faraway voice as he gazed at a birdlike ritual mask made by the — I squinted at the placard — Senufo tribe. We’d been through the Egyptian, Greek/Etruscan, Roman, pre-Columbian, and Native American collections, and now we were into African art.
    “Aren’t you sick of broken pots and hatchets yet?” I asked him.
    “What’s your hurry?” Fang turned and looked me in the eye. “Or d’you think that if you can’t save the world with it, it’s not worth your time?”
    “Look, I have to find answers to my own questions or I lose leader credibility. And I haven’t found them here. I’m thinking maybe a da Vinci would be useful. He was pretty smart, from what I’ve heard.”
    “Don’t think so much, Max. This is supposed to be about feeling stuff, not finding answers, right?”
    Did I hear him correctly? Fang talking about feeling
    stuff?
    Maybe there was something special about this place.
    I knew Nudge and Angel had started off in the historicgarments gallery, and I figured they’d never leave a room full of eighteenth-century court dresses and Victorian ball gowns. So I was kind of surprised when we crossed paths near the Impressionist room.
    “Predictable,” Fang whispered. “Pretty pastel-colored paintings of landscapes, flowers, and ballerinas.”
    Those two were so completely zoned into the pictures that we tiptoed right by them. They didn’t even notice. What was it that Angel was so hypnotized by? I casually glanced at the placard to get the artist’s name. Mary Cassatt. I saw picture after picture by this painter of beautiful mothers with beautiful children. All soft, warm, comforting.
    And I saw a tiny, tiny tear roll down Angel’s cheek.
    * * *
    Of all places to run into Gazzy and Iggy: the gallery where the canvases were big and the colors were wild, angry, free, and — well, explosive . The security person informed me it was called the “abstract expressionism” space.
    “What are you guys doing here?” I asked. “Thought you’d be in the armory.”
    “Well, it’s the easiest place for me to describe what I’m seeing to Iggy,” Gazzy explained.
    “You’ve gotta be kidding,” Fang said, pointing to a painting made up of random splatters and lines. “Seems like the hardest place to be describing stuff. ’Cause there are no … actual … pictures here.”
    “I can detect color fields, remember?” Iggy reminded us. “And then Gazzy just makes up the rest. What he thinks the picture represents.”
    “Yeah, like that one over there?” The Gasman gestured to a composition that looped and splashed around two yellow circles. “It says Untitled #5, but I call it Happy Breakfast: Take two gigundous sunny-side up eggs, stomp on the yolks, then dance around a little bit with an open bottle of ketchup in one hand and a can of motor oil in the other.” Iggy nodded like it made complete sense.
    It was sweet of Gazzy to interpret, but God, did I wish Iggy could see with his own two eyes.
    “Okay, everyone, time to report,” I announced.
    I still didn’t have answers to my own questions, but one of the good things about being the leader is you can sometimes get away with not doing your own assignments. “Who wants to go first?”
    Nudge, the eternal good sport, volunteered. “In the garment gallery we learned about corsets. ugh! Max, did you know that they could squeeze people to death?” Hmm, I should’ve restricted undergarments from the assignment. “I also learned that Angel can’t stand to look at any pictures with bad stuff in them, like devils or people or animals getting killed. Including dragons,” she went on. “And, um, about myself, I learned I like the photography the best. Imagination is great and all, but I like