“But I get invited to a bunch of art exhibits, y’know, for my Insta? I have, like, thirty thousand followers.”
I tilt my head and put on a confused expression. “What’s Insta?”
She stares at me. “Instagram.”
“Oh,Instagram.” I nod wisely. “My niece told me about that. I could never figure it out. Phones these days have too many buttons!”
Okay, I’m enjoying myself way too much right now. And Jean Shorts Girl doesn’t even look snooty anymore, just deeply pitying of me, the ancient barrel museum worker who doesn’t know what Instagram is.
She flicks her glossy hair over her shoulder and leans forward conspiratorially, like she’s going to share the secrets of the universe. “Right, well, what you need to do is get an influencer to come to your museum and take a bunch of pics there and make them look super artsy. I’d offer to help, but I’m, like, way too swamped right now. Plus my feed is aqua-themed, so, like, barrels wouldn’t fit.”
“Feed?” I ask innocently. “Like animal feed?”
Don’t laugh, Emily. Don’t laugh.
“That means the pictures on Instagram,” she says slowly. She turns her phone toward me and scrolls through her aqua feed. “See how good the colors look?”
“Wow,” I say obediently.
“Anyway, that’s what you have to do. Hire a bunch of influencers and get them to hype up your barrel... thing.”
“Thanks,” I say, injecting just the right amount of profound gratitude into the word. “That’s so helpful.”
She smiles beatifically and puts her earbuds back in. I drum my fingers on the desk again, turning an idea over in my head. Jean Shorts Girl actually was helpful. Not her idea about influencers, I mean, that’s bananas. But I think I might now have an idea on how to make the museum just a tiny bit cooler for kids.
I pick up my phone and open a new text to Trey.
[1:42]: Hey, Trey! Are you working this Saturday?
[1:42]: I’ve got an idea for the museum. Would need your carpentry expertise.?
He doesn’t answer straightaway. I answer a few phone calls, then Jean Shorts Girl approaches the desk and asks for a Post-it note to write her Instagram handle on for me.
“You’ll really love it,” she says. “I do, like, style tips for people and stuff.”
She glances subtly at my outfit again as she says it. How sweet.
I take the Post-it with a grateful smile and make a show of looking it up, muttering, “Instagram... dot... com. Oh shoot, spelled it wrong. Instagram... d-o-t... c-o-m. Ah, there we go.” Then I try not to burst into laughter at the look on her face.
I scroll through her feed for a while, which looks like every other influencer’s feed I’ve ever seen. You might think I’d be the kind of person who would find this kind of stuff appealing, sinceI’m always going on about my dream job, but I don’t actually have any appetite for social media. I don’t care about amassing followers or getting likes. That kind of success has always felt a bit hollow to me. I don’t even care about money, really, beyond the fact that I don’t want to have to stress about it. I don’t want wealth and status, I want happiness and purpose. I want to wake up every morning and be excited to go to work. I want to fall asleep every night thinking,Yes. This is what I was put on this earth to do.
I give Jean Shorts Girl a few compliments on her photos, which she’s obviously waiting for, and by the time her car is ready, she’s entirely warmed to me. John comes out with her keys and is scribbling on her receipt as she says to me, “You should give me your email, ’cause, like, I was thinking of doing a bunch of makeover profiles, and it would be so cute to do them about people from here. I’m staying at my parents’ cottage for a few weeks”—Ha! I knew it!—“and I could, like, go shopping with you and fix your clothes and stuff.”
John gives me a sideways glance, but I’m not going to drop my act just because he’s here.
“That would be so cool,” I gush. “I’ve always wanted a makeover, because—well, you know.” I wave a hand over myself and pull a face.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she says. “You’re, like, really pretty for your age.”
“Aw, thanks.” I hand over her receipt and scribble my email address for her on the bottom. She’ll forget about me the minute she walks out of this shop, so I’m not particularly worried about giving it to her. “Have a great day!”
“You too.” She smiles pityingly at me, gives John an appreciative once-over (I guesshe’snot too old), and then flounces out.
John frowns at me after she’s gone. “What was that about?”
I snort. “I was just playing around. She was sort of rude when she came in, so.”
“So you retaliated by acting really nice to her?”
