More Than a Kiss by Saxon Bennett, Layce Gardner Page B

said.  “Thank you.”
    Jordan
carried the bike, following Amy to her car.  Jordan scrunched her face up when
she stared at the car.  “This is it?”
    “Yes.”
    “I
like it,” Jordan said, leaning her bike up against the parking meter.  She
walked around the car.  “It’s adorable.”
    “It
doesn’t have a trunk exactly.”
    “Oh,
that’s all right.  We’ll just duct tape the bike to the roof,” Jordan said.
    “Really?”
    “Sure. 
I’ll line the part that touches the roof so it won’t get sticky.”
    “But
I don’t have any duct tape,” Amy said.
    “I
do,” Jordan said, pulling a roll of hot pink tape from a small leather bag that
hung behind her bicycle seat.
    “Wow,”
Amy said.  “Maybe I should buy stock in duct tape.”
    In
a matter of minutes, Jordan had her bike secured to the top of the car.  Amy
backed away from the car and studied it.  “It looks like art.  Like some kind
of modern art sculpture.”
    “It
really does, doesn’t it?” Jordan said.
    A
Japanese man stopped by the car, whipped out a camera and took a picture. 
Several other pedestrians stopped and gazed at the car.  “Amazing,” one man
said.  “It’s a very interesting juxtaposition on the evolutionary drama between
humans and their various modes of transportation.”
    Amy
giggled.
    Jordan
shrugged.  “You can turn anything into art.”
    Soon,
there was a large crowd of people gathered around the car.  Cameras flashed,
people talked excitedly, throwing around phrases like social commentary and melding of reality and art .  A pencil-thin woman wearing glasses
emerged from the crowd, ran up the museum steps, stopped, turned, and flashed
off several photos of the car and bike.  Then she pulled a steno pad out of her
purse and called out, “Who is the artist?  Does anybody know the artist?”
    Jordan
stepped forward and pointed an accusing finger at Amy.  “She is the artist.”
    Amy
playfully slugged Jordan’s arm.  Jordan whispered, “Just go along with it.”
    The
woman hurried over to Amy.  “How wonderful to meet you.  Do you mind giving me
an interview?  I write for The Oregonian.  I would love to feature you
in our paper as an up-and-coming artist.  What’s your name?”
    The
crowd of people surrounded Jordan and Amy, cutting off any easy escape route.
    Amy
eyes widened.  She looked to Jordan for help.   Jordan stepped up to the plate
and told the reporter, “Sorry, but she’s quite shy.  You know artists and their
peculiarities.  Her name is Amy Stewart.  This installation piece is entitled First
Kiss .
    “What
an unusual title,” the reporter said.  “Is there a meaning behind it?”
    Jordan
raised an eyebrow at Amy, openly daring her to continue the charade.  Amy accepted
the dare and spoke up, “It’s the melding of… it’s about… Well, look it’s a car,
right?  A tiny car that is as much like a bike as it is a car.  And you have a
bike.  A wounded bike.  Its tires are slashed and it may never… transport…
again.  Until it meets the car.  Then through the power of duct tape it is
carried by the car.  So, it’s like kindred spirits.  Meeting.”
    “Huh,”
the reporter said.  She turned and studied the car and bike for a moment.  She
popped off another couple of pictures with her camera.  Finally, she said, “I
get it.  It’s like they’re kissing, right?”
    When
she turned back around, Jordan and Amy were kissing.  She got a picture of
that, too.

Aunt Jemima
     
    “You
look like a sexy Aunt Jemima,” Chad said, standing in Amy’s office doorway.
    Amy
had been hoping her do-rag would turn him off.  Instead, here he was remarking
on it.  Not only remarking on it but flirting with it.  “It’s the new me,” she
said.
    This
morning, Amy had chosen a black do-rag bandana with a yellow day-glowMs. Pac-Man on it.  She felt it embraced her
burgeoning sense of feminism.
    “I
heard rumors about your new wardrobe.”  Chad came around