“Grace Achebe.”
“What’s that?” he says, leaning closer to hear her.
?e irritation in her eyes is supreme. “ACH-E-BE,” she spells out.
“Yes, yes,” he mumbles, like he knew it all along. He hands us plastic name tags. ?e sticker printed with my rst name is stuck on crooked. It feels like a bad omen. “All right, ladies. Your supervisor on duty is Carol. She’s tied up with a problem in the café right now. ?e morning shift at ticketing is ending in three minutes, so we need to hurry. Are you ready to get out there and make some magic happen?”
Grace and I both stare at him.
“Terri c,” he says with no feeling, and then urges us out the door and into the employee corridor. “First thing you usually do is go to security”—he points down the hall toward the opposite direction—“to count out a fresh cash drawer, like we showed you in training. But today there’s no time. You’ll just have to trust that the supervisor on duty didn’t steal anything or foul up the drawer count, because it comes out of your paycheck if they did… .”
I freeze in place. Grace speaks rst. “Wait, what’s that?”
“Come on, now,” Mr. Cavadini says, pushing me forward. “Two minutes. Shake a leg. Security will meet you at the ticketing booth to get you set up and answer any questions. If you last a week, we’ll consider assigning you a key to the booth. Otherwise, you’ll have to knock to get inside, because it locks automatically. Good luck and don’t forget to smile.”
And with that, he guides us into the lobby and promptly abandons us.
?e museum was empty during orientation. It’s not now. Hundreds of voices bounce around the rocky cavern walls as patrons shuffle through the massive space, heading into the two wings. ?e café upstairs is packed. People are eating sandwiches on the slate stairs, talking on cell phones beneath the oating pirate ship. So. Many. People.
But the only person I really see is standing against the ticket booths.
Porter Roth. Beautiful body. Head full of wild curls. Cocky smile.
My archnemesis.
His eyes meet mine. ?en his gaze drops to my feet. He’s checking to see if my shoes match. Even though I know they do, I check them again, and then want to take them off and bean them at his big, fat head.
But he doesn’t say a word about it. He only says, “Ladies,” and nods when we approach. Maybe this won’t be as bad as last time. Balancing two covered cash tills in one hand, he raps on the ticketing booth’s rear door four quick times before turning toward us. “Ready for the thrill of hot cash in your hands?”
?e door to the booth swings open. For what seems like forever, Grace and I stand waiting while Porter enters the booth, swapping out the cash drawers, and two wide-eyed new hires spill out of ticketing, wiping away sweat like they’ve just been inside the devil’s own boudoir and seen unspeakable, depraved acts that have scarred them for life.
Now I’m getting really nervous.
Porter’s pissed. He’s saying something obscene into the radio doohickey on his sleeve, and for a second, I wonder if he’s telling off Mr. Cavadini, but then a shock of white hair comes bounding through the lobby and the other security guard—Mr. Pangborn —appears. He looks frazzled. And way too tired to be doing this job. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, completely breathless.
Porter heaves a long sigh and shakes his head, less angry now, more weary. “Just escort them back to cash-out and watch them count their tills until Carol gets down from the café.” He turns back toward us and whistles, tugging a thumb toward the booth. “You two, inside.”
“Balls,” Grace mumbles. “I don’t remember how to run the ticketing program!”
“You’ll do it in your sleep, Gracie,” he assures her. For a second, he almost seems nice, and not the same boy who humiliated me in front of the entire staff. A mirage, I tell myself.
?e booth is small. Really small. ?e booth smells. Really bad. ?ere are two swivel stools, a counter that holds the computer screen, and a shelf beneath, on which the tickets print from ancient printers. ?e rear door is centered behind us, and there’s barely room for a third person—much less Porter—to stand behind us and give directions. In front of us, it’s just Plexiglas covered in smudged ngerprints separating us from a line of people wrapped around stanchions. So many people. ?ey are not happy about the delay.
?e dude standing at my window is mouthing, Four, and he’s holding up four ngers, saying something nasty about me being an idiot female. ?at churro cart is looking better and better.
“Green means on, red means off,” Porter’s voice says near my face, a little too close. An unwanted shiver chases down my arm where his wild hair brushes my shoulder. It smells briny, like ocean water; I wonder if he’s been sur ng today. I wonder why I care. His arm reaches around my body and taps the counter, startling me.
“Right, yes,” I say.
Dumbly, I glance down at the two-way intercom controls, marked OUTSIDE (to hear the customers) and INSIDE (so they can hear me). Green. Red. Got it.
“You’ll pretty much want to keep the outside mic on all the time, but if you want to hang on to your sanity, you’ll only engage the inside microphone on a need-to basis. Finger on the trigger,” he advises.
?ey told us that in training. It’s coming back to me now. Grace is freaking the hell out, so Porter has shifted over to her area. ?e jerk in front of my window is pressing four impatient
ngers against the glass. I can’t hold on any longer. I hit both
green buttons and smile.
