Same Difference

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“Like totally nude?” Meg asks. “Was it a guy or a girl?”

“It was a woman.”

“Was she hot?” That’s Rick.

Meg slaps him on the arm.

I shake my head. “Not at all. She was old. Like a mom.”

Meg and Rick turn to each other and laugh. And then, a disturbed look crosses Rick’s face. “Will you have to draw naked guys?”

“Yeah,” I say casually, even though that never dawned on me before. “Probably.” It’s kind of funny to think that the first time I see a guy naked, it’s not going to be my boyfriend. Though maybe it’s better that way. Maybe I won’t be as nervous when it finally happens for real.

“Art is so weird,” Rick says, shaking his head. “I mean, I don’t know much about it, but some of those paintings Ms. Kay showed me two years ago were just stupid. Anyone could do that stuff.” He shakes his head again. “Sure some art is, like, unbelievable. Like the Mona Lisa. I can definitely appreciate that. But the other stuff. Paint splatters and colored squares and whatever. I just don’t get it.”

Meg laughs. “I bet half of the people who say they get that stuff actually have no clue. They just don’t want to sound dumb.”

I wonder what Meg and Rick would think of Fiona’s shadows. Sure, any three-year-old can trace with chalk, but there was something amazing about them. Like she showed something I’d never noticed was there. I want to tell them about it, but I don’t think I could explain it right. It’s just like Fiona said, I guess — the experience is the thing. Talking about it wouldn’t do it justice.

The parking lot of the Dairy Queen is packed. It’s one of the meeting places for all Cherry Grove high schoolers during the summer. Everyone eats ice cream while they plot ways to get beer and a place to drink it. On most nights they come up short on both accounts.

We pull in and park. A bunch of kids from school come by while we’re in line and say hello. Meg and I are friendly with most of the same people, but there are a few of Rick’s friends who I don’t know as well as she does. I turn and spin and nod my head and pretend to be interested in the gossip, but it’s all the same sort of stuff you hear during the year.

We eat our ice cream over by the chain-link fence, where Jimmy Carr and Chad Daly are talking. Meg always says I should like Chad Daly, but I don’t think he’s my type. He wears too much hair gel, and he never eats ice cream, even though he’s always hanging out at DQ. Instead, he orders a large Mountain Dew from the fountain and chews the straw until it barely works.

“Hey, guys,” Rick says. They slap hands, all loose and relaxed.

“So, what’s everyone up to?” Meg asks them. “Getting excited for the Babe Ruth opening game?”

Chad and Jimmy and Rick all play baseball together on the summer league. It’s the only way for them to get practice in without breaking the high school rules. Meg asks more questions, about the lineups and their pitcher’s shoulder injury. I have no idea how she learned all this stuff about baseball. I guess Rick’s explained it to her. I try to nod at appropriate times so it’s like I get it, too.

But eventually the conversations that I’m not actually participating in soften into whispers. I can’t hear people talking, or taste the vanilla ice cream in my Blizzard. That happens to me sometimes, when I get bored. When other people zone out, it’s because they’re lost in the lyrics of a song or thinking of a funny story. For most people, it’s all about words.

Not for me. I find it fun to look at something and reduce it to the small parts that make it up. Like Jenessa Wilson, leaning against the DQ counter. She’s one long line, from the top of her head, curving down her spine and along her butt, which always seems to be sticking out, and then down her long, thin legs. Jenessa’s on the cheerleading squad and a year younger than me, but I think she looks way older. She wears a lot of makeup, and you can usually see some of it, tan like caramel, smudged on the collars of her shirts. But guys love Jenessa. They throw themselves at her. Meg says that she’s actually a nice girl when you get to talking to her, but I don’t believe it. I’ve never once seen her truly smile. It always looks more like a sneer.

“Hey! Emily!” Meg says, knocking into me with an embarrassed laugh. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Everything snaps back into normal focus. Rick is across the parking lot, unlocking the door to his truck. There’s no one else around. Jimmy and Chad are gone. I’m standing here alone, in the middle of the parking lot, all by myself. My Blizzard is almost empty.

“What’s everyone doing?”

“Nothing. Going home. You know how it is.” Meg turns toward Rick’s truck.

The night is slipping away. “Hey,” I say, and take hold of her arm. “Let’s go sneak into a movie, like we used to do.”

Meg shrugs her shoulders. “Hmm . . . maybe. You know, ever since they redid the movie theater, they have people double-checking ticket stubs. I’m dying to see that new one about the florist who falls in love with her delivery guy, but it doesn’t open until this weekend. We should just go next week. Maybe on Tuesday. I think it’s supposed to rain on Tuesday.”

“Well, we could go down to the fields and hang out there.” Someone discovered that the back door to the football equipment room never locks. We’ve snuck in there to drink beers and listen to music sometimes. It’s not all that much fun, but at least it’s something.

Meg laughs. “Didn’t you hear? Coach Heller got the locks replaced.”

“Oh.” I try to think of another possibility. I’m not ready for tonight to be over. Nothing’s even happened yet.

Meg turns and looks back at the truck. “I think we’re going to just go and watch some TV or something at Rick’s house.” She pauses briefly. “You can totally come if you want.”

It’s nice of Meg to invite me, but I will never go and watch television with her and Rick again. The last time I did that, they were either cuddled under a blanket together or disappearing upstairs to the kitchen together to get more snacks or whatever. I’d be left alone in Rick’s dark basement watching some dumb show or movie, the kind of thing you decide to “watch” when you have a boyfriend because you don’t plan on “watching” anything.

“That’s okay.” I say. “I’ve got class tomorrow anyhow. Oh! But I have to bring Claire a Blizzard or I’ll never hear the end of it when I get home. Can you give me one second?”

“Of course,” Meg says. “I’ll be in the truck.”

I run over to the counter and place my order. Across the parking lot, Meg talks to Rick in the truck. She’s saying something to him, probably that I’m not coming. Rick smiles, and they start kissing. I hold Claire’s Blizzard and walk as slow as I can. I don’t care if the ice cream melts. I’m not rushing back over there. Their night is just getting started, and mine’s about to end.

Six (#ulink_7d7ae1d3-3427-592c-88fc-973e1fdc1c56)

The Philadelphia Museum of Art is an enormous building on top of a grassy hill. Almost a hundred steps lead up to the front entrance, carved in stone. Behind the building stretches a winding river, like one you might find in the country, but this one has skyscrapers rising from its banks. Long, skinny crew boats filled with shirtless frat guys from Penn slice through the dark water in unison, making lots of frothy splashes with their oars. Their chants of Row, Row, Row give it a pulse.

Four yellow buses drop us off at the base of the stairs. Robyn and Fiona are on my bus. Robyn has on gray leggings, a blousy yellow tank top that could almost be a dress, and a pair of saddle shoes. Fiona wears a pair of skinny frayed jean shorts cut at the knees, a cropped navy vest buttoned tight around her chest, and these vampy open-toe red heels. I think the vest might have come from a little boy’s Catholic school uniform or something — it fits her like a corset. A tangle of long, thin gold chains hangs from her neck. It’s the kind of outfit that belongs in a magazine, the sort of thing that you can’t imagine anyone would wear in real life. But there she is, in real life, wearing it.

Fiona and Robyn have made a new friend. A boy I’ve never seen before is dragged down the aisle behind them. He mumbles “Excuse me, excuse me” to the kids they push out of their way. His voice is very Southern and sweet, and it rolls past his lips real slow. He looks quiet, shy, and freakishly skinny. He’s got on a black T-shirt with a white spiderweb on it, thick black glasses that keep sliding down his nose, green army shorts, and black Converse. His floppy brown hair hangs in his eyes and he keeps thrashing his neck to fling it to the side, but it just falls back down a few seconds later. They walk past me on their way off the bus, talking about who knows what. But Fiona stops and ducks her head so she can peek out my window. Something outside has caught her attention.

“Every time I see that thing, I want to yak.” Fiona swats her pink hair over her shoulder and points.

I can’t help but look, too, since they are talking right over my head, but I try to make it not obvious. A large block of cast bronze perched on the top museum step reflects the sun back in our faces. Probably by a famous artist I’ve never heard of before.

The boy shrugs his shoulders. “Is that a Rodin?”

Fiona rustles a hand through his hair. “Are you kidding me, Adrian? You of all people should know who that is.” She throws up her hands like she’s going to punch him out. “Yo, Adrian! Adrian!” she calls out in a fake deep voice. “That’s Rocky. Rocky Balboa. From those dumb Sylvester Stallone boxing movies that were filmed in Philly. You know, the ones they play on channel eleven on Sunday afternoons.”

Robyn laughs. “Eww. What’s Rocky doing at the art museum?”

“Because there’s this part in the movie where Rocky is training and he runs up the steps of the museum, and throws his arms up when he gets to the top.” She shakes her head. “Just watch,” she says.

Sure enough, not one minute later, two touristy men start to race each other up the stairs. One of the guys is fat, in a Santa way, with a belly that shakes underneath his shirt. His taller friend passes him, even though he’s smoking a cigarette, and when he reaches the top, he throws his hands up in the air and twirls around slow. Then he slings his arm proudly over the statue’s neck and waits for someone to take his picture.

I guess Fiona’s been here before.

Fiona shakes her head, and continues to walk off the bus. “These people don’t even go inside the museum. They just pose with the statue like morons. I mean, go to Universal Studios if that’s the kind of culture you care about.”

I know they aren’t talking about me specifically, but I let my hair hang in front of my face as if they were. My dad loves the movie Rocky, though I’ve never watched it. It won Best Picture, I think. I remember seeing the gold foil sticker on the DVD case. Not that it makes it any better.

I hang toward the back and follow the rest of the students inside the museum. Chatter instantly turns into whispers, as if we were in a library. The room is cavernous, dark brown stone and lit low and soft. It’s cool, very cool inside, like a tomb.

Yates comes up next to me. “Do you have your sketchbook, Emily?”

“Umm . . . don’t I have until next Tuesday?” I keep blowing every opportunity to look cool in front of Yates. I sound like I don’t care.

Yates shakes his head and tsks me. “Here,” he says, and carefully rips some pages out of his own book. “Make sure you get your own today. You don’t want to make Mr. Frank think you’re slacking. He takes these summer classes very seriously, and if he decides that you don’t, there’s no changing his mind.”

I appreciate how nice Yates is to me, even if it’s his job. “Thanks.”

“Don’t forget,” he warns.

“Okay, students,” Dr. Tobin says. “We’re going to enter into the main wing as a group. The professors will all engage you in discussion, but you should for the most part use this time to sketch and to contemplate the pieces. Please do not wander off.”

Everyone shuffles up a wide staircase into the main hall. On the landing, there’s a big iron statue of Diana, goddess of the hunt, with bow and arrow pointed directly at us. It’s like she’s guarding the museum. I catch myself ducking out of her aim.

We enter into the first gallery room, full of colorful paintings in gilded frames. Dr. Tobin gathers us around van Gogh’s Vase with Twelve Sunflowers. I recognize it right away. Ms. Kay has a poster of it hanging by the slop sink.

“So who can tell me the artist of this painting?”

I check to see if anyone raises their hands. But no one does. Could I possibly know something the rest of the kids here don’t? My hand tentatively leaves my pocket.

“Who painted this picture?” Dr. Tobin repeats, frustrated.

My arm is just about over my head when the entire room says “Van Gogh” in the most bored, tired voices.

It’s not that I was the only one who knew the answer. It’s the obvious one everyone knows. I run my hand through my hair to play it off, but I’m sure my red cheeks give me away.

“Now, let’s talk quickly about the Expressionist movement. Who can explain it?”

Robyn’s hand shoots up. “That’s when artists play with color and texture to express emotions in personal ways.”

“Exactly,” Dr. Tobin says. “I want you all to please look at the textures of this piece up close as we move along. Van Gogh was famous for his impasto style. Can anyone tell me what that is?”

At least five kids raise their hands.

I feel so completely ignorant. I have no idea what these words and terms mean.

Once everyone moves to the next room, I stop and stare at Sunflowers. I get close enough that my nose almost touches the canvas, so I can see the brush strokes and the energy, stuff you could never ever see on a stupid poster. Instead of feeling inspired, I feel daunted. I’ll never be this good. Why even try?

After looking at a bunch more nineteenth-century paintings, we make our way into the modern art wing.