“Probably Manhattan,” he nally says, looking me over. “Just going by the way you’re dressed, like you’re headed to a Mad Men cocktail party. If you’re going to stand there and make me guess, that’s my guess.”
Was that a slight? How was I supposed to know that the orientation dress code was going to be shorts and ip- ops? No one told me! “Um, no. Washington, DC. And I guess you’re supposed to be part of some local famous family or something?”
“My granddad. Got a statue in town and everything,” he says. “It’s tough being legendary.”
“I’ll bet,” I mumble, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.
He squints at me and sort of chuckles, as if he’s not sure how to take that remark. We glare at each other for several long seconds, and suddenly I’m extremely uncomfortable. I’m also regretting I said anything to him. None of this is me. At all. I don’t argue with strangers. Why is this guy getting under my skin and making me say this stuff? It’s like he’s provoking me on purpose. Maybe he does this with everyone. Well, not me, buddy. Find someone else to pick on. I will evade the crap out of you.
He starts to ask me something else, but Grace interrupts— thank God. “So, which job here is the best?” she asks Porter. “And how do I get it?”
Snorting, he crosses his arms over his chest, and his jagged scars shine in the fake camp re light. Maybe Grace will tell me where Porter got the scars; I’m de nitely not asking him.
“?e best job is mine, and you can’t have it. ?e next best is café, because you’re above the main oor. ?e worst is ticketing. Believe me, you do not want that shit.”
“Why?” I ask, self-preservation trumping my desire to avoid interaction with him. Because if there’s a position here I need to avoid, I want to know about it.
Porter icks a glance at me and then watches the males in our group emerge from the big teepee, one by one, laughing at some joke we missed. “Pangborn says every summer they hire more seasonals than they can afford, because they know at least ve of them will quit the rst two weeks, and those are always the ones running the ticket booth.”
“Seems like information desk would be worse,” Grace says.
“It’s not, believe me. I’ve worked them all. Even now, I spend half my day at ticketing, xing problems that have nothing to do with security. It sucks, big-time. Hey, don’t touch that,” he calls out over my shoulder toward a guy who’s sticking his nger in a buffalo’s nose. Porter shakes his head and grumbles under his breath, “?at one won’t last a week.”
Everyone is done exploring this room, so Porter leads us out of the Wild West and through the rest of the wing, taking a path that snakes back around to the lobby—which is empty, because we’ve beaten Pangborn’s group. While we wait for them, Porter corrals us all next to a panel in the wall near the lost and found and ips it open. Inside is a small cubby where a black phone hangs.
“I know what you’re all thinking,” he says. “?is might look like an antique, but it isn’t a museum display—shocker! See, a long time ago, people used telephones with cords. And even though you might nd a few rare examples of technological advances in this museum, like the 1990s security cameras, or the junked printers in the ticket booth, the museum phone system is not one of them.”
He picks up the receiver and points to three buttons on the side. “You can make outgoing calls on these, but unless it’s an emergency, you’ll probably get red. ?e only reason you should ever use this ne antique is for intercomming. ?is green button, marked ‘SECURITY,’ will allow you to call me if there is some emergency you can’t handle alone. Like this—” He presses the button, and a little radio on his sleeve beeps. “See? It’s magic. O-o-o.”
?en he points to the red button. “?is one marked ‘ALL’ pages the entiiiire museuuuum,” he says like he’s yodeling across a canyon. “?e only reason you’d do that is if you work in information and are telling everyone the museum is closing or on
re. Don’t use it.”
“What does the yellow button do?” I ask. I mean, I guess it’s stupid to think I can avoid talking to the guy about work stuff, right? He has information I need. Maybe if I act professional, he’ll do the same.
He points at me. “Good question, Baileys Irish Cream. ?e yellow button is a lobby-only intercom—see? L-O-B-B-Y. And it’s mainly used by the information desk to page lazy dum-dums who’ve lost their kids or wives.” He hits the button and an unpleasant sound crackles from unseen speakers. He holds out the receiver to me. “Go on, say something, superstar.”
I shake my head. Not happening. I don’t like the spotlight. Now I’m regretting that I asked about the yellow button.
He tries to coax me into taking it with that laid-back voice of his, but his eyes are 100 percent challenge, like this is some sort of contest, and he’s trying to see who’ll break rst. “Come on. Don’t get shy on me now, glamour girl.”
Again with the catty nicknames? What is his problem? Well, he can forget it. Now it’s a matter of principle. I cross my arms over my chest. “No.”
“It’s just a little-bitty intercom,” he says, wiggling the receiver in front of me.
I shove his hand away. Okay, maybe I kind of slap it away. But I’ve just about had it with him. I’m genuinely irritated.
And I’m not the only one. ?e easy-breezy manner leeches out of his face, and I can tell he’s kind of pissed at me now too. I don’t really care. He’s not my boss, and I’m not doing it.
His jaw exes to one side for a moment. ?en he leans closer and says in a calm, condescending voice, “You sure you’re cut out for this? Because speaking on the intercom is part of your job description.”
“I …” I can’t nish my thought. I’m angry and embarrassed, and I’m freezing up all over again like I did when he asked me where I was from. Part of me wants to cut and run, and another part of me wants to slug Porter in the stomach. But all I can do is stand there like a dying sh with my lips opping open and closed.
It takes him all of ve seconds to lose patience with me. I see the moment his eyes ick to the waiting crowd behind us—the moment he realizes he’s supposed to be talking to them, not me —and something close to embarrassment crosses his face. Or maybe I imagined it, because it’s gone a heartbeat later.
He holds the phone up to his mouth. “Testing,” he says, and it echoes around the cavernous lobby. “My name is Bailey, and I’m from DC, where apparently mismatched shoes are the latest trend.”
A few people chuckle as I glance down at my feet. And to my horror, he’s right. I’m wearing the same style ats: one black, one navy. I have three pairs in three different colors, and because they’re small and comfortable, I packed a pair in my carry-on. I was in such a frenzy to iron my dress this morning, I threw them on without looking before I walked out the door. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
