Ms. Riva began the winter semester talking about museums. “What is a museum?”
“A collection,” Josh answered.
“But why collect?” she asked. “And what makes a collection a museum?”
Stevie said, “Museums allow us to see things over time, how history has changed us, like at the shoe museum in Toronto. I went with my cousins. In China, the women of the upper class bound their feet in tiny shoes.” She held her fingers to show the size. “Like a doll’s shoe. They thought it showed elegance even though it crippled them. There were shoes from all over the world that showed what people believed in their cultures at that time in history.”
“Interesting,” Ms. Riva said, smiling and scanning the room. “What other museums have you visited?”
Sonja raised her hand. “The pasta museum in Rome. Hundreds of types of noodles. It made me hungry.”
Ms. Riva laughed. “Anyone else?”
Henry raised his hand. “I went to the canoe museum in Spooner. I got to watch a canoe being made by hand.”
When Ms. Riva called on Jamar, he told us, “My grandfather took me to the African American museum in DC. He booked tickets a year in advance. It showed a way different history of our country.”
“How lucky you were to see it with your grandfather.” Ms. Riva glanced around the room, asking, “So if you could create your own museum, what would it be about?”
As we called out topics, she made a list on the board:
Fashion
Extinction
Hair
Love
Technology
Future
Dogs
Dreams
Desserts
Maps
Airplanes
Snow
Water
When we were out of ideas, she said, “This spring, you’ll be designing your own museum. You will need to research your topic and fill your museum with artifacts or photos or drawings, describing each one and why it’s important. You may use a timeline. Or a cross-cultural perspective. We’ll have deadlines,” she said, passing out a list of due dates for outlines, descriptions, first draft, second draft, presentations. “Then, in May, you’ll pick one part of your museum and you’ll deliver a research paper about it.”
As the bell rang, Sonja elbowed me. “Lunch? Our bench?”
Three hours later, I braced myself for her next wave of cheeriness. Overnight, she’d become this really happy, nice person, and it left me feeling betrayed, like who she was with me had never been her best self. Her best self belonged to my brother. She looked more beautiful too, even though there was nothing different about her. Same hair, same face, but now she glowed. I tried to find the thing that made her glow, but it wasn’t one thing, it was everything.
Something else changed too, something I couldn’t have imagined would ever change. She wasn’t as funny. It was like her love for my brother made her love the world, and that took away all her sharpness. Even worse, I felt like that sharpness had transferred to me; I was carrying it now. I couldn’t believe the mean thoughts that rose in my head as I walked the hallways. Asshole. Prick. Phony. I was no longer nice little Fran, the easy one. I would hear a girl say, “Awesome,” and my mind blew her away: Grow a brain. I watched Sonja check for messages from my brother and I thought with a certain glee, Just wait until he dumps you. I’ll be there for you.
“What are you thinking for your museum?” she asked, taking out her peanut butter and jam sandwich, the only sandwich available at our house.
“I might do dogs.”
“Really? Can you find enough about dogs to fill a museum?”
“Of course,” I said, irritated. “How different breeds evolved over time: work dogs, retrievers, guard dogs, and now, lately, dogs used to sniff bombs and find cancer, dogs used in service to help people with illnesses and disabilities—”
“Okay, okay,” Sonya said. “The International Dog Museum. Huge hit.”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Museum of Love.” She beamed. “I’m going to show how love is expressed around the world. And I’m going to practice all the different ways people show love on your brother.” It took her only two minutes to morph the conversation back to my brother. “God, I love the way his butt looks inside his jeans—”
“Sonja.” I frowned.
“I thought you’d be happy. It raises your chances with Gravy. Double-dates.”
I wanted to change the topic away from my brother, so I pulled out my script. “I’m trying out for the play today. The nymph role.”
“Why would you want to be a nymph?” she asked. “Why not queen of the fairies?”
“Mr. Grady calls them nymphs.”
“Or Titania or Hippolyta. They have bigger roles.”
“Seniors get the leads, Sonja. Everybody knows that. If you pay your dues now,” I explained, “you’ll get the lead in three years. That’s how it works.”
“What about talent?” she asked. “What about matching the character to the role?”
“This is high school, not Broadway.”
Her eyebrows arched as she pulled out her bag of chocolate-covered expresso beans. “Dost thou feel like some caffeine to keep thine self awake this afternoon?”
“Yes, thine self does.”
“Well, then, reach thine gentle fingers into the bag, and tend thine hunger, and remove thyself from this stupidity.” She laughed. “When will you know if you’re a nympho?”
“Thursday.”
Thursday afternoon, Sonja stood beside me as I searched for my name on the list posted outside the auditorium.
Sonja pointed to my name. “Nympho #1!”
“I get to speak three lines.”
“And understudy for the queen too.” Sonja clapped me on the back.
“Sarah McPhereson,” I said.
“She’s the girl with the hair bows, right? Always in the library before school?” Sonja’s eyebrows arched. “We can find someone with the flu and pay them to cough all over her five days before opening.” Her phone binged and she opened a text from her father. She smiled. “His trip is delayed. Not arriving until Friday.” But as she kept reading, her brow furrowed and her voice fell. “I can’t believe it. He’s bringing Baby Whore with him, and he wants me to meet her Saturday night at dinner.” Glancing up, she insisted, “You have to come.”
“Why not Will?”
“If my father knew your brother and I are in a relationship, he might not want me to stay with you. Besides, everyone loves you. You’re the easy one.”
I flinched at her words. Inside nothing felt easy, not friendship, not my family, and not my feelings about myself, either.
“You’ll come?” Sonja pressed. “Saturday night?”
“Sure.”