11
“Barrel into summer,’” John reads over my shoulder.
I jump half a foot off my chair. I didn’t even hear him come into the break room.
While my heart rate returns to normal, I hold up my notepad. “Clever, right?”
“Clever for what?”
“For the event I’m going to throw at the barrel museum!”
He stares at me incredulously. I swear, that’s what my conversations with John usually are. I say something, he stares at
me.
“I volunteer at the barrel museum now,” I explain.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. It’s really fun! Or—well, I’ve only done one shift so far, but it was really fun. The cooper there—that’s someone
who makes barrels—”
“I know.”
“—he’s going to help me put together a barbecue event, to help stir up a bit of interest in the museum. And I’ve got to call
the local schools to see if they want to bring their kids for field trips.” I glance down at my to-do list to make sure that’s
on there.
“Schools?” he says. “I would’ve thought nursing homes were more your thing.”
I open my mouth to make a sharp retort, then close it again.
Huh.
“I know you’re making fun of me, but that’s actually a brilliant idea,” I say. “I wonder if nursing homes do field trips. I should call and find out.” I scribble it onto my list.
John sits down opposite me and takes out his lunch. “Did you already do Wordle?”
Something in his tone makes me look up. John rarely uses any inflection in his voice, so it’s hard to read anything into it,
but does he sound sort of... hopeful?
No. Can’t be. He’s probably just inhaled a bunch of car fumes or something.
“Not yet,” I answer. “Just give me a sec, I’ve got to finish this first.”
I look down at my lengthy list. I never realized how much planning you have to do to throw an event. I’ve got to figure out
food, decorations, advertising... plus, I’ve got to convince Shelley to actually let me do it. That’s number one on the
list.
“Do you know anything about making websites?” I ask. “I’m thinking I should set one up for the museum, to help advertise the
event.”
“You know the average age of this town is, like, seventy-five, right? Put a flyer on the community center bulletin board and
call it a day.”
Hmm. That’s actually not a bad idea.
“And at the grocery store,” John adds.
Damn. Another good idea.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll add ‘design super-cool flyer’ to my list.”
“It’s a flyer for a barrel museum,” he says. “You might want to lower your expectations a bit.”
I laugh automatically, then do a double take. John made a joke .
Oh, we are definitely becoming Wordle friends.
I hide a smile and put my list away. “Okay. Wordle time.”
“First word?”
“MONEY. As in, I still have to figure out where to get the money to pay for this event.”
“Won’t the museum pay for it?”
I sigh. “Trey says Shelley—that’s the museum manager—won’t pay for anything extra.”
I type MONEY into Wordle, but only the Y is yellow. Shoot.
“Could you buy the supplies yourself?” John asks. “If you charge people, like, two or three bucks for a hot dog, you’d probably
break even.”
“But what if I shell out a bunch of my own money and no one shows up?”
He shrugs. “I’m sure people will go. What else is there to do here?”
I frown at him. “Why do you live here, if you hate it so much?”
John looks vaguely surprised. “I don’t hate it.”
“You talk about Waldon like it’s super boring and filled with old people.”
“It is super boring and filled with old people.”
“So move somewhere else.”
He shrugs. “I like it here.”
I hesitate. “Why?”
“I dunno. The rent is cheap. It’s quiet. It’s by the water. What else do you want?”
“I want to live somewhere exciting, like New York or Paris.”
He raises a doubtful eyebrow. “Really?”
My frown deepens. “Yeah. So?”
“I don’t know. Volunteering at the barrel factory—”
“Museum. Barrel museum .”
“—and working with a bunch of old people... you just seem like more of a small-town girl. I can’t really picture you living in a big city.”
I look down at my phone. I don’t know why it hurts my feelings so much, but it does. The rational part of me knows that there’s
nothing wrong with being a small-town girl. But that’s not me . That’s not what I want.
“Thanks,” I say shortly.
John frowns. “I didn’t mean—”
“Let’s just do Wordle,” I interrupt.
“You’re mad.”
“I’m fine.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re clearly mad.”
I exhale impatiently. “No, I’m not. I’m just—thinking about my next word.”
“Fine.” He turns back to his phone. “What word are you going to use?”
“I don’t know.” I stare at my unused letters, struggling to focus. “YACHT.”
“As in?”
“As in nothing,” I say (okay, snap). “I’m just trying to rule out more letters.”
He’s silent for a moment, and I’m already regretting my temper. He probably didn’t mean to insult me. He probably thinks being
a small-town girl is a good thing.
“What word are you using?” I ask stiffly.
He turns his phone toward me.
His word is SORRY.
Damn it.
That’s quite cute.
The corners of my lips twist up. “It’s fine,” I say, more honestly this time. “It’s just... I don’t know. I don’t want
to be a small-town girl. I know there’s nothing wrong with it,” I add hastily, “and I don’t mean anything against people who
like small towns... It’s just not who I want to be.”
“So why not go somewhere else?”
“I can’t afford it. I’ve got this stupid student loan I’m trying to pay off... plus I don’t want to move somewhere until
I know for sure what I want to do there.”
“Your ‘dream job,’” he says. It still sounds slightly sarcastic when he says it. I swallow a stab of irritation.
“Yup,” I say shortly. “But I’m stuck here for now, so I’m just trying to make the best of it and find fun things to do.” I
gesture to my Barrel Into Summer to-do list.
“And you think planning a barbecue at a barrel factory is fun,” he says.
“Barrel museum . And yes.”
He stares at me for a while and then turns back to his phone. I bite down another wave of irritation and force myself to focus
on my next word. The Y in YACHT was yellow, the T was green. John’s SORRY also accidentally helped me, because now I know
there’s an R and S somewhere in the word. But what word has a Y, R, S, and T in it?
S, Y, R, T.
Y, R, S, T.
YURST.
Is that some sort of sausage, like a bratwurst? A bratyurst?
I type it in and click enter. Nope. Not in word list.
“One of my racing buddies plays guitar,” John says. “He plays at the track sometimes, and some of the bars in Charlottetown pay him to do gigs.”
I frown, wondering where he’s going with this.
“Want me to ask him to play at your... barrel thing?” he asks.
I sit up a little straighter. “You mean it?”
“Sure.”
“Wouldn’t I have to pay him, though?”
He shrugs. “I did his alignment last year for half price. He owes me one.”
I break into a wide smile. “That would be awesome!”
“I can call him later. Just text me the date and time and stuff.”
I nod, grinning, and reach for my to-do list. Live music wasn’t on there (I hadn’t even though of that), but now I add it,
just so I can check it off.
Live music—check!
“You think this thing has a double letter in it?” John asks, holding up his phone.
I open my mouth to say no, then I pause.
A double letter. A double T .
T, R, Y, S, T.
TRYST.
I type it in, click enter, and one by one, the letters turn green. Three hundred and eight days!
I beam at John. “I think it does.”
After work, I head to the store to buy groceries for Mrs. Finnamore, Jim, and Doris. While I’m waiting in line, I take out
my phone and text Fallon.
[5:42]: Hey girl! I need to pick your brain on something. Any advice on how to plan events? I’m organizing this summer barbecue thing at a local museum and I want to make sure it goes well. You have to plan a lot of events for your stores, yeah?
I’m not expecting her to text back right away, so I’m surprised when three dots appear almost instantly.
[5:43] Fallon: Omg that’s too funny, I was just about to text you!
[5:43] Fallon: I’m going to send you a post to share on all your social
[5:43] Fallon: New promo launching on the website next week
I shift uncomfortably on my feet. Fallon asks me to do stuff like this every now and then. And obviously I want to support
her, but it always feels kind of weird. I basically never post anything on any of my social media accounts, which means that
90 percent of what’s on there is just ads for Fallon’s business. I’m pretty sure Instagram thinks I’m a bot.
But I guess I shouldn’t complain. If I ever have a business, I’ll probably be asking her to do the same thing.
[5:44]: Of course! Just send me what you need me to post.
[5:44] Fallon: Ahhh you rock girl
[5:44] Fallon: Sending now!
Sure enough, seconds later a notification pops up for my Facebook and Instagram. (And yes, I know, no one under the age of
sixty actually uses Facebook anymore. I only have it so I can see all the pictures from my parents’ trips.) I obediently repost
what Fallon’s sent me.
[5:46]: Done!
[5:47] Fallon: Amazing... thank youuu
The line ahead of me inches forward. The teenager working the checkout line must be new. I swear it’s taking her five minutes
to scan each item.
[5:50]: So, any advice on planning events? I’m mostly wondering how much food I should buy. I don’t want to run out, but I
think I’d rather that than buy too much...
[5:52] Fallon: Hmm dunno girl
[5:52] Fallon: We use event planners
[5:52] Fallon: Good luck though!
I frown, slightly annoyed, and start to pocket my phone without answering. Then I shake my head at myself. It’s not Fallon’s fault she’s successful enough to afford event planners.
[5:53]: Thanks! Good luck with the website promo!
Fallon sends back a fingers-crossed emoji and a string of money-bag emojis.
The line moves forward again—another worker has come to help out the new girl—and I unload my cart onto the conveyor belt,
sorting Mrs. Finnamore’s, Doris’s, and Jim’s things into three separate piles. They’ve all given me cash to pay with (Doris
kindly explained that she didn’t trust me with her credit card), and after I check out, I carefully count their change into
individual Ziploc bags.
“Are you sure you got everything?” Doris asks a quarter hour later, as I carry the last bag into her kitchen.
“I’m sure,” I say.
“Hmm,” she says skeptically. “Don’t scare the cat.”
Her cat, whom she hasn’t named (“Names are for people, girl, not animals”), is asleep on the top of the fridge. I don’t know
how I could possibly scare it, since I’m pretty sure it’s possessed by the devil. I love cats, but this one seems to exist
solely to hiss, bite, and scratch. I think that’s why it gets along so well with Doris.
She and the cat both supervise as I unpack all the groceries. I nod absently while Doris tells me her opinion on the day’s weather (“Far too hot”), the evening news (“Why would I care about all that foreign nonsense?”), and her nephew’s recent haircut (“Stu pid”). Honestly, I don’t think there’s anything in the world that Doris doesn’t have an opinion on.
Which, now that I think of it, actually might be useful to me.
“Hey, Doris,” I venture. “If you were in a nursing home, would you want to go on field trips to museums?”
“If I were in a nursing home, I’d want to be shot.”
Okay. I probably should have seen that coming.
I bid Doris good night (“What exactly do you think will be good about it? Don’t you know I’m eighty-six?”) and head to Mrs.
Finnamore’s.
“I don’t think anyone is that interested in barrels, dear,” she says, when I ask her the same question I asked Doris. “Plus,
that old building is far too drafty.”
“Okay, but if you had to go,” I press. “What would you want it to be like?”
“I don’t know,” she says uninterestedly. Then, perhaps seeing the disappointed look on my face, she heaves a sigh and adds,
“You should put in more seating, if you’re going to drag folks there from their nursing homes. Those wooden floors are terribly
hard.”
“More seating.” I nod. “Thanks!”
When I ask Jim, he has even more helpful ideas. In fact, it sort of seems like he’s been waiting for someone to ask him about
it.
“That place is too dark,” he says. “You can hardly read anything on those tiny exhibit signs. Not that anyone really bothers
reading them. People spend most of their time watching Trey.”
More lights, more Trey , I mentally add to my list.
“So if you went on a tour there, would you just want to watch Trey?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jim says. “Might be nice to sit around and chat a bit, maybe have a pot of tea.”
I nod thoughtfully. We could set up tables outside, maybe serve tea and snacks... I wonder if I could even find some mugs
shaped like barrels. That seems like something that should exist, like for pirate-themed birthday parties.
Hang on a minute.
Birthday parties .
What a genius idea! What kid wouldn’t want to have their birthday at a barrel museum? Once I add the super cool barrel-themed
playground, I mean.
I thank Jim enthusiastically and head home. After dinner, I hunt down the contact information of the local schools and nursing
homes. There are only two schools—an elementary school, and a combined junior high/high school—and one nursing home just outside
of town. There are more nursing homes in Summerside and Charlottetown, but I think I’ll wait to approach them. I don’t want
their residents to drive an hour to get here until I’m confident I can give them an awesome day.
Around nine, I curl up in bed with a glass of wine and scroll absently through Instagram. Fallon’s shared my post about her website promo on her story (along with about a hundred others) with the caption “We’ve got fans all over Canada!!!” Further along in her story is a photo of her and her husband outside their Toronto location. They both look really tan, like they’ve been on a trip down south, and their staff are gathered around them holding up bottles of juice. They all look really happy, and not just in a fake Instagram sort of way. They’ve got their arms wrapped around each other and some of them look like they’ve been caught midlaugh.
I click onward to Martha’s story. She’s posted about fifty pictures of her and her kids visiting a zoo. They all look really
happy too (even if I privately think their matching T-shirts are a little cheesy).
I put down my phone with a sigh. I was having a fun day plotting out all the ways I could improve the museum, but now it all
feels sort of stupid. I probably shouldn’t be wasting my time on all this stuff. It’s not like it’s going to get me any closer
to my dream job.
I sink down into the covers and take an unhappy sip of wine. I should spend my night looking for more jobs I can apply to,
but that suddenly seems pointless too. Like I’m just flailing about, applying for anything under the sun, desperately trying
to find something that will stick.
I’m scrolling through Netflix to find a sitcom to distract me from my sorrows when my phone dings with a text from an unknown
number.
[9:07] Unknown: Hey, Emily – this is John’s friend George. He told me you’re planning some outdoor event up in Waldon and might want me to
play?
I sit up a little straighter. I totally forgot about that. I’m surprised John’s already reached out to him.
[9:08]: Hey George! Yes, I’d love that, if you’re available?
[9:08]: I can’t pay anything, though, so totally understand if you can’t do it.
[9:09] Unknown: Sounds great!
[9:09] Unknown: Don’t worry about payment, I owe John like two grand lol
[9:10]: Awesome!! I’m still waiting on a few details
(Like, if Shelley will even let me do this thing.)
[9:10]: But I’ll get back to you ASAP to confirm
[9:] Unknown: Sounds good. Thx!
I smile at the screen for a moment, then open a text to John Smith (Auto Shop).
[9:12]: Hey, your friend George just texted me! Thanks for reaching out to him.
[9:13] John: no worries
[9:13] John: he’s weirdly excited about it
[9:13] John: I guess he’s been trying to break into the barrel museum scene
I laugh.
[9:14]: Well, it is very competitive
[9:14]: I’ve already had a call from Beyoncé, begging me to let her perform
[9:15] John: lol
I chew on my lip, wondering if I should say something else. It still feels weird talking to John like a (sort-of) friend,
but it’s not like I’m overwhelmed with options right now. I might as well ask his opinion. It can’t be any meaner than Doris’s.
[9:19]: Do you think this whole event idea is kind of stupid?
[9:19] John: no
[9:19] John: why?
[9:20]: I don’t know
[9:20]: It’s just like, a silly barrel museum, right?
[9:20]: I don’t think I should be spending so much time on it
There’s a brief pause. I wonder if I’ve overshared.
[9:21] John: you think too much
[9:21] John: are you having fun doing it or not?
My brow furrows thoughtfully.
[9:22]: Yeah
[9:22]: I am
[9:23] John: well, there you go
Then he sends a little emoji of a guy shrugging. The corner of my mouth twists up.
[9:23]: Thanks ?
[9:23]: Headed to bed now. Night!
[9:23]: Or as Wordle would say
[9:23]: NIGHT
[9:24] John: lol
[9:24] John: night
I take another sip of wine, put my laptop away, and reach for my to-do list again, smiling to myself just a little.