Same Difference (9780545477215) (24 page)

I
'm sad when it's time for lunch. Sad, but not lonely, because I don't really want to be around other people. So I don't go eat lunch with Adrian and Robyn when they ask.

But unlike when I used to take lunches by myself, now I'm not afraid to walk or wander. So that's just what I do, opting for the narrowest cobblestone side streets and alleyways, where houses sit but cars don't drive. I find peace and quiet in these secret little avenues. I like the way the uneven stones feel under my flip-flops, crooked and unsure, but also like a massage. I've worn my Havaianas so much now, they are molded to my feet. They know their place on me. They're sure of where they sit.

I walk east until I hit the river. Then I follow the bike path along the water, watching ducks swim by and cars drive by, where the city mashes into the country. It's like neither side wanted to give up, so they just called a truce.

I'm ready to call a truce.

And then I come upon the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It's not the grand, dramatic staircase at the front of the building. Instead, I've stumbled upon the much less majestic parking lot. It's half full. There are Dumpsters there. And trash on the ground. It's much more … approachable. So I approach. With caution, but also something else.

I think it might be excitement.

My pace changes, from meandering to purposeful. Even though my steps are quick and rushed, I still take the time to see what's on the walls, what colors jump at my eyes, the curves of carved stone, the undulations of a gilded frame that rivals the artwork it showcases.

I go back to Duchamp. To
The Waterfall
.

There are a few people inside the gallery. I stand next to the opening, not quite inside, as two old ladies rush through, lean forward, and gasp.

Their reaction momentarily breaks my courage, but it is only a hiccup because then they walk past me, shaking their heads and smiling.

Something good to be seen.

When I am in the room, the fear comes over me again, but this time it feels more euphoric than scary. Because with the worry of what is there, I realize I need to be brave enough to go and look for myself, to face the fears and not to run.

Six weeks ago, I was so scared. I'm still a bit that way, but now I'm more excited to see what's underneath when I strip everything else away. When it's just me.

I take slow, measured steps toward the dark wooden door. I press my face against the holes. This is one of the only pieces in the museum you can touch. I am touching art.

Fiona's voice rings in my ears. Duchamp didn't tell anyone about this work. He built it in secret, while everyone else thought he was retired. He didn't care what people thought of him, what they were going to say about his work.

I used to think that was why Fiona liked Duchamp so much. He was her badass equal.

Only, when I peek through the door, I see Duchamp
did
care. He cared so much that he took great pains to preserve this experience, to give it to people like me.

I stand there and stare through the door for what feels like forever. And then I leave, changed.

Fiona definitely got me to this moment. She opened my world up, for the better. And maybe the things that I thought were in her, the things I so desperately admired, are really in me.

But they can be in her, too. They must be, because she got me here. Instead of following her lead, I see now that we were on a journey together. Fiona helped me get to this point. I can't abandon her now, when she needs me the most and doesn't know how to ask for help.

Just as in your sketchbook, you never throw out a drawing. You have to learn from mistakes. I ruined things with Meg, deserted her when she needed me most. I have no idea how to fix things, or if they are even fixable at all. It's probably too late for that. But one thing I do know: I am not about to make the same mistake twice.

I
nstead of taking a cab from the museum, I follow her directions. Two buses and one train. It takes me almost an hour, but it isn't complicated. I enjoy the ride.

I get to her apartment and look up to her window, but I can't tell if anyone's inside. I go to the front door and check out the buzzers. Unfortunately, none of them are marked with names, and I don't remember Fiona's apartment number.

“Can I help you?” a woman says from behind me. She's struggling to carry three huge bags of pet food.

“Maybe,” I say. “I don't remember my friend's apartment number. Her name is Fiona Crawford.”

The woman gasps and drops a bag on the ground. It spills and a few tiny brown pellets fall on the sidewalk. “You must be Emily!” she says and sweeps me into a big hug.

When she pulls away, I recognize her from Fiona's perspective drawing. Fiona's mom has a few wrinkles around her eyes but she still looks kind of young. Maybe because her short, choppy hair is split into pigtails. It's sort of funky hair and jewelry for the outfit she's wearing — a bright blue polo shirt and khaki pants. On the pocket of her shirt, just above her chest, is a small cartoon of a googly-eyed pooch and bubble letters spelling
PETSMART
.

I guess I make a face, because Fiona's mom blushes. “I know. Isn't this the lamest thing ever? I hate these uniforms. But you have to pay the bills somehow.”

“Yeah,” I say and smile. But I'm totally confused.

Fiona's mom struggles to pick up the bag she's dropped. “I don't think Fiona's home, unfortunately. But would you mind helping me bring this upstairs? I can't manage on my own, not without a birdseed trail.”

I take a bag into my arms.

“Did Fiona go to class today?” Ms. Crawford asks.

I don't know what to say. “I'm not sure. I didn't go.”

“Oh.” She shakes her head and fumbles for her keys. “She was pretty upset all weekend long, but of course she wouldn't tell me what was wrong. You know how defensive Fiona gets.”

I carry the stuff into the living room. And because there's all this awkward silence, I say, “I love your paintings,” gesturing to the ones on the wall.

“Oh, those? God, they are so embarrassing. Fiona found those under my bed and insisted we hang them down here. She's always trying to get me inspired to work again. It's sweet, but I haven't painted in so long.”

“Really?”

“I know — it's terrible. I wish I was as passionate as Fiona. She has the drive to make something of herself. She always says I'm too good to be working at PetSmart. Maybe she's right, I don't know. At any rate, I should have had a better backup plan for us, to get our bills paid. Fiona always says she's going to be famous someday, and then I'll never have to struggle again.”

I swallow, because I don't really know what to say. “Can I just leave her a note upstairs?”

“Sure.”

I walk up to Fiona's room. It feels like trespassing. I stand in front of that Andy Warhol poster and think about the altered quote, and why Fiona wants so badly to be famous. Maybe it's to save her mom. Or maybe she thinks that if she's not good enough, she'll have nothing but PetSmart.

But she doesn't have to be afraid, to rely on her old tricks. Fiona has what it takes. I know she does. She just has to keep moving forward.

I leave Adrian's comic on her bed. And I write her a note on a scrap of my old wallpaper.

I write on it that I looked through the door.

I write that I get it.

I write that I get her, too.

M
om comes in my room without knocking. It's early, so she opens the door slow and smooth, careful not to cause any dream-shattering squeaks from the hinges. She cranes her neck around the door and looks around my room, equally cautious, as if some booby trap might be sprung and her head sliced off by a DIY guillotine. Her eyes settle on me — sitting up in bed, arms folded, staring her down.

“Oh! Emily!” She puts a hand to her chest. “I thought you'd be sleeping.”

“Nope.” The truth is, I haven't slept all night. Nerves, fear, and anxiety kept me spinning. As tired as I was, I couldn't relax thinking about what might happen tonight. I'd try to shut my eyes, but they'd spring back open, like two like magnets pressed together.

“Well, good. I've got a surprise for you. I've made us all appointments at the salon, so we can get our hair and nails done. Why don't you go ahead and get dressed and we can stop at the Starbucks on our way over and grab some croissants.”

I pull the covers up to my chin. “Why would you do that?”

“I thought you'd want to look extrafancy for your big gallery show. You know, have your hair curled or blown out. Maybe we could get it done half up.” She reaches out to touch me.

I lean back as far as my feathered pillows will let me. “It's not prom, Mom. And I'm tired of letting you stand behind the chair and tell the stylist how my hair should look. It's my hair and I'll do what I want with it.”

“I thought you liked my help! We always have fun looking through the magazines together.” I shake my head and her wide, toothy smile falls. “Fine. Then get your split ends trimmed and choose clear nail polish. But you are coming with us.” Mom takes a deep breath to calm herself down. “Do you know if we're driving Meg with us tonight, or if her boyfriend will be taking her to the gallery show?”

“Meg's not coming.”

“What?”

“I never told her about the show. And anyhow, we're not even friends anymore.” I say the last part like I don't care, because I want my mom to be upset.

Mom scratches along her hairline with a polished fingernail. “I don't understand. You and Meg have been inseparable for years. And you're just going to throw that away? Just because you made a new friend in Philadelphia?”

“It's not just me throwing it away, Mom. But thanks for assuming it's all my fault. You don't know anything about my life, so I wish you'd just stay out of it.”

Mom lets loose a laugh. “How can I stay out of it when you won't let me in? You barely even talk to me anymore.”

“Of course I don't. It's obvious that you don't like the way I've been changing, Mom. But just so you know, this isn't some phase. I'm not going to go back to the girl I was. I know you don't want to accept it, but I have. And I'm sorry Meg and I aren't so close anymore. But it happens, okay? It happens all the time. Friends stop being friends. It's no big deal.”

“Okay. Okay. I'll admit, it has been hard for me to understand you, Emily. When I look at you, I see a stranger.” Her voice is tight, and the words pop from her lips like jabs. “And not only because you've changed your room or your clothes, but because you're no longer acting like my daughter, or acting like Claire's big sister.”

“What does Claire have to do with it?”

Mom looks at me like I'm crazy. “Do you really have zero idea how nervous she is about high school?”

“Please.” I roll my eyes. I may have let down Meg, but what could be wrong with Claire? “Claire's going to be fine. She's got the perfect role model right next door.”

“Claire doesn't want to be like Meg,” Mom says. “She's begging me to take her out and buy her a pair of those chessboard sneakers. She wants to be like you, Emily. Have you seen her soccer ball?”

“What?”

Instead of answering my question, Mom stands up. “I know you think you're so different, Emily. But Claire is more like you than you realize.” Her eyes water and it takes me by surprise. “Both my girls have been blessed with all the beauty, potential, and talent in the world, and yet both of you have some kind of gap in your brains that keeps you from ever truly realizing how special you are. Anyhow, you should take a look sometime, when you're not so consumed with yourself.”

I get up out of bed and walk across the hall and into Claire's room without knocking.

“Hey!” she says from her bed. She's watching Nickelodeon. In her pajamas and her big yellow comforter, with her hair all dented and matted, she looks like a little kid.

I step around the trophies and the piles of toys and clothes until I see her soccer ball. In every single panel, she's drawn something. Some are just basic stuff — like a star, or her name. But she's also drawn a really nice soccer player. I mean, it's a little cartoonish, but the proportions are all there.

“Claire!”

“What?”

“This is so good.”

She sits up. “Really?”

“Really.” I throw it at her. It goes way over her head, higher than I plan it to, but Claire has no problem catching it.

“Come on. Get dressed. Mom's taking us to the salon.”

“Updos!” my mom calls from behind us.

“Noooo,” Claire says. “I hate getting my hair done.”

“I'm not getting an updo,” I say, and duck my head down so I can see my reflection in her vanity. “But I do think it's time for a change.”