She looks up and catches me staring. Whoops. I give her a polite, apologetic smile. She responds by sweeping her gaze from my head to my toes, then pretending to smother a smirk.
My face burns red hot.
What a jerk.
I run my hands self-consciously over my hair and clothes. I did Jim’s laundry last night instead of my own, so I’m wearing one of my oldest sweatshirts over some plain black leggings. I didn’t think it looked that bad when I glanced in the mirror this morning, but it’s clear what that girl is thinking when she looks at me. John’s blunt words from yesterday echo in my ears.
Small-town girl.
I force myself to sit up straighter and lift my chin up stubbornly.Fine, maybe I am a bit small-town right now. That doesn’t mean I’m going to be forever. I have a brief vision of myself sitting behind a vast desk, decked out in Balmain and Prada with floor-to-ceiling windows behind me overlooking Fifth Avenue. I raise my bejeweled hand and wave in the next candidate interviewing for my lowly assistant position. And what do you know, it’s Little Miss Jean Shorts! Her eyes widen as she recognizes me—she plasters on a fake smile and opens her mouth to talk—but nope, too late. I’m giving her the same cutting head-to-toe gaze she once gave me and ordering her out of my office.
I stifle a snort. Okay, that was an immature daydream.
I do feel a little better now, though.
I leaf through the barrel museum brochures for the fifteenth time and then do some research on barrel-making online. If Mr. Peterson calls me about bringing his kids in for a field trip, I want to make sure I’ve got lots of really fun things to tell them about barrels.
The trouble is, there’s really not much to say about barrels, unless you want to talk about wine or whiskey, which I don’t think is super appropriate for junior high school kids.
I chew on my lip, trying to think of what I would’ve wanted to do on a field trip in junior high. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to hear stories about barrels. Especially not in the last weeks of school before summer. The only thing I would’ve cared about was being out of class and having fun with my friends.
Ooh! Maybe I can let them do some sort of activity in the backyard. Some sort of... barrel-rolling race, maybe. Barrel rolling is a thing, right?
I do a quick Google search, and yes, yes it is. But honestly, itsounds a little dangerous for kids. The article I’m reading keeps going on about the importance of wearing steel-toe boots.
Oh, well. I’ll think of something else.
I drum my fingers on the desk. Think, brain,think.
My gaze drifts to the snooty girl again. There’s no way she’d be caught dead in a barrel museum.
Hmm. That’s a thought.
I waver for a few minutes, then think to myself,Screw it.
“Excuse me? Miss?” I wave my hand until the girl finally notices me.
Reluctantly, she removes one of her earbuds. “Is the car ready?”
“Er—no. I wanted to ask your opinion on something.” She scowls suspiciously, but I press on. “Do you like museums?”
She blinks her mascaraed eyelashes at me. “What?”
“Museums,” I repeat. “Like, if you went to a museum in a small town, what sort of things would interest you?”
She’s looking at me like I’ve absolutely lost my mind. “Are you, like, fundraising or something?” she says suspiciously. “Because I already donate atonto charity.”
Somehow, I keep from rolling my eyes. Yeah, I bet she donates to charity. “No, I’m just trying to help out the local barrel-making museum.”
“Barrel-making?” she repeats derisively.
“Yes, barrel-making,” I say. Then I heave an exaggerated sigh. “Never mind. I’m sorry I bothered you. I just thought I’d ask you, since you’re so young and obviously really stylish...” I wave my hand to encompass her outfit. “I thought you might be able to help me figure out what junior high kids might be interested in. I’mwaytoo old to understand,” I add for good measure.
My god, that was too easy. The girl looks instantly mollified. She sits up a little straighter and takes her other earbud out.
“Well, I don’t go to museums because, like, most of history is super offensive—”
“Of course,” I say, straight-faced.
