Alex, Approximately
Page 45

“You’ll see.” He tucks his wild curls behinds his ears, looking devious and excited, and for a brief moment I panic, wondering if I’m being led into some kind of Carrie situation—any second now, prom will be ruined by a big bucket of pig’s blood being dumped on my head. I start to ask him about this, just to double-check, but he interrupts my horror-movie thoughts.
“No sense sitting around while we wait when there’s so much cool stuff in here. There’s a jumbo squid that Ed ‘Doc’ Ricketts donated and a preserved baleen whale eyeball,” he says with the enthusiasm of someone who just scored two tickets to a red-carpet premier of the next Marvel blockbuster movie.
“Okay, I’m game.” I’m still nervous about this appointment thing, but eager to see the museum at the same time, so I follow him.
Case by case, he guides me through the galleries of butterflies, mollusks, abalone, fossils. There’s a garden out back, and a million taxidermied birds—California condors, ahoy! And when he finally points out the preserved baleen whale eye, I think it might haunt me forever. Especially when, as I’m leaning over to inspect it, Porter gooses my sides. I squeal so loud, a group of small children are startled. He can’t stop laughing. I think we’re in danger of getting kicked out, so I pretend to slug him in the shoulder a few times, and that alarms the children even more.
“It’s always the quiet ones who are the most violent,” he tells one of the wide-eyed toddlers as I drag him away.
“You’re a menace to society,” I whisper.
“And you’ve got terrible taste in boys. It’s time for our appointment.”
I follow him back through the galleries to a small gift shop, where we meet a jolly, brown-haired security guard named Ms. Tish. “You look just like your dad,” she says, shaking his hand heartily. For the love of surfing, does everyone in California know the Roths? And do they all have an opinion on which parent Porter favors the most? It’s ridiculous. Then it hits me that Ms. Tish is a museum security guard . . . and Porter’s a museum security guard. Is there some secret guard network I don’t know about?
Porter introduces me and says, “So, yeah, like I said on the phone, Bailey maybe wants to be future curator in an actual real museum—not a schlocky tourist attraction like the Cavern Palace—so I was hoping maybe you could give us a peek behind the curtain.”
“Not a problem,” she says, nodding toward a door marked STAFF. “Follow me.”
I’m in a daze as she leads us through the back hallways. First she gives us a tour of the archives and storerooms, where a guy and girl are quietly tagging fossil samples at a big table, listening to music. They are nice enough when we’re introduced, but you can tell that they’re relieved we’re heading back out. I don’t blame them one bit; the solidarity I’m feeling is total and complete. Swap out those fossils with old movie stills, and this would be my dream job: peace and quiet, nothing to do but concentrate on what you love. Absolute bliss.
Then we’re on to the museum offices, which look a lot different than the Cave’s. It’s smaller, sure. But people are actually working on stuff that matters back here. Real museum things—not making sales quotas and driving more customers. There are desks and clutter and flurry, and people are discussing exhibits and education programs and outreach.
Ms. Tish stops in front of an office marked with a sign that says EXHIBIT CURATOR. She knocks on the doorjamb and a handsomely dressed woman looks up from her desk.
“Mrs. Watts?” the guard says. “These kids are from Coronado Cove. They work at Cavern Palace. This one here says she wants to steal your job one day, so I thought you might to see what she looks like and prepare yourself.”
I’m momentarily appalled until Mrs. Watts grins and stands behind her desk, gesturing for us to come inside. “A future curator? I’m delighted. Have a seat, why don’t you?”
Everything’s a big blur after that. She’s friendly and asks a lot of questions that I’m not prepared to answer. When she realizes that I’m not really all that into natural history, I think she’s disappointed, but Porter picks up my slack and starts talking about kelp forests and limpets and she’s back on board. Then it gets better because she’s doing all the talking, telling us what she does, and it’s actually really interesting. And she’s super laid-back and cool, and I do want her job—I mean, in a theoretical kind of way.
While she’s talking, I sneak a look at Porter, and I’m overwhelmed. This is not technically a romantic date, but it’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me. All he had to do was take me to the movies. Heck, I would have been content to park at the end of the alley. Who does this kind of thing? No boy I’ve ever known, that’s for sure.
I’m not certain how long we’re in there—a minute or two?—but she gives me her business card, and before we leave she shakes my hand and tells me, “We’d never turn down a good intern. If you’d ever want to put in some time on the weekends, I’m sure something could be arranged. Shoot me an e-mail.”
“Thank you,” I manage to say.
Ms. Tish and Porter make small talk about surfing as we leave the museum, and I think he gives her someone’s phone number to get free tickets to some sort of surfing competition event, I’m not sure. She seems happy. We both thank her and jog down the stairs in tandem, passing Sandy the Whale on our way back to the van.
“Porter.”
“Bailey.” Lazy smile.
“Porter.”
“Bailey.” Lazier smile.
“That was so . . . Ugh. I don’t know what to say.”
“You didn’t think it was stupid?”
I bump his arm with my shoulder as we cross the street. “Shut up.” I’m full-on lost for words now, completely thunderstruck. Could he be any nicer? Doing this today was beyond thoughtful. . . . It’s almost too much.
I exhale hard several times. I’m unable to express how I feel. My words come out fast and crude. “Jesus, Porter. I mean, what the hell?”
He grins. “So I did good?”
It takes me several strides to answer. I swallow hard and finally say, “Today was great—thank you.”
“Don’t make it sound like it’s over—it’s not even two o’clock yet. Strap yourself in, Rydell; we’re headed to stop number two.”
I don’t mean to laugh. I sound like a demented person. I think I’m nervous again. I also feel a little drugged. Porter Roth has that effect on me. “Where to now?” I somehow manage to get out of my mouth.
“If this place was a slice of my childhood, then I’m about to give you a front-row seat to my nightmares.”
Porter’s family has an annual membership to the Monterey Bay Aquarium, and it comes with a guest pass, so he gets us both in for free. This is no Podunk attraction. Porter tells me it draws two million visitors a year, and I believe that. It’s huge and beautiful and more professional than anything in Coronado Cove.
Today the crowds are sporadic, and Porter weaves around them. He’s clearly been here a hundred times, and at first I think it might be a repeat of the museum: He’s going to be giving me a tour, pointing out all manner of marine life. But after we stop to watch a little kid nearly fall headfirst into the stingray pool, things . . . get so much better.