Same Difference (9780545477215) by Siobhan Vivian

flow.
    â€œHey,” a smooth voice comes from behind. Yates. “Which pencil are you using?” His breath smells icy, like a fresh piece of gum.
    I roll it between my fingers until I see the foil stamp. “Umm … the HB?” I have absolutely no idea what that means.
    â€œUse the 6B,” Yates instructs. Then, before he walks away, he whispers, “The name has to do with the softness of the lead.”
    I am too embarrassed to say thank you, so I just take out the 6B from my art box, even though it looks absolutely the same as the pencil I was just holding. I raise my hand and position myself … and the point sinks right into the paper. It’s soft, like butter left out on the kitchen counter.
    I try to get into my drawing, but I think I am overthinking. My lines aren’t smooth — they’re sharp and jagged and impatient. My eyes bounce between the model and my paper so fast it makes me dizzy. I try to get everything just right. I can’t shut my brain off enough to relax, especially knowing that Mr. Frank will probably make us all share our drawings at the end of the day. It’s pretty much the most impossible situation.
    What seems like seconds later, the egg timer rings and Lily excuses herself for a pee and a smoke break. The rest of the class gets up to stretch and walk around. Except Fiona, Robyn, and me. Fiona keeps drawing, staring at the empty space as if the model were still there. Robyn casually walks the room, peering at everyone’s sketches. I bite down on my pencil until I taste wood and flip to a new sheet before she has a chance to see how bad I suck.
    Not like she can’t already tell.

I ’m not even halfway up my front steps before Meg’s sing-song call trills from across the street. “Em-i-ly!”
    She bounds out of her front door, shiny hair swishing from side to side. Her arms keep her lilac slip dress from flying up past her thighs and her chunky espadrilles might as well be sneakers because of how quick she is with every step.
    I feel like I’ve been gone for months. “Hey!” I say, and hold my arms out for a hug.
    â€œYay! You’re home!” Meg gives me a squeeze, but quickly wriggles out of it, leaving me slightly sticky from the unabsorbed cucumber-melon lotion on her skin.
    â€œI have about a million stories to tell you,” I say, laughing as flashes of the day light up my mind. Where should I start?
    â€œAnd I want to hear absolutely everything about your first day, but listen.” She’s all eager and excited. “A bunch of people are going to Dairy Queen, and Rick will be here any minute to pick us up.” She glances down. “What’s all over your pants?”
    My white denim capris are smudged across the thighs with pencil lead. “Art class, remember?” My hands are dirty, too — not just on the palms, but in thick black stripes under my nails. I shove them in my pockets before she notices.
    â€œWell, quick, go change!” She brushes a piece of hair out of my eyes. “Maybe wear that green polo dress with your pink flip-flops, or your red halter with your teeny jean skirt.” Meg is really good with clothes and she always helps me pick things out. “I have to run home and grab my purse. Hurry!”
    I charge upstairs to my bedroom and quickly change into the green polo dress, because the red halter is in my hamper. I slide on my pink flip-flops. Cherry Grove feels more like home than ever. I know the rules here. I know how I’m supposed to think and act, and all that is very comforting after the day I’ve had.
    At least I was able to do an okay drawing. I stopped thinking about the naked lady as a lady, and instead pretended I was drawing a statue. So that made it easier. I also just drew her torso, so I could avoid the stuff I felt was too intimate to draw. Mr. Frank said I had an “interesting composition.” I hoped that was a