king’s tomb into which her mind had fallen. This had happened before. A little time slip, so intense, so detailed, with scent and dust and heat. She knew it was just the strength of her own daydreams, but she felt close to Amaral-Re for those seconds.
Emlyn stared up at indigo-blue sky. Tutankhamen had chosen that very deep blue for the color in his tomb, a blue so vivid it felt as if it could last forever and yet couldn’t exist at all.
And I, thought Emlyn, what do I want? I want to do this . I know it’s wrong I should be disgusted with all of us. But I’m not.
I want to do this.
A theft is when you keep what doesn’t belong to you.
So this is not a theft.
We will not keep the mummy.
She will not be damaged.
She’ll just have publicity and a lot of admiring stares, and she’s used to that.
A wisp of cloud shivered above her, a fragment of purity and white on that blue plate of sky. Very softly, she said to her team, “Here’s how we’ll do it.”
Eight
W ITHOUT LETTING THEM UNFOLD from their package positions, Emlyn took two very large black plastic trash bags, the heavy kind for yard cleanup. She taped these around her left forearm with masking tape, which would be easy to remove. Then she put on a long-sleeved white cotton oxford shirt and wrapped several feet of masking tape around the right sleeve. Next she put on a charcoal-gray wool pullover sweater.
The plastic crinkled when she moved but didn’t slow her down much. It was a lot easier than the cast had been.
She wore black twill pants, slightly baggy and very comfortable. In one pocket was her master key; in the other, a small but powerful flashlight in which she had just invested. Over this she wore a gray wool blazer of her mother’s. In an inside pocket of the blazer was her very small cell phone.
She was not sure why she had decided to bring it. If she expected to have to call a lawyer, she should call off the idea instead. But a phone comforted Emlyn. She did not intend to use the basement of the museum. But if something happened and she had to hide in the dark—well, the dark was better when you could summon a voice.
She put her Friends’ card into an outside blazer pocket along with a few dollars and some change. She tucked a pair of disposable plastic gloves in the other pocket and a pair of thin black knit gloves on top of them. She checked herself in the mirror for bulges. She looked ordinary.
It was Sunday afternoon. Monday was a teachers’ workday, so there was no school. Her parents were going out for dinner with two other couples. Afterward, they had concert tickets. They would not be in till very late. Her brothers were staying overnight with friends. Emlyn herself was supposedly staying overnight with Lovell.
She had had trouble looking at her parents all weekend. She felt in need of a veil, a covering. She knew they were not scrutinizing her. They felt comfy around her; she was their good girl. If her eyes were down on her plate, it was because she was hungry, not because she was keeping secrets.
Her brothers were unable to keep secrets. They shouted out instantly when they did anything, whether it was good, bad, or meaningless.
Emlyn had lost track. Good, bad, and meaningless had come together in this senior prank, sloshed together like a painting she could not understand. She was a high-speed train, racing toward a new and shiny station—or a wreck.
Sunday afternoon passed slowly. It was like waiting to be put into a game. You sat on the bench feeling sick and scared, needing action but fearing failure. The minute you were in, the sick feeling went away. You were fighting; it was good.
Jack picked her up down the block from her apartment building.
He had borrowed his parents’ van. It was huge and must be a real pain in city parking. But inside—what a great vehicle. Swivel seats, a bar, a little TV-VCR. Its windows were dark glass, so nobody could see in. Someone had brought a cooler full of soft drinks,
Emlyn stared up at indigo-blue sky. Tutankhamen had chosen that very deep blue for the color in his tomb, a blue so vivid it felt as if it could last forever and yet couldn’t exist at all.
And I, thought Emlyn, what do I want? I want to do this . I know it’s wrong I should be disgusted with all of us. But I’m not.
I want to do this.
A theft is when you keep what doesn’t belong to you.
So this is not a theft.
We will not keep the mummy.
She will not be damaged.
She’ll just have publicity and a lot of admiring stares, and she’s used to that.
A wisp of cloud shivered above her, a fragment of purity and white on that blue plate of sky. Very softly, she said to her team, “Here’s how we’ll do it.”
Eight
W ITHOUT LETTING THEM UNFOLD from their package positions, Emlyn took two very large black plastic trash bags, the heavy kind for yard cleanup. She taped these around her left forearm with masking tape, which would be easy to remove. Then she put on a long-sleeved white cotton oxford shirt and wrapped several feet of masking tape around the right sleeve. Next she put on a charcoal-gray wool pullover sweater.
The plastic crinkled when she moved but didn’t slow her down much. It was a lot easier than the cast had been.
She wore black twill pants, slightly baggy and very comfortable. In one pocket was her master key; in the other, a small but powerful flashlight in which she had just invested. Over this she wore a gray wool blazer of her mother’s. In an inside pocket of the blazer was her very small cell phone.
She was not sure why she had decided to bring it. If she expected to have to call a lawyer, she should call off the idea instead. But a phone comforted Emlyn. She did not intend to use the basement of the museum. But if something happened and she had to hide in the dark—well, the dark was better when you could summon a voice.
She put her Friends’ card into an outside blazer pocket along with a few dollars and some change. She tucked a pair of disposable plastic gloves in the other pocket and a pair of thin black knit gloves on top of them. She checked herself in the mirror for bulges. She looked ordinary.
It was Sunday afternoon. Monday was a teachers’ workday, so there was no school. Her parents were going out for dinner with two other couples. Afterward, they had concert tickets. They would not be in till very late. Her brothers were staying overnight with friends. Emlyn herself was supposedly staying overnight with Lovell.
She had had trouble looking at her parents all weekend. She felt in need of a veil, a covering. She knew they were not scrutinizing her. They felt comfy around her; she was their good girl. If her eyes were down on her plate, it was because she was hungry, not because she was keeping secrets.
Her brothers were unable to keep secrets. They shouted out instantly when they did anything, whether it was good, bad, or meaningless.
Emlyn had lost track. Good, bad, and meaningless had come together in this senior prank, sloshed together like a painting she could not understand. She was a high-speed train, racing toward a new and shiny station—or a wreck.
Sunday afternoon passed slowly. It was like waiting to be put into a game. You sat on the bench feeling sick and scared, needing action but fearing failure. The minute you were in, the sick feeling went away. You were fighting; it was good.
Jack picked her up down the block from her apartment building.
He had borrowed his parents’ van. It was huge and must be a real pain in city parking. But inside—what a great vehicle. Swivel seats, a bar, a little TV-VCR. Its windows were dark glass, so nobody could see in. Someone had brought a cooler full of soft drinks,
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