Same Difference (9780545477215)

by Vivian, Siobhan

  We both pause at that. He’s said it. Out loud.

  “Really?”

  He folds my hand in his and nods. “I just feel so comfortable with you, Emily. It’s been hard for me to feel that way at college this year. I’ve barely made any friends.”

  “Are you kidding? You seemed to know everyone.”

  “But I can’t be myself around those people. Art school is like a bubble, you know? There’s only so much air inside a bubble until you can’t breathe.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s this whole game going on, where everyone tries to be cooler or more artistic than everyone else. It isn’t even about the work anymore. It’s more about convincing people that you’re a real artist.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “Come on.”

  “Seriously. I have to play the part to get the attention, to be able to make things that are important to me and have people notice them. I don’t like it, but I do what I have to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, for instance … would you be surprised to know that Yates isn’t even my real name?”

  I nearly choke on a peanut. “Huh?”

  “Swear to God.” He pulls his license out of his wallet and hands it to me. “Would you want to buy art signed by this guy?”

  I look down at the Rhode Island license. It’s Yates’s face, adorable as ever, but not his name. “Leonard Jones?”

  He drops his head into his hands. “See what I mean? It’s all about the image. Do you think anyone wants to buy a Leonard Jones original for their wall? Not at all.”

  “Yates is definitely a more interesting name,” I say, patting his leg. “But your paintings are amazing. Isn’t that what people ultimately see?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “I don’t know …”

  “I mean, aren’t you doing it, too? You’ve changed the way you dress, the way you carry yourself. And Fiona, too. She’s all about the game, the persona. She lives for it.”

  “I guess.”

  “I have to say, Emily — the thing I like best is that I feel like I can be Leonard in front of you.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Do you want me to call you Leonard?”

  “No!” He laughs hard. “God no! Call me Yates. But remember who I really am underneath it all.”

  The crack of the bat echoes through the murmurs of the crowd and the whole stadium suddenly springs to life. Yates leaps to his feet to cheer and high-fives the two old men sitting next to us. I quickly draw him on a fresh page in my sketchbook.

  I will remember. Always.

  Of course, the only time I’m late for Mr. Frank’s class is the one that he starts right on time. I had burst through the door, expecting to see students hanging out and talking while Mr. Frank and Yates prepped the room. But the lights are dimmed and everyone is really quiet, focused on a nude male model seated on a platform of boxes. All eyes turn to me, even the model’s.

  “Sorry,” I say, and rush to find a seat. Luckily, Fiona has her owl tote bag perched on the stool next to the one she’s sitting on. An easel is set up nearby. It’s reserved for me.

  “Did you miss your train or something?” she whispers, and moves her stuff to the floor.

  Fiona’s got on a baggy black tank top that’s way too big. Even though she’s twisted and pinned the shoulder straps together into an X across her back to keep them from falling off, the armholes still scoop so low that her bare stomach, the waistband of her black leggings, and her tattoo show through the gaps in the fabric. Underneath the tank, she’s wearing a magenta bandeau to cover her boobs and keep the outfit from being X-rated. I guess that’s the problem with getting a tattoo on your ribs. It’s sort of hard to show off, unless you’re in a bikini.

  “I was over at City Hall, finishing up my perspective assignment,” I tell her, climbing onto my stool.

  “Aww, you’re such a good little student,” Fiona teases. “I give you a triple A plus.” She actually does, too. She leans forward, grabs my foot, and pulls it into her lap. Then, with black marker, she scribbles inside the white squares of my brand-new pair of checkerboard Vans, the pair I had insisted Mom buy me at the mall.

  My mom will probably get mad at something like that, but whatever. When I was a kid, she’d get really insane about keeping my Keds as white as possible. She’ll never understand that you’re practically required to write on your Vans. It’s, like, mandatory.

  Yates circles the room and hands out some papers to the class. When he gets close to where I’m sitting, a smile breaks across his face. He hands a paper to me, and casually asks, “Hey, Emily. Did you have a nice weekend?”

  “Yeah, it was pretty good,” I answer, trying to camouflage the excitement in my voice. I tilt my head forward so that my blushing cheeks sink below the popped collar of my gray polo shirt. It used to be plain, but I customized it with some pink, white, and red embroidery floss from the craft store. Now there’s a whole pattern of intersecting broken hearts stitched, exploding around the word ROMERO.

  “Emily, your shirt rules!” Fiona says. “Make me one!”

  I turn back to Yates, feeling a high from Fiona’s compliment. “How about your weekend?”

  “It was very nice. Thank you for asking.” He rests his hand on my shoulder for the quickest second before walking away, but it still feels weighty and warm, exactly like the subway ride back from the baseball game, when Yates held on to me instead of the subway pole and everything in the world rushed past us at a billion miles an hour.

  I catch Robyn watching from her stool on the other side of the room. She smiles at me, but I pretend not to see. I know she was around when all this stuff between Yates and me started, and maybe if it wasn’t for her opening her mouth at the Romero show, none of this would have ever happened. But I still don’t want word of it getting around. I can’t trust her.

  Fiona punches me in the arm. “I seriously want to stuff you and Yates inside a heart-shaped balloon and let you fly away together.”

  “Shhhh!” I lean over to cover Fiona’s mouth with my hand. My stool tips over and crashes onto the ground, and I barely manage not to fall with it. We try really hard not to laugh.

  Fiona and I had talked on the phone for a full hour after my date with Yates. It was so much better than talking to someone like Meg. Fiona didn’t want just a plain old recap. Instead, she asked the best questions, the kind that let me relive the whole day over and over in the most beautiful detail. She wanted to know stuff that no one else would even think to pay attention to, like what Yates’s hair smelled like (oranges), how tightly he held my hand (medium, fingers interlocked), if he chewed with his mouth open (eww, no!), or if his laugh was the kind that made me laugh, too, or made me be quiet because I wanted to concentrate on the sound (it depended).

  But as excited as Fiona got over those kinds of details, she did think the larger picture was boring. According to Fiona, going to a baseball game was a lame date. I tried to explain that it was actually pretty fun and how we’d done a bunch of drawings of each other in our sketchbooks, but she wasn’t convinced. In fact, she said that she expected better of Yates. So I decided not to tell her anything about Yates’s real name or the stuff he said about the bad side of art school. Those felt like secrets only he and I should share.

  Mr. Frank circles the room and says, “Yates is handing out anatomy charts so that you may continue your study of the human body. It would serve you well to memorize all the proper names of the bones, especially if you are planning on applying to this college. You need to know exactly what it is you are drawing.”

  Fiona crumples up the paper and throws it carelessly into her bag. “I’m going to art school, not med school. He’s got to be kidding.”

  “What does it matter, so long as we can draw?” I whisper back, rolling my eyes. But I slide the paper into my bag carefully. Just in case.

  “Emily! Fiona!” Mr. Frank calls out. “I would appreciate you not ruining our last class for t
he rest of the students.”

  I double-take from Fiona’s equally shocked face back to Mr. Frank. “Wait. Don’t we still have another week?” It’s only the end of July, and the program goes one week into August.

  “Yes, but your final class will be spent primarily cleaning up the classroom, emptying out your studio space, and prepping the gallery for the final show. This will be your last day of actual drawing.”

  All the happiness drains straight out of me. I can’t believe this is my last drawing class. I rush to get my sketch pad and pencils out of my bag. The egg timer tick, tick, ticks the time away.

  I draw as fast as I can for the rest of the model’s pose, five different sketches on my paper. I feel like I have to stock them up, since when this class is over, I don’t know when I’ll have the chance to draw a nude model again. And I’m a little nervous that I won’t keep up with my drawing, knowing that Mr. Frank won’t be checking it every week. I have a tendency to get lazy, and I really, really don’t want that to happen. At least Fiona and Yates will keep me accountable and inspired. There’s no way Fiona will let me slack off.

  An hour later, the model gets dressed and leaves. Mr. Frank disassembles the platform and says, “So, let’s share the perspective drawings you’ve been working on. Who would like to go first?”

  Fiona’s hand shoots up. I’m really excited to see her piece. I know she worked all weekend on it. She really wants to impress Mr. Frank, especially after her last crit.

  Fiona walks up to the front of the class and flips her big notebook around. She’s drawn a portrait of a sleeping woman curled up on a couch. The paintings on the wall, the weird old lamp with the fringe shade, the stack of art books — it’s her apartment. And the woman must be her mother. She looks younger than I imagined.

  “This is something I didn’t expect to see from you,” Mr. Frank says.

  I agree. I’ve never seen Fiona draw something like this before.

  “You said you didn’t want shadows, so …” Fiona shifts her weight from side to side. I can tell she’s nervous, but I hope no one else sees. I don’t want her to crack in front of these people. Especially not Robyn.

  “I definitely appreciate you trying something new. But I do think there’s something about the perspective that looks off here. What does everyone else think?”

  “The lamp looks a little too big and it throws the piece off balance,” offers a girl named Gabriella from the front row.

  Fiona looks at me and sighs, deep and painful. I smile back as best as I can. But the truth is, I think Gabriella’s right. Fiona’s drawn the lamp way too big in the foreground.

  “Yes, and I’m not getting the sense of a room with any real angles. Do you see how the horizon rises as it heads to the left of the page?” Mr. Frank gets up and walks over to Fiona’s drawing and points to the line that carves the wall from the floor. “I feel like we’re undulating here. We’re at sea. For this to be a successful portfolio piece, it would need some reworking.”

  I see what he means, though I really wish he wasn’t using Fiona’s piece to illustrate this lesson. Fiona’s lines don’t look as smooth and fluid as they do when she’s sketching shadows. Instead, they are jagged and impatient. Like she was trying too hard.

  Fiona shakes her head. “I told you so,” she says, smug and under her breath.

  “I’m sorry?” Mr. Frank cocks his head to the side.

  “I told you shadows are my thing and whatever. So no wonder this sucks. This is exactly why I didn’t want to do this kind of drawing in the first place.” Her voice is loud. Her hands flop down at her sides.

  I make fists and dig my fingernails into my palms. Fiona’s not good at taking criticism, and Mr. Frank isn’t exactly sensitive at dishing his out. It’s a volatile combination.

  “Fiona, perspective is something that all artists must master.” He’s trying to stay patient. “It takes lots of trial and error.”

  But Fiona’s only getting madder. Her jaw locks up tight and makes her face red. “I … I shouldn’t have compromised my artistic vision for you. I should have just done what I know I do well.”

  “There’s no need to be so defensive, Fiona. And I didn’t want you to give up shadows,” Mr. Frank says. Disappointment hangs on his every word, and it makes his voice lower and more quiet than usual. “In fact, I was hoping that this perspective assignment would have sparked a way to solve the issues we were talking about last class. I assigned it just for you.”

  “Oh right. That’s why every time I show one of my pieces, you make this big show of ripping it to shreds.” Her voice is loud, self-righteous. She jabs her finger into the air, like she’s throwing darts right at Mr. Frank’s head. “You hate that I don’t care about your stupid drawing exercises and assignments. I’m sorry, but I don’t need to know which bone a femur is to be a good artist. I just need to make art and not listen to hacks like you.”

  “Fiona, I …” Mr. Frank is in shock. So is the rest of the room. No one is speaking. I don’t even think anyone is breathing.

  “Next! Go ahead! Next person!” Fiona says, walking back to her seat.

  I make eye contact with Yates. He might be the most shocked of all. And sad. I can’t bear to look at him. I feel terrible for Fiona. I want to apologize for her. She takes her work so seriously. She wants Mr. Frank’s praise so badly. But I also feel embarrassed.

  Mr. Frank shakes his head. He’s still trying to compose himself. “Emily? Do you want to go next?”

  I walk up to the front of the class, turn my paper around, and show my perspective drawing. And in a way, I’m glad it’s unfinished, after what just went down.

  “Why is this incomplete?”

  “I didn’t get it done in time.”

  “You’ve never turned in an incomplete project before. Were you working things out and ran out of time?”

  Yates looks at me, and cocks his head to the side. I have pages and pages inside my sketchbook of false starts and attempts to get things right. It wasn’t until Yates gave me that tip on perspective that things started to come together. But I don’t want to show progress when Fiona’s literally standing still. It’s not worth it. “I just didn’t get to it. Sorry.”

  Mr. Frank sighs. Everyone is letting him down. “For the love of God, someone please say something insightful.”

  “Nice line weight,” one of the boys, Jim, offers.

  The rest of the room stays quiet.

  I return to my seat, so glad not to be singled out by Mr. Frank with a compliment. I try to say something to Fiona, but she won’t look at me. She’s too busy sketching. Mr. Frank and his shadow. It has devil horns and a long, long tail.

  Mr. Frank gives us a break after the crit is over. Fiona storms out of the room and I chase after her into the bathroom. She leans against the sink and stares at the mirror.

  “You were so badass in there,” I say, trying to cheer her up. “You really told Mr. Frank off. I swear, I thought he was going to crap his pants.”

  Instead of smiling, Fiona drops her chin to her chest. “Don’t talk, okay? Just stand here with me for a minute.”

  I nod, though I don’t know if she sees. Then I rub my hand on her back gently for as long as she’ll let me.

  On our way back into the classroom, Jane and Gabriella stop me at the door.

  Jane chews on her fingers while she talks. It’s hard to make out what she’s saying. “Hey, Emily. Do you want to come with us to go see the William Penn statue at lunch? There’s this big observation deck under the statue and you can see the whole city from there.”

  Gabriella twirls her hair up and secures it with a pencil. “And it’s free.”

  “Ummm …” I say, conscious of how quickly Fiona is stuffing her supplies inside her bag across the room. “I don’t think I can make it today. But thanks for inviting me.” I mean, it sounds like a cool thing to do, and I’ve been weirdly in love with that building since the first day I saw it. But it’s not like I have to see it today or an
ything. Fiona needs me today.

  The girls shrug and walk back to their seats.

  “Don’t be upset,” I tell her.

  “I’m not upset,” Fiona spits out as she climbs back up on her stool. “I’m just glad this summer thing is almost over.”

  I reach for a new, sharp pencil in my art box, but all the points are dull. “Yeah,” I say, even though I don’t actually agree.

  I am standing in front of the Gates of Hell. Literally.

  Our last field trip of the summer is to the Rodin Museum.

  Rodin did sculptures in bronze, and one of his most famous is called The Gates of Hell. It’s a humongous piece, a set of doors that don’t open, covered in hundreds of tiny people, gnarled and ensnared and desperate for escape. Agony. It’s really an unsettling thing to look at.

  And it just so happens that Fiona’s mood fits in perfectly. She leans with her butt up against the marble pedestal of The Thinker, Rodin’s other famous statue, and says, “You know this is a reproduction, right? It’s not even the real thing. The real cast that Rodin made is in Paris. He pimped his students out to make hundreds of these knockoffs.” Two German tourists want to take a picture of The Thinker, but Fiona is both impossible to crop out and oblivious to them.

  I take her by the hand and drag her away.

  “Seriously,” she continues, raising her other hand up to point back at the statue, and then letting it fall back down like deadweight. “We might as well take a field trip to the poster shop on South Street to see Monet’s Water Lilies.” She pulls out of my grip and walks away.

  I let her, because I don’t think I’m helping.

  A hand taps my shoulder. I turn around and see it’s Adrian. “Hey, Emily. Long time, no hang.”

  “Hey,” I say back. I feel myself blushing. I’ve seen Adrian a few times around school and stuff, but never felt like it was okay for me to say hi. Sides were taken, and I wasn’t on his.

  Luckily, Adrian is really smiley and sweet. He quickly puts me at ease. “Can you believe the summer is almost over?” he says.