Chapter 1 #2
the next three months should be exhilarating.
It isn’t. Never underestimate the visceral panic of an autistic kid thrown off schedule and in danger of losing exclusive,
behind-the-scenes access to their special interest.
Lola finds a space in front of the farmhouse. Efraín jumps out of the car as soon as she parks, leaving me marooned in the
back seat. Important life lesson: “Ride or die” stops at the parking lot.
By the time I stumble over the front seat, Efraín’s halfway to the ramshackle red barn—the museum entrance—and the girls are
jogging to catch up.
Time of arrival: nine minutes late Elisha Standard Time.
Unequivocally and inexcusably late.
Efraín’s already deep in conversation with our supervisor.
At least, I assume the stranger is lower management, what with the telltale slumped shoulders of a world-weary millennial and the civvies.
If you can call a Green Day T-shirt so old that it’s practically sheer civvies, that is.
As I skid to a stop, he says, “You must be—”
“Fired?” I blurt. I’m sure there are social pleasantries I’m meant to observe, but there’s no time if security is already
on their way to escort us off the premises.
“C’mon, Elisha,” Efraín mutters. “We’re not fired.”
“Excuse me if I’d rather hear that from—” I didn’t catch this aging emo-pop-punk fanboy’s name, but I mask my irritation with
a lopsided smile. This is what contrition looks like, right? “Sorry, can you please just tell me if I’m fired?”
Efraín intervenes, and if his suave, chummy tone is what passes for apologetic, then I definitely missed the mark. “We were
working out some carpool kinks. Won’t happen again, promise.”
The guy looks between us. His shaggy dark hair obscures his eyes like an English sheepdog, but there’s something bewildered
in the slack line of his bearded jaw. He squares his shoulders, shrugging on authority like an ill-fitting suit. “Um,” he
stammers. “I’m only the guest services assistant supervisor, but no? No one’s fired? Anya hates hiring. So, like I was telling
your friend here, I’m Dan. You can call me Dan.”
I can’t clear my head fast enough to sift through Dan’s words; I can’t decide whether to point out that Efraín is not my friend or question whether an assistant supervisor really has the authority to decide we’re not fired.
Dan interprets my delayed processing as tacit acceptance. “Let’s head inside.”
That’s it. No security walk of shame. No consequences for tardiness. Just Dan opening the barn doors.
For months, I’ve been looking forward to seeing the museum like this, after hours or before. Let’s be real, I’ve dreamed about
exploring this place alone for years. But I don’t get to enjoy my magical Night at the Museum moment. All I can think is that the track lights dangling from the rafters seem abnormally bright as Dan leads us past the
ticketing counter and gift shop, all the way to the STAFF ONLY door on the far side of the ground floor.
As promised, Anya Sobol, the guest services manager, is waiting for us in the upstairs break room with two other trainees.
“Dan, you’re just in time. Come, sit.” Anya gestures to the table where she’s holding court. For a woman who might be shorter
than I am, she’s imposing, with a bottle-red pixie cut and cat-eye glasses. “All our new hires in one place. Well.” Her chuckles
come out as a cough, like she’s retired from an Olympic career in chain-smoking. “Not so new in Blake’s case. Dan, did you
see what she did to her hair?”
Dan grunts noncommittally at a trainee whom I vaguely recognize from school. Blake Xie. I think she graduated my sophomore year. Now she has a badass undercut—sleek black hair past her shoulder on one side, shaved on the other—that reads alternative lifestyle in the best way possible.
Anya clearly disagrees, but her voice is Marlboro-light when she says, “We’re so pleased to have you back this summer.”
Blake smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes—or eyebrow piercings.
Anya nods, back to business. “Dan, Blake, have you met our true new hires? With a little training, they’ll make good workers,
don’t you think?”
Dan opens his mouth, but Anya steamrolls right on through. “Here we have Gwen, who was just telling us that her accent is
Welsh, not English, no?”
Amidst the residual stress of our near-firing, I didn’t even register our final coworker, Gwen Pryce, best known as Naomi’s
ex-girlfriend. They must be ex-friends now, too, given that Naomi’s grimacing the way she does when Mom mentions hunting season.
“That’s right,” Gwen says. “It’s a common mis—”
“And this is Dolores—”
“I go by Lola! Emo phase aside, I’m no lady of sorrows.”
“—and Effren—”
“Actually,” says Efraín, just like he does at the start of every year, when, inevitably, there’s one teacher who is oblivious to the teacher’s lounge gossip that compromises his reputation, “it’s Eh-fra-EEN. Three syllables.”
“Oh, right. Of course.” Anya nods, unfazed. “Finally, over there with the matching freckles, we have the Goldstein sisters,
Naomi and Elisha!”
Oh, right. Of course.
Please excuse this interruption of our regularly scheduled programming for a minor panic attack.