Fiona stops in the doorway. “Oh my God, Emily! You look so rad!”
“So do you,” I say. Fiona’s changed, too, into a black tube dress with a ruffle across the bottom hem and skinny black heels. A huge amber pendant lies on her chest. She looks sexy, older.
Fiona curtseys. “I love this dress, but I always have to dry it on high to get it tight again. Cheapie clothes are like that. You can only wear them once. By the end of the night, it’ll be all bagged out.”
“Well, I’ve never worn a dress like this.”
“Guess where I got it?” She laughs. “This Halloween costume shop on South Street was going out of business and everything was a million percent off. I think it was part of an Alice in Wonderland costume, but someone stole the shoes and the little white apron.”
“Oh no.” I peel down the straps, embarrassed.
“Don’t worry. You can’t tell!” she says. “Here!” She ducks down deep into the closet. She pulls out a black cotton cardigan that smells like incense and tells me to take off my flip-flops and wear her round-toe black patent leather mary janes instead. Her feet are bigger than mine, but I can walk okay, if I scrunch up my toes.
The last thing I do is unhinge my Tiffany’s necklace, the one Meg gave to me. I try not to feel guilty about it, either. It just doesn’t go with the dress.
Fiona throws a couple of shirts and things into a plastic bag for me, stuff that she says won’t fit her or that she’s tired of.
“Wow,” I say. “Are you sure you want to give all this away?”
“Think of these as a donation to your Cause of Cool,” she says. “I seriously don’t have room for any more clothes in here, anyhow.”
A flash of white runs across the floor in front of me. I jump back.
“Snowflake!” Fiona chases her bunny and swoops it up into a hug. Snowflake’s claws scrape her arms, leaving behind a fresh set of the little scratches and red marks. I feel silly for thinking they were something else, something dark.
Fiona and Snowflake take me on a tour of the rest of the house. In the mismatched living room, Fiona points out a collection of paintings.
“These are my mom’s,” she says proudly.
I lean in for a closer look.
The paintings are not what I expected them to be. Classical-looking landscapes, like the pastorals we saw at the museum. They’re beautiful.
“And this is me,” she says, pointing to a few strokes that suddenly take the shape of a young girl, out of focus in a grassy field. “At my grandma’s house. She lived in Amish country. My mom actually hates these paintings. She does much more modern stuff now. But I think she keeps them up because she’s still sad about my grandma dying.” The doorbell rings. “Food!”
Fiona looks through her wallet. I can see from where I’m standing that it’s empty.
“Crap. I’m sorry, Emily, but do you have any cash?” She looks embarrassed. “My mom was supposed to be home by now. She’s probably working late at her studio. She always loses track of time when she’s painting.”
“Oh yeah! Sure!” I say, and fish for my wallet. I take out a twenty. And then, two more.
“I’ll pay you back. I swear,” Fiona promises as she takes them from my hand. “Wait. This is too much.”
“No! Don’t worry. You gave me all those clothes and everything. And you invited me out tonight.”
“Really?” Shyness looks odd on someone like Fiona. It doesn’t fit.
But I’m happy to do something for her. “It’s no problem at all.” She pays the man at the door and we take the food into her kitchen. “So, your mom is a full-time artist? That’s so cool.”
“Yup.” Fiona rips open the bags and starts pulling out plastic containers. Lots of them. “She’s been working on this new series of paintings that are totally freaking amazing. I’ve seen them and they blow me away! She kicks the ass of any of our professors. Well, maybe not my Performance Art teacher. She’s a complete genius. But definitely Mr. Frank.” She takes off the lids and suddenly the whole room smells warm and spicy. “I ordered a ton of food because I want you to try all my favorites.” Fiona makes a bed of rice on my plate. Then she scoops out some red sauce on top, careful to not let the sauce seep out to where she spoons the salad. After a minute, my plate is expertly divided with six different tastes of food in the brightest colors. She hands it to me and says, “Emily, you’ve NEVER tasted anything like this before.”
I know it’s true before it hits my lips.
By the time we push our way inside the seventh gallery of the evening, Fiona doesn’t even bother to look at what’s hanging on the walls. Instead, she searches the crowds until she spots a tuxedoed waiter, twirling around the room with a tray of wineglasses. Fiona grabs two with each hand, completely oblivious of the disapproving look he shoots her.
“Cheers to art!” Fiona squeals, a little too loud, as she runs back over to us and hands out the drinks.
Fiona, Robyn, Adrian, and I all clink plastic goblets. I’m toasting what feels like the first night of my new life.
“Your hair looks cute up like that, Emily,” Robyn says. “I wish mine was longer.”
Robyn’s been nicer to me tonight, which is a welcome change. Maybe I’ve finally earned her respect. “Your hair is awesome,” I tell her. Not many people could pull off a cut as short as hers and not look like a boy. But Robyn always wears sparkly barrettes or headbands. And her clothes are ultrafeminine, like tonight’s over-sized black sequined tank and the wide-leg gray trousers that pool at her feet.
“All you girls look gorgeous,” Adrian says, straightening his black skinny tie. It’s probably the coolest tie I’ve ever seen. Up close, there doesn’t seem to be a pattern to the million little colored dots, but from across the room, they form the shape of a cartoon rocket ship blasting up into the sky.
“But me most of all, right?” Fiona says, sliding up beside him.
“Fiona, you are everything most of all.” Adrian turns his head, and I think they are going to kiss right there in front of us. Fiona leans in just next to his lips, but then pulls away at the last minute, laughing her head off. Not meanly. Flirtatious. Like the real kiss will happen, but not yet.
Tonight has been so inspiring, and not just because of the art I’ve seen in the galleries. It’s also what’s been going on right under my nose, the everyday world I’ve somehow missed seeing. Like the penguin drawing Fiona spotted hanging up behind the deli register, when we stopped to buy mints and a new pack of cigarettes. It was drawn by a kid on a ripped paper bag, and proclaimed itself in scribbly crayon writing to be THE BEST DRAWING OF A PENGUIN EVER.
Even though there were people waiting behind us in line, Fiona pushed the Tic Tacs and stuff on the countertop out of her way and quickly sketched it down on a blank page in her sketchbook. I stood behind her, on my tiptoes, watching as her pencil moved across the page.
In a way I could probably never explain, it was the best penguin drawing ever. I was so glad Fiona pointed it out.
In between galleries, we all draw shadows on the street. Fiona takes the lead like a conductor, and we are her hands, carving out pieces of the night in the brightest chalk colors. I feel euphoric just thinking about what I’ve left behind. We’ve given gifts to unsuspecting people all night long.
“Are you having the time of your life or what?” Fiona asks me. She pulls out a loose bobby pin in my hair and puts it back in tighter. “More fun than Cherry Grove, I bet.”
“They can’t even be compared,” I say.
“Wait until you see the galleries in New York, Emily,” Robyn says. “Openings are an even bigger deal. My parents usually hire a whole security team.”
Fiona rolls her eyes at Adrian and me, and pulls us to look at some paintings on the far wall. I feel a little bad for Robyn. Fiona’s obviously getting annoyed with her bragging, but I appreciate the fact that she’s making an effort with me tonight, so I smile and say, “Cool.”
Each gallery is like a mini museu
m, a plain white box with artwork hanging in even rows on the walls. Except here, the art is actually for sale. Tonight, I’ve seen delicate pottery that was purposefully shattered and then painstakingly reglued, a wood carving of a death certificate, paintings of pears, and dog portrait photography.
“What do the red stickers mean?” I whisper to Adrian, and point at a small dot next to a painting. I feel like I can ask Adrian these kinds of questions, knowing he’s as much of an outsider here as I am. From our conversations tonight, I’ve learned he’s from a small town in Kansas. His family actually owns two tractors. And he’s not so much into fine art as he is into comic books and graphic novels. Still, he seems to know the answers.
“It’s been sold,” he tells me.
I try to imagine some of these pieces hanging in my home in Cherry Grove, but I can’t. Maybe it’s because we don’t own any art, even though I guess we could afford it. Our walls are covered with framed pictures of the family. We take a new one each year at this local photo studio, each time with a new theme — red sweaters, denim shirts, white button-ups. Mom wanted to do swimsuits last year, but I told her absolutely no way.
I can’t believe how much they are asking for some of this stuff — like the painting of Elvis selling for three thousand dollars. I wonder how much Fiona’s mom charges for her paintings. It seems like you could easily become rich. Then again, Fiona’s dad doesn’t seem to be around, and they probably live off just her art.
“Ridiculous, right?” Fiona shouts between gulps. “People think that just because it’s hanging in a gallery, it deserves to be bought. When I have a solo show, people are going to know it’s good. And if they can’t explain why a piece is good, then I’m not going to sell it to them, simple as that.”
“Badass.” Adrian laughs.
“You better believe it,” Fiona says, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’ve got it all figured out. I’m going to hang up my shadow paintings on the walls, and then bring in fake trees and stuff and draw the shadows right there on the gallery walls and floors. And then I’ll have someone adjusting the lights while I keep redrawing the shadows. The whole thing will be totally interactive.”
Fiona’s confidence is pretty incredible. For her, it’s not a matter of IF she succeeds, but WHEN. And I have to say, I don’t question it at all.
“And you’re not going to sell pieces to people if they don’t understand them?” Robyn asks. “Isn’t that, like, self-defeating?”
“My art doesn’t deserve to live in a place where it’s not respected and understood. Why make things in the first place?” She’s getting aggravated. Her voice is loud, and a few people turn around to look at us.
“You’re right,” Adrian says, running his fingers so very gently through her hair. It’s incredibly sweet how much he likes her. And Fiona seems to settle down. I bet she’ll kiss him at the end of the night, or something dramatic like that. She’s the kind of person who makes moments happen.
“I was reading something in the City Paper today about a cool gallery called Space … something,” Robyn says. “Have you ever heard of it?”
“It’s Space Invaded,” Fiona spits back. She drains her glass in one gulp. “And I was just going to suggest we go there.” She grabs Adrian’s hand. “Come on.”
Our repeated pattern of bounding into an air-conditioned gallery, chugging chilled white wine, and heading back out to the steamy street has taken its toll. I step outside and feel pretty drunk. Fiona hails us a cab and we all climb in. She sits on Adrian’s lap.
My bag vibrates, and I check the clock on the taxi’s dashboard. “Crap!” It’s already ten-thirty? I don’t even know what time the trains to Cherry Grove stop running. Everyone is definitely at Rick’s house by now, the party in full swing. I’m sure Meg is wondering where I am. But I don’t really want to leave. Not even close.
“What’s wrong, Cinderella? Have to get home to the suburbs before you turn into a pumpkin?” Robyn’s voice walks the thinnest line between insulting and joking.
“No,” I say, trying to play it cool. I fumble in my bag and pull out my cell phone.
I’ve got a text from Meg.
r u done yet? hurry!
I cuddle myself against the door, so no one can see what I text back.
almost!
Hopefully that buys me a little more time.
The cab drives through Old City, which is the section of Philadelphia that looks like something out of the history books. We actually pass the Liberty Bell, all aglow inside a glass building. I’ve been there on school field trips when I was a kid, and now I’m zooming past in a taxi, in a beautiful dress with a bunch of cool new friends. It’s insane to think about.
A few turns later and we drive underneath a huge red Chinese gate that spans the entire width of the block. Gold lettering and colorful dragons are etched into the sides. Suddenly, none of the store signs are in English. Skinless ducks hang in the windows of butcher shops. We make a left at the fortune cookie factory. An actual fortune cookie factory! And then the cab pulls up to another big, industrial-looking building. Robyn pays the driver. I offer to split it with her, but she says no thanks.
“What is this place called again?” I ask, looking up. The bottom three floors are dark, but the windows of the very top are lit, and hip-hop beats rattle through the glass.
But Fiona’s so excited, I don’t even think she hears me. “You guys are going to die,” Fiona says. “It’s freaking amazing.”
The stairway smells like dirty laundry. A few fluorescent lights flicker and buzz overhead. As we walk up three flights, I notice some intricate graffiti rambling up the walls — undulating words in shades of red and black. I can’t make out the writing. I would stop and look for another minute or two, but there are footsteps behind us, more people coming up the stairs.
Fiona talks while we climb. “So, this place was founded by a bunch of art school graduates three years ago. They rent studio space for supercheap for struggling yet-to-be-famous artists, and their gallery showcases work that could never find a home in those stuffy galleries we were at before. It’s, like, impossible to get studio space in here unless you know someone. Which totally sucks. Because I want in badly!”
She pulls open the dented metal door and we step inside.
In the middle of the gallery is a huge skate ramp. The ceilings tower high over my head, tin that reverberates all the sounds and the wheels against wood and the music pumping out of the speakers.
The other galleries had cheese — this one has bags of Cheez Doodles. Instead of wine, they have cheap beer in cans — the kind my dad’s brother brings over and no one but him drinks, so it sits in the back of our pool fridge for the entire summer.
The vibe in this gallery is totally different. It’s raw and passionate and intense, college kids drinking and laughing and dancing and having a ball. It’s practically a house party, the wildest I’ve ever seen. Not like in suburbia, where they play the Grateful Dead and everyone’s all mellow and some people are smoking pot. The energy is something you can feel and smell and taste.
And the art on the walls here is amazing and eclectic. Not just one artist, but several, each with his or her own wall. Someone’s painted on the decks of broken, splintered skateboards. Someone’s screen-printed huge posters with retro-looking slogans about voting, where the text is off register and blurry. Someone’s made a table and chairs out of fluffy cotton balls.
“Oh my God! Look at those!” Fiona pushes us over to a wall near the windows. The Ben Franklin Bridge twinkles in the distance. The train, the one I ride home, is lit up and chugging its way back to Cherry Grove. But the art on this particular wall is what really grabs my attention.
There are a series of four enormous photographs, nearly floor to ceiling. Photographs of Philadelphia, I guess. Raw city decay. Metal that rusts, train trestles in steely black, railroad tracks, and cement drainage tubes. It’s very urban. Gritty.
But that’s not all.
O
n top of each photograph is a painting, a layer blocking out part of the image. These are the most beautiful nature scenes ever. Fields and rivers and beautiful trees at the height of autumn. The colors are way more intense than in real life. Like the beauty of it all has been amped up to the loudest possible degree.
“It’s like a time warp,” Fiona says, quiet. It’s maybe the first time I’ve ever heard her quiet before.
“These are incredible,” Robyn says.
“They make me wish I could paint,” Adrian says.
I just nod.
We all lean in together and read the name scribbled on a piece of masking tape across the wall.
YATES
“I hope you guys aren’t drinking, because that’s going to put me in a very awkward situation as your teaching assistant.”
We turn around and it’s him, looking so cute in a slim-fitting white button-down shirt, tuxedo shorts that hit at his bony knees, and a pair of checkerboard Vans. Like dressed up, but not.
“You did these?” Fiona asks, absolutely, totally shocked. “What the hell are you doing teaching summer school to us?”
“Come on,” Yates says, laughing and looking off across the party. “They’re just okay.”
Fiona steps past Adrian and lays both her hands on Yates’s shoulders. “I’m not kidding! I am, like, so in love with you right now.”
Adrian shrinks, and I shrink, too. I put my hand on his back, like a friend. It’s sweaty, just like mine.
“Are you part of this place?” Robyn asks Yates.
“Well, technically yes, but I get studio space for free at school since I’m a TA. I’m friends with one of the founders. He’s the guy who fills the studios. There’s no real openings now, but he’s the keeper of the list.”
“Oh! You mean Slegel!” Fiona says, with a flirty smile. “I love his posters. I saw his show last fall at Skate Nerd Minnow. I was sort of stalking him. He does such amazing prints.”
“I was there, too,” Yates admits with a grin.
Same Difference (9780545477215) Page 11
