HERE IS A VERY important question that has been on my mind a lot lately: why do I have so much junk in my bag?
I don’t even understand where this junk comes from. It’s like, okay, books, notebooks, pens—yes, that seems normal. But a mini watercolor set, a tiny amigurumi that I carry around for luck, three old movie tickets, about fifty receipts for random smoothies, a brush, three combs, five ponytail holders, a headband, my mom’s sunglasses, my sunglasses, sunscreen, three lip balms, an ancient fossilized granola bar, a postcard I meant to send Zelda when my family was in Cozumel—I can find everything except my wallet. Which is black. And has clearly passed into some sort of space-time portal for wallets. Or maybe it has been stolen. How would I know?
Plus, the woman behind the counter is frowning at me and my head starts to throb because I think maybe she can tell that I am skipping school because I am still wearing my uniform after all, but I decide that if she asks I will tell her that I am doing an independent study project and I am fully and completely supposed to be here.
Uggggh. Now I’m next in line. I turn to the kid behind me and say, “I can’t find my wallet.”
“Well, I didn’t take it.” He’s kinda huffy.
“No, no—I just . . . I didn’t mean that.” I really didn’t mean it. But now I’m maybe suspicious. He is about my age—maybe a little older—and what is he doing here? Maybe he is skipping school, too, and is a hooligan. But then I realize that probably hooligans do not go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Or do they? Because, like I always say, you can’t judge a book just by the shelf it’s on.
He is giving me this look like I’m something dusty and sticky, like a raisin stuck to the bottom of a backpack, and it makes me nervous.
“I just can’t find it,” I say. “It should be in here.” Then I giggle, but the kid doesn’t smile. Like, at all.
“Why are you telling me?” he asks. He isn’t tall—I can tell that I’m at least two inches taller than he is—but something about him makes him seem . . . like a tall person. And he has these really, really dark eyes that don’t quite meet mine and are just a little bit scary. Not psycho scary. Just, like, in the way principals are scary, or rock stars, or, like, Santa when you’re a little kid.
“I just mentioned it because you’re, like, behind me in line?”
“And I had motive and opportunity?”
“Um, what? Is this, like, an episode of Law & Order?”
“More like disorder,” he says, eyeing my bag.
“Just—the point is—just go ahead.” I wave toward the counter, like, go, go, shoo, then I dip my hand into the bag.
He hesitates, and just in that moment, my fingers wrap around a familiar shape. “Yay!” I say, pulling out the wallet and holding it up.
“You found it,” he says. His voice is flat.
I’m happy and relieved and then I feel badly all of a sudden because I realize that this kid was innocent all along and even though I never actually suspected him, not really, I feel bad for the nanoseconds in which I did, totally, suspect him.
I decide to try to salvage this awkward moment.
“So listen,” I say to the guy. “My family has a membership. It’s a plus one. I can get you in free.”
“Because I look like someone who can’t afford to get into the museum?” he demands, and I’m like, whaaaaa? I am literally speechless, and then he says, “The museum is free, anyway. It’s pay-whatever-you-want.”
I roll my eyes. Yeah, it’s pay-whatever-you-want, but they have these signs all over the place with their “suggested donations” in big letters, that are basically designed to make you feel like a jerk if you don’t pay them. So I was either going to save this guy some cash or save him some embarrassment, but clearly he doesn’t care, either way. “Okay, whatever. Forget it.”
“I’ll try.”
And I slap the membership card down on the counter and the woman gives me a little sticker and I tell her, “I am doing an independent study project,” and walk off without looking behind me.
I head straight for the Temple of Dendur because there is something about ancient Egypt that really feels special to me. I think I must have been an Egyptian queen or princess or something in a past life, even though I do not believe in reincarnation. Because of math. I mean, there are seven billion people on the planet, and there used to be way less, so if reincarnation were real wouldn’t the population be more or less, like, even?
The Temple of Dendur, if you haven’t been there, is a really beautiful place. It is on the side of the museum, and one wall is nothing but windows looking out onto Central Park. The buildings are sand-colored, and there is a line of enormous and serious-looking lion goddesses who watch everything very calmly. Light comes pouring in, even on a cloudy day, and you can sort of feel the sun and think about Egypt under a wide, wide sky. And sometimes you can see kids playing or families walking past the windows, enjoying themselves in the park. Grandma Hildy used to bring me here all the time when I was younger, whenever I would have an overnight at her apartment. So when we moved to the Upper East Side I asked Daddy if we could get a family membership to the museum, and of course he said yes because he likes things that are educational and classy, which the Met definitely is.
So, actually, I come to the Temple of Dendur pretty often. It’s usually very quiet, and I like that you can go into the temple and see all of the graffiti that ancient Romans carved on it, which just goes to show that people never change. I took a very nice selfie in there, once.
I’m feeling kind of happy and reckless because I’ve never skipped school before and I’m getting away with it. I have a sudden urge to tell the small knot of German tourists near me that I am skipping school, and yay for me, but I am afraid that they might actually speak English, and then what would happen? I don’t want to get arrested. So I decide to just enjoy my secret and the Temple. I kind of wish I had someone to share this with, but that just makes me think of Anna, so I close my eyes and Keep It Happy! for all I’m worth.
After I’ve soaked up some of the peacefulness of that place, I head back into the main Egyptian collection, which I also like. Egyptians had excellent taste in jewelry and gold things, which I also have, and which is kind of incredible considering how hard it was to make things back then. Like, they had to do smelting, which is a word that I know but do not really understand, now that I think about it.
I even like the mummies and the sarcophagi and the canopic jars, which are actually jars that they put dead people’s organs in, true fact. The Egyptians thought a lot about death, and spent a lot of time getting ready for it, which I do not like thinking about but still find interesting. They did not believe in reincarnation. They believed in building giant pyramids and burying all of your stuff along with you. Which is a philosophy that I think Althea Orris could get behind.
Anyway, I am standing near my favorite sarcophagus when I hear someone muttering to himself. It’s that kid. The guy from the line, the grouchy one. He’s holding up his phone and whispering into it while staring intently at a small blue icon. I know the little statue—I actually happen to love it—and I happen to know that it is called Winged Nut, which makes me giggle because you can’t help giggling when something is titled Winged Nut, even if you know that Nut is the Egyptian goddess of the sky.
He stops and looks over at me, only sort of above my head and over my shoulder. I am just about to say Winged Nut, and giggle more, but I feel like he is deliberately ignoring me, so I turn away and head out.
I’m going to the other end of the museum. Another floor. Grouchy Boy can have the Egyptians for a while. I’ll come back later, when hopefully he’ll be done with them.