Same Difference (9780545477215) (10 page)

She flips through the rest of my drawings until she gets to a blank page. Then she returns it to me. “Even bad drawings are lessons. If you throw that drawing away, you won't learn anything from it.”

“Really?” I'm embarrassed because I can still see the lines of my bad sketch carved into the next blank sheet. I wish I didn't press so hard. I wouldn't have to see my mistakes, and I wouldn't have the ugly callus on my hand either.

“You haven't taken many of these kinds of classes before, have you?” Robyn asks.

“Just one high school class, and that was kind of a joke.” It sounds like I'm apologizing.

“Art is always a joke in high school,” Fiona says.

Adrian nods. “Do you ever wonder why every single art teacher in high school is an old woman who only knows how to make potato stamps and paper snowflakes?”

I smile and think of Ms. Kay. “Yeah.” Even though she's an art teacher, I never thought of her as a real artist.

“And Mr. Hack.” Fiona fake-coughs. “I mean, Mr. Frank. If he were really any good, do you think he'd be spending his summer teaching high school kids?” She shakes her head. “Listen, Emily, I think you're insanely good for a beginner. You obviously have talent. But it's not like you can be a superstar right off the bat. Especially when you've only just opened your eyes. I mean, I've been doing this for years and years. My mom had me taking art classes when I was, like, two. She's an artist herself, so that kind of stuff is important to her.” I can't even imagine what Fiona's mom looks like. She's probably so cool. When Fiona dyed her hair pink, her mom probably loved it. Any other mom, like my mom, would freak for sure. “Becoming an artist is a huge thing that takes over your whole life. It's not something you can shut off just because you're scared and embarrassed of what other people might think about you or say about you. You have to own it.”

“Own it,” Robyn says, “but not make it up. The worst thing in the world is to be a poseur.”

I'm getting tired of Robyn's attacks on me, but this time, Fiona rolls her eyes and faces her down. “Actually, I think it's the best thing ever that Emily's here in Philly, that she's trying to go outside of things that she's used to. I mean, no one cares or gets shocked with what I wear, but for her, it's a big deal. So I think she's actually pretty brave.” Fiona's face lights up with an idea. It's amazing, how visible it is on her face. She turns to me. “What are you doing tomorrow? For Fourth of July? You should totally come see the fireworks with us!”

I want to, but there's no way. “I can't. I have to go someplace with my family.” We go to Meg's family barbecue every year. I'm not going to tell Fiona about Meg. She'd eat someone like Meg alive.

“Bummer.” She thinks. “Well, do you want to go to First Friday with us instead?”

“What's First Friday?” I regret the words immediately, because Robyn laughs under her breath and walks away from us, pulling Adrian with her.

“They open all the galleries in the city to show new artwork for sale. There's wine or champagne and cheese plates and it's all free,” she says, itching the red scratches on her arms. “It's suuuuuper fun and totally inspiring.”

Rick is throwing a party on Friday night. His parents are going to the shore, and Jimmy's uncle said he'd buy the keg, so long as he could drink it with everyone. I already promised Meg I'd go, but maybe I can get out of it. “You sure Robyn won't mind me tagging along?” I whisper.

“Who cares what she thinks? I'm asking you. So … will you come?”

A swell of something builds in my chest — and fighting the current would be worthless. “Yeah. I will. Thanks.”

“I
sn't this the life?” Meg says, smiling over at me from her lounge chair.

“I don't think I've gotten any color,” I say, staring down at my pasty stomach.

“That's what you get for spending all those beautiful sunny days stuck indoors.” Meg gives herself a misting of coconut oil and then tosses the bottle at me. “Here. You need to catch up.”

Since classes were canceled for the Fourth of July, I slept over at Meg's house last night. We went straight from our pajamas into our bikinis and lay out by the pool all morning, while Meg's parents got the backyard ready.

Every year, Meg's family throws a huge barbecue. Mr. Mundy is a pro on his big gas grill. He even has a stamp to sear his initials on the steaks he buys from the butcher. He makes his own barbecue sauce from scratch. It's the darkest, sappy color brown, rich and sticky, and it tastes sweet and sour at the same time. He brushes it on real thick and cooks the meat slowly on a low heat, so it stays juicy. They serve summer corn and homemade mustard coleslaw and burgers with sautéed mushrooms and fancy imported cheeses from Whole Foods. They set out about fifteen different bowls of flavored potato chips.

My parents and Claire come over around noon, along with a bunch of other families from Blossom Manor. Meg and I stay lazy on the lounge chairs while Claire does goofy dives into the deep end of the pool to try and make us laugh. The parents all stay on the deck, playing cards. Eventually, Meg and I go up there for some food.

“Emily, are you enjoying your art classes?” Mrs. Mundy asks me.

“Oh yeah,” I say, heading over to the burger table. “They're great.”

Meg hands me a crisp white paper plate, the heavy kind that you can pile food on and not worry about it seeping through. “You know, you haven't told me much about your classes since you talked about quitting,” she says. She's got her bathing suit on underneath a pink terry cloth tube dress, and her long hair dangles down her back in a loose braid. “What are they like?”

“Well, Mixed Media, the class I would have had today, is my favorite, I think,” I say, cracking open a cold can of Coke.

“What's Mixed Media?” Meg asks, reaching for some lettuce.

“Wait!” Mom shouts. She tosses down her hand of cards and springs up from her seat at the table. “I want to hear all about it. Emily, you've barely told me anything about your classes!”

I shake my head and Meg laughs. “It's sort of like collage,” I say, and start layering the toppings on my burger. “You take images and drawings and stuff and arrange them in an interesting, thoughtful way. Last week, each of us got an envelope full of random slips of paper, and we had to paste them down in a new shape. I got all these yellow pieces — like a picture of a baby chick, some lemons from a supermarket circular, stuff like that. I ripped them all into pieces and pasted them down in the shape of a sun.” My teachers really seemed to like it. And for the first time ever, I had an idea, and instead of letting myself get all worried about it not being good enough, I just went with it. That was definitely Fiona's influence.

“Emily,” my dad says in a frowny way, as he chases a slippery pasta salad noodle with his fork. “Wait for your mother. You're going to hurt her feelings.”

Meg bounces on the balls of her feet. “That's awesome! You and I are going to have the best friendship page in the senior year-book! I'm already collecting good pictures of us. I found one the other day of me and you jumping into the pool hand in hand, in matching bathing suits. It's so cute!” Meg smiles at me in the way you do when you're waiting for someone to take your picture. The kind you don't blink, and it hangs on your face.

“Yeah, sure,” I say, even though she's got it all wrong. Mixed Media isn't about cutting pictures out and sticking them on poster board. It's more about taking things out of their normal context and giving them new meaning somewhere else.

Kind of like what's happening to me.

“So, Emily,” Mom says, joining us at the food table. “Have you made any new friends in your classes?”

Meg stands up a little straighter as she picks the tomatoes out of her salad.

“Sort of,” I say, dodging the question. I know that I'm going to have to tell Meg about First Friday at some point, and that I won't be able to make it to Rick's party after all. But I'm kind of dreading it.

“Come on. I'm sure you made at least one friend!” Mom says with a laugh. “A beautiful girl like you.” She beams a smile at all the neighbors, like they're supposed to agree.

I hate when Mom gets like this, saying things in a backhanded way, using compliments to cover up the truth. She knows I'm not that pretty, especially standing next to Meg. She has no idea what my life is like. “There's this one girl I met who's pretty cool. And she's the best in our drawing class. Her mom's an artist, so I guess that's where she gets it from.”

“Well, you come from creative parents, too,” Mom says. “So don't sell yourself short. Your father has to be extremely creative in his job.”

“He's a salesman, Mom.” I shake my head. “Sales is not creative.”

“Hey,” Dad whines.

“Theater is art,” Mom says. She takes the wine that Mr. Mundy offers her and clinks her fork against her glass like she's made some incredible point. “Every property requires a new performance.”

How could she think that's even close to the same thing? “Dad's not on Broadway. He's selling office space to companies.” I take my food back to my lounge chair.

“I agree with your mom,” Meg says, joining me. She starts cutting her lettuce. I don't know anyone else who cuts their lettuce. “Rick works a ‘typical' job, but he's very creative.”

I laugh. I can't help it.

“Seriously!” Meg says. “Landscape design is a real thing you can study in college.”

Rick is not a landscape designer. He's a guy who pushes a mower and runs a weed whacker for his dad. Maybe it's mean, but I ask, “Is that what Rick is going to apply to college for?
Landscape design
?”

Meg turns her attention to the rest of the party. “Rick's not going to school. He can make a lot more money right here in Cherry Grove. His dad's landscape business is going to be his someday.” She's not embarrassed or apologetic, even though both our parents are insane about us both getting into good schools. She's honestly proud of him. “In fact, he's practically running the whole business already.”

I bite my burger and chew like crazy to keep from saying something I can't take back. The truth is that Rick hardly works. He's over at Meg's house all the time. But by the time I swallow, I'm still angry. “You're going to date a guy who doesn't want to go to college?” I mean, doesn't Meg want to be with someone who can teach her something new? Give her a different experience?

Meg drops her head so far that her hair almost touches the plate. Maybe this isn't perfect barbecue conversation, but come on. Sometimes I wonder if Meg really likes Rick, or if she just likes him because she thinks she should. I've been guilty of that myself, but at least now I know better. “I don't mean to get you upset,” I tell her. “I just think you deserve to be with someone really special.”

“Thanks,” she says, kind of quiet, as she pokes her way around the red onions. I think she might actually be considering what I'm saying, but when she looks up, she says, “So … what are you wearing tonight? What about your red halter?”

There's no way I can force Meg to see things my way. So I let it go and talk clothes. And it's back to old times again. Except, not.

 

After we eat, Meg and I part ways to get ready for fireworks. Every year, the whole town walks down to the Cherry Grove High School football field, home to the annual fireworks. When you're a kid, you go with your parents, but as soon as you get to high school, you go with your friends. You bring a blanket, some mosquito repellent, and snacks. And maybe beers, if you manage to steal some, or rum mixed inside a bottle of Coke. Then the town sets off fireworks and the high school band plays all these patriotic songs. They actually do it up pretty nice for a small town in New Jersey.

I step out of the tub and grab a fresh, thick white towel from the stack in the cabinet underneath my sink. I wipe the moisture off the mirror. It's still foggy, but I can see that I got some color — creamy white lines trace the shape of my bikini against skin now the color of graham crackers.

“Hey, when are you going down to the fireworks?” Claire ducks her head inside my room.

“Why?” I walk over to my mirrored vanity and start flat-ironing my hair.

Claire flops on my bed. “I don't want to sit with Mom and Dad. They're boring. Can I come with you?”

I see her reflection in the mirror. She's darker than dark, almost the color of a hot dog left on the grill too long. And she's got on a light blue ribbed tank with a pair of white jean shorts that show off how toned her legs are from all that soccer. She looks beautiful. She looks older than me.

“I don't think so.” I can't find my paddle brush. “Did you steal my brush?”

“No.” Claire climbs down from my bed and hands it to me. It was just underneath my towel. “Why can't I come with you and Meg?”

I pull it out of her hand sort of fast. “Because there's not enough room on our blanket. And also, you're thirteen. We're going to be drinking, and I don't want you telling Mom and Dad.” I'm showing off to my little sister, and it makes me feel pathetic.

“I won't tell! I promise!”

“I just don't think it's a good idea.”

“But I'm going to be in the high school next year, Emily. I want to make friends.”

“You'll make friends. Your
own
friends.” I don't mean to snap, but I don't want Claire sitting with me. Meg is bound to be all cuddly with Rick. And then what … are Claire and I supposed to snuggle or something? No, thanks.

“Seriously? I can't?”

“No,” I say. “Seriously. You can't.”

Claire groans as she gets up off my bed, like it takes some big effort. “Whatever.” She pauses before closing the door. “Don't forget to flat-iron the back of your head. You never remember to do it, and it always looks lumpy.”

I finish up my hair, put on some lip gloss, and meet Meg outside. Rick is late. Meg leans against the fire hydrant, staring off into the clouds. As we wait for Rick, I figure it's as good a time as ever to tell her I can't make it to his party. So I sit down next to her on the curb and say, “I have some bad news. Well, it's not bad, but —”

“What?”

“I actually have a school thing on Friday night that I have to go to. So I don't think I'll make it to Rick's party.” I give her a second to say something, but when she doesn't, I keep going. “They're taking us on a big gallery trip. It's mandatory.” I hate to lie, but in a way it
is
mandatory. I have to go.

“Oh.” Meg is sad. Sadder than I expect her to be. She chews on her fingernail. “Is this about Chad? Because he and Jenessa might not even come.”

“No. It's not about Chad. I don't care about Chad.”

“Okay, okay. Well, you could come after. I mean, the school thing won't take all night, will it? I'll just wait until you get back, and then we can go together.”

“You don't have to do that,” I say.

Meg's cheek dimples, like she's biting the skin on the inside. “Maybe I just won't go.”

“What? Why wouldn't you go?” I don't get why this is so difficult. Sure, we've always gone to parties together, but so what? It's her boyfriend's party, after all. She's practically the guest of honor.

“What if I got someone to pick you up from the train station whatever time you come back?”

“I mean … I guess.” Maybe I should feel good that Meg wants me there so badly. But it's been pretty well established that there's no way I'm hooking up with Chad, so what's the big deal? I've let her off the hook about some romantic night with Rick a hundred times already. Is it such a huge deal that we don't go to one party together?

“Sorry. I just really want you to come tomorrow.” She can't even look at me. She just wrings the hem of her navy polo dress in her hands.

I can't stand seeing her so upset, twice today, because of me. And who knows how long this First Friday thing is going to take anyway. Maybe it will be over early, and then I'll have nothing to do. “Okay, okay, I'll come.” Even though I don't want to. Even though I regret the words the moment they leave my lips.

Meg brightens. “Thanks, Em. We'll have fun there, I swear.”

Rick's truck finally roars down our cul-de-sac. He parks and gets out and wraps his tan arms around Meg, kissing her neck. “Sorry I'm late. I was helping my mom clean up.”

Meg wriggles out from his grip. “Hey, Emily!” She smiles. “Let's ride in the back of Rick's truck.”

Rick looks sore for a second, but then he takes off his light blue baseball cap and puts on a smile. “Here,” he says. “Let me get my dustpan and I'll make sure there isn't any dirt back there.”

“Thanks,” I tell Rick. Meg doesn't say anything to Rick at all. She just puts the blankets and her picnic basket in the cab with Rick and we both climb into the bed.

“Is everything okay?” I ask her. Maybe what I said back at the barbecue is sticking in her mind.

But Meg seems almost caught off guard by my question. “Everything's fine,” she says. “Why?”

“No reason,” I say. “Never mind.”

Rick drives slow, past all the families walking to the field, blasting Bruce Springsteen through his open windows. We wave to our parents, to our neighbors, who all walk in a big group. Claire doesn't wave back. She keeps her hands tucked in her armpits.