It’s like I lost my chance with her, too. And it’s going to take more than my fake smile to earn another one.
I’m not hungry when it’s time for lunch, but I walk to the Starbucks on the corner and order a frozen peppermint mocha and an old-fashioned glazed donut anyhow. There’s a couple open tables I could sit at, but instead I walk back outside and stare in through the smudgy glass window.
This Starbucks looks the same as the one in Cherry Grove. At least, it does at first glance. They both have the same mustard-colored walls. They have identical coffee cups for sale arranged in neat rows on a mahogany shelf. They even play the same music. But after you sit here for long enough, passing your lunch hour without anyone to talk to, you start to notice the differences.
I switch the mocha from my hand to the crook of my arm and make note of them with quick pencil drawings on a fresh page in my sketchbook. Mr. Frank said he wanted to see our personalities come through in our sketchbooks. Well, as lame as it might be, this is the kind of stuff I notice.
Like the fact that there are no plush upholstered chairs to curl up in, only the hard wooden seats that make your butt numb if you sit for too long. That’s probably why people hustle in and out of here, instead of reading a book or talking for a while, like Meg and I do back home.
After I’m done, I have at least another thirty minutes to kill before Mr. Frank’s class starts up again. Philadelphia is huge, but I’ve only seen three blocks of it. It’s like I’m tethered to a rope stretching between the train station and the school. I decide to walk to the newsstand on the corner and flip through the magazines.
I’m only about a half block from the Starbucks before I notice something on the ground. Every couple of cement squares, there are tiny markings drawn on the sidewalk — each one a different color and the size of a quarter. I look around, but the other people walking along don’t seem to notice them. They are too small to be noticed. I crouch down and lean in close. They are arrows, pointing off down the street. I touch a green one with my finger. It smudges.
Chalk.
I follow the arrows past the school, past the newsstand, and around the corner. Even though I’ve felt self-conscious today, I let it all go and follow where they lead me, because it’s fun and unexpected. In a weird way, I’m proud of myself for finding them.
Four blocks later, I lose the trail. No more arrows, just the sidewalk buckling to make room for the tree roots underneath. I look hard, because there has to be a payoff. Fiona is all about the payoff. As I backtrack to the last one, I pass an alley. It’s adjacent to a hospital, and has been turned into a serene little park, with trees and flowers and tufts of grass sprouting between the cobblestones. Fiona is alone, about halfway down the stretch, tracing the shadows of trees on the ground. Her colored lines are thicker and bolder than the ones at orientation, and they drip over curbs and across the pavement, into the gutters.
She must hear my footsteps because she looks up and smiles. But I guess she was expecting someone else to find her, because this surprised look washes over Fiona’s face when she realizes it’s me.
I think a second about turning around and walking back to school, but the idea of talking to Fiona takes hold of my brain. This is my chance.
I want to explain what’s been going on with me. In a way, I owe it to her, especially since I shut down so bad in the train station. So I head down the alley toward her, making sure to step over any chalk scribbles I pass along the way.
“Hey, Fiona,” I say, trying desperately to sound casual.
“Well, this is a shock,” she says, and rocks back on her heels.
“I saw your arrows.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. And I knew you were the one who drew them.” There’s a long, awkward pause as I muster up some courage. I thought this would have felt easier, since I chose to approach her instead of the other way around. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you about what happened in the museum last week. And about what you said to me in the train station.”
She stares up at me from the ground, like she’s trying to figure out if this is a joke or something. “Oh?”
“About how once you figure something out, it’s impossible to go backward.”
“What about it?”
“I just think you’re right, is all.”
“Of course I’m right,” she says, kind of bitchy.
I look down at my flip-flops. This was a mistake.
“Are you afraid of me?” she asks.
My first instinct is to lie, but it would probably be pointless.
“Honestly? Kind of.” I shiver, despite the fact that it’s really warm. Nerves. I fight them by twisting my arms around each other and squeezing as hard as I can.
Fiona takes two steps away from me, over to the curb where her owl tote bag sits. I think she’s just going to grab her stuff and leave me standing here like she did in the museum, but she stays put, her eyes on the ground.
“Hold still,” she says, and fishes a thick, bright yellow piece of chalk out of her tote bag. “I mean, you can keep talking, but try not to move much.” She starts to trace the darkened patch of cement in front of me.
If not for the shadow anchoring the tips of my flip-flops to the ground, I just might float away. Neither of us talks. We’re quiet, listening as the chalk scrapes against the ground into the shape of me. Fiona’s hand moves so deliberately and slow, like she’s carving out the pavement with an X-Acto knife.
“Hold it right there!” An overweight security guard runs toward us. He clings to the waist of his pants with one hand, combating the weight of the huge key ring threaded through his belt loop. “You girls are going to need to come with me.”
Fiona keeps drawing, totally unconcerned. “I highly doubt that.”
“It’s against the law to deface private property,” he says. Fiona laughs, and the guard’s fat, damp face goes red. “Graffiti is a crime.”
“How can this be graffiti if it’s chalk? Chalk isn’t permanent.” Fiona says it real slow, like the guy’s got a learning disability.
He reaches for his crackling radio. “I said, put down the chalk!”
Fiona doesn’t even blink. She just keeps drawing.
She’s escalating the situation, not making it better. I want to help, but I don’t want to ruin the project either. I want her to finish my shadow.
I say, “Excuse me, sir. We’re students at the art school. And this is a special project we’re working on.”
His eyes narrow. “You both look young to be college students.” Luckily, I have my ID on my lanyard. Trying not to move too much, I pull it out. He checks it skeptically. “Well, college students or not, this is private property. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to go.”
I raise my hands to plead with him, but then quickly line them back up with my tracing on the ground. “We’re almost finished —”
“Either you leave now, or I’m calling the police. The choice is yours.”
“Riiiight. You’d have to call the real cops because you’re just a man playing dress up.” Fiona sneers. “Come on, Emily. We’d better hurry before he citizen-arrests us!”
She puts her chalk back in her tote. I’m still hesitant to move … my shadow’s only half finished. But Fiona storms down the alleyway. So I follow her.
“What a douche,” Fiona mutters. She fumbles to get a cigarette to her lips.
“He doesn’t get what you’re doing.”
She stops to light it, sucking in a few times into the flame of her cheap plastic lighter. “And you do?”
“I’m not sure,” I mumble. But there is one thing I do know, so that’s what I say. “Ever since I saw your shadow drawings in the courtyard on that first day of school, everything started to change for me.”
The beginnings of a smile break across Fiona’s face, but she catches herself. Then she anchors her cigarette between her teeth, laces my hand inside hers, and pulls me along. “Explanation, por favor.”
I stretch out an “Ummm,” as long as the air in my lungs will let me, and collect my thoughts. I wish I could be eloquent like the kids in the museum discussing a Picasso, but everything feels too messy and overwhelming, like a million puzzle pieces dumped on the floor of my brain. All I can do is search for straight edges and start trying to piece the big picture together. “So if I were to try and explain what a shadow is, I think I’d call it a shell.”
“A shell?” Fiona asks, her face wrinkled and confused.
“Not like a seashell …” While I search for the right words, we pass the shadow of a parking meter. I tug on Fiona to make her stop. “So this shadow represents this parking meter,” I say, and glide my hands around the dark spot like a game-show hostess. “Everyone knows what a parking meter is, so when we see its shadow, a picture of a real parking meter appears in our minds.”
“Rightrightrightright.” She nods, trying to hurry me along. “Abstract representation.”
I suck in a deep breath and picture my half-finished shadow on the ground in that alley. When people pass that, what will they think of me? “It’s like … all I know about myself is the shadow, what I’m supposed to be.”
Fiona leans against the parking meter, genuinely confused. “What are you supposed to be?”
I shrug my shoulders. “You know, like everyone else.”
Fiona throws her hands up, exasperated. “Most everyone else sucks, Emily. Do you honestly not know that? And not just the drones, either. Even the artsy kids here, like Yates. Sure, he dresses the part, but what does he find inspiring? Pears!” She cracks herself up. “I mean, come on.”
There’s sharpness to her words that I recognize as the Big Sister voice — wisdom blended with annoyance. I talk the same way to Claire. Like the time she got all upset about the boys calling her flat-chested and I had to tell her that none of it mattered. I’m sure I sounded irritated with her. But the truth was, I wanted her to know she was better than what those stupid boys thought of her.
It’s exciting to think Fiona might feel that way about me, too.
“Let me get this straight. My shadow drawings started this whole mental avalanche for you?”
First I nod. And then I shake my head, because it’s way bigger than that. “What I’m saying is that I’ve never met anyone like you before.”
I wait for Fiona to gloat, but she actually softens. “Here’s the thing, Emily.” She sucks in deep from her cigarette, then pushes the smoke out her nose in two thick streams. “You are a very confusing person.”
I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. “I don’t mean to be.”
She takes another drag. “I’ve tried to talk to you a couple of times now, and even though you’ve seemed interested, you always revert back to this pretend person who’s on autopilot or something.”
“I just didn’t know what to say. How to talk to someone like you.”
“Yeah, but now you’re trying to get my attention! Acting all smiley, finding me in the park, and showing up to class in this weird dead kitty outfit.” She flicks off some ash and points at my tank top with the cigarette’s glowing orange tip. “Which I love, by the way.”
Her compliment heats up my face. “Thanks.”
“I’m here, looking at you, trying to figure out just who you are. Because it seems like you might be this secret cool person wrapped up inside this whole other uncool person. Only you don’t know it yet.”
“Really?” The word is couched in an uncomfortable laugh, like I’m afraid that Fiona’s wrong and afraid that she’s right at the very same time. The truth is, I hardly recognize myself.
Fiona’s quiet for a second, rolling the cigarette between her thumb and pointer finger. Her mouth opens like she’s going to say something else, but her eyes shift from my face to over my shoulder.
I turn and see Robyn and Adrian walking toward us.
“Fiona!” Robyn calls out. “Where have you been?” As she gets closer, her face gets tighter, like she’s thinking, What’s she doing with you?
“I got you some food,” Adrian says, handing Fiona a white paper bag.
“My lunch angel!” She opens it and peeks inside. “My sandwich prince!” Fiona plants a big kiss on Adrian’s cheek. He smiles from ear to ear. And underneath the surface, his veins pump blood faster, spreading pink all over his face and arms.
He is in love with her.
Robyn stands right next to Fiona, and Adrian flanks her other side. I end up directly across from the three of them, forming a triangle rather than completing their circle.
“Seriously, where did you go?” Robyn says, looping her arm over Fiona’s shoulder. “You went to the bathroom and never came back. We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“I left you losers a bunch of clues.” Fiona turns to me and smiles. It’s surprisingly warm. “You just missed them.” She walks over to a fire hydrant, leans against it, and opens up her sandwich. “Now, both of you be nice and say hello to Emily!”
“Hello, Emily,” they say in unison.
“Hi,” I say back.
“Isn’t she the cutest thing ever?” Fiona takes a huge bite. “We make her so nervous!”
Robyn and Adrian share a quick look. I’m sure they’re wondering why Fiona took an interest in someone like me. Or how long it might last.
I scratch a mosquito bite on my arm and just keep smiling, even though I kind of wonder that, too.
I look for the three of them before our field trip the next day. Fiona, Robyn, and Adrian are huddled together on the steps of the university, a few above where the rest of the summer students sit and wait for the buses to arrive. Those kids have whispered conversations, or nibble on their breakfast, or sketch with their headphones on and their heads down, purposefully withdrawn. But the three of them are unapologetically loud, laughing like crazy as they give each other marker tattoos with black Sharpies.
I stuff my hands in my pockets and linger near the railing, where the teachers sip their coffee. I try not to stare. I wonder if I can just walk up to them like we’re friends. I wish I were the kind of person who could do that, with the confidence that convinces people that you belong there with them. But I don’t actually believe I do, as much as I might want to. So my only choice is to stand there and hope to be noticed. My shirt isn’t as cool as it was yesterday. I couldn’t think of what to wear, so I stole one of Claire’s Cherry Grove recreation soccer shirts from a few years back. It’s a little tight, but the rainbow decal across the chest is kind of okay.
I think.
Fiona draws a thick black handlebar mustache across Adrian’s hairless upper lip. She’s got one hand through his brown hair, gripping it tight to keep him from moving. “Hold still!” she warns. “If you keep smiling, I’m going to give you a full beard!” Adrian isn’t going anywhere. He loves it right where he is, sitting in between Fiona’s legs, his hands on her knees.
Robyn twists toward her floppy leather bag and digs through it. When she looks up, I swear she spots me, because of the way her top lip curls, like I’m interrupting their fun, even though I’m several feet away. She grips the cap of her blue marker in her teeth, pulls the marker free, and scribbles something on the inside of Fiona’s palm, a secret I’m not supposed to know.
I look down the sidewalk and see Yates walking toward the school with a coffee in hand. As he gets closer, I make out the bulge of his sketchbook in his front pocket. I would love to flip through it, to see what kind of drawings he does. It’s probably as close as a girl can come to reading a boy’s diary.
I wonder where Yates would fit in if he lived in Cherry Grove. Then I realize that Yates wouldn’t have a problem making friends with whomever, because he’s friendly in that easy sort of way that everyone in the world likes.
“Morning, Emily,” he says. I focus on the few freckles across his cheeks. They are dark and tiny, like pricks from the tip of a supersharp pencil. Like someone drew them on.
“Hi,” I say. It sounds too short, so I add,
“How are you?”
He laughs. “I am quite well, thank you,” he says, and bows his head like we’re having some stiff, formal conversation. I hope he might actually stop and talk to me for a while, so I don’t have to stand here by myself, but instead he passes by and enters the circle of teachers behind me.
When I turn around, Fiona waves to me. She’s got a big star drawn inside her palm. I smile and wave hello back. She rolls her eyes. Then she changes her wave, abandoning the side-to-side hello for a rolling wrist. She wants me to go up there.
As soon as I figure it out, my legs can’t move fast enough.
“Hey,” I say.
Adrian takes off his old-man-style news cap and bows his head. His glasses slip right off the end of his nose and into his hands.
“I like your mustache,” I tell him.
“He looks half cartoon,” Fiona says with a laugh.
“I hope it washes off,” Adrian says, wiggling his nose.
Fiona stares down at her star-covered palm. “I wish they were real. I’m getting, like, a million tattoos the second I turn eighteen. I’ve got them all mapped out in my sketchbook.”
“Hey, Robyn,” I say, stepping down so that I’m not so on top of her.
Robyn purses her lips and gives me the slightest head nod.
Fiona pats the patch of stone step next to her. “Want a tattoo, Emily?”
“Yeah,” I say, and ignore my fear because there’s no way I could say no. “Okay.”
The marker swirls around my arm, while Fiona’s fingers clench my bicep and pull the skin tight. I don’t look at what she’s drawing. Instead I close my eyes and feel the excitement. Meg and I used to play a similar game as kids, when we’d draw something or spell out words with our fingers on the other person’s back, and then she’d have to guess what it was. Meg’s were always easy to guess because she’d draw one of three things — a flower with lots of teardrop petals, a house with one long curl of chimney smoke, or the words “best friends forever” in swirly script.