Emlyn. We just sashayed out and learned what we needed to know.”
She felt as if she had undressed in a room whose shades she had thought closed and whose door she thought sealed; and here, two people had been standing there observing her naked.
“What class do you have now?” he asked briskly. “Can you skip it?”
“World Literature. I can’t skip it.” Emlyn never cut. She liked class. She liked the position of her own desk and the feel of her pencils between her fingers. She liked taking notes and seeing her intelligent arrangement of the teacher’s discussion on her own page. She liked when they showed a film and she could sit in the dark and dream. She liked analyzing the personalities of her classmates and the way they talked and fidgeted and learned, or failed to learn.
But seniors were allowed to cut a certain number of classes per semester, no excuse necessary, if they were on honor roll. Emlyn was on high honors.
They had reached her World Lit class. Jack released her from the weight of his arm and walked on toward the stairs. He said without looking back, “Maris is cutting, too, but Donovan and Lovell can’t. We’ll fill you in on what we found out.”
The humiliation was complete.
She could be a good little student and walk into World Lit.
Or she could tag along and find out what the competent people had learned that she had not.
Maris said, “You were so funny, Emlyn.”
Emlyn tried to have no expression.
They were standing in the doorway to the music room. No class or rehearsal was going on. All music students felt free to gather here at any time. If somebody walked in, she and Maris and Jack could reach for their band instruments as if about to practice. But Emlyn wasn’t in band this year. She couldn’t fit it into her schedule, and the band director was angry with her because he was short on clarinets. She felt like an impostor in the band room door.
I was supposed to be the one who could be an impostor anywhere in anything, she thought, and I can’t even do it in the music room.
“You were so cute, Emlyn, all wide-eyed and intent,” said Maris. “Right near you was this four-year-old. He’d never been to the museum before, and he walked around the whole time with his little mouth hanging open and his eyes gaping. You looked just like that.”
Emlyn did not know if she could survive being compared to a funny-looking four-year-old. “So there’s no alarm attached to the mummy?” she said.
“Or anything else in the Egyptian Room,” said Maris. “Those two glass cases that are basically tables? And they have jewelry in them? The signs says DO NOT LEAN ON THE CASE; ALARM WILL SOUND. Well, I leaned pretty hard, and no alarm sounded.”
“The iron grilles are the problem,” said Jack. “I don’t know why I never saw them before. But they’re definitely closed every night, because I asked. So what I can’t figure out is how to get from one room to another. It doesn’t matter how much we want the mummy if we can’t get to it.”
Emlyn felt a tiny bit better. She had written down (wide-eyed and intent as a four-year-old) the location of every grille. In fact, you could go from the freight elevator hall into the Bird Room, and there was no grille between the Bird Room and the Egyptian Room. You could get to the freight elevator hall from the offices in the mansion. Furthermore, from the Great Hall you could climb the huge old stone steps of the mansion, turn left through Mammals, and get to Egypt that way. No grilles. Of course, you couldn’t get into the Great Hall to start with because of grilles—unless you came from MUSEUM OFFICIALS ONLY.
“Who did you ask about the grilles?” said Emlyn.
“The guard. After Maris shoved the mummy around.”
“I didn’t shove it,” said Maris. “I barely even touched it.”
What had it felt like? Was the linen rough or soft? Could you feel the resin, poured on and dried three thousand years ago? Was the mummy completely
She felt as if she had undressed in a room whose shades she had thought closed and whose door she thought sealed; and here, two people had been standing there observing her naked.
“What class do you have now?” he asked briskly. “Can you skip it?”
“World Literature. I can’t skip it.” Emlyn never cut. She liked class. She liked the position of her own desk and the feel of her pencils between her fingers. She liked taking notes and seeing her intelligent arrangement of the teacher’s discussion on her own page. She liked when they showed a film and she could sit in the dark and dream. She liked analyzing the personalities of her classmates and the way they talked and fidgeted and learned, or failed to learn.
But seniors were allowed to cut a certain number of classes per semester, no excuse necessary, if they were on honor roll. Emlyn was on high honors.
They had reached her World Lit class. Jack released her from the weight of his arm and walked on toward the stairs. He said without looking back, “Maris is cutting, too, but Donovan and Lovell can’t. We’ll fill you in on what we found out.”
The humiliation was complete.
She could be a good little student and walk into World Lit.
Or she could tag along and find out what the competent people had learned that she had not.
Maris said, “You were so funny, Emlyn.”
Emlyn tried to have no expression.
They were standing in the doorway to the music room. No class or rehearsal was going on. All music students felt free to gather here at any time. If somebody walked in, she and Maris and Jack could reach for their band instruments as if about to practice. But Emlyn wasn’t in band this year. She couldn’t fit it into her schedule, and the band director was angry with her because he was short on clarinets. She felt like an impostor in the band room door.
I was supposed to be the one who could be an impostor anywhere in anything, she thought, and I can’t even do it in the music room.
“You were so cute, Emlyn, all wide-eyed and intent,” said Maris. “Right near you was this four-year-old. He’d never been to the museum before, and he walked around the whole time with his little mouth hanging open and his eyes gaping. You looked just like that.”
Emlyn did not know if she could survive being compared to a funny-looking four-year-old. “So there’s no alarm attached to the mummy?” she said.
“Or anything else in the Egyptian Room,” said Maris. “Those two glass cases that are basically tables? And they have jewelry in them? The signs says DO NOT LEAN ON THE CASE; ALARM WILL SOUND. Well, I leaned pretty hard, and no alarm sounded.”
“The iron grilles are the problem,” said Jack. “I don’t know why I never saw them before. But they’re definitely closed every night, because I asked. So what I can’t figure out is how to get from one room to another. It doesn’t matter how much we want the mummy if we can’t get to it.”
Emlyn felt a tiny bit better. She had written down (wide-eyed and intent as a four-year-old) the location of every grille. In fact, you could go from the freight elevator hall into the Bird Room, and there was no grille between the Bird Room and the Egyptian Room. You could get to the freight elevator hall from the offices in the mansion. Furthermore, from the Great Hall you could climb the huge old stone steps of the mansion, turn left through Mammals, and get to Egypt that way. No grilles. Of course, you couldn’t get into the Great Hall to start with because of grilles—unless you came from MUSEUM OFFICIALS ONLY.
“Who did you ask about the grilles?” said Emlyn.
“The guard. After Maris shoved the mummy around.”
“I didn’t shove it,” said Maris. “I barely even touched it.”
What had it felt like? Was the linen rough or soft? Could you feel the resin, poured on and dried three thousand years ago? Was the mummy completely
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