Same Difference (9780545477215) (4 page)

The most striking thing about this girl is her hair — brown, blunt, and cut in a pageboy falling just past her chin, with bangs straight across her forehead. But there's also a bright streak of electric pink underneath. That thick pink strand is about five inches longer than her brown hair, and it cascades over her shoulder and onto the concrete like a Kool-Aid waterfall.

My eyes wander back to her face, only to see that the girl is now staring at me from the ground. Like, obviously staring at me. She lifts one hand and waves, a fluttering gesture, demure like a beauty queen.

I quickly turn away and lower myself back in my chair.

Dr. Tobin returns to the podium. “Okay, students. It is now ten o'clock. You will be free to finish up the registration process, say your good-byes to your parents, and get some lunch. All of you will be expected to report to your first classes by twelve-thirty. If you have questions or need any more information, please report to my office on the third floor.” She claps her hands together. “Have an exhilarating first day!”

Everyone stands up and scatters. I wait a few seconds before moving, just in case that girl is still watching me. As I lean over to grab my stuff, I glance outside. I don't see her.

I walk outside to the courtyard between the east and west dorms. Everyone's looking down at the ground. Pointing. Smiling. The girl has traced shadows all over the pavement in smooth lines of colored chalk — a tree, a bush, a statue of a stone head perched on a big marble pedestal, a trash can. The sun has already shifted the shadows just outside her lines.

By the number of tracings, it's a safe bet that this girl probably didn't go to orientation at all, if she's even a student here. She was outside by herself the whole time, making art.

My phone rings. It's my mom again, but I still don't answer. Instead, I walk the edges of the shadow outlines the girl has drawn, careful like I'm on a tightrope. Other people around me do the same. Someone's mom asks a security guard who did this. He shrugs and calls maintenance on his radio, telling them to bring a hose. He doesn't get that the lady wasn't complaining. He doesn't get it at all.

I try to line myself up to where the girl was when she waved at me. There, her outline is traced on the ground. It's different from the kind you see police draw around dead bodies — there's detail and depth to it. I can see the wrinkles of her clothes, the fringe of her choppy hair, features I never thought possible to capture with sidewalk chalk.

When no one is looking, I step inside the lines. My shadow doesn't come close to filling it up.

O
n my way out of the university cafeteria, I accidentally bump into a thin, frail girl hovering over the food bar.

The force knocks the serving tongs out of her hand and into a nearby tray of thick, mayonnaisey tuna salad. Splats fly everywhere. One clump hits my capris, just above the knee.

“Oh! I'm sorry,” I say, and then catch myself staring into the girl's take-out box with fear and concern. Strips of fake bacon are piled high. They look like plastic play food, technicolored in an entirely unconvincing way.

“The vegan entrée has been contaminated!” the girl screeches to no one in particular, but glares at me through her thick shaggy hair like I've just slaughtered a pig right in front of her. A cafeteria lady in a white apron and black hairnet rushes over and pushes me out of the way.

Oh well. So much for good first impressions.

I walk through a door, up a set of stairs, and out onto the street. Philadelphia feels huge. If I squint, I can see City Hall in the distance, dead center in the middle of Broad Street. It's a really ornate building, a stone-colored wedding cake. A statue of William Penn is perched at the very top, watching over the whole city. It was probably the tallest building at one time, but now it's dwarfed by the surrounding skyscrapers.

My very first class, Drawing, is held in the main art building directly across the street from the atrium. It's a totally uninspiring location, where you might expect the office of an accountant, except that it has a huge, empty gallery space in the lobby. I walk to the corner and wait for the traffic light to change while other kids dart across the street when they see holes in the oncoming traffic.

I flash the security guard the college ID dangling around my neck, even though he's too busy talking on his cell phone to notice, and head down a long hallway to a set of elevators. There's a bunch of people already waiting. I delicately squeeze my way onto an elevator and reach out to press the button for the seventh floor, but it's already lit up. As the doors shut, a girl with a corncob blond pixie cut, tight pencil-leg jeans, and a red silk scarf knotted around her neck runs toward us. No one holds the door for her, though, and she looks annoyed as it closes right in her face.

The elevator moves incredibly slow. I'm stuck in the corner near the buttons, and can't see the people behind me. But I hear two iPods playing different songs in a musical mess, and someone smells like they haven't learned what deodorant is yet.

I think the first stop is a photography floor, because the chemicals make my eyes water as soon as the doors open. That, and one of the kids who steps off the elevator turns around and, with his camera dangling mid-chest, takes a picture of us.

“Idiot,” a boy next to me mutters as the doors close. His long hair is split in two pigtails. Fake white plastic flowers are tucked into each elastic.

I try not to stare. Maybe he's sweet or secretly good at sports, but I can't help but wonder how exactly a boy like that survives in high school.

By the time we stop on the seventh floor, there are three kids left in the elevator beside me. I smile at one freckly girl with thick tentacles of auburn dreadlocks. She nods her head at me, not exactly in a friendly way, but not meanly either.

It's slightly encouraging.

Room 713 is a large studio that smells of turpentine. There are twelve sets of easels and stools arranged in a circle, surrounding a tall pedestal made out of stacked white plywood boxes in the very center. The long tables across the back of the room are covered with half-finished assignments from the undergrad students — heads carved out of clay, wooden sculptures, plaster casings.

Shadow Girl is near the window, sitting on a stool. She scrapes her purple nail polish off with her teeth. Her shorts are dusted in chalk powder of all different colors, like the clouds in a summer sunset.

I wonder if Shadow Girl knows how many people were looking at her tracings in the courtyard. But I'm not going to tell her. I don't want her to remember that I was staring, so I put my head down and walk quickly past her.

She grabs my arm and pulls me to stop.

“I love your shoes,” she tells me. “They're like … princess slippers or something.”

“They're not mine,” I admit. Though as soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret it. I should have said they were. After all, I do have practically the same pair.

She presses her lips together. “Umm, all right then,” she says, followed by an awkward laugh, because I didn't leave much room to expand the conversation. “Well … make sure you pass along my compliment to their rightful owner.”

“Okay.” I stand there for a second, in case Shadow Girl says something else. Only, she doesn't, and neither do I, so we just kind of stare at each other. Then I head toward a seat on the other side of the room. It isn't until I sit that I realize I've been holding my breath.

I unload a few supplies, like a big drawing pad and the red plastic art box that holds my pencils and brushes. Glancing around the room, I notice I'm the only one with brand-new, untouched materials — paintbrushes wrapped in plastic, tubes of paint that need to be peeled open, unsharpened pencils. I'm a screaming newbie. I decide not to put on my smock, since no one else is wearing one.

Five more minutes and the classroom is practically full. Pixie Girl with the red scarf enters the room huffing and puffing, I guess because she had to take the stairs. She climbs onto a stool right next to Shadow Girl. Their eyes scan each other briefly before they nod and roll their eyes, as if they've just shared a silent joke. They are the only ones in class not wearing their IDs on the provided lanyards. They seem like they should be friends.

I'm sad that there doesn't seem to be the person like me here, the person I am so obviously supposed to hang out with while I'm here. Someone like Meg. But someone like Meg wouldn't exist in a place like this.

I grab my phone and pound out a quick text, just to tell Meg hello. I wonder what she's doing right now. Maybe lying by her pool, working on her tan. Actually, since it's Tuesday, she's probably walked to the town farmer's market to get some of that grilled summer corn we both love. Meg likes plain butter on hers, but I use paprika and garlic salt. Maybe Rick took the afternoon off to go with her. Probably.

The teacher comes in, a tall, skinny old man wearing frumpy brown linen pants and a raggedy black T-shirt. His head is full of wild white hair, jutting out from all angles like the bristles of an old toothbrush. A tall boy follows him, toting two bags of supplies — and holding a very familiar cup of coffee.

He spots me right away and stops at my easel.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “You're in my class.”

“Yeah,” I say. The realization makes my eyes go wide.

I accidentally flirted with my teacher this morning.

The boy still has toothpaste in the corner of his mouth, but it doesn't detract from his smile one bit. But when the older teacher glances back at him, the smile drops right off his face.

Shadow Girl and Pixie Girl both stare at me, shocked. I feel their eyes.

My phone twitters, a charm of beeps that sounds like glitter. A signal I've gotten a text. I'm sure it's from Meg, probably saying hi back. But it's not worth it to check, because now everyone's staring at me. The boy winces, like I'm in for it.

“Rule number one! No cell phones on in my class!” the old man barks. He's got a bit of an accent. Maybe Russian. I can't tell. “Absolutely none!”

“Sorry,” I whisper and shut off my phone.

The old man walks in the center of our easels, climbs up on the platform, and stares at us with big dark eyes. He signals for the tall boy to shut the door. He does not smile. “I am Mr. Frank.”

We murmur hello back to Mr. Frank. He still doesn't smile. In fact, he looks pained to be here.

“I will be your drawing teacher for the summer.” His annoyance with us breaks as he gestures to the tall boy, warmly. “This is Yates, my teaching assistant. Yates has just completed his freshman year at this college and will also be giving you instruction and answering questions.” Yates has his back turned to us, unloading Mr. Frank's supplies. “I would like to start today by going around the room. Tell me a little about yourself and your goals for this class.”

It's too much to process at once. His name is Yates. And if Yates just finished his freshman year, he's probably only nineteen. I'll turn seventeen in September. Two years older than me isn't much of an age difference at all. But the fact that he's my teacher is a big difference. Huge, even.

Mr. Frank looks in my general direction and snaps me back to attention. “Who would like to go first?” he asks.

My stomach flips. I hate speaking in public. I'm way better with images than I am with words.

Shadow Girl raises her hand, the only volunteer. Everyone in the room sits up and pays attention. I know I do.

“My name's Fiona Crawford, and I'm from the glamorously named Fish Town.” Her voice is drowsy and raspy, but it projects like she's used to addressing a crowd. “I'll be a senior next year and I need some traditional pieces for portfolio reviews so I can apply to art school.”

Mr. Frank takes a sip of coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “Traditional as opposed to what?”

Fiona smirks. I can't exactly tell if she's annoyed that she has to explain herself, or happy that she gets to keep talking. “My work is mainly guerrilla meets performance, so it's impossible to document.”

“You can take pictures. That's entirely acceptable for a portfolio.” Mr. Frank looks for the next person to speak.

“Pictures?” Fiona's face curdles. “A picture can never be as meaningful as the actual experience.” She arches her back into a stretch. It's almost flirtatious. “I'd rather not show the piece at all, if it's going to be some weak, half-assed version. So yeah, just set me up with some fruit in a bowl and maybe a ceramic pitcher, or whatever. A couple of still lifes and I'll be good to go.”

Mr. Frank raises his coffee to his mouth and considers this. We all stay quiet. I don't know about anyone else here, but I've never heard a person say
assed
before in a class. When he lowers the cup, he reveals the smallest smile.

The class collectively shifts its weight. Fiona's answer is a lot to live up to.

Mr. Frank continues. “How many of you are going into your senior year of high school?” About half of our class raise their hands, including me and Pixie Girl. “Well, by the end of our six weeks together, you should all have more than a few portfolio-quality pieces. And the rest of you will have quite a jump on putting together something for admissions.”

I haven't ever considered going to college for art. Meg and I are looking at Trenton State. Her grades are much better than mine, but hopefully we'll both get in. I worry that maybe this drawing class is going to be more advanced or serious than someone like me, someone with no experience, is ready for.

Pixie Girl goes next. “I'm Robyn, and I'm from northern New Jersey. But it's practically New York City,” she adds quickly, “because I can see the Empire State Building from my bedroom window. My parents own a gallery in Chelsea.” Robyn's eyes stop on Mr. Frank, probably to see if he is impressed. If he is, he doesn't show it. “They travel through Europe most of the summer and I get shipped off to Fine Art day care.” I'm surprised to hear Robyn talk in such a blasé way, like she's already over this place. I guess when your parents actually own a real art gallery, these programs seem a lot like Ms. Kay's class. “Anyhow, I'd like to work on developing a more critical eye, so I can express my opinions about art better. I plan on running my own gallery one day.”

“Well, we will be doing a lot of discussions and critiques. All of you will be expected to articulate an opinion on what your peers are producing.”

Great. I imagine myself hanging up a bad drawing and standing there, blindfolded, like I'm in front of a firing squad. Ms. Kay was nice about not forcing our class to show pieces we weren't happy with. I have a sneaking suspicion Mr. Frank won't be as forgiving.

We continue to go around the room. The rest of the kids in my class seem average compared to Fiona and Robyn, which puts me just the smallest bit at ease. Most are from the East Coast, but one guy is from Arizona. There's a girl from Helsinki who speaks really bad English and I don't think anyone understands her answers.

I notice that Fiona looks a little bored while the other people talk. Not in a mean way, but where she kind of looks over your head because she's thinking about something more interesting than what you're saying. Robyn keeps leaning in and whispering things in Fiona's ear, jokes to get her attention.

When it's my turn, it's like I can't help but want to impress them, for whatever reason. But I also already know that's not going to happen.

My mouth opens. It's so dry. “My name is Emily Thompson. I'm from Cherry Grove.” That's the easy part. My smile fades and my mind goes as white as the paper up on my easel.

Mr. Frank clears his throat. “And why are you here?” He asks it not like he's interested in my answer, but more like he's feeding me lines I should already know.

Fiona glances at me, as she braids and unbraids her long pink waterfall of hair.

“Uhh …” All the answers that flood my head are ones I wouldn't dare speak out loud. That this is the only way I could come up with to make my summer less boring, because I don't have a boyfriend like my best friend. That art was the only high school class I got an A in. None of these seem like good enough answers, even if they are all true.

I end up shrugging my shoulders. It's the best I can do.

Almost instantly, Robyn leans into Fiona, pushing that long pink lock away from her ear so she can whisper something about me. Then Robyn laughs. Loud.