Read Online Same Difference (9780545477215) by Siobhan Vivian - Free Book Online Page A

top that could almost be a dress, and a pair of saddle shoes. Fiona wears a pair of skinny frayed jean shorts cut at the knees, a cropped navy vest buttoned tight around her chest, and these vampy open-toe red heels. I think the vest might have come from a little boy’s Catholic school uniform or something — it fits her like a corset. A tangle of long, thin gold chains hangs from her neck. It’s the kind of outfit that belongs in a magazine, the sort of thing that you can’t imagine anyone would wear in real life. But there she is, in real life, wearing it.
    Fiona and Robyn have made a new friend. A boy I’ve never seen before is dragged down the aisle behind them. He mumbles “Excuse me, excuse me” to the kids they push out of their way. His voice is very Southern and sweet, and it rolls past his lips real slow. He looks quiet, shy, and freakishly skinny. He’s got on a black T-shirt with a white spiderweb on it, thick black glasses that keep sliding down his nose, green army shorts, and black Converse. His floppy brown hair hangs in his eyes and he keeps thrashing his neck to fling it to the side, but it just falls back down a few seconds later. They walk past me on their way off the bus, talking about who knows what. But Fiona stops and ducks her head so she can peek out my window. Something outside has caught her attention.
    â€œEvery time I see that thing, I want to yak.” Fiona swats her pink hair over her shoulder and points.
    I can’t help but look, too, since they are talking right over my head, but I try to make it not obvious. A large block of cast bronze perched on the top museum step reflects the sun back in our faces. Probably by a famous artist I’ve never heard of before.
    The boy shrugs his shoulders. “Is that a Rodin?”
    Fiona rustles a hand through his hair. “Are you kidding me, Adrian? You of all people should know who that is.” She throws up her hands like she’s going to punch him out. “Yo, Adrian! Adrian!” she calls out in a fake deep voice. “That’s Rocky. Rocky Balboa. From those dumb Sylvester Stallone boxing movies that were filmed in Philly. You know, the ones they play on channel eleven on Sunday afternoons.”
    Robyn laughs. “Eww. What’s Rocky doing at the art museum?”
    â€œBecause there’s this part in the movie where Rocky is training and he runs up the steps of the museum, and throws his arms up when he gets to the top.” She shakes her head. “Just watch,” she says.
    Sure enough, not one minute later, two touristy men start to race each other up the stairs. One of the guys is fat, in a Santa way, with a belly that shakes underneath his shirt. His taller friend passes him, even though he’s smoking a cigarette, and when he reaches the top, he throws his hands up in the air and twirls around slow. Then he slings his arm proudly over the statue’s neck and waits for someone to take his picture.
    I guess Fiona’s been here before.
    Fiona shakes her head, and continues to walk off the bus. “These people don’t even go inside the museum. They just pose with the statue like morons. I mean, go to Universal Studios if that’s the kind of culture you care about.”
    I know they aren’t talking about me specifically, but I let my hair hang in front of my face as if they were. My dad loves the movie Rocky , though I’ve never watched it. It won Best Picture, I think. I remember seeing the gold foil sticker on the DVD case. Not that it makes it any better.
    I hang toward the back and follow the rest of the students inside the museum. Chatter instantly turns into whispers, as if we were in a library. The room is cavernous, dark brown stone and lit low and soft. It’s cool, very cool inside, like a tomb.
    Yates comes up next to me. “Do you have your sketchbook, Emily?”
    â€œUmm … don’t I have until next Tuesday?” I