Afterward, we do a few of those awkward icebreaker games to get to know one another, then Benedita releases us to enjoy the museum for the rest of the day.
“The names and office numbers of your first supervisors are written on your schedule,” she says. “Who’s starting with me—ah, Emily.” I look up. “If you want to come with me for a second, I’ll show you where my office is for tomorrow.”
I edge around Notebook Girl, who’s scowling at me a bit jealously, and follow Benedita to a room just a few doors down the hall. Her office is small and cozy, with hundreds of old books crammed into a bookshelf and a heavy desk covered in papers. There are a bunch of photos on the wall that must be of her family.There’s a wedding photo of her and her wife, and another picture of them with two kids.
“I hope it wasn’t too hard to get here on time,” Benedita says. “I know you didn’t have much notice.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “It was totally fine.” That’s a tiny lie, but I mean it when I add, “I’m just happy to be here.”
She smiles. “I’m sure you’re going to love it. You worked at a museum before, didn’t you?”
“Er—I was just a volunteer, actually. It was just a really tiny museum in PEI.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. Small museums have their challenges, of course, but they also have their charms.”
“Yes, ma’am. Ours was about barrel-making. We had a cooper who did demonstrations with old equipment.”
She smiles. “Sounds wonderful. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to head out to attend to a few things. But I’ll meet you here tomorrow at nine a.m.”
“See you then.”
I sneak one last glance around her office then return to the classroom, where most of the interns are still gathering their things.
“Some of us are going to explore a bit,” David tells me, standing with a group that includes Leah and Katarina. “Want to join us?”
I smile, feeling a pleasant warmth settle over my shoulders. “Yeah,” I tell him. “I’d love to.”
33
The next few days rush by in a nerve-wracking blur, then it feels like I blink and two weeks have gone by. It’s kind of strange how quickly I fall into a new rhythm: wake to the sound of sirens, eat a quick bowl of cereal in my room, rush to the subway to make it to the museum by nine.
I spend my days in the bowels of the Met, watching Benedita do her work. I’m so glad I’ve been paired with her first. She’s so kind and knowledgeable, and she never makes me feel stupid for asking questions. Which is a good thing, because most of what she says is totally beyond me. Following her around is like a study in my own ignorance. I kind of thought curators just tracked down interesting things, came up with a clever way to display them, and then voilà! On to the next thing. The reality is much more complicated and sometimes—if I’m being perfectly honestly—a teensy bit dull.
Benedita spends a lot of her time doing research, for example, and although she tries to include me as much as she can, the fact of the matter is, a big part of research is just sitting quietly and reading. Those are the worst times, because whenever my brain isn’t distracted, it immediately starts thinking about John and Waldon. Missing John isn’t a surprise—I didn’t expect my feelings to go away overnight—but I’m surprised by how much I miss Waldon itself. Sometimes I’ll be walking along and suddenly remember something random, like the cute dog that used to trotout to see me every morning when I did my run, or the smell of the local library where I used to check out books.
It’ll all fade the longer I’m here, I’m sure.
When I’m busy, it’s easier, so I fill most of my days from dawn till dusk. I’m starting to get to know the other interns a little better, especially Katarina, Leah, and David. Katarina has lived in New York for a few years now, so she gives us a bunch of tips on free things to do in the city. In all my fantasies about living in big cities, I’d kind of glazed over how expensive they are. My dreams of going to art galleries and restaurants have been amended to reading books in Central Park, wandering the High Line, and eating ninety-nine-cent ramen for most of my meals. And while the energy in the city is just as amazing as I always imagined, it’s also sort of—
Tiring. And loud.
But I try not to dwell on that. It’s just different, that’s all. I just need time to adjust.
I throw all my energy into my exhibit project, the one Benedita assigned us on our first day. Katarina and Leah and David all have great ideas for theirs—Leah wants to showcase this really eccentric local artist who makes art out of trash, Katarina is designing an exhibit of art by single moms, and David wants to do a display of children’s toys from the 1300s to today. I spend night after night trying to come up with something equally clever, but I don’t strike upon inspiration until one day in Central Park.
I’m jogging alone, trying not to think about this murder documentary I saw about a girl who was killed jogging in Central Park, when I spot a stooped, gray-haired woman sitting on a park bench, struggling to open a bottle of juice. She has a tiny, yappydog with her whose leash is wrapped precariously around her wrist. My feet slow to a stop, sensing the impending disaster.
“Do you need help with that?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
She looks up at me, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. I’ve noticed that’s everyone’s first reaction in New York when a stranger talks to them.
I must look harmless enough, because her expression relaxes and she smiles at me. “Yes, thank you.”
She hands me the dog’s leash, and it throws itself eagerly at me while she uses both hands to twist off the bottle cap.
“He’s so cute,” I say, handing the leash back to her.
(This is a tiny lie—he’s a scrawny, half-balding chihuahua with a horrendous pair of bright pink booties.)
