Same Difference (9780545477215) (18 page)

F
iona stands at the front of our class on Tuesday, holding a huge black poster board just to the side of her face. On it is mounted a piece of paper, her abstract shadow drawings, smudges creeping across the page. They look random, but I know they are painstakingly deliberate.

“More of your shadows,” Mr. Frank says.

“Yup,” Fiona says.

“And what are these of?”

“I'd rather not say. If you knew, my piece would be compromised.”

The class thinks in silence. Or at least the polite ones do. The rest avert their eyes, or occupy themselves with something else. Fiona's losing her grip on them, and it makes the whole room feel off center.

“I'm concerned,” Mr. Frank says.

“Concerned?” Fiona asks, genuinely confused.

“I think you need to try a new approach. The problem with doing the shadows in such an abstract fashion is that they lose their power to inform. They don't become shadows anymore. They become nothing.”

Fiona drops her chin to her chest and gives Mr. Frank the look of death.

“I agree,” Robyn says haughtily. “I think the artist needs to innovate more.”

I shoot Robyn the same death stare. I know she's pissed at Fiona, but it's totally not cool to go after her like that.

Fiona's arms go limp, and her piece falls sloppily to the side.

“Don't get defensive,” Mr. Frank says.

“How could I not get defensive?” Fiona walks back toward her stool. “You're attacking me.”

“I'm not attacking you, Fiona. I'm giving constructive criticism about your work.”

“Same difference,” she says.

I look at Yates, wishing there were some way to stop this from happening. “What does everyone else think?” he asks.

“I really like these pieces,” I offer meekly. “And I think the abstract stuff works. It plays with audience expectations. You might not know what you're looking at, and you might want to dismiss it, but you're definitely looking at
something,
something that really does exist.”

“I agree with your vision, Emily,” Mr. Frank says. “But I don't think Fiona's expressing that clearly enough.” He turns to her. “Fiona, I'm not saying there isn't something to your shadows. I've enjoyed all of the pieces you've shared with the class. I'm just encouraging you to push yourself. I want you to solve the problem you've created here. Give us more than what's on the surface.”

Fiona walks back to her stool, shaking her head.

“And as you all know, our closing gallery reception is on the horizon, and the selections for the juried portion of the show will take place in the next two weeks. You should be producing your best work now. Believe me, I am waiting for it.”

Fiona won't even look at me for the rest of class. I think she might be mad. Maybe I said the wrong thing about her piece. I wasn't trying to side with Mr. Frank. I was trying to defend her. I love her work. It inspires me.

At one point, Robyn corners me near the pencil sharpener. “You know Fiona only likes hanging out with you because she gets to be the star.”

“Fiona and I are friends,” I tell her, unable to hide the bragging in my voice. “That's why we hang out.”

“Why do you think she tossed me to the side? Because I was too much competition. I'm just saying, be careful.”

“Whatever, Robyn. Why do you care what happens to me? You never liked me in the first place.”

“You're right,” she admits. “I was wrong about you. And you know who else I was wrong about? Fiona. I bought into her whole schtick. But now I think her shadows are totally lame, and the whole thing is a cover for the fact that Fiona doesn't have any real artistic talent. Sooner or later, everyone's going to figure it out.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.” I turn my back on her. But a part of me wonders why Fiona has done the same sort of piece again and again. It's definitely her trademark, and I still think the pieces are great, but perhaps Mr. Frank is right that she needs to take it to the next level.

When we break for lunch, I try to get Fiona to talk to me, but she's doing what I used to do when I felt insecure — painstakingly cleaning up her supplies while the rest of the students file out. “Don't worry,” I say. “Mr. Frank likes your stuff.”

Fiona rolls her eyes. “Shadows are my thing. I mean, how does he not know that by now?”

“I don't think he meant to upset you, Fiona. He wanted to inspire you. You've only scratched the surface of what you're capable of.”

“I honestly couldn't give a shit what that old idiot thinks. He's a nobody. He's nothing famous. He's just a lame teacher at this lame school.”

Unfortunately, Yates is still hanging around in the room, cleaning up the supplies. He must have heard Fiona trashing his idol. He walks over to us.

“Seriously, Fiona,” he says, “don't let it get to you. You know what you have in mind for your pieces. It's a lesson every artist has to learn. You can't please everyone.”

I love that Yates is saying this. Any other person would take Mr. Frank's side and give some condescending speech about how you need to bend to other people's expectations.

“Thanks,” Fiona tells him. I can't tell if it resonates at all, but I hope it does. “Emily, do you want to go get a cheese steak with me for lunch? I seriously need greasy comfort food like a-sap.”

“Sure,” I say. But a part of me wants to hang back with Yates. It's like we have this conversation that's been paused for days now, ever since the concert. A conversation where neither of us knows what to say. But Yates isn't the one who needs me right now — Fiona is. Even if she'd never admit it.

We don't talk for a few blocks. I just follow Fiona and enjoy the view. Philadelphia is a beautiful city. One second we're walking down a main street with stores and high-rise apartment buildings, and then we duck down an alley and find ourselves in a maze of tiny cobblestone side streets with tiny houses and hitching posts for horses from the old days. After a few of those, I've completely lost my sense of direction. But Fiona leads the way and before I know it, we hit South Street.

On South Street, there are a bunch of shops you'd never see in the mall — like an incense store that blasts Bob Marley or a place that sells only condoms. There's also a big comic book shop, lots of bars, and a record store that Fiona tells me is the spot where all the local DJs go to buy music.

A few apartment buildings and alleyways we pass are covered in mosaics of glass and mirror and broken pottery that glitter like diamonds in the afternoon sun. Fiona explains they are done by a local artist named Isaiah Zagar.

“He always puts the words ‘Art Is the Center of the Real World' somewhere in his mosaics. Isn't that badass?”

I nod, unable to defocus from the jagged shards, until I am forced to completely spin around or fall flat on my face.

We stop at Jim's Steaks, a greasy-looking diner on a corner. The lunch line is reeeally long. Like out-the-door-and-down-the-street long, full of all types of people, from traffic cops and construction workers to old ladies. I'm starving and the smell of steak and onions and gooey Cheez Whiz wafting down the street is brutal torture.

“Should we wait? I think we should wait,” Fiona says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Let's definitely wait.”

We walk to the back of the line. I turn to Fiona but she's suddenly not there. She's staring inside the window of a shop a few stores down from where the line actually ends.

“Oh my God, Emily! C'mere!”

I run over to her side and find her standing in front of a tattoo shop called Philadelphia Eddie's. Inside, there are three tattoo stations and a huge wall of drawings you can choose from, like dragons and Chinese symbols and delicate fairies. I hear the buzzing through the glass window, a combination of the needles and the neon.

Fiona fishes in her bag and pulls out her sketchbook. “Come on.”

I'm nervous as I follow Fiona inside, like someone's going to kick us out or call the cops because we're not eighteen. I hang back by the boards while she steps up to the counter and talks with a guy who has literally every inch of his body covered in tattoos. Even his knuckles. Even his earlobes. And when he opens his mouth, even on the insides of his lips.

“Do you have ID?”

“Umm.” Fiona pats herself down, despite the fact that her tank and shorts don't have pockets. “I must have forgotton it in the dorms. I have this, though,” she says, and pulls out the college ID from her owl tote bag.

He glances at it dubiously. She curtseys. He breaks into a smile. “I'm not supposed to do this,” he says. “But my boss is away at a tattoo convention and that's my alma mater. So today's your lucky day.”

The man opens the gate and ushers us in.

I can't believe it.

“This is what I want.” Fiona shows him a drawing in her sketchbook. It's of a tree, branches bare and spindly. You see the detail of the trunk, the knots of the branches. And then, stuck off to the side, its dark shadow.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” I whisper as she hands me her tote bag. “I mean, tattoos are permanent.”

“It's not like I'm picking something random off the wall, Emily. I made this. This is me. This is who I am. I believe in my art, and I don't care if anyone else gets it or not.”

I understand what she's saying, especially after Mr. Frank's crit, but I'm still nervous for the pain she's going to feel. The man takes the sketchbook back to a photocopier and returns with a spray bottle and a plastic Bic razor. “So, where did you want this?”

Fiona takes off her shirt and hops up onto a long black medical table, the kind you'd see in a nurse's office at school. She lies there on her side, in her bra and a long beaded necklace and a pair of ripped denim shorts, and cranes her arm up over her head.

“Wait, you're getting it on your
ribs
?” I cry out.

Both Fiona and the tattoo guy laugh at me.

He sprays her side with the solution and gently shaves away any small hairs on a six-inch section of her creamy white skin, from the top of her rib cage to the bottom. Then he uses the photocopy to transfer the drawing right onto her skin.

It's not as big as I thought, just maybe five inches tall. It looks cool … I think.

“Aren't you nervous?” I ask.

“Yes!” she says. “Come hold my hand!”

I step forward and position myself next to her. The man gets the tattoo gun ready, pressing his big black boot on a petal to make it buzz. I can't watch him actually touch the needle to her side, but I feel her body tense up.

“Are you okay?” I ask, squeezing her hand. “Does it hurt?”

She talks out of the corner of her mouth, trying not to move. “Kinda. But not as bad as you'd think. More like my entire chest is vibrating.”

After a few minutes, I muster the courage to look. Fiona's skin is red and tender and inky. The tattoo guy runs the needle for a few seconds at a time, then wipes the skin with a paper towel. I can see the shape forming.

“Do you think your mom is going to get mad?” I ask her.

“What? No. Of course not. If anything, she'll be pissed that she wasn't here for my first one.”

“Hold still,” the man says, refueling with more black ink.

She takes a couple quick breaths like women who are in labor do. Her whole face scrunches together. “What's it like to draw with a tattoo gun?” Fiona asks him.

“It's definitely different than a pencil. I was a Fine Art major, but I wanted my art to have more of a life than just hanging on someone's wall. So I got an apprenticeship here a few years ago and did a bunch of tattoos on honeydew melons to practice.”

“Cool,” we both say at the very same time.

Since the tattoo isn't that big, it doesn't take long for him to do the outline, which he says hurts the most. Then, he fills in the shadow portion all black. Finally, it's time to do the shading and detail of the actual tree. He mixes up a bunch of different paints inside these tiny plastic thimbles, combinations of gray and one of pure white. Fiona is able to relax. In fact, she says she doesn't even feel the needle anymore. Her side is totally numb.

“So, Emily, what are you going to get tattooed?” Fiona asks me.

I freeze. My mom would absolutely kill me if I ever did anything like that.

“Come on. Pick something in your sketchbook! I'll pay.”

I'm too chicken.

Fiona looks over at her side and smiles. “Breathe, Emily. I'm just kidding!” Then she takes a deep breath. “But I wanted to thank you for what you did in Mr. Frank's class today. I know I don't handle criticism well. And I really appreciated that you had my back.”

“Of course, Fiona. I love your stuff. And I do think —”

“We don't need to get into it again. It's just great to have a friend who understands how important this is to me. I mean, I can't see doing anything else in my life but this, you know? It's just art for me, I know it. And for someone to get that, to believe in me. It's just … awesome. It sounds corny, but I'm so glad we became friends.”

I give her hand a squeeze. “Me too.”

It takes about thirty-five more minutes before the whole thing is done. And when he's finished, it looks really pretty. It looks so great I almost wish I have the courage to get one myself. I look at my watch and know we're going to miss the afternoon session of Mr. Frank's class. I kind of feel bad about that, but I know Fiona needs this right now.

“I absolutely LOVE it!” Fiona screams and hugs the tattoo guy.

Fiona sends me to the ATM with her card to get the $200 the tattoo costs while the tattoo man takes a picture of her for his portfolio and bandages up her side with some ointment and a fresh paper towel. I enter in her pin and try for $200, but get rejected. I check her balance, and she only has $40 in her account.