Remarkable things, paintings. So different from other types of art. Drawing, after all, is just a single black line repeated over and over. Chalk has color to it, but it's flat and dusty. Sculpture is just a fancy kind of Play-Doh. And photography ... well, there isn't anything to that at all. Just point and shoot.

But painting ... Made up of hundreds — thousands — hundreds of thousands of tiny little brushstrokes. And layers, one color on top of another, sometimes providing depth, sometimes mixing to create a whole new color. All spread over a canvas that adds a texture of its own.

Claudia Miravista pushed her face closer to the painting on the museum wall. With her nose just inches away, she could actually see places where the paint rippled up into peaks like waves on the ocean. She could make out individual brushstrokes the artist used to —

"Ah, Miss Miravista?"

Her head snapped back as her entire sixth-grade class turned to stare at her. Mr. Custos, the museum curator, wiggled his fingertips in her direction.

"Let's not breathe on the artwork, shall we?"

A few snickers ran through the group of students. Claudia mumbled an apology and felt her light brown cheeks start to burn pink.

"Now let's take a look at a work of art from a completely different time and place," Mr. Custos said, walking along the edge of the gallery. The class trudged behind him.

Claudia had mixed feelings about coming on a field trip to the Florence Museum of Arts and Culture. On one hand, she loved art. She'd been to the museum a dozen times before. It wasn't the largest art museum in Illinois, but she could walk to it from her house. She also checked out books from the public library on art history — the big ones that would break all five toes if you dropped one on your foot. Even now, sandwiched between her notebooks, she carried her own mini art encyclopedia, Dr. Buckhardt's Art History for the Enthusiast and the Ignorant.

On the other hand, she secretly loved art. It was hard enough trying to fit in at school without everyone knowing that she spent her free time reading about paintings and artists who had been dead for hundreds of years.

"This painting was created by a follower of Caravaggio," Mr. Custos continued, gesturing at a painting of an angel and a man in a way-too-bright orange robe. "Caravaggio was known for his masterful application of chiaroscuro, which refers to a dramatic use of light and dark in the scene."

Chiaroscuro. It sounded like a fancy Italian dessert. Claudia whispered the word to herself. Chiaroscuro. It was fun to say, the way it filled up her mouth. If she ever convinced her parents to let her get a dog, perhaps she would name it Chiaroscuro. Or maybe Rembrandt.

Mrs. McCoy, her sixth-grade teacher, stepped up next to Mr. Custos. "Class, what do we say to Mr. Custos for taking us on a tour of his museum?"

The reply came with the enthusiasm of limp spaghetti. "Thank you, Mr. Custos."

The teacher held up a printed worksheet. "Your last assignment today is for you and a partner to find a painting and ask each other these exploratory questions about it. Write down your partner's responses and then make a sketch of the painting. This will be the foundation for your essay. And please use your museum voices!"

The mass of sixth graders suddenly sprang to life. Students pointed at each other from across the gallery. A few fist bumps passed between boys. Definitely-not-museum-voices bounced off the walls.

Claudia scanned the room, pretending to look for someone in particular but on the inside desperately wishing for someone — anyone — to tap her on the shoulder. They had taken a head count when they came into the museum. Nineteen students. That meant ...

Please don't let me be the only one without a partner, she begged.

Across the room she saw Megan Connell standing alone. Megan had never said anything mean to her. She even smiled at her sometimes.

I could ask her, Claudia thought. It wouldn't be hard. All she needed to do was move her feet. One step at a time. She could do it. Here it goes. And ... now. Take a step.

She took a step.

Then Jason Brandemeir walked up next to Megan and said something to her. She shrugged and nodded, and the two moved off toward the gallery exit.

Too late.

The crowd of students was dispersing in pairs. Claudia stood alone in the center of the gallery. She felt naked, like a blank canvas without paint and without a frame.

A tap on her shoulder. Claudia turned to see Mrs. McCoy.

"Looks like you're the odd one out today, Claudia."

Again, Claudia thought.

"You can be my partner. Would you like to choose the painting?"

Claudia nodded. She led Mrs. McCoy to the gallery exit and then through two more galleries until they came to one that was empty. At least there no one else would see her paired up with the teacher.

Rambunctious shouts came from elsewhere in the museum. Mrs. McCoy huffed and gestured to the wall. "Pick a painting, Claudia, and start your sketch. I'll be back." She hurried off.

Claudia sighed and plopped down on a purple cushy bench in the center of the gallery. She was alone. Again. Actually, she was okay with being alone. But if you do that too often, you start to get ... well, lonely.

She liked people well enough, at least in theory. But when she actually had to start talking to them — knowing what to say, or what not to say, or how to keep people from thinking she was a total dork — her mind would go blank and her tongue would seize up and she sounded like a caveman with a stutter.

That wasn't entirely true. She could hold a conversation just fine with an adult. It was kids her own age who were the problem.

She sighed again and looked at the painting in front of her. It was a portrait of three Dutch gentlemen sitting around a table. They wore black suits with frilly white shirts and wide-brimmed hats and looked like something from a Thanksgiving play. Their swords were drawn and lying across the table or resting against a shoulder. Each had a thin mustache and a goatee. Two of them looked like they were holding back a laugh. The third looked annoyed.

In the background — in the upper-left corner of the painting — was a boy, perhaps her age. Probably a servant or something, although he was in the shadows so it was hard to tell what he wore. But his eyes were a brilliant crystal blue, like marbles. His face was curious and friendly and ... accepting.

I could be friends with a kid like that, she thought suddenly. It wouldn't be hard.

What would she say? That was always the tricky part. She cleared her throat. "Hey, I'm Claudia." The words echoed around the gallery and she lowered her voice. "So, do you like the museum? I know, it's a little small, right? In Florence — the real Florence, in Italy, not Illinois — they have dozens of museums. Huge ones, on every street corner. It's at the top of my places to visit someday."

Was she prattling? She was talking about herself, which was rude, right? She should at least ask the other person's name.

"So, what's your name?"

Two boys — Nate and Christian — entered the gallery, snickering over some private joke. They paused when they saw her.

"Dude, Claudia, who are you talking to?" Nate asked.

"No one," she mumbled. She grabbed...