Never Eighteen by Megan Bostic Read Free Book Online

corner of her eyes, rubs her nose, and says, "Nothing, I guess."
    "Exactly. So are you ready to have some fun?"
    "It's about time. What are we doing first?"
    "EMP," I answer.
    "Very cool. I've never been."
    "Me either," I say.
    The building looks like something out of a sci-fi movie: blue tile, purple and silver metallic squares reflecting the sun's blaring glare. We stop to take a self-portrait outside before entering.
    It's the Experience Music Project, a museum dedicated to popular music, honoring the Seattle-bred musician Jimi Hendrix and built by the cofounder of Microsoft Paul Allen. Standing in the center of the museum, we gaze up at the thirty-five-foot cyclone gracing the center of the room:
Roots and Branches,
a sculpture created out of a variety of musical instruments, including six hundred guitars.
    We grab a couple of audio guides, which are really just glorified iPods. They explain the exhibits we'll be checking out.
    We journey down the Northwest Passage, a hallway honoring all musicians that have come from the area and then head to the Guitar Gallery, an exhibit on the history of the guitar.
    Next, we head upstairs to On Stage. Brought into a darkened fake concert stage, we get to pick our own instrument. Kaylee chooses the drums; I take the guitar and mike. You don't need any talent whatsoever—the instruments play themselves and you're only lip-synching to your song of choice, ours being "Wild Thing." They film the entire act, burn it to DVD, and photograph you for a concert poster. I buy both, for twenty-five bucks, a small price to pay to feel like a rock star for three minutes.
    With so much to see and not much time, we go directly back downstairs to the Sky Church. If you ever want to be completely absorbed in music, the Sky Church is the place to be. It is a musical religious experience. Before us, a forty-by-seventy-foot video screen displays visions that seem channeled directly from some psychedelic dream. As the music flows from all different angles, it surrounds us, and we feel like we're swimming—no, being baptized—in music. We let it wash over us.
    A video of Jimi singing "Little Wing" comes on, and I grab Kaylee's hand, spin her around, and pull her in to slow dance with me. I can tell she's embarrassed at first. Giggling, she tries to pull away. I bring her in closer, and she relents, resting her head on my chest. I realize we've never danced before and more than likely never will again. I want to stay there for hours, pressed in to her like that, smelling her hair, feeling her warmth on my chest, but we have other things to do. I reluctantly pull away. She looks up and smiles, and we move on.
    Now done with our tour through the museum, we exit and collapse on a bench outside.
    "Ready to head back?" Kaylee asks, looking incredibly tired, which is exactly how I'm feeling.
    "Not yet." I look up toward that monument in the sky, the one that defines Seattle and its skyline.
    Kaylee follows my gaze and smiles. "I've never been up there. You ever been up there?" she asks.
    "Nope, never."
    "Then what are we waiting for?" I shrug my shoulders and rise, and we walk toward the Space Needle.
    Kaylee gets in line outside for the elevator ride. Secretly, I've already made reservations, so we have to check in at the front desk, which is good, because since it's a Saturday, the line is huge and I'm not sure how long I could have stood there, my legs weak, pain radiating from my feet to my back.
    "I want to go ask a question inside. Come on," I say.
    We get inside and I tell Kaylee to look around the gift shop while I check in. I don't want to ruin the surprise. Luckily, since she's never been here, she doesn't know the procedure. The elevator we'll be taking is for people with reservations for the restaurant. I motion her back over and we wait for the indoor elevator.
    "Why are we taking this elevator?" she asks.
    "Because it's here," I answer, hoping she doesn't question any more, which, thank God, she