“Who cares what anyone thinks?” I ask quietly. “You said yourself that it’s all a game, everyone playing pretend.”
“You don’t get it. The painting, and what everyone thinks of it, is the important thing. It’s bigger than who I am. I want to be an artist. I want people to take me seriously. That’s what I care about.”
I can tell Yates is getting annoyed with me because I’m not just agreeing with him. I do feel terrible about everything that’s happened to him, so terrible it makes it hard to stand up straight, but I don’t feel like this is even Yates talking. At least, not the Yates who was with me at the baseball game, the guy who was so many layers all wrapped into one.
“I guess I don’t get it,” I say, shuffling backward toward the door. “I thought you wanted to show me your true self, but here you are, going back to the role. That’s not you.”
He doesn’t say anything, though. He turns back to the window, leaving me no other choice but to walk down the hall. He’s sorry — I sense how sorry he is. But he’s not going to say it.
I move slowly at first, giving him a chance to come after me, to prove me wrong.
He doesn’t.
Then, I run.
I sit on the floor of my room. The crickets hiding in the lawn sound more like nails on a chalkboard than a summertime lullaby. I stare at my new and improved room. I appreciate the way it looks … but I’m not feeling it.
All I feel is absence. You can decorate absence however you want — but you’re still going to feel what’s missing.
I want to believe in art. But art isn’t a boyfriend who can hold you and make you feel better. Art isn’t a best friend who’ll always be there for you.
I turn off the lights. I sit in the dark. The art disappears.
This is what I’m left with:
My thoughts.
My doubts.
My absences.
What have I done?
I tell myself that Meg and I were destined to outgrow each other. It’s just what happens to friendships where the common denominator is the cul-de-sac you both live on. I try to believe this. I try to believe we were meant to grow apart.
I felt suffocated.
We both felt suffocated.
Now it’s over and I’m still finding it hard to breathe.
I wish things could have ended better. I wish I’d let myself stretch and bloom in my own light. I wish I hadn’t gotten scared. I wish I hadn’t stepped into someone else’s shadow.
If only I had let myself be more open. If only I’d made a big group of friends. If only I’d looked for chances instead of changes.
Maybe I could have really become myself.
Now I have nothing. Nothing but the drawings on my walls and a portrait of a me, a me who only has a shadow.
They’re not enough.
They’ll never be enough.
Instead of normal class on Tuesday, all of the summer students meet down in the gallery to prepare it for Friday’s art show.
Fiona doesn’t appear.
I’m not surprised.
We’re all given jobs and tasks, like spackling the holes in the wall from the last show, touching up the white paint where it’s dirty or scuffed, sweeping the floor, adjusting the spotlights. Robyn and I go down the lists of students and put strips of masking tape up on the walls where their pieces will hang.
“I honestly can’t believe Fiona ratted out you and Yates,” Robyn says.
I tap my pencil against the clipboard, afraid to look up at the eyes that might be trained on me. “Does everyone know?” For some reason, I didn’t think gossip would work in the same way here that it does in Cherry Grove.
Robyn looks around the room. “Umm, yeah. Pretty much. I mean, Yates isn’t here. And Mr. Frank has been snippy with you all day.”
She’s right. I asked him a simple question about where our class would be showing our pieces, and he almost bit my head off. I wish I could tell him that it’s not my fault, but I know that’s not true. It’s Yates’s fault, and definitely Fiona’s, but I’m not innocent, either. I knew what I was risking when Yates and I kissed. All I was thinking about was what I was going to get. I didn’t think once about what I might lose.
I reach FIONA CRAWFORD on the list. Robyn must figure it out from the look on my face, because she writes the name down on a big strip of masking tape, even though I don’t say it out loud.
“Do you think she’ll show?” she asks me as she presses the tape against the wall. “She might. Like, storm in all dramatic and turn this place on its head? I can see her doing that.”
I don’t say anything. Maybe because a part of me hopes that she will show up. It still kills me to think that Fiona might give up her art forever. Even though I’m mad at her, furious even, I don’t want that to happen.
Adrian comes over. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry about what happened.”
“Geez,” I say, annoyed. Everyone does know. And then I notice the huge box in his arms. “Hey! Is that your graphic novel?”
“Yep.” Adrian grins. He opens up the box and hands me a full-color copy. It’s got a funny cartoon boy on the cover, with two thick black swirls across his upper lip. It reads MR. MUSTACHE FALLS IN LOVE.
“Oh my God!”
“I know. I thought about what you said. About making a big statement. I know she’s done some bad stuff to you, and she’s definitely hurt me, but you have to admit … hanging out with her was pretty amazing.”
“Yeah, it was,” I concede. “But Fiona only kept me around because I made her feel good about herself. I was her ego boost.”
Adrian considers this. “She was yours, too, though … right?”
“I guess.” I mean, I did have loads of fun being with Fiona. She made me feel bigger. “But that doesn’t erase what she did. It’s obvious that Fiona wasn’t as strong as we all thought she was.”
“There are definitely some deep insecurities there. I mean, everyone has insecurities. But we have to work to get over them.” He sighs. “I guess this is mine. To really admit to her how I feel. And not to care what anyone says about it.”
“That is brave,” I say. “Really.” We both wear sad smiles, because we know that, with Adrian going back to Kansas, there’s really no chance for this love story to have a happy ending. But for Adrian, that’s not what it’s about. It’s about him making something with the feelings he has.
“Only thing is, I’m afraid she won’t come on Friday night. You’ve been to her house, right? Could you get this to her somehow?”
I really don’t see myself being in touch with Fiona ever again. But I want to do this for Adrian. To give him closure. “Yeah,” I say. In my sketchbook, I have the directions to Fiona’s apartment. I could put Adrian’s graphic novel in the mail. “Sure.”
Something over my shoulder grabs his attention. “Umm,” he says quickly. “I’ll talk to you later.”
I turn and see Mr. Frank walking straight for me.
I look for an escape, but I’m surrounded by a crowd, by other students who are quickly becoming aware of this impending showdown. I try to look brave.
I don’t come anywhere close.
“Emily, can I speak to you for a minute?”
“Sure.”
He walks past me and I follow, out into the hallway.
“I want to talk to you about something that happened in class the other day.”
“Okay.”
“When you showed your perspective drawing in class that day, I knew you had been lying about your progress. I know you did that drawing fifteen times. I saw you getting better with each assignment.”
“Oh.”
“Emily, you must never stifle your own potential to make concessions for those who don’t have your gifts. Hiding will never give you the perspective you need. You can’t help the fact that you are who you are, just like Fiona can’t help who she is.”
Lesson already learned. But what good will it do me?
He continues. “If there?
??s one thing I’ve discovered, it’s that stifling yourself will only lead to more misery. For a time, I tried not to make art. I felt undeserving. But my life was miserable. I polluted all other happiness because I was afraid to let myself create and change. You have to have courage. Real courage to explore, to fail, and to pick yourself back up again.”
He stares at me, trying to gauge how much of his wisdom is penetrating. I wish it was more than it is.
I still feel undeserving. Maybe I always will.
Maybe I just have to learn to accept that.
I’m sad when it’s time for lunch. Sad, but not lonely, because I don’t really want to be around other people. So I don’t go eat lunch with Adrian and Robyn when they ask.
But unlike when I used to take lunches by myself, now I’m not afraid to walk or wander. So that’s just what I do, opting for the narrowest cobblestone side streets and alleyways, where houses sit but cars don’t drive. I find peace and quiet in these secret little avenues. I like the way the uneven stones feel under my flip-flops, crooked and unsure, but also like a massage. I’ve worn my Havaianas so much now, they are molded to my feet. They know their place on me. They’re sure of where they sit.
I walk east until I hit the river. Then I follow the bike path along the water, watching ducks swim by and cars drive by, where the city mashes into the country. It’s like neither side wanted to give up, so they just called a truce.
I’m ready to call a truce.
And then I come upon the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It’s not the grand, dramatic staircase at the front of the building. Instead, I’ve stumbled upon the much less majestic parking lot. It’s half full. There are Dumpsters there. And trash on the ground. It’s much more … approachable. So I approach. With caution, but also something else.
I think it might be excitement.
My pace changes, from meandering to purposeful. Even though my steps are quick and rushed, I still take the time to see what’s on the walls, what colors jump at my eyes, the curves of carved stone, the undulations of a gilded frame that rivals the artwork it showcases.
I go back to Duchamp. To The Waterfall.
There are a few people inside the gallery. I stand next to the opening, not quite inside, as two old ladies rush through, lean forward, and gasp.
Their reaction momentarily breaks my courage, but it is only a hiccup because then they walk past me, shaking their heads and smiling.
Something good to be seen.
When I am in the room, the fear comes over me again, but this time it feels more euphoric than scary. Because with the worry of what is there, I realize I need to be brave enough to go and look for myself, to face the fears and not to run.
Six weeks ago, I was so scared. I’m still a bit that way, but now I’m more excited to see what’s underneath when I strip everything else away. When it’s just me.
I take slow, measured steps toward the dark wooden door. I press my face against the holes. This is one of the only pieces in the museum you can touch. I am touching art.
Fiona’s voice rings in my ears. Duchamp didn’t tell anyone about this work. He built it in secret, while everyone else thought he was retired. He didn’t care what people thought of him, what they were going to say about his work.
I used to think that was why Fiona liked Duchamp so much. He was her badass equal.
Only, when I peek through the door, I see Duchamp did care. He cared so much that he took great pains to preserve this experience, to give it to people like me.
I stand there and stare through the door for what feels like forever. And then I leave, changed.
Fiona definitely got me to this moment. She opened my world up, for the better. And maybe the things that I thought were in her, the things I so desperately admired, are really in me.
But they can be in her, too. They must be, because she got me here. Instead of following her lead, I see now that we were on a journey together. Fiona helped me get to this point. I can’t abandon her now, when she needs me the most and doesn’t know how to ask for help.
Just as in your sketchbook, you never throw out a drawing. You have to learn from mistakes. I ruined things with Meg, deserted her when she needed me most. I have no idea how to fix things, or if they are even fixable at all. It’s probably too late for that. But one thing I do know: I am not about to make the same mistake twice.
Instead of taking a cab from the museum, I follow her directions. Two buses and one train. It takes me almost an hour, but it isn’t complicated. I enjoy the ride.
I get to her apartment and look up to her window, but I can’t tell if anyone’s inside. I go to the front door and check out the buzzers. Unfortunately, none of them are marked with names, and I don’t remember Fiona’s apartment number.
“Can I help you?” a woman says from behind me. She’s struggling to carry three huge bags of pet food.
“Maybe,” I say. “I don’t remember my friend’s apartment number. Her name is Fiona Crawford.”
The woman gasps and drops a bag on the ground. It spills and a few tiny brown pellets fall on the sidewalk. “You must be Emily!” she says and sweeps me into a big hug.
When she pulls away, I recognize her from Fiona’s perspective drawing. Fiona’s mom has a few wrinkles around her eyes but she still looks kind of young. Maybe because her short, choppy hair is split into pigtails. It’s sort of funky hair and jewelry for the outfit she’s wearing — a bright blue polo shirt and khaki pants. On the pocket of her shirt, just above her chest, is a small cartoon of a googly-eyed pooch and bubble letters spelling PETSMART.
I guess I make a face, because Fiona’s mom blushes. “I know. Isn’t this the lamest thing ever? I hate these uniforms. But you have to pay the bills somehow.”
“Yeah,” I say and smile. But I’m totally confused.
Fiona’s mom struggles to pick up the bag she’s dropped. “I don’t think Fiona’s home, unfortunately. But would you mind helping me bring this upstairs? I can’t manage on my own, not without a birdseed trail.”
I take a bag into my arms.
“Did Fiona go to class today?” Ms. Crawford asks.
I don’t know what to say. “I’m not sure. I didn’t go.”
“Oh.” She shakes her head and fumbles for her keys. “She was pretty upset all weekend long, but of course she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. You know how defensive Fiona gets.”
I carry the stuff into the living room. And because there’s all this awkward silence, I say, “I love your paintings,” gesturing to the ones on the wall.
“Oh, those? God, they are so embarrassing. Fiona found those under my bed and insisted we hang them down here. She’s always trying to get me inspired to work again. It’s sweet, but I haven’t painted in so long.”
“Really?”
“I know — it’s terrible. I wish I was as passionate as Fiona. She has the drive to make something of herself. She always says I’m too good to be working at PetSmart. Maybe she’s right, I don’t know. At any rate, I should have had a better backup plan for us, to get our bills paid. Fiona always says she’s going to be famous someday, and then I’ll never have to struggle again.”
I swallow, because I don’t really know what to say. “Can I just leave her a note upstairs?”
“Sure.”
I walk up to Fiona’s room. It feels like trespassing. I stand in front of that Andy Warhol poster and think about the altered quote, and why Fiona wants so badly to be famous. Maybe it’s to save her mom. Or maybe she thinks that if she’s not good enough, she’ll have nothing but PetSmart.
But she doesn’t have to be afraid, to rely on her old tricks. Fiona has what it takes. I know she does. She just has to keep moving forward.
I leave Adrian’s comic on her bed. And I write her a note on a scrap of my old wallpaper.
I write on it that I looked through the door.
I write that I get it.
I write that I get her, too.
Mom comes in my room w
ithout knocking. It’s early, so she opens the door slow and smooth, careful not to cause any dream-shattering squeaks from the hinges. She cranes her neck around the door and looks around my room, equally cautious, as if some booby trap might be sprung and her head sliced off by a DIY guillotine. Her eyes settle on me — sitting up in bed, arms folded, staring her down.
“Oh! Emily!” She puts a hand to her chest. “I thought you’d be sleeping.”
“Nope.” The truth is, I haven’t slept all night. Nerves, fear, and anxiety kept me spinning. As tired as I was, I couldn’t relax thinking about what might happen tonight. I’d try to shut my eyes, but they’d spring back open, like two like magnets pressed together.
“Well, good. I’ve got a surprise for you. I’ve made us all appointments at the salon, so we can get our hair and nails done. Why don’t you go ahead and get dressed and we can stop at the Starbucks on our way over and grab some croissants.”
I pull the covers up to my chin. “Why would you do that?”
“I thought you’d want to look extrafancy for your big gallery show. You know, have your hair curled or blown out. Maybe we could get it done half up.” She reaches out to touch me.
I lean back as far as my feathered pillows will let me. “It’s not prom, Mom. And I’m tired of letting you stand behind the chair and tell the stylist how my hair should look. It’s my hair and I’ll do what I want with it.”
“I thought you liked my help! We always have fun looking through the magazines together.” I shake my head and her wide, toothy smile falls. “Fine. Then get your split ends trimmed and choose clear nail polish. But you are coming with us.” Mom takes a deep breath to calm herself down. “Do you know if we’re driving Meg with us tonight, or if her boyfriend will be taking her to the gallery show?”