Same Difference. Siobhan Vivian

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      For Nicky, xoxo

       Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       About the Author

       Dedication

June

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

       Six

       Seven

       Eight

       Nine

       July

       Ten

       Eleven

       Twelve

       Thirteen

       Fourteen

       Fifteen

       Sixteen

       Seventeen

       Eighteen

       Nineteen

       Twenty

       Twenty-One

       Twenty-Two

       Twenty-Three

       Twenty-Four

       Twenty-Five

       Twenty-Six

       Twenty-Seven

       Twenty-Eight

       Twenty-Nine

       Thirty

       Thirty-One

       Thirty-Two

       Thirty-Three

       Thirty-Four

       August

       Thirty-Five

       Thirty-Six

       Thirty-Seven

       Thirty-Eight

       Thirty-Nine

       September

       Forty

       Forty-One

       Acknowledgements

       Copyright

One

      When I was a kid, I drew clouds that looked like the bodies of cartoon sheep. The sun was a perfect yellow circle. Birds flew in flocks of little black Vs. And I made sure there was always a rainbow.

      It’s too bad the sky doesn’t actually look like that. In a way, the real thing is sort of a letdown.

      “Emily?”

      “Yeah?” I raise my head off my towel and squint away the sun. Meg is lying on her side, with dark oversized sunglasses perched on the top of her head. She’s staring at me. I give her a few seconds to say something, but her lips stay pressed together tight. “What is it?”

      “I’m trying to imagine you with a mohawk,” she says, leaning forward.

      I laugh. “Why?”

      “Oh, I don’t know.” She pauses to retie the plaid strings on her bikini bottom. “I bet mohawks are cool in art school. But I think you’d regret it. Maybe not right away, but definitely in September.” Meg reaches for the coconut oil and gives her flat stomach a spritz, then fires one at mine to be cute. “Just remember, it’s not like bangs or layers that you can hide underneath a headband until they grow out. There is no graceful way to grow out a mohawk.”

      I rake my fingers through the knots in my damp hair. A few dark blond strands get left behind, swirled around my fingers. It took me practically all of junior year to grow my thin hair past my shoulders. “I’m not getting a mohawk,” I say, probably more serious than I need to be.

      “Okay, okay.” She lets a giggle slip. “Could you imagine if you did, though? You’d be the talk of Cherry Grove.” Meg slides her sunglasses back in place and lies down. But she’s only still for a minute before she rolls around, tugging on the corners of her towel, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable. “Tomorrow’s going to feel so weird without you here.”

      There’s a bowl full of cut lemons between us on a green glass mosaic table. I fish around, find a juicy half, and give it a squeeze over my head. I’ve always wished my hair was striking platinum instead of dark honey, which is the most unexciting shade of blond, the one that some people even call brown. A bit of juice drips into my eyes and stings them like crazy. “You’ll have Rick,” I remind СКАЧАТЬ