Same Difference. Siobhan Vivian

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СКАЧАТЬ turned on my laptop, but no one else was online, so I shut it back down. I threw out some old makeup that I didn’t use anymore. And then, when I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I randomly decided to lay my new art supplies out on my floor in neat little piles.

      A few weeks ago, Philadelphia College of Fine Art sent a list of materials that I’d need, like paint and brushes and charcoal and Strathmore drawing pads. It took Mom and me over an hour at Pearl to find everything.

      When you’re a kid, colors have obvious names. Green is grass, red is cherry, and yellow is lemon. That changes when you grow out of markers that can be washed off the kitchen walls. How was I supposed to know that Sanguine is a fancy word for red? And what kind of purple was Dioxazine? It sounded like something I should have learned in Chemistry. Mars Black didn’t make much sense to me, either. Wasn’t Mars the Red Planet? It kind of freaked me out.

      Mom felt bad for me, so she made this big show of buying the most expensive stuff they had, insisting that all my brushes be sable, and not the synthetic ones that are way cheaper. I didn’t complain because they were really nice, as soft as my makeup brushes from Bloomingdale’s.

      I’d never owned real art supplies before, and seeing my whole floor covered in them felt luxurious. The materials in Ms. Kay’s classroom were old and gross. We only had big jugs of primary colors, like the ones a preschooler would finger paint with. And the brushes were frayed and fanned out and sometimes left strands behind in your strokes. We stopped using the clay because it was hard and flaky, even if you let it soak overnight inside a wet paper towel. I guess that’s why it felt like the possibilities of things I could do with my new supplies were limitless. It lit me up inside. I couldn’t sleep after touching everything. I was too excited for today.

      “So all you’re going to do is art? Like, for the whole day?” Claire turns around in her seat. “That sounds kind of boring.”

      Sometimes, it takes me a minute to recognize Claire as my sister. She’s tall, taller than all the boys in her class. Her hair is dark brown like my dad’s, and it’s a lot thicker than mine. She’s awkward now — a teenager’s body paired up with a kid’s face. But you can already tell that she’s going to be somebody when she gets to high school this fall. Maybe even as soon as her braces come off.

      “Right, Claire. And running up and down a field a million times sounds so fun.”

      “It is. And at least I’ll be with my friends. How are you going to survive a whole day away from Meg?”

      Claire always makes jokes about how close Meg and I are, but it’s only because she doesn’t have a real best friend. She just has a big group of girls who she plays sports with.

      “You’re just jealous. I heard you crying to Mom yesterday because I wouldn’t let you come swim with us. Maybe I’d let you if you weren’t so freaking annoying!”

      Her face flushes deep red, like it does by the halftime of her soccer games. “Geez, Emily.” She turns back around and sinks low in her seat.

      “Emily, be nice to your sister,” Mom scolds.

      “She started it,” I say.

      “But you’re older,” Mom says. “You’re supposed to be more mature.”

      Whatever.

      We turn into the parking lot of the Cherry Grove train station. It’s as crowded as the mall at Christmas.

      “Just drop me off,” I say, unbuckling my seat belt.

      “I want to make sure you’re on the right train,” she says, getting out with me.

      I don’t understand why my mom thinks this is such a big deal. This won’t be the first time I’ve been to Philly — there have been plenty of family drives and school trips there. It’s just the first time I’ll be going alone.

      The track that goes to Philadelphia is easy to find because everyone’s crowding together on it. The station doesn’t have any windows or service people there to buy tickets. The three automated ticket machines are completely surrounded.

      “I’ve still got to buy a ticket!”

      “Don’t worry. You can buy them on the train,” Mom says. “Do you have enough cash?”

      “Yeah. And I’ve got my credit card, too.”

      “What about your cell phone? Is it all charged up? Keep your wallet on you at all times. Don’t talk to strangers. You need to appear street-smart, so always walk with a purpose.” The train chugs into the station, and Mom yells over the noise. “And please don’t forget to call me when you get there.” Her bottom lip quivers.

      I feel like such a baby. Luckily, no one pays me any attention, except to jostle me out of their way.

      Everyone on the train is the same age as my parents. A few people watch with interest as I squish down the aisle with my big bags of art supplies. I feel confident, even a bit mysterious. I wonder if they wonder what I’m doing here all by myself.

      It takes two cars before I find an empty seat. Well, it’s not exactly empty. A pair of super high heels pokes out of a black leather bag on the seat next to a lady in a business suit and spotless white running sneakers.

      I wait a few seconds for the lady to notice me, but she never looks up from her newspaper. I’d keep searching, but my bags are heavy and the plastic handles are starting to rip. Finally I fake cough. The woman glances at me and grudgingly moves her bag to the floor so I can sit down.

      A bell rings and “Tickets!” is shouted out in a rough, gravelly voice, like you’d expect in an old movie. The passengers slide their paper tickets into shallow pockets on the seats in front of them. I take out my wallet.

      Eventually, a man steps up to my row. He’s got on a white button-up with a light gray tie, and his navy jacket is covered in brass buttons. I can’t see the hair on his head because of his cap, but his beard has a bunch of different shades of red and blond and white in it. “Where you going, miss?”

      “Round-trip to Philadelphia,” I say proudly, and maybe a bit louder than necessary. And I hold out a crisp fifty-dollar bill.

      He frowns and doesn’t take it. “I can’t break a fifty.”

      “Oh, sorry.” I hand over a ten instead.

      He still doesn’t take it. And he looks annoyed. “Your ticket’s thirteen dollars.”

      “I thought tickets were ten,” I say, my voice squeaking so loud the man in front of me turns around to stare. That’s what I’d read on the transit website last night.

      “There’s a three-dollar surcharge for buying on the train during peak hours,” he explains to me. “You need to use the ticket machines on the platform.”

      I search through my change pocket, hoping for some quarters to make up the difference, but all I have are a few pennies and a dime. “Can I use my credit card?” I ask, yanking the silver square out of my wallet, dropping some receipts and my change on the floor.

      The man laughs, not like I’ve said something funny, but because I’ve said something incredibly stupid. He points to his book of paper tickets and his hole puncher and shakes his head.

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