Same Difference (9780545477215) (9 page)

I
look for the three of them before our field trip the next day. Fiona, Robyn, and Adrian are huddled together on the steps of the university, a few above where the rest of the summer students sit and wait for the buses to arrive. Those kids have whispered conversations, or nibble on their breakfast, or sketch with their headphones on and their heads down, purposefully withdrawn. But the three of them are unapologetically loud, laughing like crazy as they give each other marker tattoos with black Sharpies.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and linger near the railing, where the teachers sip their coffee. I try not to stare. I wonder if I can just walk up to them like we're friends. I wish I were the kind of person who could do that, with the confidence that convinces people that you belong there with them. But I don't actually believe I do, as much as I might want to. So my only choice is to stand there and hope to be noticed. My shirt isn't as cool as it was yesterday. I couldn't think of what to wear, so I stole one of Claire's Cherry Grove recreation soccer shirts from a few years back. It's a little tight, but the rainbow decal across the chest is kind of okay.

I think.

Fiona draws a thick black handlebar mustache across Adrian's hairless upper lip. She's got one hand through his brown hair, gripping it tight to keep him from moving. “Hold still!” she warns. “If you keep smiling, I'm going to give you a full beard!” Adrian isn't going anywhere. He loves it right where he is, sitting in between Fiona's legs, his hands on her knees.

Robyn twists toward her floppy leather bag and digs through it. When she looks up, I swear she spots me, because of the way her top lip curls, like I'm interrupting their fun, even though I'm several feet away. She grips the cap of her blue marker in her teeth, pulls the marker free, and scribbles something on the inside of Fiona's palm, a secret I'm not supposed to know.

I look down the sidewalk and see Yates walking toward the school with a coffee in hand. As he gets closer, I make out the bulge of his sketchbook in his front pocket. I would love to flip through it, to see what kind of drawings he does. It's probably as close as a girl can come to reading a boy's diary.

I wonder where Yates would fit in if he lived in Cherry Grove. Then I realize that Yates wouldn't have a problem making friends with whomever, because he's friendly in that easy sort of way that everyone in the world likes.

“Morning, Emily,” he says. I focus on the few freckles across his cheeks. They are dark and tiny, like pricks from the tip of a supersharp pencil. Like someone drew them on.

“Hi,” I say. It sounds too short, so I add, “How are you?”

He laughs. “I am quite well, thank you,” he says, and bows his head like we're having some stiff, formal conversation. I hope he might actually stop and talk to me for a while, so I don't have to stand here by myself, but instead he passes by and enters the circle of teachers behind me.

When I turn around, Fiona waves to me. She's got a big star drawn inside her palm. I smile and wave hello back. She rolls her eyes. Then she changes her wave, abandoning the side-to-side hello for a rolling wrist. She wants me to go up there.

As soon as I figure it out, my legs can't move fast enough.

“Hey,” I say.

Adrian takes off his old-man-style news cap and bows his head. His glasses slip right off the end of his nose and into his hands.

“I like your mustache,” I tell him.

“He looks half cartoon,” Fiona says with a laugh.

“I hope it washes off,” Adrian says, wiggling his nose.

Fiona stares down at her star-covered palm. “I wish they were real. I'm getting, like, a million tattoos the second I turn eighteen. I've got them all mapped out in my sketchbook.”

“Hey, Robyn,” I say, stepping down so that I'm not so on top of her.

Robyn purses her lips and gives me the slightest head nod.

Fiona pats the patch of stone step next to her. “Want a tattoo, Emily?”

“Yeah,” I say, and ignore my fear because there's no way I could say no. “Okay.”

The marker swirls around my arm, while Fiona's fingers clench my bicep and pull the skin tight. I don't look at what she's drawing. Instead I close my eyes and feel the excitement. Meg and I used to play a similar game as kids, when we'd draw something or spell out words with our fingers on the other person's back, and then she'd have to guess what it was. Meg's were always easy to guess because she'd draw one of three things — a flower with lots of teardrop petals, a house with one long curl of chimney smoke, or the words “best friends forever” in swirly script.

But I have no idea what Fiona's drawing on me. Some lines are smooth and long, while others are short and impatient. And she keeps jumping around from spot to spot, like she wants to trick me, like she doesn't want me to catch up with her. I take deep breaths of the peppery smell of permanent marker ink.

“Nicely done,” Adrian says.

The point lifts up off my skin. “Are you finished?” I ask her, eyes still closed, just in case.

Fiona pinches me awake. “You have been officially branded,” she says with a grin.

I twist my arm around and check it out. She's drawn a red outline of a heart — big and thick with the side of the marker. Then, with the tip, she surrounded it with delicate doily-like scalloping and small polka dots, so it looks like an old-fashioned Valentine's Day card. Inside, she's written my name in black, in a variety of letter styles — some in capital letters, some in bubble letters, and the tail of the Y looks crooked and crazy, like lightning.

“This is your reminder to wear your heart on your sleeve more often.” Fiona winks.

I like the sound of that.

Dr. Tobin paces the sidewalk in front of the stairs and claps her hands a few times to get everyone's attention. There will be no buses, because today's field trip is a sculpture walk around Center City. We set off down the sidewalk like a meandering, indifferent parade of weird kids. I am so glad I have a group of people to walk with, unlike last week. Friends just make everything more fun.

“So, tell us something about yourself, Emily,” Robyn says to me, and not in the most inviting tone of voice.

It feels like an interview, a chance to prove that I'm cool enough to hang out with them. A test I want to pass. “What do you want to know?” I ask, trying to sound indifferent.

“What's your hometown like?” Robyn keeps even pace with me, but her eyes stay straight ahead. “Does it have a huge mall?”

Her question is a trick. It's obvious someone like Robyn thinks malls are stupid. And I doubt there's a store at Cherry Grove Mall that sells saddle shoes like the scuffed ones loosely covering her bare feet. “Yeah, we do. But it's not like I hang out there.” I mean, I
have
hung out there, but only when I was already shopping, which doesn't seem like it should count.

Robyn smiles. It's wide and suspicious and shows all her teeth, even the ones way in back. “What about a football team? Does your school have a football team? Do you and your friends go to all the games and cheer for your boyfriends?”

Adrian rolls his eyes at Robyn. “Every high school has a football team.”

My face gets hot. I know Robyn is making fun of me. Adrian and Fiona must, too. Maybe they don't really have any intention of letting me hang out with them. Maybe I'm just some big joke.

Fiona speeds up so that she's a few steps ahead of us. Then she turns around and walks backward, so she can stare right at me. “Emily doesn't have a boyfriend. Am I right?”

My eyes drop to the sidewalk. I step on all the cracks. “Yeah.”

“Come on.” The snark from Robyn's voice is replaced with genuine surprise. She actually stops walking, and Adrian almost bumps into her. “You're not, like, dating the captain or something?”

“No,” I repeat. Not me. My best friend.

“Of course she's not,” Fiona says. “Jocks don't date girls who draw dead kitties on tank tops or freak out over Duchamp. Unless they put out. But you don't put out, do you, Emily?”

I'd normally be embarrassed by this question, especially with Adrian around. I mean, it's hard enough for me to hear from Meg about all the makeouts she has with Rick, and though they aren't close to having sex yet, I feel like I'm years behind them. But something about the way Fiona asks makes me feel like it's okay. Or, not just okay, but the right answer. So I shake my head.

Fiona falls back into line with us. “Good. Stupid high school boys aren't worth it.” She throws an arm over my shoulder. “They're trained to like a certain type of girl, with highlights and pretty nails — the kind who are good at remembering to put on lotion every morning after they shower.” She smiles like she's got a dirty secret. “And let's face it … sluts.”

I grin, because Fiona's describing Jenessa to a T, without sugar-coating it the way Meg always does.

Adrian thrashes his head so his hair lifts off his eyes for a second. “Not all high school guys like girls like that,” he says.

“And that's why I love you, Mr. Mustache,” Fiona says, and kisses his cheek. Adrian explodes into a blush. Fiona laughs and kisses him again, tiny pecks all over his face.

As we round the west corner of City Hall, the parkway stretches out before us — a six-lane street lined with hundreds of international flags fluttering in a summer breeze I wish I felt.

Off to the side of City Hall is a small patch of cement called Love Park. It's named that, I guess, because of this one particular sculpture — the L-O-V-E letters in a square shape that you always see printed on Valentine's Day coffee mugs.

As Dr. Tobin talks, Fiona leans into my ear and whispers: “This place used to be a big skater hangout, but the stupid mayor made it illegal.” She points down to the edge of a stone bench. Streaks of silver are gouged in the pale stone where wheels and skateboard decks ground against them. “I used to hang out here, but not anymore. Now it's lame.”

“What'd you just say?” Robyn sidles up next to us, looking kind of annoyed that we're talking without her.

“I said this park is lame now, since they chased all the punks and skate rats away.” Fiona crouches down and does a rubbing in her sketchbook of the scratches in the stone.

“Oh.” Robyn pouts. “My ex used to skate. He tried to teach me, but I have the worst balance.”

“Yeah, you do,” Fiona snorts. “You almost took me out in the stairwell that first day of class!”

“Shut up!” Robyn squeals and smacks Fiona on the butt. “You were the one trying to slide down the banister and almost killed that old lady with the box full of ceramics.”

They laugh like old friends even though they've only known each other eight days. I can't help but feel jealous of the way they connect, and that Robyn is throwing it in my face. I look away and see Mr. Frank watching us. I am the only one who doesn't have a sketchbook out. I fish mine from my bag and open it. But the thought of drawing here, in front of all these kids and also the people just walking around, makes me feel totally embarrassed, like I'm some kind of phony.

Dr. Tobin calls for our attention and raises her hands over her head in YMCA fashion.

“Claes Oldenburg gifted this sculpture to Philadelphia in 1976.”

It's a huge metal clothespin, at least seven stories high, like a mini skyscraper, and the warmest shade of rust, glistening metallic in the sunshine. It's totally bizarre and out of place, in an interesting way.

“Isn't that insane?” Fiona says. “I heart me some Claes. He made all kinds of weird crap like this, and just dropped them where they'd mess with people's heads.”

I nod, silently thrilled that I recognize the name. Though not from some art textbook. From
Clueless
, which is Meg's all-time favorite movie. Whatever, though. I'll take what I can get.

“Insane,” Robyn says quickly, like she was buzzing into a game show or something.

A thought pops into my mind. I think about not saying anything, but then I lean close to Fiona's ear. “This actually reminds me of Duchamp. Sort of. But instead of just putting ordinary objects in a museum, this guy took ordinary objects and made them massive. Which is kind of more special.”

“Go you!” Fiona taps my sketchbook and laughs. “Seriously, though, it's so cool when artists take other people's ideas and run with them. I'm trying to soak up the entire world for my art. You should draw it in your sketchbook to celebrate this achievement in critical thought.”

I look around at all the students. Even though their heads are down and sketching, I still feel like they are watching me.

Fiona laughs. “What? You think some art cop in a black beret is going to ask you for your artistic license?”

“No!” I say, laughing. Fiona bumps me with her hip. I open up a page and start drawing it as tiny as I can. The lines are all crooked, since I'm trying to steady my sketchbook in my free hand. It just might be my worst drawing ever. I rub my fingertips on the edge of the page, so that it comes up into my grip.

“Wait!” Fiona says, lunging at me. “What are you doing?”

“I'm ripping it out.”

“Are you nuts?” Fiona grabs my sketchbook from my hands. “You NEVER rip pages out of your sketchbook! It's, like, sacrilegious.”

I smile, remembering that Yates did exactly that for me, at the art museum last week. But there are more pressing matters at hand. “Oh God, please don't look,” I plead as I try to get it back from her. But Fiona runs away from me, sits on the edge of the fountain, and flips through.

“Umm … these are seriously good, you idiot,” she says.

Only Fiona could pair up the words
good
and
idiot
in a compliment and have it sound more sincere than anything I've ever heard. I slide next to her.