Meredith at The Met

By J.S. Furlong

 Meredith Karzinsky is like any New York City twelve-year-old;

smart, resourceful, creative, and ready for adventure. Whether

it's a bike ride in Central Park, or a walk down the street for

ice cream or bagels, Meredith is all-in.

 When Meredith's class endures the worst museum field trip,

art & artifa

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Masterful Person Company
• Release date: Feb 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9781962771016

J.S. Furlong

J.S. Furlong has told stories all her life. She has written, directed, performed and produced for theatre, circus, film and television. She lives on a farm in Virginia with her four teenagers, husband and dairy goats.

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Contents

1. Docents Don’t Have Curly Hair               

Damsels are Fiction                                       

Meredith in Outrage                                 

A Plan Hatches                                         

The Application                                       

Shabbat News                                           

The Interview                                           

The Volunteer                                           

One More Idea                                           

Curly Hair is Challenging                           

The Wig Shop                                             

Anticipation                                               

The Tour                                                   

Success                                                       

Hiding in Plain Sight                                   

Caught                                                         

The Compliment                                         

A Big Difference                                         

The Board Meeting                                   

Denouement (French for: The Final Part)     

Discover More                                                   

Chapter One

Docents Don’t Have Curly Hair

Do you see what I see? Meredith Karzinsky nudged her best friend Stacy in the ribs.

I see art. I see people. Stacy’s long, straight hair was pulled back in the dolphin-shaped hair clip Meredith had given her for her birthday.

Look closer, Meredith said, nodding toward the narrow, tidy woman leading their tour. Straight white hair clung to the tour guide’s head. Across the gallery, another tour guide stood with a group of people in matching tee shirts. Her hair was pulled up in a magazine-worthy twist. Meredith nudged Stacy again.

"I’m serious, Stace! Look at the docents! This is so weird."

Why don’t you call them tour guides? Stacy said, trying to get a view over her taller classmates’ heads. I mean, they are tour guides.

"They are also docents. Meredith loved words, the bigger and more unusual, the better. It’s from Latin. The super adorable counselor I told you about from art camp told us docent means teacher, so if ‘docent’ is good enough for him, it’s good enough for me. Meredith rolled the word around in her mouth. Doh-sent. Doe-cent. Docent. I love it."

Their docent stopped the class in front of a painting of a woman with a water pitcher. Meredith had seen the artwork a hundred times. She’d been coming to this museum since she was old enough to climb out of her stroller. This was the first Vermeer the museum had collected, and she wasn’t sure there was much more she could learn about it.

Meredith took a breath, soaking in the wide museum gallery. It felt smart somehow, as if just standing on the marble floors could tuck knowledge into her pockets. Each painting hung a precise distance from the next to give the observer room to think about what they saw.

The docent’s right hand shook at her side. She blinked a few times as she spoke. Vermeer was Dutch. He painted domestic life in the late seventeenth . . . Her voice echoed flat through the gallery.

At least she’s loud, Meredith thought. The docent with her hair in a twist was more animated. Yet another tour, led by an Asian docent, passed them. Meredith stood on tiptoe to get a look. Coiled bun, flat to her head.

Ah ha! Three out of three, thought Meredith. A twirl began in her belly, the one she got when she noticed something.

Look at the docents, she whispered to Stacy. They have something in common.

Used to playing Meredith’s ‘what do you see’ games, Stacy started with the obvious.

They’re all wearing lanyards?

True, but nope.

"They . . . all have Metropolitan Museum of Art name tags?"

Duh. Nope.

They’re all old?

No. There was a guy wrapping up a tour when we came in. Looked about the age of my cousin. I hoped we’d get him. He was cute.

Stacy rolled her eyes. You’re eleven.

Twelve in a month. A victorious smile spread across Meredith’s face. "Besides, I’m five foot three now. I’m adult-sized. No one cares how old I am. She patted Stacy on the head. Already twelve, Stacy stood only four foot nine. One more guess. What do the docents all have in common? Meredith tapped her lip with one finger. Or, wait. Maybe I should ask, what do none of them have in common?"

Stacy smiled. Statistically? Or specifically? They don’t have common parents, genetics, daily commutes on the subway-

Ugh! No. You always make it science-y. Don’t make it science-y. Just look. Look. At the docents. Wait, here’s a hint. . . Meredith shook thick curls back from her face. "What physical characteristic do none of them have?" She started to shake her hair again.

Mrs. Graden tapped Meredith and Stacy on their shoulders.

Shh. Please, girls. You can talk after the tour.

Meredith wound one bouncy ringlet around her finger and gave Stacy her look. Teachers. Always missing where the real learning took place. Meredith had noticed something and was leading Stacy to discover it.

Meredith bounced on her toes. The docent droned on, leaving out all the good stuff, like the fact that this Vermeer was not just The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s first Vermeer, it was the first Vermeer to be collected by any American museum,