Same Difference

by Siobhan Vivian

  “Idiot,” a boy next to me mutters as the doors close. His long hair is split in two pigtails. Fake white plastic flowers are tucked into each elastic.

  I try not to stare. Maybe he’s sweet or secretly good at sports, but I can’t help but wonder how exactly a boy like that survives in high school.

  By the time we stop on the seventh floor, there are three kids left in the elevator beside me. I smile at one freckly girl with thick tentacles of auburn dreadlocks. She nods her head at me, not exactly in a friendly way, but not meanly either.

  It’s slightly encouraging.

  Room 713 is a large studio that smells of turpentine. There are twelve sets of easels and stools arranged in a circle, surrounding a tall pedestal made out of stacked white plywood boxes in the very center. The long tables across the back of the room are covered with half-finished assignments from the undergrad students — heads carved out of clay, wooden sculptures, plaster casings.

  Shadow Girl is near the window, sitting on a stool. She scrapes her purple nail polish off with her teeth. Her shorts are dusted in chalk powder of all different colors, like the clouds in a summer sunset.

  I wonder if Shadow Girl knows how many people were looking at her tracings in the courtyard. But I’m not going to tell her. I don’t want her to remember that I was staring, so I put my head down and walk quickly past her.

  She grabs my arm and pulls me to stop.

  “I love your shoes,” she tells me. “They’re like … princess slippers or something.”

  “They’re not mine,” I admit. Though as soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret it. I should have said they were. After all, I do have practically the same pair.

  She presses her lips together. “Umm, all right then,” she says, followed by an awkward laugh, because I didn’t leave much room to expand the conversation. “Well … make sure you pass along my compliment to their rightful owner.”

  “Okay.” I stand there for a second, in case Shadow Girl says something else. Only, she doesn’t, and neither do I, so we just kind of stare at each other. Then I head toward a seat on the other side of the room. It isn’t until I sit that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

  I unload a few supplies, like a big drawing pad and the red plastic art box that holds my pencils and brushes. Glancing around the room, I notice I’m the only one with brand-new, untouched materials — paintbrushes wrapped in plastic, tubes of paint that need to be peeled open, unsharpened pencils. I’m a screaming newbie. I decide not to put on my smock, since no one else is wearing one.

  Five more minutes and the classroom is practically full. Pixie Girl with the red scarf enters the room huffing and puffing, I guess because she had to take the stairs. She climbs onto a stool right next to Shadow Girl. Their eyes scan each other briefly before they nod and roll their eyes, as if they’ve just shared a silent joke. They are the only ones in class not wearing their IDs on the provided lanyards. They seem like they should be friends.

  I’m sad that there doesn’t seem to be the person like me here, the person I am so obviously supposed to hang out with while I’m here. Someone like Meg. But someone like Meg wouldn’t exist in a place like this.

  I grab my phone and pound out a quick text, just to tell Meg hello. I wonder what she’s doing right now. Maybe lying by her pool, working on her tan. Actually, since it’s Tuesday, she’s probably walked to the town farmer’s market to get some of that grilled summer corn we both love. Meg likes plain butter on hers, but I use paprika and garlic salt. Maybe Rick took the afternoon off to go with her. Probably.

  The teacher comes in, a tall, skinny old man wearing frumpy brown linen pants and a raggedy black T-shirt. His head is full of wild white hair, jutting out from all angles like the bristles of an old toothbrush. A tall boy follows him, toting two bags of supplies — and holding a very familiar cup of coffee.

  He spots me right away and stops at my easel.

  “Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re in my class.”

  “Yeah,” I say. The realization makes my eyes go wide.

  I accidentally flirted with my teacher this morning.

  The boy still has toothpaste in the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t detract from his smile one bit. But when the older teacher glances back at him, the smile drops right off his face.

  Shadow Girl and Pixie Girl both stare at me, shocked. I feel their eyes.

  My phone twitters, a charm of beeps that sounds like glitter. A signal I’ve gotten a text. I’m sure it’s from Meg, probably saying hi back. But it’s not worth it to check, because now everyone’s staring at me. The boy winces, like I’m in for it.

  “Rule number one! No cell phones on in my class!” the old man barks. He’s got a bit of an accent. Maybe Russian. I can’t tell. “Absolutely none!”

  “Sorry,” I whisper and shut off my phone.

  The old man walks in the center of our easels, climbs up on the platform, and stares at us with big dark eyes. He signals for the tall boy to shut the door. He does not smile. “I am Mr. Frank.”

  We murmur hello back to Mr. Frank. He still doesn’t smile. In fact, he looks pained to be here.

  “I will be your drawing teacher for the summer.” His annoyance with us breaks as he gestures to the tall boy, warmly. “This is Yates, my teaching assistant. Yates has just completed his freshman year at this college and will also be giving you instruction and answering questions.” Yates has his back turned to us, unloading Mr. Frank’s supplies. “I would like to start today by going around the room. Tell me a little about yourself and your goals for this class.”

  It’s too much to process at once. His name is Yates. And if Yates just finished his freshman year, he’s probably only nineteen. I’ll turn seventeen in September. Two years older than me isn’t much of an age difference at all. But the fact that he’s my teacher is a big difference. Huge, even.

  Mr. Frank looks in my general direction and snaps me back to attention. “Who would like to go first?” he asks.

  My stomach flips. I hate speaking in public. I’m way better with images than I am with words.

  Shadow Girl raises her hand, the only volunteer. Everyone in the room sits up and pays attention. I know I do.

  “My name’s Fiona Crawford, and I’m from the glamorously named Fish Town.” Her voice is drowsy and raspy, but it projects like she’s used to addressing a crowd. “I’ll be a senior next year and I need some traditional pieces for portfolio reviews so I can apply to art school.”

  Mr. Frank takes a sip of coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “Traditional as opposed to what?”

  Fiona smirks. I can’t exactly tell if she’s annoyed that she has to explain herself, or happy that she gets to keep talking. “My work is mainly guerrilla meets performance, so it’s impossible to document.”

  “You can take pictures. That’s entirely acceptable for a portfolio.” Mr. Frank looks for the next person to speak.

  “Pictures?” Fiona’s face curdles. “A picture can never be as meaningful as the actual experience.” She arches her back into a stretch. It’s almost flirtatious. “I’d rather not show the piece at all, if it’s going to be some weak, half-assed version. So yeah, just set me up with some fruit in a bowl and maybe a ceramic pitcher, or whatever. A couple of still lifes and I’ll be good to go.”

  Mr. Frank raises his coffee to his mouth and considers this. We all stay quiet. I don’t know about anyone else here, but I’ve never heard a person say assed before in a class. When he lowers the cup, he reveals the smallest smile.

  The class collectively shifts its weight. Fiona’s answer is a lot to live up to.

  Mr. Frank continues. “How many of you are going into your senior year of high school?” About half of our class raise their hands, including me and Pixie Girl. “Well, by the end of our six weeks together, you should all have more than a few portfolio-quality pieces. And the rest of you will have quite a jump on putting together something for admissions.”

  I haven�
�t ever considered going to college for art. Meg and I are looking at Trenton State. Her grades are much better than mine, but hopefully we’ll both get in. I worry that maybe this drawing class is going to be more advanced or serious than someone like me, someone with no experience, is ready for.

  Pixie Girl goes next. “I’m Robyn, and I’m from northern New Jersey. But it’s practically New York City,” she adds quickly, “because I can see the Empire State Building from my bedroom window. My parents own a gallery in Chelsea.” Robyn’s eyes stop on Mr. Frank, probably to see if he is impressed. If he is, he doesn’t show it. “They travel through Europe most of the summer and I get shipped off to Fine Art day care.” I’m surprised to hear Robyn talk in such a blasé way, like she’s already over this place. I guess when your parents actually own a real art gallery, these programs seem a lot like Ms. Kay’s class. “Anyhow, I’d like to work on developing a more critical eye, so I can express my opinions about art better. I plan on running my own gallery one day.”

  “Well, we will be doing a lot of discussions and critiques. All of you will be expected to articulate an opinion on what your peers are producing.”

  Great. I imagine myself hanging up a bad drawing and standing there, blindfolded, like I’m in front of a firing squad. Ms. Kay was nice about not forcing our class to show pieces we weren’t happy with. I have a sneaking suspicion Mr. Frank won’t be as forgiving.

  We continue to go around the room. The rest of the kids in my class seem average compared to Fiona and Robyn, which puts me just the smallest bit at ease. Most are from the East Coast, but one guy is from Arizona. There’s a girl from Helsinki who speaks really bad English and I don’t think anyone understands her answers.

  I notice that Fiona looks a little bored while the other people talk. Not in a mean way, but where she kind of looks over your head because she’s thinking about something more interesting than what you’re saying. Robyn keeps leaning in and whispering things in Fiona’s ear, jokes to get her attention.

  When it’s my turn, it’s like I can’t help but want to impress them, for whatever reason. But I also already know that’s not going to happen.

  My mouth opens. It’s so dry. “My name is Emily Thompson. I’m from Cherry Grove.” That’s the easy part. My smile fades and my mind goes as white as the paper up on my easel.

  Mr. Frank clears his throat. “And why are you here?” He asks it not like he’s interested in my answer, but more like he’s feeding me lines I should already know.

  Fiona glances at me, as she braids and unbraids her long pink waterfall of hair.

  “Uhh …” All the answers that flood my head are ones I wouldn’t dare speak out loud. That this is the only way I could come up with to make my summer less boring, because I don’t have a boyfriend like my best friend. That art was the only high school class I got an A in. None of these seem like good enough answers, even if they are all true.

  I end up shrugging my shoulders. It’s the best I can do.

  Almost instantly, Robyn leans into Fiona, pushing that long pink lock away from her ear so she can whisper something about me. Then Robyn laughs. Loud.

  I stare at the paint splatters on the floor. Even if I’m nothing special in Cherry Grove, no one laughs at me. I do enough right to keep that from happening.

  “We’re all set, Mr. Frank,” Yates tells him quietly, a much-needed break to the awkwardness. I’ve made a fool of myself in front of him. He slips a small black notebook into Mr. Frank’s hands.

  “Okay.” Mr. Frank stands up. “How many of you keep a sketchbook?”

  A few kids raise their hands, including Fiona, though hers seems to rise above the rest. Robyn raises hers, too, but a few seconds later. I sit on my hands and enjoy the weight of my body, the pressure on my fingers, like a punishment. I’ve never kept a sketchbook. I’ve only doodled in the margins of my lined notebooks, when I got bored in school.

  “For this class, I am requiring everyone to keep a sketchbook, which I want you to think of as a visual diary,” Mr. Frank continues. “Except that one entry per day will not do. Rather, I want you to catalog your life, your point of view in the pages. I want you to take pause in the small, beautiful moments where you’d otherwise push on through with your normal life.” He locks eyes with Fiona. “Would you mind if I took a look?” he asks, taking careful, slow steps over to her.

  “Absolument,” Fiona says in a pitch-perfect French accent, and digs deep in her tote bag, which is covered in cartoon owls. “So long as you don’t narc me out to the cops.”

  What?

  “I don’t feel comfortable sharing my sketchbook,” Robyn says, even though no one asked to see it. “Mine is very personal.”

  “Well,” Mr. Frank says, “you should begin a new one, then, because I will expect you to show me drawings each week.”

  Fiona pulls out a thick blue book that looks handmade, stitched together with red yarn. It’s stuffed full, the way my binders get by the end of the school year, with a black band wrapped around the cover to force it closed. As she opens it up and hands it over to Mr. Frank, a few pieces of ripped paper and what looks like confetti fall to the floor. She climbs down from the stool and picks them up, like they are valuable. He flips through a few pages. Inside are lots of sketchy pencil drawings, stickers, pieces of fabric. I wish I could see better, but my easel is in the way. Robyn seems especially interested. She’s practically climbed on top of her stool to get a better look.

  “A visual diary will help you, as artists, become more familiar and comfortable with the way you, and you alone, see things. I don’t want you to just observe, I want you to obsess. Your point of view, your voice, will be what makes your art special and unique, so I hope you’ll all take this assignment seriously.” Mr. Frank hands the sketchbook back to Fiona and smiles. “Wonderful.”

  “Thanks,” she says, not even the slightest bit embarrassed by his praise. More like she hears those kinds of compliments all the time.

  Even though I’m totally intimidated, I’m also inspired. I’ve never had a special place to draw. I’ve never thought about capturing my world. Lately, I’ve only thought of escaping it.

  “And now, on to our first lesson. Mastering the human form is undoubtedly the most essential part of your training as an artist. These skills will serve you in all other media, be it photography, sculpture, painting, jewelry, or what have you. Here, unlike with your sketchbooks, creative expression is not encouraged. Rather, I will push you to be as exact and accurate as you possibly can. You must know the rules before you can break them.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. This is so different from Ms. Kay’s art class. She was much goofier, and always encouraged us to be open to mistakes and happy accidents. Sometimes, she’d even tell us to draw with our eyes closed. Now I feel the pressure to be good. Better than good, if possible, to prove I belong here.

  As Mr. Frank continues, a woman emerges from behind a canvas curtain slung in the corner of the room that I did not notice before. She’s maybe my mom’s age, wearing a plum satin kimono robe very loosely tied at her waist. Her silver-streaked hair is spun into two tight buns behind her ears. She has no shoes on. Her toenails are long and polished an acidic orange.

  Yates moves quickly around the room, pulling down the shades.

  Mr. Frank hops off the platform. “Lily, I’m looking for something not terribly difficult. Twenty minutes and then we’ll have a break.”

  Lily nods and climbs up. In a flash, her robe falls to the floor. She’s completely naked and very, very pale. You can see most of her veins, like little blue rivers and streams on a map. She sits down, twists her back and lifts her chin up to the ceiling.

  A few people, including myself, giggle. For the first time I remember that I’m in a room full of teenagers. And I’m not the only one who seems to look to Fiona for her reaction. It’s like everyone turns their heads her way. But she’s not laughing or smiling or rolling her eyes like the rest of us. She’s already drawing.


  Mr. Frank takes an egg timer and spins the dial around. It starts ticking. Slowly. “For this first drawing, I’d like to get a sense of your skill level. Please just capture the form at its most basic. We shall, obviously, progress from there.” He claps his hands. “Begin.”

  The pencils of the students around me fly over their papers. I gaze ever so slightly above the edge of my drawing pad. Just look and get the shock over with. The woman’s boobs are huge and hang heavy off her slightly lumpy frame. And her nipples are erect because it’s so cold in here. Is Mr. Frank going to want us to draw nipples? Because I seriously don’t think I can do that.

  I’ve never seen anyone else naked in real life, definitely not an adult, except for the time everyone went skinny-dipping in Billy Barker’s hot tub after New Year’s. Rick invited us to the party after he and Meg first started talking. Everyone was game for it, except for Meg and me. Luckily, it was dark and we couldn’t really see anyone. Not that we were trying to look. Rick didn’t try to make Meg go in or anything. Instead, he stayed with her on the chaise lounge and they talked about school and stuff. I sat high and dry at the picnic table and blacked out the teeth of the models in the J.Crew catalog.

  With the way she’s twisting, if I lean to my left, I can’t see the model’s private parts at all. The girl from Helsinki across the room probably doesn’t see anything else but the private parts. The model’s got a bit of a belly, round and plump, and some love handles that hide the shape of her hip bones. I have a perfect view of her butt crack, before it smashes into the base of the pedestal.

  Mr. Frank is suddenly behind me, his shadow the only thing darkening my white sheet of paper. “What is your name again?”

  Everyone glances my way. Of course he hasn’t remembered. “Emily,” I say.

  “Emily, start with the spine. Always build from the spine.”

  I pick up one of my pencils and press it to the paper halfway up the page. I try to start drawing but the pencil point is so sharp, it pushes off the paper like it doesn’t want to listen to me. So I just hold it there, without moving, until my arm prickles from lack of blood flow.