Same Difference (9780545477215) (25 page)

I
don't stay long in the front gallery, where my piece hangs with blue ribbon distinction in its very own spotlight in the window. Instead I stand in the very back of the room and center myself where Fiona's piece should be hanging. People shuffle easily around me, like I'm a piece of sculpture. I fill the gap between a comic-book panel bursting with steroidal superheroes and a cracked water pitcher still life done in oils that still smells of turpentine.

“Hey, Emily.” Robyn saunters over. Her parents stand right behind her — two sharp-looking older people, slightly androgynous, slightly bored.

“You leaving?” I ask. This night has been full of good-byes, of friends hugging and exchanging numbers and tears. Mostly I've watched from across the room.

“Yeah.” She pauses, and an awkward, embarrassed look comes over her face.

I think Robyn and I both know that we are on different paths. I'm still not sure about art school next year, and Robyn isn't planning to go to college. Sure, I've had some okay memories that I'll keep of Robyn. She's played a small part in who I've become. But there's not really anything else to hold on to. So I let go.

We hug. Briefly.

“Look me up if you're ever in New York.”

“Same for you, if you're in Cherry Grove,” I say with a grin.

I spot my parents near the refreshment table. Mom looks gorgeous in a tangerine dress, and Dad looks dapper in his suit. They've taken about a million pictures of me tonight, which is sweet. They were really impressed, and there's been this look across both their faces like they are suddenly starting to get me. I guess tonight was a way for me to let them back in. Their weird kid suddenly makes sense. Aha.

Claire especially. I've been following her with my eyes, her and her new stripes of white-blond highlights, the tamer version of my new hair color. She's literally running around the room, taking everything in with a huge smile on her face. It makes me feel warm inside.

But I feel disappointment, too, heavy inside my stomach. I really hoped that Fiona would have shown up. Especially after my note and Adrian's comic. Maybe she didn't even see it, in her mess of a room. Or maybe she did, and she just doesn't care. Maybe there's no bringing her back. Still, I keep watching the entrance, and the people who lazily meander through the doors looking for air-conditioned escape from the steamy pavement outside the glass. I keep waiting for her big show to start.

Adrian does, too. He started tonight with a big, expectant smile. I've watched it wane like the moon into the smallest sliver as the night's gone on. His hope has been all but eclipsed by the reality that she's not coming.

There's a tap on my shoulder.

I spin around, expecting Fiona. But Meg is the person I actually see, standing in front of me in a pair of white linen trouser pants, silver sandals, and an emerald-green silk tank.

“Hi!” The word falls out of my mouth.

She takes me in with squinty, suspicious eyes. “I wouldn't have recognized you if Claire hadn't tipped me off,” she says. She gently takes a lock of my newly white-blond hair into her fingers and rubs them together. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You know, I always wished my hair was this color. I don't know what was stopping me.” I push my bangs off my face, still surprised by their existence. Aside from the dye job and bangs, I also got about three inches cut off, so that the piecey ends barely graze my shoulders. Everyone at the salon was freaking out over me and Claire, side by side in the chairs. I think Mom was nervous at first, letting us call the shots, but as the stylists
ooh
ed and
aah
ed over us, she relaxed. There were practically fights between them as to who'd get to do our hair. And when I finally saw myself in the mirror, it really did look like the me I've always wanted to be.

“So … your mom called my mom and told her about the art show.”

I look across the room. My mom waves and pops a cheese cube in her mouth. “I told her not to do that,” I say. But I smile. Because I'm glad she did.

“It didn't have to be this big conspiracy.” Meg shrugs her shoulders. “I was hurt you didn't invite me yourself, but I wanted to be here for you anyway.”

I feel like such a jerk. I haven't even thought much about Meg since our fight. And here she is, to support me.

“Is Rick with you?”

“No. I left him at home.”

“Are things … okay with you guys?”

“Things are fine. I told him not to come because tonight is about you. I think it'll be better for us that I do some things separate from him. But … I do love him, Emily. I know you don't think he's good enough, but he's a great guy. And yeah, I was scared and all that to” — she looks over her shoulders to make sure my parents aren't nearby — “
you know
, and it would have helped to talk to you about it. Honestly, I still don't know if I made the right decision. Even though you weren't there for me then, I need you to support me now.”

I think about how brave it was for Rick to call me on what I was doing that day on my front lawn. How upset he was over the fact that Meg was hurting, and how I wasn't helping. “I was jealous of him, Meg. I'm sorry. He is a great guy. And he loves you like crazy.”

Meg smiles.

“What about your new boyfriend? Is he here?”

I drop my head back and stare at the ceiling. “No.”

“I'm sorry.”

She touches my hair again. “You look so different.”

“No, I don't. I still look like me.”

She smiles. “I guess you're right.”

“I feel like we've both been afraid to deal with how things have changed. And they
have
changed. But that's what happens in life, right? And we just have to roll with it.”

I get it — friendships take work. They just do. And by Meg showing up for me tonight, she's proven to me that she's willing to give things a shot if I will. That she really does care about me, whoever I've become, like a true best friend.

“Exactly,” Meg says with a decisive nod. She loops her arm through mine. “So, where is your piece?”

“It's up here.” I walk her over to the front gallery. We both stare up at my self-portrait.

“It's beautiful,” Meg says, her voice quivering. She gives me a tender squeeze.

I feel a surge of pride run through me, for the piece, for me, for Meg, for everything. “Thank you.”

M
eg beeps three times. Her new convertible's horn is cheery and tart and all too perfect.

“Let's go, Claire!” I call out as I shove my books inside my bag, gather a few bobby pins from my dresser, and tuck my makeup bag under my arm. Even though school started two weeks ago, I'm still not used to getting up early. I'm not even really awake until third period.

The front door opens and closes. I lean out my window. Claire sprints down the front walk toward Meg's car on her tiptoes, soccer bag slung over one arm, book bag over the other. She climbs in the back. Shotgun is left vacant for me.

Claire's so happy to ride to school with us, instead of having Mom drive her. It's sweet. She even offers to give Meg money for gas, which of course Meg refuses. But I sort of get how even a ride to school can feel like an anchor sometimes. Like, no matter how many people talk to you in a day, or don't talk to you, you still have a ride.

I step outside and the chilly air tightens the skin on my bare arms. Summer has ended all too quickly, and some of the leaves on the trees have already started to burn with the colors of fall. Fall colors are funny. They're so bright and intense and beautiful. It's like nature is trying to fill you up with color, to saturate you so you can stockpile it before winter turns everything muted and dreary.

“This stinks,” Meg says. She drops her head back against the leather headrest and stares up at the black cloth roof. “I've had my convertible for two whole weeks now, and there hasn't been one day nice enough to have the top down!”

“At least you have your license,” I remind her. “I've still got another three weeks to wait. Anyhow, I don't think I'm getting a car. So it's not like it even matters.” I'm not complaining or anything. It's fine if I don't.

“What? You are so getting a car,” Claire says. “I heard Mom and Dad talking about it.”

I spin around in my seat. “Really?”

“Mmm-hmm. And, I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but they're talking to some guy who deals with classic cars. I think they're trying to get you something
cool
.”

I feel my insides light up. I'm totally surprised that my parents have thought about this, and that they'd be cool letting me drive something that wasn't brand-new and safe and with a million airbags. It would be awesome to have a classic car, like an old VW Bug or some weird little import in a funny shape and color. Whenever you see cars like that on the road, you feel happy. People point and smile. They stick out in a good way.

I can't wait to tell —

I turn back around and sigh. This exciting development is diluted with the reminder that Fiona's not really in my life anymore. She'd probably flip, over a car like that. I wonder when this empty feeling will go away, if ever. The instant reflex kind of thing that happens whenever I see something cool. Something inspiring. And I think about her. I always think about her.

“Your mom really seems to have come around,” Meg says.

“Pretty much,” I say and smile. I flip down the visor. The white blond has softened over the last few weeks and my roots have started to grow back in, but I actually think the contrast makes it look better. Soon I'll have to make a decision to dye it platinum again, or try something new. I'm still not sure.

Meg pulls into an empty parking space next to Rick's truck — it's new, it's huge, and it's very shiny. Rick steps out in a navy fleece pullover and pulls Meg into a bear hug.

“Hey, Emily,” he says over her shoulder.

I say hi back. A twinkle catches my attention — for her birthday, Rick bought Meg a thin gold ring that loops into a tiny heart. Even though it's on her right hand right now, sometimes I catch Meg wearing it on her left. It looks suspiciously to me like a promise ring, but Meg insists it's only a
ring
ring.

Meg's mentioned a few times how nervous Rick is for this year, and how he can be cheering her on about her SAT study prep one second and then act weird about her going away to Trenton State the next. Meg's not sure what's going to happen, and I haven't pressed her to talk about it. Even though we're back to being friends, Rick is still kind of a weird subject with us, even as much as we hoped it wouldn't be. But she knows I'm behind her no matter what.

“I'll see you later,” I tell Meg.

“Salad bar lunch?” Meg says.

“Great.” Since we're seniors now, Meg and I are allowed off campus for lunch. There's a new salad café that's opened up on Main Street. Meg and I have been going every day. Each time, we try a new dressing. They have, like, a million different kinds there. So far, my favorite is Vidalia onion, and Meg's is ranch. Both of us are afraid to try the blue cheese.

It's a new little routine. We hardly ever go to Starbucks anymore.

“Okay! Bye, Claire!”

Claire and I head toward the front doors of school. “So, you have a game tonight?”

“Yeah. Can you come?”

“Sure.”

A bunch of freshman girls walk by Claire and pull her along with them. They all say hi to me. I'm the big, cool older sister. I kind of love it.

I walk into school alone, past the kids who sit underneath the tree. They look less weird to me now. I smile at them. Breaking the ice. It takes a while, but we're definitely getting our melt on.

The next twenty minutes are mundane and routine. Homeroom. Bell. Lockers. Bell. First Period. So it goes and goes.

School has only been in session for two weeks, and I am already totally lost in my first period Pre-Calc class. Maybe because I don't ever pay attention. Instead, I doodle in my sketchbook, camouflaged inside my notebook. Drawing has become like coffee for me — I feel like I'm not really awake or alive unless I do it.

This sketchbook isn't like the one I had for Mr. Frank's class. The paper is a little thicker, like cardstock, and the pages are all perforated. They are meant to be ripped out.

This morning, I draw Mrs. Dernelle's coffee cup, perched precariously close to the edge of her desk. The rim of white ceramic is covered in several half circles of coral lipstick, snaked with little tiny lines from the dryness of her lips. Like fingerprints. It takes most of the period. When I'm done, I rip the sheet out, flip to the backside, and address it like a postcard.

I've been sending drawings to Fiona in the mail since the night of the gallery show. Drawings of everything — sketches like this, people, places, funny bits of conversation, Claire's dirty soccer cleats. Sometimes I don't send any for a few days, sometimes it's a big stack all at once.

I want to encourage her, to show her that I haven't gone back to the old Emily, and she doesn't have to go back to the old Fiona. We can both move forward, so long as we keep drawing and not giving a crap what everyone else says. I keep waiting to hear something. But so far, silence.

 

When I get home from school, Mom says, “You got an interesting piece of mail today.” She looks a little confused, flipping a glossy white square over and over in her hands.

My heart surges. Is it Fiona?

She hands me a postcard. My face, the painting Yates did of me, is on the front.

It's an invitation to his First Friday gallery show.