My Night at the Museum

Substitution. Wait, we didn’t go over this class. Or did we? These thoughts flood my brain as I complete my algebra homework. High school is definitely a lot harder than middle school. My cat purrs loudly from across the table as he trudges his way over to me.

“I know, homework sucks!” I coo and scratch behind his ears. He is my loyal companion during the weeknights due to my mom’s demanding job. I get up and prepare his dinner before going back to my algebra homework. After what feels like a million problems, I finish as the sun is setting and close my binder with a triumphant push. I decide to order a pizza from the local pizza shop across the street with the card my mom left on the counter.

Being the only child to a single mother, I’m good at keeping myself company. Over the years, my mom has worked her way up and is now the head associate at a large marketing firm. Her determination and work ethic has always inspired me, but it comes at a cost. She is hardly ever home and I know she always wonders if she is a good enough mother. She decided to adopt me when she was 35 as she was busy advancing her career and didn’t have time for marriage and a pregnancy. However, she really wanted a kid.

We live in a modern three bedroom apartment in the heart of downtown Boston. I love living here. I even go to a private school just a few blocks away. I know that she cares for me and works hard to provide for me. I hope to pay her back somehow.

I absentmindedly flip through the channels on the tv when a soft ping comes from my laptop. The subject line of the email has me scowling as I open it up to read.

Ms. Alex Johnson,

Thank you for emailing your concern to the Boston Museum of History and Culture. Unfortunately, we are not able to fulfill your request. Your great grandma’s dress is part of our early 1900s couture collection and is owned by this museum. We understand that you were related to Elizabeth Johnson. However, we are unable to give you the dress solely due to that relation. We apologize for any inconvenience and are here for any follow up questions.

Best Regards,

Boston Museum of History and Culture Customer Service Team

I let out an annoyed groan. Unfortunately, this battle is becoming a lost cause. I have emailed the museum several times, and their response has been a resounding “no” every time. I don’t understand why I can’t get the dress back. It was my great grandma’s. Why wouldn’t she keep it in the family?

My great grandmother was a rich socialite back in the early 1900s and also lived in Boston. My mom and I are some of her last living relatives. This dress belongs to us. My mom has told me to let it go. I know she would love to have the dress, but she simply doesn’t have the time to argue for it.

A thought jumps into my mind, and I almost hit myself for thinking it. I could steal it back. I could sneak into the museum tonight. It was only 6:00 and my mom wouldn't be home until 9:30. Even if she did come home earlier than that, she would just assume I was sleeping anyways. My mom’s soft voice echoes in my head: “You’re too adventurous for your own good Alexandra.” However, I also imagine her boisterous smile when I come back with the dress. I know I’m being impulsive, but this is a good idea. At least, I think it is.

The pizza arrives and I down a few slices quickly before changing into all black. I grab my phone and keys before locking the door after me. I even make sure to put extra pillows in my bed in case my mom decides to look in my room when she gets home.

I waltz down the hallway trying not to look too suspicious before hopping onto the elevator. My first order of business is making sure no one sees me walking out.

“Wait for me!” an older man yells down the hallway. I recognize my neighbor as he walks in. His glasses magnify his blue eyes as he glances at me and the stench of cigarettes fills the elevator.

“What you up to, missy?” he says in a gravelly voice.

“Oh, I’m just going to the library,” I reply nonchalantly. He eyes me skeptically before replying.

“All right, have a good one,” he responds as we make our way off the elevator and into the lobby.

“That was close,” I mutter as I make a beeline for the lobby doors. The chilly November air hits my skin as I begin the four block journey. The walk is quick and no one notices me. The museum fits snugly between all the tall office buildings downtown. It’s a Wednesday evening which means the museum closed at 6:00. This doesn’t account for maintenance and locking up, which means it would be fully closed at around 7:30. I still have a good half hour to wait just to make sure everyone has left.

I observe the museum. The staircase leading up to the large front doors were made of classic white marble. The once copper handrail had seen some damage due to weathering and was now starting to turn green. I glanced around at the darkening sky. The sound of cars cruising down the street, even at night, brought life to the city at all times of the day.

I decide to wait until 8:00 just to be cautious. I knew that the front entrance would be locked with maximum security, however, I knew the employee entrance could be accessed with just a code. If I could just figure out the code, I could sneak in through that way.

I stroll around to the back entrance, looking around to make sure no one is there. The back entrance is hidden around an abundance of bushes. I only know it is here because of the countless school field trips we took to this museum when I was younger. We would sometimes use the employee entrance so we wouldn’t have to wait in line.

I creep towards the door and stare down at the keypad above the handle. The last field trip I took here was back in middle school, and my teacher was having trouble remembering the combination they told her. I knew that it started with a 5, but that’s where I drew a blank. I remember that she was fiddling with her phone and mumbling something about a phone number. Maybe the code is similar to the museum phone number?

I pull up Safari on my phone and search it up.

“617-250-2899,” I read as I try punching in 5617. The numbers on the keypad blink red, signifying that the code is incorrect. I try yanking at the cold metal handle but the door doesn’t budge. I decide to try the code 5250, but that doesn’t work either. Let’s see, what would I do if I wanted a secure code? I decide to try typing in the whole phone number after 5. After a couple seconds, the keypad flashes green and I hear the sound of the door unlocking.

Satisfaction courses through my body as I slowly turn the knob and inch my way inside. From my experience, there are 5 security guards that run the night shift. Three of them are middle-aged men who probably couldn’t catch a scrawny teenager if they tried. The other one is a younger gentleman who basically only slept, as this was his side job. The last guard, and my favorite, is Billy. He’s a divorced middle aged man who works here during the day but will occasionally take up the night shift when he doesn’t have his kids. He’s a family friend, and we chat from time to time when I visit.

Soft light comes from a singular light bulb in the middle of the long hallway. I press against the wall next to the security room and notice that the door is pushed open about a foot. The whirring of the computer is accompanied by slow paced breathing. Ever so slightly, I glimpse into the security room. I see Billy sleeping soundly, schumpled back in a chair with the newspaper in his hands.

I continue down the hallway at a slow pace and start to devise a plan. The fashion exhibits on the main floor are past the Boston history exhibit. If I manage to sneak through the history exhibit without getting caught by the security cameras, I can reach the fashion exhibit. I will need a key to get into the dress case. Suddenly, a flashback floods my mind of our field trip tour guide fiddling with a key set.

“Gosh darn, this is the wrong one. Let me get the other set.” He then went into a small room a few rooms away from the security room. I pedal backwards and reach a room with a small black door. Painted on the door in bold red letters, it says “Authorized Personnel Only.” I fidget with the door handle but it doesn’t budge. Out of all other options, I look toward the door of the security room. I know that Billy would have a key to this room.

I tiptoe back and waddle sideways through the door. Billy’s mouth is open and soft snores escape from it. Where would his keys be? I scan the room and find a ring with what must be 20 keys attached to it on the table across from the screens. I cautiously pick it up and some of the keys clank together. I freeze as only my eyes dare to move towards Billy who's still out like a light. Feeling relieved, I make my way back down the hallway.

I go through 10 keys before finding the winner that lets me turn the handle. When the light blinks on, I gasp. Hundreds of keys hang on hooks attached to the wall, each with a label above it to tell what the key unlocks. I locate the key labeled “early 1900s dresses - fashion exhibit” and latch on to it. Not wanting to waste time, I close the door and quickly walk to the history exhibit.

I must admit, it looks strange in the dark. The statutes of famous Bostonians look distorted in the night, almost like they could come and catch me. The security camera blinks red in the distance. I brace myself against the doorway and leap towards the large model of downtown Boston in the middle of the room. I crouch down behind it and crawl towards the statues. I hide behind each of the various figures, contorting myself to their different poses so the camera won’t catch me. Finally, I make my way to the other entrance that leads to the fashion exhibit.

Soft lights cast a glow around each one of the gorgeous outfits. However, I don’t have time to acknowledge them. I zero in on the dark dress across the room; it’s a dress that I have visited a 100 times. Even in the soft lighting, the bodice sparkles. The long sleeves are fanned out, showcasing the lace detailing on the bottom half of the sleeves. I stomp over to the dress like a girl on a mission.

“Not so fast Alexandra,” says a voice from behind. I whip my head around to see Billy only a few feet away from me. His tall frame hovers over me and I just stand there, blinking lifelessly. I’m gonna go to jail, and then my mom is gonna kill me, and she’s gonna lose her job, and my cat will die alone and…

“Relax, Alex. You’re not in trouble.”

“I’m not,” I stutter, dropping the key with a hard clunk.

“No. I know you and your history with this museum. I know this dress belonged to your great grandma,” he says as he gestures toward the dress. “Listen, you wanna know my favorite part about working at this museum?” he questions and I raise my eyebrows in response. I have no idea where he is going with this.

“I love seeing kids faces when they find something fascinating. I love when adults stare in awe at the different exhibits. I love how history and learning brings people together.”

“Wow,” I remark. “I guess I’ve never thought about history in that way.”

“I know you want to steal this dress, but you should think about it. Think about why it’s here.”

I ponder this thought for a moment. I imagine all the people being amazed by this beautiful dress just like I am. I remember my teacher saying she thought it was an exquisite piece. That’s why my great grandma gave the dress to the museum: she wanted others to enjoy it.

“You know what Billy, you’re right. This dress belongs here, not in my apartment.” I look back at the dress and smile.

“So? About this situation..? I question.

“I’ll let you off the hook as long as you promise not to break in again.”

“Deal!” He walks me out, and I thank him profusely for letting me off the hook and also teaching me a valuable lesson.

When I get back to the apartment, it’s about 9:30 and I am utterly exhausted. I reheat the leftover pizza from earlier and pour my mom a glass of wine. I leave that on the kitchen table with a note that says “I love you.”

That night when I go to bed, my thoughts are filled with museums and dresses, and I know that one day I want to work at a museum and continue my great grandma’s legacy.