“Er—no. Just... y’know, a little headachy and dizzy. Probably just stress or something.”
“You need me to give you a lift home? You shouldn’t drive if you’re dizzy.”
Crap. He’s right.
“I’m not dizzy rightnow,” I backtrack. “I was earlier, but now it’s gone.”
“It could come back, though.”
“No, no,” I say hastily. “I’m sure it won’t. This happens sometimes... I get these sort of... spells...” I trail off feebly. The concerned look on his face has vanished, replaced by a slightly dubious one.
I’m really not pulling this lie off, am I?
“Okay, look,” I say sheepishly. “I’m not really sick. I just need to leave for, like, an hour or two, so I can run these museum brochures to the schools and see if they want to come for a field trip. I know it’s stupid, but I want to go today, because school will be over in, like, a month, so it’s my only opportunity. I can forward all the phone calls to my cell, and when the customers check out—”
“No worries.” John cuts me off. “Just go.”
“What?”
“Just go,” he repeats. “I can check people out.”
I hesitate. “Are you sure?”
“Yep.”
Still, I waver. “But what if Fred comes in?”
“Fred’s in Florida. But if he flies home to check that you’re working the front desk, I’ll be sure to tell him you went home sick.”
I swallow a laugh. “Oh. Well... okay, then. I promise I won’t be long.”
“I really don’t care.”
I scrutinize his face. He definitely means it.
Feeling a little less guilty, I jog out to my car and head off to the local high school, which is only ten minutes away. Even though it houses both junior high and high school, it’s not very big. As I step inside the main entranceway, I feel like I’ve been transported back fifteen years. It’s wild that so much time can pass but high schoolsalways seem to look the same. This place even smells like my old high school, as if all schools in the universe are bound by law to use the same lemon-scented floor cleaner.
I find my way to the principal’s office and knock lightly on the door. It swings open a moment later, revealing a tall bald man whom I instantly like. His name is Mr. Peterson, and he lets me into his office and listens as I ramble eagerly about the museum. He even makes me a cup of tea from a little kettle on his desk. He says he thinks field trips to the museum sound like a good idea for some of their younger kids, though maybe not their high schoolers. I’m secretly relieved when he says it. I don’t want any high school kids rolling their eyes and pretending to be too cool for my museum.
He says he can’t promise me anything—this close to the end of the year, their schedules are pretty booked—but that he’ll be in touch. And I know it sounds like a line you say to get rid of someone, but I swear he really means it.
I leave the school in high spirits and head to the nursing home. It’s about the same size as the high school, but the atmosphere couldn’t be more different. The school had that squeaky-shoe silence, whereas this place is filled with the warm rumble of voices.
I hover in the entryway for a moment, feeling a bit nervous. I’ve never actually been to a nursing home before, and I’m scared it’ll be this super depressing place filled with sad people waiting to die. But actually, once I step inside, it seems really lively! There’s a young woman guiding a group of people in wheelchairs through a seated exercise routine, a nurse helping an elderly woman do a puzzle, and a man playing piano in the corner. I make a mentalnote of everything I see, to tell Jim about later. He mentioned to me that he’s not sure how much longer he can stay in his house. I think it’s too full of memories of his wife. Maybe a place like this would be good for him. Less lonely.
It takes me a little while to track down the person in charge, a short, heavy woman with frizzy hair. She’s pretty preoccupied during our chat—her phone rings about every five seconds, and three people come in to ask her questions while we talk—but she listens to everything I have to say and takes the brochures. Like Mr. Peterson, she says she’ll think about it and be in touch. I’m notquitesure she means it, but I figure at least I’ve made a start. I can always check back in next month and see if she’s thought about it. This isn’t like school. The residents will be here all year.
My last stop is the elementary school. For all my good intentions earlier, I accidentally arrive just as the lunch bell rings. Hundreds of kids spill out of the doors, all of whom seem to be hollering at the tops of their lungs.
Honestly, I don’t know how teachers do it. I’m exhausted justwatchingthem trying to establish order. I hurry inside, dodging and weaving around tiny kids, and find my way to the principal’s office. As I feared, she’s eating lunch when I knock on her door, and she doesn’t look super keen on being interrupted.
I shorten my speech to sixty seconds, hand over the brochures, thank her for her time, and make a break for it.
I arrive back at the shop at half past twelve, sweaty and slightly flustered.
“Oh, man,” I say, collapsing into a chair at the break room table.
John looks up from his phone. “I thought you were taking the day off.”
