Same Difference (9780545477215) (26 page)

I
don't feel steady on my feet, and it's not just because I'm in heels.

Yates's solo show is not at Space Invaded. It's at one of the more traditional galleries. There's wine, there are hors d'oeuvres on silver platters — little pieces of barbecued salmon, tempura asparagus rolls.

It's hard to squeeze through the door, there are so many people inside, from old patrons dripping in furs to the guys in Romero. The glass windows are fogged with body heat. I see Mr. Frank across the room, debating something with a crowd of interested people.

When I step into the gallery, the first thing I see is my own portrait, hanging on the first big wall of the gallery. People around me do double takes as I step closer. I don't exactly look the same, with my white-blond hair and my lacy black cocktail dress, but they still recognize me.

The rest of the walls are filled with similar portraits, done with people young and old. Tattooed punks and old homeless men all masked with a beautiful Victorian, classical face, stripping them of the pretenses of how we might view them or judge them in their normal environment. And then there's Yates himself, a portrait of him holding up his license. I lean in close. It says Leonard Jones on the license, but the painting is still signed
Yates.

Yates hangs near a side door, which has been propped open for air. His eyes scan the room, sweeping left to right and back again. I feel them about to hit me and my whole body tenses up. I don't know if I have the courage to see him and talk to him again. But I guess it's a little too late for that.

He edges his way through the crowd. He's got on a black shirt, black pants, and a skinny white tie.

“You came,” he says. He smiles so wide, it looks painful.

He reaches for my hands. I let him take them. “Yeah.” I can feel myself starting to break, even though I want to be strong. “I've missed you.”

“You have no idea,” Yates says. He looks around and says, “Come over here so we can talk.”

He leads me through the gallery. People try to pull him away into other conversations or ask questions about his process, but he smiles them all off.

“Listen,” I say when we reach the far corner. “I want to apologize for what happened the last time we talked. I was being totally selfish. You were right to be mad at me. I screwed everything up.”

Yates shakes his head. “Emily, I was never mad at you. It was more like I was mad at myself. I hated letting you walk out of that room. It killed me. I've barely left my studio this whole month. I've been hanging out with your portrait.”

“Really?” I've been doing the same thing with one of the sketches I did of Yates at the baseball game. I stare at it all the time.

“Yeah. When you left, I realized exactly what I was letting go of. I had this beautiful painting of this beautiful person that I was afraid to show Mr. Frank because it revealed something about who
I
really was. Or, rather, I felt like it exposed what I was holding on to. Which was basically an act. You were my muse.” He smiles crookedly, knowing how funny that sounds. “I let you walk away. And it wasn't even your fault that Fiona told.”

“Yeah,” I say, suddenly sad. “I know it wasn't. But I've forgiven her for it. There was a lot about Fiona that I didn't know, but I understand it. It's easier to play a part sometimes than to become the you that you're really supposed to be. I get that now, but I also know I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for her.”

“Do you still talk to her?”

“No. I haven't seen her since the day she told. I've been trying to keep in touch, but she hasn't ever returned my calls or answered my letters.”

“You're a good friend, Emily.”

It feels so nice to hear that. “Thanks.”

“How've you been? You look amazing. I love your hair.” He combs a strand so it sits behind my ear.

“I've been okay. I already have senioritis.”

“Have you thought much about colleges yet?” He has this hopeful look on his face. “We could be here together next year.”

“I've thought about it,” I say. Actually, I've thought about little else.

Yates and I spend the rest of the night talking in that corner, like it's just the two of us. It feels so good to see him, to be back in Philly again.

When it's time for me to catch my train, he walks me out of the gallery.

“So, can I call you?” he asks.

I say, “I'd like that.”

He leans in and kisses me slow and soft on my cheek, and lets his lips stay there like he wished we could kiss forever.

The night is still young when I walk out the door, and the wind bites my bare shoulders. The noise inside the gallery pours onto the street in the way that makes your heart race. Things are happening.

Two steps later, I freeze.

On the street in front of me is pink chalk, wrapped around the shadow of a big oak tree. And all over the ground, the outlines of leaves are drawn — small delicate leaves that fell and blew away.

“Fiona!” I call out, and jog down the cobblestones. I wait for her to step out of the shadows. Only she never appears.

But it doesn't matter.

Because on the brick wall behind the tree, Fiona's traced the evolution of a single falling leaf. The same shape, repeated a million times, swirling, twirling, undulating until it hits the ground. It's absolutely stunning. She's found a new way to slow down time, to show the progress, the journey. Not just one single moment in light.

The breeze kicks up again but I feel on fire.

I know she's back.

I know I'll see her again.

S
iobhan Vivian attended an art program very much like the one in this book, during the summer before her senior year of high school. It was there that she discovered she was bad at drawing and good at writing. But she still keeps a sketchbook anyway.

Upon the publication of
A Little Friendly Advice,
Siobhan's first novel, Kirkus Reviews proclaimed “Vivian is clearly an author to watch,” calling the book “at once uplifting and heartwrenching.” For more information about Siobhan and her books, visit
www.siobhanvivian.com
.