Wrapped in Color and Light

Chapter 3

Joel Cooper fiddled with The Met employee badge clipped on his pants pocket. The small piece of plastic was a symbol of respect, of responsibility, a reminder that the great people of the museum trusted him. Joel felt like an imposter with it on. Standing alone in the vast exhibit hall, he imagined the visitors staring at him, wondering why a guy like him was wearing a badge like that.

Being inside the museum—as large as it was—suffocated him, reminding him of the years after his mom's death when he'd been dragged around the country by his dad, the famous curator, David Cooper. Consequently, museums had lost their appeal once they became Joel's life. 

He wished he hadn't committed to the internship, instead leaving himself the freedom to roam, play music, and record the songs that rang in his head. The quiet shadows of Central Park and the comfort of the village beckoned him. Even in a city like New York, intimate moments existed, and he craved them. 

Why did I ask to work at the museum in the first place? This wasn't how he'd wanted to spend his summer. 

Credits, he reminded himself. Three to be exact. 

Once the summer was over, he'd complete his art history minor, which his dad had insisted he get, and then it could be all music, all the time.

His dad strolled up and patted his back. "You ready?"

His dad was the visiting curator for The Met's next exhibit, something about fairy tales. He was so good at what he did that he didn't have to be hired by a single institution. He would be invited to share his work like an honored guest. Joel knew, without his dad's influence, there'd have been no way he'd have scored this internship. It was too coveted.

Joel straightened. "Sure. Let's go." 

His dad's brisk stride took them past exquisite works of art—Leutze, Van Gogh, Degas—with little more than a glance. Joel stole glimpses at several labels, instantly bored. They told him what to think, and he hated that. Art, he believed, should be interpreted without guidelines, without the thoughts of others.

His dad felt the same way, which was why his exhibits were so unique. He could tell stories through art, letting the imagination fly. Like Joel, he wouldn't be contained to a box and would pull down all standard information if he could. 

Joel stopped following his dad when a painting he'd never seen caught his eye. To many, it might have been a collection of wavy lines resembling a cow on its back, a worm, and a ghost from Pac-Man. But Joel noticed a primitive face in the center—two dots for eyes and a straight line for a mouth. The bare expression chilled him, as though someone were trapped. He thought the painting, with its disconnected lines and sporadically placed dots, was a true depiction of how he felt—scattered, ungrounded, lacking foundation. Minus Joel's shoulder-length blond hair and long limbs, the person in the painting could have been him, a boy who had lost something precious and was looking to fill the void. 

"Joel, are you ready?" His dad was waiting for him by a pair of camouflaged doors with no trim, nothing to indicate they were there at all, save for a thin dark crack, a doorknob, and a security box. 

"Go ahead." His dad motioned.

Joel lifted his hip toward the small box and swiped his badge. Once the red light turned green, they entered another world. The corridor was so sterile, compared to the exhibit halls, and Joel experienced a moment of disappointment. Then again, leaving a museum exhibition hall for the offices in the back was always like that, a transition from thrill to oblivion. 

They arrived at the office, a spacious white room with concrete walls and linoleum floors, the overhead fluorescent lights buzzing quietly. It was sparsely furnished with one long table in the middle and two desks pushed against the far wall. Off to the side was a set of large doors, closed and presumably locked, for they also had a security box.