Page 16 of Handle with Care
By the time I’m upstairs again, Will’s back to reading the textbook. He doesn’t look up when I come in. He’s studious, I’ll have to give him that. A glance over tells me he’s still reading in order, somewhere in the early chapters. It looks like he’s actually going to read it cover to cover at this rate, which will probably take an eternity.
Since I don’t want to break the silence, I quietly get back to work. There are exhibits to collect all over the place. Not only in London, but well beyond the M25. I smother a sigh and get to work familiarizing myself with each object on the list and the tiny thumbnail photo for each piece. There’s a lot of scrolling through the spreadsheet. I confirm the status of each item and how far along in the tracking process it is, with loans agreed for the museums, but loans for some of the contemporary items haven’t even been started. Nightmare. It’s a jumble of lists for the rest of the afternoon.
When I look up, bleary-eyed, Will’s still poring over the doorstopper of the museums book that’s laid out before him. He rests his elbows against the table, his dark head in his hands as he reads, his thumbs massaging his temples.
“Have you cracked it all, then?” I can’t help but ask. “Got everything down?”
His head snaps up. Will frowns at me, a furrow between his brows. And the frown dimples are back. Sweet victory. It’s such a temptation to push further to see what happens next with the dimples, but I hold back.
“I’m familiarizing myself with the topic,” he says archly.
Back to formal and distant. I suppose I deserved that.
I relent a little, offer a half smile. “I mean, I’ve had four years studying this. You’ve done a lot for a single day. Besides, I can’t imagine you want to end up in Curatorial one day?—”
Something flashes in his eyes then. “Why wouldn’t I want that? I’m here on this internship too, aren’t I?”
“You are, but?—”
“But what? You think I don’t deserve to be here,” he says flatly, more of a statement than a question.
I make a sound that’s a lot more like a squawk than anything coherent. “Now, wait. Those are your words, not mine.”
“Yeah, maybe, but I can see it on your face, Dylan. You simply didn’t have the balls to say it to me straight.” Will stares me down. He straightens and lifts his head, palms flat on the table on either side of the book. He’s flushed and pale at the same time, his hair rumpled.
Caught out and flustered, I squirm. “Well, I kind of do wonder why you’re here,” I confess in a sheepish voice. “I mean, like you said, you have an economics degree.”
His frown deepens. “You think you’re the only one who wants museum experience? And that having an economics degree precludes me from that?”
“Well, no, I guess not, though I’m no expert on—uh—precluding stuff, but?—”
“But…”
“But—well—I actually have a degree in museums, and you, er, don’t.” I give an apologetic shrug, my hands wide. Why the hell am I feeling embarrassed for being qualified for the job?
“If you looked at the posting more carefully, you would have read that previous museum experience wasn’t required for the internship.” There’s pure ice now in his eyes, a hard silver that cuts, and his mouth is tight. He leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest. His white shirt pulls slightly over his biceps. Athletic build, I guess. He probably goes to some fancy gym to go along with the fancy car. I bet it’s a premium home gym too.
I work my jaw. “So, you think actually having studied the subject and volunteered back at my university museum for years doesn’t count for something?”
“God, you’re difficult. I’m not saying that at all. You’re putting words in my mouth. Which, frankly, I do not appreciate. I’m telling you that according to the posting, the internship was open to all interested candidates, and I applied. Because I was interested. Clearly, they thought I was suitable. I’m not responsible for the hiring decisions. Take that up with the administration if you dare.” And I get the coldest, iciest look yet from Will. I actually shiver, even though my face burns.
“And here I thought it was good old-fashioned nepotism. Or at least cronyism. One of the isms for sure,” I insist, staring at him. I grip the edge of the table. “That’s not my area.”
He blushes a brilliant pink, looks away, then back at me. “It’s not nepotism.”
“Which is it, then? You’re not the director’s son?”
“No! Hardly.” Will looks offended, then embarrassed, before he looks away, slump-shouldered. “The director’s a longtime family friend.”
I groan in despair, throwing my hands up. “Of course he fucking is. Have you even heard of privilege, Will? For crying out loud.”
“I legitimately applied!” He’s back to anger now, and his arms are folded tighter than before. The shirt is tight across his biceps, and it’s distracting. As are the frown dimples, which are now displayed in full force. “There’s a hiring committee that reviews applications. It’s not up to the director, the hiring of interns. He’s got more important things to worry about.”
“You’re kind of missing the point.” It was my turn to flick up my eyebrows at him. “And why on earth would you want a museum internship, anyway? I mean, what did you say that was so convincing that they had to choose you over, I’m sure, a pile of qualified candidates with the right degree and some experience? Shouldn’t you be off… economizing somewhere?”
Will’s jaw clenches hard. He closes his eyes for a moment. I swear I can see him counting to ten but making it to about five. “I’m here because I want museum experience to find a job in museums. Like you. And, for the record, I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
“This is so ridiculous.” I stop short, but then my mouth takes off. “I mean, do you even need a job? Can’t some family friends pull some more strings?” I hear myself ask and wince a little.
