Same Difference (9780545477215) (15 page)

F
iona does my makeup for the concert. I've got my back turned to her mirror, so I can't see how it looks, but I'm freaked out by the tiny pot of black eye shadow she's got cupped in her hand, and the fact that she's dabbing her finger underneath my lids instead of on top, like normal.

“So, in my Performance Art class today, my teacher taught us how to make moss graffiti using yogurt. It was so awesome.” Fiona steps back to admire her work and smiles. I guess that's a good sign. “How was Mixed Media? I didn't see you at lunch.”

“I kind of lost track of time.” Hanna and Charlotte want everyone in class to build a library of interesting images that we can draw from when we make collages. I stayed in the studio all afternoon, looking through a stack of musty, cloth-covered books and old Sears catalogs for interesting pictures. I found some cool stuff, like a diagram of a heart from an old medical textbook. When I saw the picture, my stomach tingled. A heart waits to be pasted on a sleeve. “What did you guys do last night?”

“Ugh, it was a total bust. I let Robyn pick some foreign movie playing at the Ritz Five, and of course we were all bored out of our minds. Adrian and I played hangman by cell phone light, using chalk on the back of the seats. We switched seats for every new game, and covered practically the whole theater. He's extremely good at hangman. I don't think he died once.”

“Adrian loves you,” I say.

Fiona looks down at the floor. “He's sweet. But he's not my type at all.”

I'm surprised. Fiona definitely likes attention, and Adrian would give her lots of it. “What's your type?”

“Yates,” she says, and laughs. “I mean, he's talented, he's hot. We get what each other is trying to do, you know? And anyhow, Adrian and I could never work. He's too … safe. And what good is a summer romance with a guy who lives across the country? At least if Yates and I hooked up, it'd be like a real relationship that could last all through the school year. Then I could spend my senior year hanging out with him at Space Invaded instead of at my sucky high school.” Fiona's so matter-of-fact here, it takes me by surprise. She's looking for an escape, too. “But anyway, I'm really going to go for it tonight. Mark my words, Yates and I are totally smooching.”

Poor Adrian.

“Anyhow …” Fiona digs in a shoe box for some red lipstick. “Can I just say that I'm kind of over Robyn. I mean, she thinks she's, like, the expert on everything just because her parents run a gallery. Honestly, I can barely stand her bragging.”

It's funny. I see it more from Robyn's side. I mean, she only says the stuff she does to impress Fiona. And it's not like she's making things up to look cool. It's her real life. But the more she does it, the more Fiona pulls away from her. Not that I mind.

I say, “When I first saw you and Robyn together, I thought you guys looked like you were meant to be friends. I never thought that we'd be friends.”

“Yeah. I didn't, either. But it's way more fun to hang around with someone like you, someone who doesn't really know anything. It's like this place gets to be new to me because I'm showing it to you. Seriously, before this summer, I was kind of over Philadelphia and I was burnt-out on art, too. But now I'm all inspired again, partly thanks to you. You've given me fresh eyes.” She perches herself on top of a pile of clothes on the bed and struggles to do the tiny buckle on a pair of black heels. “I was thinking … maybe I could come to your house this weekend for a sleepover. I want to see what this weird little town of Cherry Grove is like. I loved your last sketchbook piece. It got me thinking I needed to experience your life for myself.”

“Are you sure?” I'm surprised. I didn't think someone like Fiona would willingly step foot in the suburbs. After all, she's always making jokes about how I need to be decontaminated. Cherry Grove is this thing about me that Fiona forgives, because it's not my fault. But it's also not something she likes about me.

But Fiona's lighting up like it's the best idea ever. “Seriously, it'll be so much fun. We could run around and do dumb stuff like go to the mall and the Applebee's and make fun of everything.”

I shake my head. “You don't really want to do that.”

“I do! I want to see where you come from.” She sounds hurt, as she lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling. “I mean, you've been to my house like a million times already.”

I've only been here twice, but I don't say that. Fiona's been awesome about keeping me included and showing me things from her life. It's just that nothing at home seems worth sharing with her. And what am I going to do about Meg? Maybe I could introduce them, but I don't think so. Meg would probably be sweet and friendly, if not overly so, to cover the fact that she didn't understand why I'd be friends with someone like Fiona. And Fiona would think Meg is super corny.

But it might be cool to have Fiona come and shake up Cherry Grove in a way that I can't. Hearing her take on things could give me more confidence to go my own way, some validation to save up for September.

“I'm warning you, I doubt you'll have a good time.”

Fiona laughs off my concern as she jumps up and wriggles her way into a white tank dress. “I'll have a good time. I always have a good time.”

I spin around to check my makeup. Hollow black circles are painted under my eyes, and face powder dulls what little summer tan I've managed to accrue. I look like I'm dead. Dead, but with red lipstick, put on like an old lady who can't see herself in the mirror anymore.

I'm about to say something, but Fiona nudges me out of the way of the mirror and wipes some black eye shadow under her own eyes. I guess she sees the confusion on my face because she says, “Don't worry, Emily. I checked out the Romero band website and this is exactly how we should look.”

“Okay,” I say, and watch as she cuts some holes in her dress, and then approaches me with the scissors. “If you say so.”

W
e take a cab to the Electric Factory — a humongous old building converted into a concert space, just underneath the Ben Franklin Bridge. The parking lot is packed with kids and showgoers, singing lyrics along with car stereos to songs I don't know. Fiona loops her arm through mine and takes off toward the entrance. No one else has makeup done like ours. More than a few people turn and stare at us. Fiona throws her shoulders back. She really does relish the attention. But I don't know if I'll ever get used to it. In some ways, it's nice to be invisible.

“Are we meeting Robyn and Adrian inside?” I ask. I have no idea how that'll happen. Considering the size of the crowd outside, the place must be packed. I had thought that we would pick up Adrian and Robyn in the taxi, but Fiona gave the directions to the driver, and we sped right past Broad Street, where the dorms are.

Fiona threads her fingers into mine and squeezes. “Come on. Let's see if we can find Yates.”

We go inside and it's not nearly as crowded as I thought it would be. “Where is everyone?”

“Romero is the opening band, and most people don't give a shit about the opening band. In a couple of months, when they make it big, all these people will be crowding to the stage. It's ridiculous, how people judge talent. Or, rather, don't judge. They just default to what everyone else thinks.”

The room is a huge raw rectangle, with a small balcony hanging over the right side. Speakers and lights dangle from the ceiling. An old crackly jazz song plays quietly through the space, dulling the voices of the people mingling and moving around for a good spot near the stage. There's a bar in the back, and a folding table where a guy in tight jeans and a beanie sells T-shirts and CDs. Fiona walks toward the stage door.

Every time someone walks out, Fiona cranes her neck and rises on her tiptoes to see inside. But there's no sign of Yates. Just a lot of burly-looking roadies and scantily clad girls in little camis and skirts. They look delicate and feminine, the exact opposite of us.

After a few minutes, the lights dim. The place is still barely half full. It all feels pretty anticlimactic.

Still, when I went to that summer radio concert last year with Meg on the Jersey Shore, we didn't even bother going until the headliners would start … about three hours after the official concert start time. But the bad thing was we were stuck way out on the lawn. You couldn't even see the bands play unless you looked at the JumboTron. They looked like tiny specks.

This place is much smaller, and it definitely changes the energy. About forty kids have gathered at the foot of the stage, anxiously staring up at a black velvet curtain, waiting for the show to begin. People with weird makeup and torn clothes, just like us. They don't care at all that the place isn't packed.

“Let's see how close we can get!” Fiona says.

I'm about to suggest we stay where we are and wait for Robyn and Adrian, but Fiona takes my hand and pulls me through. It looks like a wall of people standing shoulder to shoulder, but somehow Fiona manages to sneak and snake her way until we are right at the stage's edge. It's about as high as where my ribs start. A few people give us the stink eye, but everyone makes room for us. The lights go completely dark. Feet stir around just under the edge of where the curtain skims the stage.

“Oh my God, we are so close!” I shout.

“This is going to be awesome!” Fiona shouts back.

A bass guitar strums out a low, fast beat. The people behind me start to growl at the curtain. Growl? I look at Fiona, embarrassed and caught off guard. She laughs and growls right in my face.

I turn and look over the five rows of people standing behind me. The rest of the place is empty, uninterested people waiting for the headliner, mingling toward the back of the venue. At least if Robyn and Adrian come in late, they'll figure out where we are pretty easily.

And then, I turn back around, take a deep breath, and growl. I growl, and I don't even know what for, but I growl. Though I think it might sound more like a purr. Fiona takes my hand and starts jumping up and down to the strumming beat, growling super loud. I let her bounce me along with her, and soon my growl grows so loud and low that I can feel my throat start to hurt in the best way.

The curtain lifts and the stage is empty, except for the drum set.

The strumming continues from some unseen place, thumping like a fast heartbeat. I look left and right for the source, for the hiding guitar player, but all I see are three muscular shirtless boys struggling with a pulley offstage. And then a large plywood helicopter is lowered from the stage. It's like a prop from a low-budget movie — hokey, but that's the point, I think. The crowd goes absolutely crazy for it.

Inside the helicopter are the band members — five adorable punk-looking boys with guitars, a keyboard, and a set of drumsticks attached to them like weapons. When the helicopter crashes to the stage floor, they climb out and survey the crowd.

The crowd's growling intensifies. People throw their arms up and shuffle forward, pressing into my back, pushing me closer and closer into the stage until I worry that I might actually be crushed to death.

“What's going on?” I shout at Fiona. I spread my legs and try to anchor myself against the surge.

“It's punk theater!” she screams back.

The lead singer commandeers the microphone — a tall skinny boy with white-blond hair, dressed in head-to-toe camouflage. “Get back, zombies!” he screams. And then the band puts on their “weapons” and, after a speedy countdown of
“three two one”
tapped out on drumsticks, they rock intensely. And by that, I mean Romero makes the most insane, fast-paced, hardcore music that I've ever heard in my life.

Everyone around us begins to dance and thrash like wild. I'm nervous at first, but then I let the whole thing take control of me and shake along with it (the music) and them (the crowd zombies), until I'm spinning and jumping and generally just freaking out. Fiona grabs me and we smile and scream in each other's faces, and even though I'm supposed to be dead, I'm more alive than ever.

Four songs into the set, I am dripping with sweat. In the quiet space between one song ending and another beginning, I long for more. The lead singer announces that this is the last song and everyone
aww
s. A hand taps my shoulder and I turn around. Robyn is standing behind me, totally pissed off. Adrian lurks in the background behind her, trying his best not to get pulled into a pit of pogo-ing zombies.

“Why didn't you pick us up?” Robyn says to me. Her hands are shaking.

“Umm …” I tap Fiona for her, because she's just out of Robyn's reach.

“Hey,” Fiona says, and turns back toward the stage.

Robyn leans in past me and grabs at Fiona's shoulder. “What the hell? Why didn't you come pick us up?”

“I thought we were meeting here,” Fiona says.

I think Fiona's lying about that, but I don't say anything.

“Don't you check your phone?” Robyn says.

The finale gets started. Everyone is dancing. Everyone but the four of us. I understand why Robyn is upset, but I hate her for stealing this last song from me. I don't even have her cell phone number, so what do I have to do with these messed-up plans? Fiona holds her cell up to her ear in the noise and shrugs, like,
How am I supposed to hear that?

Robyn shakes her head and storms off with Adrian.

I feel bad, because I know exactly what's going on. The unwanted feeling. So I chase after them. Fiona follows me, grudgingly. Robyn stands over by the wall, arms folded. Adrian is right next to her.

Fiona cozies up to him. “Do you hate me as much as Robyn does?”

“I don't care,” Adrian says, in a long, slow drawl that shows he obviously cares. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his shorts. He doesn't want to melt. And in a way, I kind of don't want him to melt, either. I know Fiona has no intention of making out with him tonight. She's after Yates. I feel a bit bad that she's essentially leading Adrian on, flirting with him so that he won't be mad at her anymore.

“Listen, I'm sorry that plans got messed up. We can still have a good time.” Fiona throws her hand up for a high five. When neither Adrian or Robyn slaps her back, she slaps her own hand. Hard and annoyed. “Fine, whatever. Let's just go.”

I can't believe Fiona's going to leave without seeing Yates first. I know she doesn't want to, but I'm glad she offers.

The last song ends, the crowd cheers. When the lights go up, and the zombie people go back to being normal again, Yates appears at the stage door. “Hey, guys!” he calls out. He waves four yellow plastic wristbands in his hand. “Do you want to come backstage?”

Any sympathy that Fiona might have had for Robyn and Adrian vanishes from her face. “Hells yeah, we do!” Fiona says. She strips her arm from around Adrian and skips toward the door.

The opportunity seems to rid Robyn of most her gloom, though Adrian seems more skeptical. We all follow Fiona anyhow.

The backstage area is much less glamorous than I imagined it would be. It's just a windowless room no bigger than our classroom. The boys from the band are there, stripping down to their underwear and changing into dry clothes. A battered leather couch is shoved against a wall, next to a cooler filled with beer. I decide not to take one even though my throat is raw from growling. I feel uncomfortable drinking in front of Yates, since he's still our teacher and all. But Fiona helps herself without asking.

“So, you made that helicopter?” she asks Yates, cracking a beer open. “It was so rad!”

I'm impressed, too. Yates, the same guy who makes those incredible photo-paintings, can also make a helicopter prop for a punk band.

Yates's face tightens for a second, but then he turns his back to Fiona and looks more relaxed. “Yeah. I guess I'm Romero's resident special effects guy.” He looks at me, sitting on the couch. “Did you guys like the show?”

“What I saw of it was cool,” Adrian says, and shoots Fiona a glare.

“Does Romero ever have shows in New York?” Robyn asks the band. “It's too bad CBGB closed, because I could see you guys playing there. My friend's dad owns a couple of bars on the Lower East Side. Maybe he could book you some shows.” The lead singer breaks off and starts talking to Robyn, near the door. I watch Fiona watching them, her lip curling a little.

“What did you like best about the show?” Yates asks me.

I feel put on the spot, like I'm in class or something. “I don't know … everything?” I say, and then fall onto the couch.

“Come on,” Yates says, smiling at me. “When I first saw these guys, I didn't know whether to rock out or run screaming. So, tell me. I want to know what you think.”

“She loved it,” Fiona says. Then she drops into my lap like a kid and kisses me on the cheek. “But you should have seen how freaked out she was when I was doing her makeup. She had absolutely no idea what Romero meant.”

Fiona's laughter rings in my ears. My face gets hot. She's right. I don't know what it means, and I'm definitely not going to ask now, now that I've been called out in front of everyone. I know Fiona thinks it's cute how much I don't know, but in front of everyone else, it's incredibly embarrassing.

Yates sits down next to me. “I had no idea, either, Emily, so don't feel bad. But the band is named after George Romero, director of those creepy
Night of the Living Dead
zombie movies. I could get you a CD if you wanted. All of you,” he says, even though he's only looking at me.

I manage a thin smile. “Thanks.”

We all hang out for a while longer, talking while some music execs drop by to chat with Romero, and then everyone goes to the wing of the stage to watch the headliner band perform. They're good, but no Romero. None of the fans are dancing or anything. They just stand there, rocking ever so gently to the beat. The music is quiet and pretty, but too measured.

Even though I keep my eyes on the band, I can still tell that Yates is looking at me. And Fiona's on my other side, watching him. It makes me insanely uncomfortable. I wish I could just disappear. I don't understand why Yates isn't paying more attention to Fiona. She can get nasty when someone takes her spotlight. I've seen it firsthand with Robyn. I don't want her anger to move over to me.

After a while, Robyn, Fiona, and I leave to use the bathroom. Even though the room is lit with red lightbulbs and the mirror is dirty and cracked, I can still see that my makeup has run all over my face from the sweat. I rip a length of rough brown paper towel from out of the dispenser and wet it under the faucet.

“I think Yates likes you,” Robyn teases as she perches herself up on the sink next to me.

Fiona goes inside an empty stall and shuts the door fast.

I give Robyn as hard a look as I can. “He does not.”

“I'm serious! I keep catching him staring at you. You can't tell me you don't feel it.” Her head dips back and she smacks her forehead. “I mean, he's been flirting with you ever since that first day of class. Remember?”

I close my eyes and splash water over my face. “No,” I say. And then, “You're wrong.” I make my voice as defiant and stern as possible, so Robyn shuts up and Fiona knows that I am not asking for any of this.

The stall door swings open without the sound of a flush. Fiona walks to the sink and washes marker ink from her hand. In the mirror I see the outline of the toilet drawn on the side of the stall door. “Robyn's right,” she says. “He likes you.” Her voice sounds surprisingly even.

I feel like I've unintentionally betrayed her.

“Don't look so sad,” Fiona says, in that Big Sister voice.

“But —”

“Yates isn't my type. He's too … introverted. I mean, can he speak in a normal voice, or does he always have to mumble like that? And sure his work is cool, but he's also a huge suck-up. He's so afraid to break the rules, he barely wants to be seen with us. Come on, dude. It's not that big a deal. No one's going to tattle on you. Live a little.”