I shut off the car—I can drive—I’m seventeen after all. My mother was surprised when I wanted to get my license, but all I think about is escaping. Getting away from it all. Even though I don’t actually drive very much (where would I go? Who would I see?) the fact that I can soothes me a little.
I head across the street to the little museum. There’s rusted machinery outside. An old phone booth. Non-functioning gas pumps. A sign advertising mammoth bones on display catches my eye. Taking a nerve settling breath in the sweltering air, I enter the front door. A little bell ringing as I step through, announcing my arrival, into the refreshing blast of air conditioning.
“Good afternoon,” a small, but firm, voice says to my left. I look over and see a tiny old woman, wrinkled and weathered like she’d been left out in that desert sun.
“Hi.”
“Feel free to look around. The museum is free unless you want to offer a donation. The box is by the guest book.”
I spot the donation box and guest book and turn the other way, heading down the narrow row of glass cases. They’re filled with a variety of objects—most rusted or decayed. Tools, marbles, bones. I hear voices in the back, laughter followed by whispers and scuffling feet.
I take a deep breath and peer around the corner, checking out the four boys standing around the massive case in the middle of the room. There’s a distinct scent of body spray and detergent that fills the small, cramped room. One boy stands by the huge glass case studying the bones. Another, with square glasses, leans against the wall, phone out moving his thumbs fast over the screen. One boy, in a football jersey with the number 16 and the name Hollingsworth across the shoulders. He fills out the jersey, having the muscles to back up wearing it. I’ve read books about boys like him. Handsome. Athletic. They’re always mean and crave popularity and approval.
“Hey, look at this,” he calls out. I glance up out of instinct but a boy with a black T-shirt and tan shorts walks over to see what he’s pointing out. Neither of the other boys look their way.
Black shirt, with his matching black hair and tight, annoyed jaw, doesn’t say much, just nods and continues to slowly around the exhibits. They each have a backpack slung over their shoulders and all seem unaware that I’ve even entered the room. Especially the one walking toward me. I step back, afraid he’s going to bump into me, but only manage to slam into a glass case, jarring it with my back. The case hits the wall, making a loud crashing sound.
Crap.
“What was that? Did you break something?” The old woman at the front shouts.
I open my mouth to speak but no words come out. They’re there. The words, but they refuse to come, and I make awkward eye contact with the boy, well guy, too old to be a boy really, and he’s tall enough for me to have to look up at him as we stare another for a brief moment. His eyes are gray and there’s a sliver hoop in his lip. His jaw worries before he shouts out in a non-emotive voice, “No, ma’am!”
“Be careful back there.”
Two of the other boys look our direction. The football player and the one studying the mammoth bones. The gamer plays his game, unaware that anything is going on.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies again, rolling his eyes in annoyance.
At me or at her?
“Thanks,” I say, quietly. Does my voice sound weird? Does he think I sound weird? Oh god, I’m weird. By the time I’ve run through all my options of weirdness he’d already walked away, shrugging me off by muttering, “No problem,” and continues his pass through the museum.
The boy at the case stares at me for a moment longer, long enough to make my skin start itching, then shifts his attention back to the bones. “Do you think these are real? The plaque says they’re real.”
“And you believe everything you read?” Mr. All-American walks over. I get a better look at his face and tousled blonde hair.
“No, but there’s a plaque and photos of the miner that found them.”
“You don’t think they’re plaster casts? Because I went to the museum in San Francisco and all of theirs were made of plaster casts. They preserve the real ones.”
“Dude, I only know what the plaque says, read it yourself.”
Hollingsworth’s eyes narrow at the boy and he jerks his head toward the front. His blue eyes land on me in the process before quickly darting away. “Go ask that lady up front if you have so many questions.”
I turn, not wanting to engage in anyway, pretending to be focused on the nearest case filled with pottery from an old mining camp. I can see their reflections in the glass and take a minute to study the two arguing about the bones. The one with all the questions is tall and skinny with shaggy light brown hair that curls over his ears and at the back of his neck. Sunglasses hook in his T-shirt collar and there’s an image of a zombie on his chest. He taps his fingers on the case despite the fact there’s a sign that clearly says no touching.
The door chimes and I expect it to be my mother which is enough to make me retreat. A figure steps I the doorway but it’s a woman—slightly older—with long hair woven in a braid down her back. She has on a shirt that says, “Driver Picks the Music, Shotgun Shuts His Cakehole, along with dusty hiking boots, a map in one hand and a water bottle in the other. She smiles when she sees me but quickly shifts her attention to the boys.
“You guys about ready?”
“Yeah,” the tall boy says, moving right next to her, followed my
Mr. All-American. The one with glasses and his eyes glued to his phone shuffles over.
“Charlie? Seriously? You’ve been on your device this whole time?”
“I looked around,” he says with a surprisingly deep voice.