“I can handle it,” he says, his grin turning sly. “I’ve got moves, remember?”
And then he dances ahead of me, that balletic grace of his on full display. The kids being swept off by their mom titter among themselves, pointing in his direction. He notices, makes a goofy face at them—and dances even more.
I find myself laughing, too, as I jog to catch up with him, wondering how someone can be so . . . unrestrained. Unselfconscious. I am always so aware of how my body is positioned, what I look like, what people might say about me.
But he doesn’t care. He is so utterly and completely himself.
“It’s this way,” I say, jogging ahead so I can lead him. I gesture to the entryway of one of the formations—a big jagged-edged hole that looks like a gaping mouth. “See, I think this entryway used to be covered in glass, so you could see lions roaming around inside. And then we go over here . . .” I step inside the formation, into the cavernous darkness. In front of us is another, much smaller hole revealing a narrow series of concrete steps bordered on each side by rocky stone walls—a tunnel, basically. A set of iron bars hovers over the entrance to the steps, presenting an additional challenge—the space we have to crawl through to get to the steps is so tiny, we’ll both have to crouch down. And Henry will have to crouch down so much more.
Because, you know . . . he’s so tall.
“Really—we can go in?” Henry says, cocking a skeptical eyebrow. “This looks like the kind of forbidden area kids sneak into in movies and then end up either getting arrested or dying horrifically after awakening some kind of ancient curse.”
“I love how those are our only choices,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But, no, this is safe—part of the ruins that people explore all the time. These steps are what leads us to the upper part of the trail—see how the sunlight is coming through? And if you get really scared, I’ll protect you.”
I half expect him to protest, all manly-like, but that’s not Henry—he just grins and gestures for me to go first.
I crouch under the iron bars, crawl through the opening, and carefully begin making my way up the concrete staircase—another portal, transporting me to another magical part of Griffith Park. I spare a glance behind me and see Henry ducking under the bars, graceful as a cat.
The stairs are slanted, oddly steep, and the passageway is so claustrophobic—but for some reason, I’ve never been afraid of falling. Even though scraps of sunlight filter in from the trail, I still feel like I’m surrounded by shadows. Like I’m home.
This expanse of gray concrete might look pretty depressing if it weren’t for the wild splashes of bright graffiti covering nearly every inch of space. This is a prime spot for the artists and taggers of the city; their work never gets washed away or “cleaned up”—people keep adding to it. Now it’s an elaborate mural that feels like a decades-in-the-making chronicle of this part of the city—vibrant, always in motion, always alive.
“If we go up these steps, it leads to this whole area of old cages,” I say, my voice echoing down the chasm of the staircase. “Lots of people like to wander around up there. Maybe Grace is one of them? I dunno, is this her kind of thing?”
My voice gets too loud and too high on that last syll-able, as if I’m trying to hide the fact that every question I ask about Grace is weighted with bottomless yearning.
“I think she’d dig it,” Henry says slowly, as we very gingerly pick our way up the staircase. “She’s so . . . hmm, how can I describe it? She relishes life so much. She’s always trying to dive fully into every experience, to wring every drop of joy out of it.”
“So . . . not like me, then,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “Not trying to suppress her feelings and go to the shadows because she’s scared of destroying everything around her.”
“Mmm—actually, I think she is like you. Or you’re like her. Like I said, she also has that passion.”
I am suddenly glad for the catacomb-like atmosphere, because he can’t see me blush again. I really need to get a handle on the blushing. Maybe I should get an on-purpose sunburn so no one can tell.
We reach the top of the staircase, duck under another forbidding set of bars, and reach the hidden world of the old zoo.
“Whoa,” Henry says, his voice echoing a bit off the walls. “This is so cool.”
He smiles in wonder, taking in the jagged concrete walls, the hollowed-out spots that were once animal enclosures, and that endless, uncontained rainbow of graffiti. The upper part of the old zoo has different “rooms,” little secret spaces that feel like whisperings from the past, fitted together in a nonsensical puzzle. Once you step outside these rooms, you hit an old-fashioned chain-link fence with big holes cut in it. Pass through one of these holes, and you’ll be transported to the sun-drenched hiking trail—another world, yet again.
The area we’ve emerged in actually has my favorite bit of graffiti, dreamy strokes of brilliant turquoise punctuated by silvery swirls that glint in the few rays of sunlight streaming in.
But today, it does nothing to calm me.
“It is cool,” I say, my gaze sweeping the desolate space. “It’s also empty. She’s not here, either.” I feel a pinprick of frustration, just potent enough to make me itchy.
“Let me try texting her again,” Henry says, pulling out his phone. “Ahh, no service.” He stuffs the phone back in his pocket. “What if we just wait for a minute?”
“For what?” I say. That frustration is clawing at my insides now, the itch spreading over my entire body. “Even if she was late, too, how would she know we’re up here? How would
