Queen of Likes (7 page)

After I pull the chicken thighs out of the freezer, I go up to my room and yank my homework assignments, notebooks, and textbooks out of my backpack. My Hebrew homework sits on my desk. Tomorrow after school I go to Maxine, my Hebrew tutor, to help me prepare for my bat mitzvah. I flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. Somehow I'm also supposed to figure out a service project for my bat mitzvah. That means doing some kind of good deed. I have no idea what to do. It's a little overwhelming.

Lucky hangs out with me on the floor with his doggie chew toy. He puts his chin between his paws. He seems bored too.

I stare at the ceiling and realize just how boring ceilings can be.

Unless I took a photo of it and used a really cool filter. Maybe rainbow effects.

Then I hear Mom's car pulling into the driveway. The front door opens and Mom calls out, “Hi, Karma. We're home!”

“Hi,” I yell down. I stare at my books spread out on the floor.

“Did you take out the chicken?”

“Yes.”

“Want to cook with me?”

“No thanks,” I call down.

Mom suddenly bursts into my room. Her eyes look big and excited. “So I figured out what you can do for your community service project for your bat mitzvah. You can volunteer at the historical society.”

“The what? No. That sounds boring.”

“Look. Just give it a try. They keep all kinds of old photos there. I spoke with Neda Grubner about you. She said you could do some filing and sorting. And she said that you could—”

“Mom. I'll figure something out.”

“You've had plenty of time for that. Your bat mitzvah is coming up in a few months. There isn't time. That's why you're going to the historical society after school now.”

“Really? Now?”

“Yes, Karma. Just try.”

Toby tromps up the stairs and pokes his head into my room. “Want to play?”

“No.” My knee bounces up and down like a yo-yo.

“I can't.” Nobody else has to go to a historical society right after school. Everyone else gets to relax. It's so unfair. I was in school all day long. I have a headache.

Toby darts into the hallway. He tosses his soccer ball into the air. “Will you kick with me, Karma?”

“Not now, Toby. I've got to do something. I've got to go somewhere with Mom. For my community service project.”

“You make it sound all important,” says Toby.

“It is,” I say, although I don't really believe it.

My Stats:

309
LIKES
for Auggie's photo of chocolate milk. Really?

1 principal who did not catch me on Ella's phone. Yay!

108 followers of the seventh-grade Snappypic account

1 community service project after school at a history place. Really?

1 BFF who thinks Milton P. the shoe box boy is secretly cute. Which makes me think that maybe, just maybe, if Auggie wasn't Auggie, he could be sort of cute too.

Mood: A little annoyed—Mom is being so controlling with this community service thing!

Mom drops me off at the historical society. It's an old-fashioned–looking Victorian house with a plaque in front saying it's a historic building, as if that wasn't obvious. I trudge up the stairs. How did I agree to this? If I told anyone about it, they'd think it was the most boring thing ever. For Talia's project, she's working with the Humane Society. Everyone loves the photos she posts on Snappypic of the new kittens. Last week she posted these kitties that looked like Oreo cookies. I wanted to eat them up!

And even Milton P.'s project was cool. He built a LEGO replica of the courthouse, and it's on display at the library. He got a lot of high-fives for that. But filing? I'm yawning already. Filing sounds like something you do to your nails, or do to your teeth if you are a bad guy, or that people pay real clerks and secretaries to do.

I ring a bell. The door buzzes and I walk into a small lobby. One wall has a glass display case. Inside of it a banner reads
CELEBRATING HISTORY!
It's full of old-looking household items like irons and a washing board. And then next to the display case there's a slideshow playing on the wall, with old-looking photographs of people and buildings.

I shuffle over to a counter, where a silver-haired guard sits. All this security surprises me. It's not like the historical society is a jewelry store with diamonds and rubies. Once I give the guard my name and explain I'm a volunteer, he nods and waves me through. I step into a huge room with ceilings, but there's nobody there. Not that I was expecting a welcome party. There are three desks and a couple computers. A “Happy Birthday” helium balloon half floats and half sags over a desk chair.

I drift through the room and take an old oak staircase to the second floor. A musty, woody, papery smell tickles my nose.

Upstairs a young woman dressed in a black cable-knit sweater sits behind a large circulation-type desk, like you'd see at a library, only this one is filled with stacks of papers and boxes.

“You must be Karma,” she says with a smile. “I'm Anna Eng, head researcher and archivist for the historical society.”  We shake hands.

Anna wears dark glasses that tip up into little points. They make her look slightly mysterious and cool. She's got on brightly colored stockings that look almost like an abstract photographic image. It's as though she's wearing art.

“So, welcome to the historical society,” Anna says cheerfully. “Today we're down a couple of volunteers because of illnesses.” She motions to a part of the room that is part library and part office, full of books and filing cabinets. A couple of older women sit at tables, reading files. One of them glances up and smiles. The other doesn't seem to notice me at all.

“The executive director will meet with you for your intake,” Anna continues. She nods at a silver-haired woman in the very back reaching for some sort of box.

“Okay,” I say. The intake? Wow. It sounds so official.

The silver-haired woman whirls around. The executive director is, of course, Neda Grubner. Wonderful. Of course, Mom did warn me. Neda puts a box down on a table and clomps toward me in her high heels. She also wears black eyeglasses, but hers are huge ovals. I guess black eyeglasses are a thing around here.

“I'm so glad you decided to meet us today,” says Neda. She purses her trout lips. She doesn't shake my hand. “We don't get too many middle-school student volunteers.” She glances at Anna significantly. “We usually take in master's degree candidates or undergraduates, occasionally mature high school students.” She emphasizes
mature
. And suddenly I'm feeling like a preschooler with ice cream dripping down my chin.

“So you are our very first,” says Anna, holding up her pointer finger. I think that's a compliment, so I smile back at her.

“We'll go back downstairs.” Neda points to the oak stairs.

Together, we go back down the stairs. Neda sits at the desk, the one with the limp balloon.

“What exactly is an intake?” I guess if I were
mature
I would know the answer already.

Neda pulls off her glasses and twirls them. “It's to find out a little about your interests. In terms of history.” She sighs heavily. What if I told her that I didn't have any interests in terms of history? That it was my mom's suggestion?

Putting her owlish glasses back on, Neda starts to ask me about my interests. I tell her about how I like to take pictures. And how a lot of people really like my photos. I tell her I've taken thousands of shots. Her owly eyes get even bigger when I tell her that. I don't tell her that my Snappypic account doesn't exist anymore and that I can't ever look at my photos and the comments and the
LIKES
.

“Photography is one of the most powerful forms of historic documentation,” explores Neda in a lecture-y voice.

“Yeah. You can capture a moment. And share it,” I say.

“Have you ever taken a photography class?”

I shake my head.

Neda puckers her mouth. Her lipstick is very orange-y. “Can I be honest with you, Karma?”

Am I supposed to say no? Whenever someone starts anything with “to be honest” or “not to be insulting,” you know it's going to be bad and insulting.

Neda scoots closer. She clears her throat. “Like Anna said, we've never taken in anyone so young before. The documents and photos that we handle can be very delicate. Many are over a hundred years old and are often one of a kind. We have to be very careful. We have a responsibility as curators for the community. It can be busy around here. We respond to research inquiries of all kinds, so when we take on someone as young as yourself, well, to be frank, it gives me pause. I told your mother I'd meet with you and that we'd see. You can volunteer here, but on a trial basis.”

What? A trial? This makes it sound like I'm a criminal. I stare at the half-inflated balloon. I wonder when it will fall. It doesn't have much life left in it.

“I hope this isn't coming as a surprise to you,” says Neda.

“No,” I lie.

She's twirling her glasses again. “I worry that someone your age won't have the . . . uh, maturity.”

“I'm very mature for my age!” I spurt out. “I'm the tallest girl in my class, almost. And it's not like I'm going to crayon on anything. I can do this,” I say with determination.

Neda lets out a deep breath and studies me. “I see you'd really like to do this.” Well, that's a good start. Her telling me that I couldn't do it makes me want to prove her wrong.

“I can do this for sure,” I say.

“Let's try each other out, then. Your mother tells me that you need about twenty hours of service.” She peers at a calendar on her desk. “That means if you come twice a week for about three weeks, you'd be good. That would put Thursday, March 22 as your stop date.”

“Sounds good,” I say.

Neda pushes her glasses down her nose and peers at me intently. “Would you be interested in helping to write up grants? Oh, forget that question. We're going to skip over to the bottom here.” The bottom would be her list of intake questions, I guess. Maybe I've passed some sort of test. I think, suddenly, I'm feeling almost excited.

“Are you good with computers?”

“Really good.”

“Copy machines? Printers?”

I nod. “Well, yeah, I'm good at fixing the printer when it jams at our house.”

She clicks her long nails on the table. “And do you have a favorite time period?” Neda scoots even closer to me, as if that might jog my brain. “The 1840s? The 1890s? World War I?”

“Um, well. Nothing really in particular,” I say. “It's all interesting.”

“Fine. Noted.” She runs something down on her pad. “Well, from the sounds of things, you're an excellent photographer. And that's an area where we could use a lot of help.”

“Great,” I say, and suddenly my heart is pounding. For some reason, I didn't think a historical society would have a lot of photos, but it makes sense, of course, that it would.

“Listen, I've got a meeting with the fund-raising committee soon.” She glances at her watch. “So I'll expect you back here on Thursday afternoon. Will that work for your schedule?”

“I'm pretty sure. I'll check with my mom. But I think so.”

“Good.” And for the first time, Neda almost smiles.

And I sort of smile back at her.

“We'll look forward to seeing you on Thursday, then,” she says. “You'll get a tour, and we'll put you to work.”

“I'm looking forward to it,” I say, and maybe this time I'm not lying.

My Stats:

0 interest in filing old papers

2 pairs of black glasses observed

1 half-dead birthday balloon observed and un-popped

1 person with orange-y lipstick who I want to prove is wrong about me being immature

1 new volunteer community service job that is on a trial basis