I make a reverse shadow, where the me is the thing that is empty, full of possibility. My shadow, the stuff I’m leaving behind, is a catalog of the old me. Only the shadow isn’t stuck to me anymore. I draw my black shape lifting my foot just off the page, off the shadow, off the cul-de-sac. Really, finally stepping away.
My professors perch over my shoulders.
“This is so evocative, Emily.”
“I love the texture.”
“I feel the energy.”
The rest of the class gathers around. Everyone compliments, congratulates. But it doesn’t matter. I only care about one opinion.
My first instinct is to find Fiona and show her. She’d be so proud, to see how inspired I’ve been by her. To see the mark she’s left on me. But Fiona’s more into the big moment. So I decide I’ll just let her see it, hanging with the student work, at the final show. It will solidify our friendship after this program is done. She’s left her indelible mark on me.
It’s for her. I’ll call it Thank You.
I spend most of Friday staring out my window at Meg’s house. I plan on walking over to talk to her as soon as her parents leave. I want to get this over with now that I’m absolutely sure about things. It’s not going to be a fun conversation, but Meg needs to hear what I have to say. It makes no sense for us to pretend that everything’s fine, that we’re still best friends. I’m tired of pretending. I feel like I’ve been doing it my whole life.
But as soon as her dad leaves for work and her mom leaves to run errands, before I barely have my foot out of my room, Rick’s truck appears.
There’s no way I want him to be around for our talk. He’ll just make things more difficult. No. This is between me and Meg. So I wait for him to leave.
I kneel on the floor, fold my arms across my windowsill, and stare at Meg’s house. After about an hour, I hear the vibration of the diving board echo through the air as Rick cannonballs into the water with a huge splash. I don’t need to actually see the backyard to know it isn’t Meg on that diving board. Meg hates the diving board, because on the first day it was installed, she slipped and fell.
“Okay, Maria.” Mom pushes open the door of my room with her foot. “Just be careful in here. There might still be some broken ceramic on the floor. I don’t want you to get cut.”
Maria has the vacuum hose slung over her shoulders. Her mouth drops. “Emily!” she cries. “What happened to your beautiful room?”
“She’s going through a phase,” Mom reasons.
“It’s not a phase,” I snap back. Mom and I have avoided talking ever since Fiona slept over for this very reason.
Mom doesn’t even acknowledge what I say. She just keeps talking to Maria as they disappear down the hall. “And all of Emily’s clothes in the garbage bags downstairs are actually clean, so please be careful not to throw them out by mistake.”
Another thirty minutes pass before Rick emerges from the stone path. As soon as he’s gone, I sneak out the front door and walk over.
Meg lies on a lounge chair, reading a magazine.
“Hey,” I say. “We need to talk.”
“We’ve needed to talk for a whole week, Emily.” She looks at my Meowie tank and then back to her magazine. “Thanks for finally fitting me in.”
I’m a little startled at Meg’s lack of fake cheeriness — I guess we’re beyond that kind of pretending now. Still, I’m not going to let Meg intimidate me from saying what needs to be said.
“I needed time to cool down,” I tell her. “You really upset me. It was like you were purposefully trying to embarrass me in front of Fiona.”
“You were embarrassed?” Meg flaps her magazine closed. “How about you trying to avoid even saying hi to me? And the fact that Fiona obviously had no clue who I was?”
A car pulls into the driveway. It’s Meg’s mom, carrying a bunch of grocery bags.
“Emily!” she chirps out. “So nice to see you!”
“Hey, Mrs. Mundy.”
“You girls having fun today?”
“Oh yeah,” Meg says in a flat voice. She stands up and grabs her towel. “Loads.”
“Listen,” Meg whispers in my ear, “I can’t talk to you here. My mom has been driving me crazy, acting all nosy about why you never come over anymore. I think she knows we’ve been fighting.”
“She’s probably been talking to my mom. Every day, she’s on my case to call you or whatever. She thinks this is just a phase, but it’s not.”
Meg shrugs. “So, should we go to Starbucks? It feels weird to go there, knowing we’re going to be fighting, but I can’t think of anywhere else.”
Starbucks would be a bad idea. I’m tired of going to Starbucks. “Actually … I was planning to go to Goodwill at some point today,” I say. “You could come with me.”
She makes a scrunched-up face. “For what?”
I ignore her face and readjust one of my bobby pins. “I need to get some new clothes and some furniture for my room.” I’m tired of borrowing all of Fiona’s clothes. I want my own. I’m going to need my own.
“Furniture? Why do you need new furniture?”
“I did some redecorating.” My white Pottery Barn furniture isn’t cutting it anymore. I want more color, more patterns. I want a mix-match of things, things that no one else will have. Actually, I’d love to show Meg my room. I think, more than anything else, it would get across the point that I’m trying to make. But Meg doesn’t ask to come over and see it, and my mom’s home anyhow, so I let it go.
Meg flips open her cell and pounds out a quick text. “Okay. Let’s go.” Then she snaps her cell closed and heads for the gate.
We walk through the natural fence and up over the hill. We pass right by the Starbucks. About a quarter mile down Route 38 is the Goodwill. It’s a little tricky to get to by walking, because there’s no sidewalk on the highway. Meg and I just sort of scurry along the side of the road from parking lot to parking lot, being careful to watch for passing cars whizzing by and the broken glass on the pavement. We can’t talk. We walk in a straight line.
I’ve never been inside a Goodwill before, and it takes me by surprise. It’s hot inside. Hot like no-air-conditioning-at-the-end-of-July hot. There aren’t many other people shopping, and no one looks … cool.
I thought Goodwill would be like a hip department store, where I’d have my pick of interesting, retro stuff. But it isn’t like that at all. It’s sort of junky. There’s no amazing find, like a leopard-skin armchair or a fuzzy green rug. It’s just … trash. But I don’t let on to Meg. I just grab myself a shopping cart and head toward the big overhead sign that says HOME FURNISHINGS.
“What are you looking for, exactly?” Meg asks, wrinkling her nose up at a set of ugly brown dishes.
“I’ll know when I find it.”
It ends up that Home Furnishings is a misleading categorization. It’s not just furniture there. There’s a bunch of random kids’ toys and lawn ornaments and weird old televisions that couldn’t possibly still work. And things aren’t even separated into aisles. Everything’s in big mounds you have to dig through. It’s kind of gross.
Meg picks up a hunk of white plastic and walks it over to me. “Look! A Snoopy Sno-Cone maker! Do you remember when we decided to open up our own ice cream parlor next to the security guard booth? But it took an hour to grind up all the ice and everything melted before we could even sell one?”
This should inspire me into a happy memory. But I’m tired of reminiscing, now that my real life has begun.
Maybe it’s the heat in here, or the stale smell, or the bright lights, but I just can’t take it. “Do you remember when we used to have conversations that weren’t trips down memory lane? When we had an actual friendship?”
Meg takes one last look at the Snoopy Sno-Cone maker before putting it down. “Are we not actually friends anymore? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I just think we’ve grown apart,” I say, and hold an ugly gold metal lamp up to my face becau
se I don’t have the courage to look at her.
“We haven’t grown apart, Emily. You’re forcing us apart.”
That’s absolutely not true. Meg just doesn’t want to see the truth. “You can’t deny that things have changed, Meg. I mean, I’m guilty of not talking about it, but you have to understand that I’m not even close to the person I was when summer started.”
She sighs. “Emily, I really hate when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you’re so grown-up, just because you spend a few days a week in Philadelphia. It’s ridiculous.”
I shake my head. “You don’t get it.”
“Get how much you suddenly hate it here? You’re right — I don’t. This is our home, Emily. This is the place where we became friends. We grew up here, we’ve had so many good times here. Why are you trying to forget them?”
“That’s not it, Meg. I’m just seeing this place different than you.” I glance outside. There’s more fast food architecture. “See that? See how that Wendy’s looks just like a Taco Bell? Doesn’t that make you sick?”
“That’s not a Wendy’s. The Wendy’s is near the mall. That’s a Burger King.”
“Same difference. Whatever.”
“No.” Meg shakes her head. “It’s not the same difference. And I would have thought an artist would pay attention to details like that.”
I’m not going to be made fun of, especially by someone like Meg. “Listen, you’ve got Rick, so go ahead and do your thing at the Dairy Queen and watch those boring Babe Ruth baseball games and whatever. Because I’ve got a new boyfriend and a new best friend and she’s cooler than you, anyway.”
“Right. Because going out and doing graffiti is so cool and mature.”
“Oh! You mean mature like you and your boyfriend drawing freaking cartoon penises in my sketchbook? Grow up, Meg.”
“Are you kidding me? You think you’re so grown-up because you draw penises? Well, I’ve actually touched a penis before, Emily. I’ve had sex, actually. So I guess that makes me more mature than you.”
“Congratulations,” I say. And then the reality of what Meg just said hits me. I think of the hour she and Rick spent alone in the house today, and the way she was so flirty with him at the funnel cake shop. And the night she slept over at his house and used me as her cover.
She’s lost her virginity to Rick.
She did it, and I didn’t even know.
“You’re not the only one who’s growing up,” Meg says. But unlike me, she doesn’t sound proud or happy. She looks like she’s going to cry.
An employee pushing a huge cart piled with old wedding dresses passes us in the aisle. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” I whisper. Maybe I should have expected it, but I didn’t. A part of me wants to comfort her, but I feel so small. It’s true — I’m not the only one who’s changed. Meg has changed, maybe in a bigger way than I have. She’s left me behind, too.
“I tried to tell you! In fact, that night that I wanted you to come to Rick’s party, I was hoping you’d keep me from doing it. But you blew me off. Every single time I’ve said that I’ve needed you, you’ve blown me off.”
I say “What?” even though I know exactly what Meg’s talking about.
“And then, when I finally did try to talk to you, you’d start to brag about how much fun you were having in Philly. And you’d complain about how you don’t think Rick’s good enough for me.” She’s so angry, I can see her start to sweat in the corners of her forehead. “And stupid me didn’t want to make you feel bad. You’ve been so weird since Rick and I started dating. Like I was breaking up with you or something. Well, I wasn’t. I was just acting like the rest of the kids in Cherry Grove. But you couldn’t catch up. You couldn’t catch up even if —”
“Hello! I don’t want to catch up to you.” This is impossible. We’re moving in two different directions. “I don’t want anything close to your life, Meg. In fact, I wish I could fast-forward through senior year and just get the hell out of Cherry Grove.”
Meg shakes her head. “You know what? You’re right. We’ve both outgrown each other. So let’s make a clean break of it.”
“That’s fine with me.” And I realize: It is fine with me. It’s over.
“Why wait until next year when we graduate? Why prolong the inevitable? Let’s just say it’s over and then we won’t have to feel bad about ignoring each other anymore.”
“Meg!” I say. “FINE! That’s why I came over to your house in the first place!”
Meg nods once, like a genie who’s just cast a spell. Then she turns and walks right out of Goodwill, leaving me in a sea of memories that have all been given up, given away.
Yates sends me a text on Saturday.
meet up today?
It’s a welcome invitation. I feel like Blossom Manor’s become my prison, especially after my fight with Meg. I write back and say yes. Yates wants to know if I can get into the city by 2:00 p.m., but seeing as it’s already 1:00 and I’m still in my pajamas, I don’t think so. But if I hurry, I can be there by 2:45. He says that’s fine. He’ll meet me at my train platform.
I toss my phone onto my bed and run to the shower. My phone buzzes once more.
bring your sketchbook
I make the 2:15 p.m. train just on time. As it chugs past the parking lot, and then the back side of the mall, I feel myself relax, unwind. Everything with Yates has felt like a first — first flirtation, first hesitation, first realization, first kiss. Now it’s another first — although I’m not entirely sure how far this first is going to go. It makes me equal parts nervous and giddy.
As promised, Yates is waiting for me on the platform. He looks adorable, in a red T-shirt and his ratty jeans and his old fluorescent Nike sneakers. He’s brought a cup of coffee for me. Iced. Milk and sugar.
Instead of leading me to the street, he takes me down a flight of stairs to the subway.
“Where are we going?” I ask, high on this surprise.
He hands me a token. “You have your sketchbook, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay,” he says, and takes my hand in his. “Let’s go.”
The only hint Yates gives me is that the place we are going is one of his favorite places to draw, and that no one in the summer program will see us there.
I wonder if that means we’ll kiss again.
Finally, it’s our stop. Pattison.
We climb up to the street. City Hall is waaaay off in the distance. William Penn looks like a speck. When I turn around, I’m face-to-face with a big stadium.
“We’re going to a baseball game?” I know I sound disappointed, but I can’t help it.
“What? You don’t like baseball?”
“You do?” I ask. I mean, how can the artsy boy who loves Romero be the same boy who wants to take me here? Unless he means it ironically?
“All boys like baseball.” The earnestness in his voice conveys that there’s no irony here.
“Not all boys,” I say. “I bet Mr. Frank won’t be here.” Yates looks disappointed. I try to explain. “I’m not saying I don’t like baseball. It’s just that my best friend,” and I pause for a second, because Meg and I aren’t best friends anymore, but I’m not going to stop and correct myself now and look like a weirdo, “has a boyfriend who plays and she always drags me to his games.”
Yates brightens. “So you’ve never been to a professional baseball game then?”
“No,” I say. Is there a difference?
Apparently, there is. Yates takes off at a slow run toward the ticket window. “Come on! We’ve already missed the first three innings. And I’m dying for a hot dog!”
I shrug my shoulders and laugh. “Okay.” And then I chase him as fast as my flip-flops will allow.
Yates buys us two seats up in the upper deck. I have to say, it’s beautiful there. You can see everything — the green grass, the blue sky, all the people walking around the concourse. He gets me Cracker Jacks.
<
br /> First thing I do is dig for the prize. I reach way down inside, and the caramel corn sticks to my hand. But I can’t feel the little paper envelope anywhere. “Oh my God, this box has no prize!”
“Are you for real?” He takes it from me and shakes the popcorn around. “I’ve never heard of this happening before.”
“Just my luck,” I say.
“Here,” he says, and gets out his sketchbook. “I’m going to draw you a prize.”
I take out my sketchbook, too. Drawing is a great way to pass the time at a baseball game, which is full of slow and boring parts. We draw the people we see, the crushed peanut shells on our laps, the pennants waving in the breeze.
“Your sketches are so great,” I say. They are all simple and sure. He doesn’t put in too many details, but you get a perfect sense of what he’s looking at from just a few lines. He makes it look effortless.
“So are yours,” Yates says.
I still have the urge to cover my sketchbook whenever someone says something like that. “You’ve got to be kidding. All my drawings are so random. There’s no consistency except for the suckiness.” I flip through a few pages and cringe. “I’m having so much trouble with perspective,” I tell him. “Do you have any more genius tricks you could teach me?”
“As a matter of fact, I do! You can actually use your thumb and forefinger like a protractor to measure angles and length. Here, let me see your hand.” He grabs my hand and as he moves my fingers into an L shape, he accidentally touches my callus.
I pull my hand free. “I’m sorry. It’s so gross.”
“Are you kidding?” He holds his hand up and shows me an identical callus.
“Wow.”
“And check this out.” He twists his hands over. His fingerprints are all inky, black deep in the grooves of his already dark skin. “I seriously can’t get them clean, no matter how hard I scrub. I think I’m permanently stained.”
“Whoa.”
He leans back in his seat, pleased. “This is just about the best date I’ve ever had.”
We both pause at that. He’s said it. Out loud.