16
All right, then. This is it.
Saturday. Event day.
Or, as I’ve taken to calling it—
B-day.
(And yes, I know that usually stands for birthday, but today it stands for barrel day, okay?)
I’ve been at the museum with Trey, Rose, and John since sevena.m., and to say I’m being extra would be the understatement
of this still very young century.
“Do we have enough ice?” I ask. “Do the balloons look okay?”
None of them answer me, which is probably because I’ve asked both questions fifteen times already. I don’t mind being ignored.
I’m pretty sure I’m only talking to try to expel some of my nerves.
By ten a.m., we’re ready to go. And I don’t want to sound braggy, but this place looks really good. Like really, really good.
I shelled out a hundred of my own dollars to buy decorations from the dollar store, and I’ve gone with a red and gold theme.
The museum entrance is framed with red and gold balloons, the trees in the backyard are artfully draped in red and gold streamers,
and all the barrels in the backyard are adorned with red and yellow construction paper chains (I couldn’t find gold construction
paper, so yellow is the best I could do). I wanted to put a paper chain on the barbecue, too, but Trey pointed out it probably
wasn’t a good idea to put flammable material over an open grill.
The best bit, though, is the new exhibit, which John and Trey finished last night. It’s basically a huge stack of barrels fitted into the wall, but they’re placed so that someone can pose underneath them, pretending to carry them all. From the other side of the room, you can take the perfect picture of your child or friend pretending to have superhero strength. John and Trey even fitted the barrels into the wall so some of them look like they’re about to tumble off the top of the stack.
And look, I’m not saying it’s a work of genius or anything, but it’s cute and funny and I think tourists will really like
it. I think even Jean Shorts Girl might approve.
While Rose and Trey fire up the barbecue and John helps his friend George set up the speakers for his guitar, I head to the
front desk alone to officially open the doors. I haven’t looked outside for the last thirty minutes because I was too scared
I’d see an empty parking lot, but when I swing open the door...
There’s a line.
A line !
I mean, okay, it’s not like a queue for Taylor Swift tickets or anything, but there are at least five families and a big group
of older tourists. A few of them are clutching Barrel Into Summer flyers, and someone’s kid is throwing a temper tantrum about
the wait.
I beam at all of them. “Welcome!”
For the next two hours, I only leave my post to help people take pictures of themselves at the new wall exhibit. It’s absolutely adorable watching everyone come up with funny poses with the barrels. My favorite is a young girl who does a handstand underneath, so it looks like she’s balancing all the barrels on her toes. The atmosphere is bright and happy, the barbecue smells absolutely delicious, and Trey’s station is a huge hit with all the kids. The scavenger hunt is going really well (even if one kid did accidentally tip over a barrel looking for a clue), and Rose came up with a fun activity for them in the backyard, a kind of ring-toss game where kids try to throw rings into barrels.
Around lunchtime, the museum’s other regular volunteer, Brenda, arrives to take my place at the front desk. She looks shocked
at how busy the place is, and I can’t wipe the proud grin from my face as I head toward the backyard.
Things are in full swing back here. John’s friend George is playing folksy songs on his guitar and Rose is dishing out burgers
and hot dogs as fast as she can cook them. I wave at her over the heads of a group of American tourists and wander toward
the back of the yard, where John is manning the drinks station.
Halfway there, I spot Shelley chatting with a group of older women. My feet reluctantly slow. I suppose it would be rude of
me not to go say hi to her.
I force a smile as I approach. “Hey, Shelley,” I greet her, and smile at the three women gathered around her. “Are you all
having fun?”
“Absolutely,” says one of the women brightly. She has curly white hair and an old-fashioned pantsuit with an official-looking
pin on her lapel. “We’re all members of the town’s historical society,” she says, holding a hand out to me. “And you are—?”
“This is one of our new volunteers,” Shelley says.
“Emily,” I say, shaking the woman’s hand.
“How lovely,” she says. “Did you help plan all of this?”
“She and Trey both pitched in,” Shelley says, before I can an swer. My mouth nearly drops open with shock. Pitched in ? We planned the whole thing!
“How nice,” says the white-haired woman. “I hope it hasn’t cost too much?”
“Oh, no, I’ve budgeted it all out,” Shelley says. “We’ll make a tidy little profit.”
“You can put the money toward another event,” the woman suggests. “Maybe something for Canada Day!”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Shelley says.
The women smile and head off toward the barbecue. I return their polite smiles with difficulty. My cheeks are burning, and
my chest feels kind of tight.
Shelley gives me a bland smile. “Some kid spilled their soda in the back hall. Be a dear and clean it up, will you?”
My cheeks burn hotter. I open my mouth to mutter “Sure,” then I stop myself. John’s voice suddenly echoes in my head.
The next time someone’s a jerk, you’re not allowed to smile and be polite to them.
Shelley’s definitely being a jerk, but even so, I’m not sure I have the guts to say anything.
Oh, screw it. It can’t hurt to try.
I snatch a nervous breath and blurt out, a bit shakily, “That was a bit rude.”
Shelley raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
I lick my lips. “You didn’t budget this event,” I say. “I did. And Trey and I didn’t ‘pitch in.’ We did everything.”
Shelley gives a condescending little chuckle. “This isn’t about taking credit , Emily. And there’s a lot more to managing this place than you might realize. Now, why don’t you go take a little break? I’ll take care of the spill.”
I open my mouth to retort, but it’s no use—she’s already walking away. For a second, I think about storming after her, but
if I’m honest, my legs are feeling a bit shaky. I don’t usually talk to people like that, ever. It made zero difference, obviously,
but it was still kind of exhilarating. My heart is thumping a bit faster with adrenaline.
I cross the lawn and approach John, who’s grabbing a can of soda from the cooler.
“Guess what I just did?” I say, taking a soda for myself.
“Bored someone to death talking about barrels.”
“Ha, ha. No, I just stood up to Shelley. She was being a huge jerk, and I totally called her out on it.”
“Nice.” John holds his can of soda out for me to clink. “Well done.”
“I’m not sure it made a difference, though.”
He shrugs. “Probably not. Still cool, though.”
“Yeah.” I grin. “It was. How are things going here?”
Before he can answer, someone calls his name behind me. I turn to see a middle-aged couple approaching us. The man is quite
tall, with very tanned white skin and wiry dark hair, and the woman has short dark-brown hair, light-brown skin, and a smile
that looks kind of familiar.
“Oh, hey,” John says, stepping forward to greet them. The woman kisses him on the cheek. “You guys been here long?”
“A little while,” the woman says, smiling. She looks at me with interest.
“This is Emily,” John says. “Emily, these are my parents.”
I blink, startled. John invited his parents ?
I reach out hastily to shake their hands. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”
“Call me Carla,” his mother says, leaning in to kiss my cheek. His father does the same and introduces himself as Laurent.
He has a faint French accent, and his eyes are the exact same shade of brown as John’s.
“Are you having fun?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” Carla says. “This place is beautiful.”
“Really impressive,” his father adds, looking around. “Are you from Waldon?” he asks me.
“Halifax, originally,” I say. “John told me you’re from Quebec?”
“Not exactly,” Laurent says, and launches into a story about the Toronto suburb where he grew up, and the business he started
there that eventually took him to Montreal, and how that led him to the Dominican Republic, where he met his wife. I listen
politely, marveling at how different he is from his son. He’s exuberant and slightly loud and really chatty—so chatty, in
fact, that Carla and John both tell him to stop talking after about ten minutes.
“You’re going to put her to sleep,” Carla chastises him.
“Oh, nonsense. Emily was interested, weren’t you?” Laurent says.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
Carla puts a hand on my arm. “Don’t humor him,” she advises me. “You’ll end up stuck here all day listening to him go on and
on.”
I grin at her. She’s standing so close I can smell her perfume, a bright, floral scent. Laurent smells great, too, a very
subtle peppermint scent. It must be a family thing.
“John said you both retired to Summerside?” I ask.
Carla nods. “I still do a bit of work there, just to help out the hospital. They’re so desperate for doctors. I’m an endocrinologist,” she adds.
“Oh, wow,” I say. Then I hesitate. “Er—and what is that, exactly?”
She chuckles. “It’s a doctor who specializes in hormone problems. Adrenal disease, thyroid disease, that sort of thing.”
“Wow,” I say again. “Very cool.”
“Well, it can be. Health care is in such a state right now.” She shakes her head and gives a tiny sigh. “John tells us you’ve
started some caregiving work recently?”
He did? I glance sideways at him, but he just looks back at me blandly and takes a sip of his drink.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Not, like, important nursing stuff or anything. I just do chores and keep people company, really.”
“There’s nothing unimportant about that,” Carla says. “The hospitals on this island are full of people waiting for long-term-
care beds, all because they’ve got no one to help them out a little at home.”
I wince. “That’s awful.”
Carla nods. “No one in this country ever seems to think about the future. They think they’re going to be healthy and independent
forever, and then they’re absolutely astounded when they get old! As though they didn’t realize it would ever happen to them.”
I nod earnestly. Doris is definitely like that, and Mrs. Finnamore too. Even Jim tells me all the time that he was shocked when his wife died, because he thought they had years left together. Which is heartbreaking, obviously, but also... his wife was ninety-three when she died. Jim talks about her like she should have had twenty or thirty years left, which even I know isn’t medically realistic.
“If you ask me, we keep people alive far too long these days,” Carla adds. “I hope I die in my sleep the day I turn seventy-five.”
“That’s cheerful,” Laurent says dryly.
“You’ll be lucky to reach seventy,” Carla retorts, “with all your red meat and cigars.”
“Speaking of which,” Laurent says, “I’ve got my eye on one of those burgers. Very nice to meet you, Emily.”
“You too,” I say. They both smile at me and then head off to the barbecue, leaving John and me alone. “I can’t believe you
invited your parents,” I say.
I say it to tease him, but he just shrugs. “They like stuff like this.”
“Well, it was really nice of them. They’re both so impressive too! A doctor and a businessman.” I almost add something else,
then think better of it and quickly shut my mouth.
John looks at me for a moment. “Maybe I was dropped on my head as a child.”
“Um—what?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You were wondering how an endocrinologist and a successful businessman wound up with a son who’s a
mechanic. Weren’t you?”
My face turns bright red. “Oh—no—”
“So maybe I was smart when I was born, but then I was dropped on my head as a kid, and that’s how I wound up like this. I’ll have to ask
my parents sometime.” His voice is dry, but there’s an edge to it.
And he’s right. That is what I was wondering.
“I don’t think you’re stupid,” I say, mortified.
“Mm.” He takes a sip of soda. “You sort of do, though.”
“I don’t! I swear I don’t.”
He just looks at me, and I feel a sharp twisting in my chest.
He’s totally caught me out.
“I don’t think you’re stupid,” I say. “I really, really don’t.” I hesitate, then add, “It just sometimes seems like...
I don’t know.”
“What?”
“Well... like you might’ve settled a bit, I guess.”
He snorts. “I know it’s hard for you to believe, but I like working at the shop. And I like living in Waldon. My parents are
both successful, but they’d tell you themselves, it hasn’t always made them happy. They’d rather me and my sister do something
we like rather than work ourselves to death.”
“No, I get that. I just feel like—I don’t know—”
“Like I should be chasing after some big, important ‘dream job’?”
“Well... yes,” I say helplessly. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be big or important—”
“Because that would be beyond me,” he says dryly.
“No! I just mean, you should do something you love.”
“Okay, well, I love working on cars. Just because you’re not interested in something doesn’t mean it’s totally useless.”
“I know!”
“I don’t think barrel museums and old people are very interesting, but you don’t hear me questioning your life choices, now
do you?”
“No.” I rake a hand through my hair. “I’m such a jerk, John. Seriously. I’m really sorry.”
He studies my face for a moment and then chuckles, all of the tension instantly vanishing from his frame. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just giving you a hard time.”
“Well, I deserve it. You’ve been so helpful all week, and this is how I repay you.”
He laughs again. “It’s fine. Tell you what: go buy me a hamburger and we’ll call it even.”
“A two-dollar hamburger is going to make up for me being a total asshole?”
“Good point. Two hamburgers, then.”
I crack a small smile. “I really am sorry.”
“I know. Now go get us some food, before I decide it should be three hamburgers.”
I give him a grateful smile and head to the barbecue, mentally kicking myself all the way. I can’t believe I was such a jerk.
Rose looks up as she hands a hot dog to Trey. “You want something, Emily?”
“Two hamburgers, please, and a hot dog.”
“I can do the hamburgers, but Trey’s just stolen the last hot dog,” she says. Trey grins at me apologetically through a mouthful
of hot dog.
“We ran out? Seriously?”
“Yep.” Rose smiles. “And we’re on the last pack of burgers. I think we can officially call this thing a hit.”
I exhale in relief. (Just between you and me, I didn’t technically have enough money to pay off my credit card if we didn’t break even on all the food I bought.) “Thank goodness. I’ll have
three burgers, then, if you’ve got them.”
“On it,” Rose says.
“All the kids really love your new exhibit,” Trey comments.
“Our new exhibit,” I correct. “You and John did all the work.”
“Yeah, well. It’s nice to see people enjoying this place.” He grins and takes another bite of hot dog, and for a minute or
two we watch all the people milling around the yard. Everyone really does look like they’re having a great time.
When I glance back at Trey, he’s looking at me with a thoughtful expression.
“What?” I ask, a little self-consciously.
“You’re good at this.”
“Planning events for barrel museums?” I laugh. “Shame it’s not an Olympic sport.”
“I mean it,” Trey says. “You should be manager of this place, not Shelley.”
“Hear, hear,” Rose adds.
Embarrassed, I wave them away. “You know that’ll never happen.”
“Yeah, maybe not,” Trey says. “But I bet there are museums in Charlottetown that would love to have you work for them. Although
I guess you probably wouldn’t want to commute that far from Waldon.” He swallows the last bite of his hot dog. “I should get
back to it. No rest for the wicked.”
A moment later, Rose hands me three burgers wrapped in paper. I smile and thank her. Back at the drinks station, John has
been accosted by about thirty kids who have all just finished the scavenger hunt and are clamoring for a drink, so I hand
over his burgers with an apologetic smile and take over the station while he eats. I hand out soda and juice until John shoos
me away again, ordering me to go eat my own burger.
I head inside to get out of the sun and duck into the break room to eat. Afterward, I take a spin through the museum. I should really head back to the front desk to check on Brenda, but I don’t want to go just yet. Trey’s words are ringing in my ears, and there’s an idea percolating at the edges of my mind.
I bet there are museums in Charlottetown that would love to have you.
He’s probably right. There are probably museums there looking for workers.
But there are probably museums in other places looking for workers too. Places like New York and London and Paris. Places
where museums span several blocks and tourists line up for hours to get in.
I turn slowly on the spot, taking in the scene around me. Laughter and music filtering in from the backyard. Tourists lining
up to take pictures of an exhibit I helped make. Families making memories at an event I helped create.
Dream job , whispers a voice in the back of my mind.
Dream job.