Relic Read Free

box.
    â€œExtra-what?” Colin asked.
    â€œEx-cre-ment,” Becky said.
    Colin blinked and then turned and looked at me.
    â€œTurd,” I said, laughing. “You’re holding animal crap right now.”
    The coprolite dropped from his hand and he just sat there staring into the box shaking his head. “You’re collecting animal turds?” His face twisted and he turned back to me.
    Lisa and I burst out laughing. Even my mom laughed. Becky didn’t find it very funny and reached into the back seat and grabbed the box back.
    â€œWait,” Colin said. “They have a giant piece of dinosaur crap at the museum? On display?”
    â€œAlong with a T. rex skeleton,” my mom said.
    Colin dusted his hands off and then shrugged. “Actually, that sounds pretty cool.” Then he whispered, “But your sister’s still mega weird.”
    â€œTrust me, I know.” An itch started under my cast. I tried to reach my finger down the side to scratch it. The worst part about casts is the itching. Dry spaghetti was the best thing to use for scratching, but it always broke. When the cast finally came off in a few days, I wondered how much broken spaghetti would be in there and what the doctor would say when he saw it.
    I looked up when my sister gasped.
    â€œYou think they’re all here for the coprolite exhibit?” she said.
    A police officer leaning against his cruiser blocked most of my view, but there seemed to be a crowd gathered just beyond the officer, near the entrance. Plus, news vans from at least three different stations were parked along the street.
    â€œMaybe,” my mom said excitedly. “Or maybe they got a new art exhibit. That would be fun.” She turned to face us in the back seat. “Don’t you guys think so?”
    â€œOh, yeah, goody,” I mocked.
    I wasn’t sure what to expect when my mom parked and we walked around the corner and headed for the entrance. I wouldn’t have been too surprised to see TV reporters interviewing the museum curator. I was even ready to see a few photographers snapping pictures of a giant turd, but all five of us stopped dead in our tracks as soon as we reached the front of the building.
    A dozen or so people stood just off to the side of the main doors, moving together in a tight circle and chanting, “Give it back. Give it back. Give it back.” Others held signs with slogans like, “Buddha is not for display,” and “Overton Supports Thieves.” There were other signs too, but they were covered with seemingly random squiggles and dots, almost like a painted snake had slithered across the cardboard. I wasn’t sure what the language was, but it wasn’t English.
    The most interesting thing, though, were the four Asian men standing near the main entrance. They all wore identical orange robes that exposed one shoulder and hung to their ankles. They had shaved heads. Three of the men were withered and wrinkled and looked so old they should probably have been on display in the museum themselves, but the fourth guy was young enough to pass as my older brother—if I had a bald Asian brother who liked robes. He kept his head down, and it took a moment, but I realized he had a cell phone and seemed to be texting someone.
    â€œAre those monks?” Lisa asked.
    â€œThey look like monks,” Colin said. “Except for that young one. Are monks supposed to have cell phones? And can monks be that young?”
    â€œYes, Colin, they can.” My mom inched us toward the short line of normal-looking folks at the entrance. “I don’t think this has anything to do with the coprolite exhibit, Becky,” my mom added.
    One of the protestors, a middle-aged woman with tight curly hair and a “Free Tibet” t-shirt, broke away from the group and rushed us as we got in line. “Don’t you care that you’re supporting thievery?”
    Becky pressed