A Little Friendly Advice

by Siobhan Vivian

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. The best way to deal with him is to treat him like a kid. Helping him, telling him he’s doing a great job, convincing him that his stuff is still innovative and whatever else. I think most artists are really insecure. I mean, I know I am.”

  “Come on. You?”

  “Seriously. You should have seen me last night, trying to figure out if I had the guts to call you.”

  I push my hair off my shoulder in an attempt to hide my smile. “I’m definitely the most insecure person I know.”

  “Well, you’re an artist, so I guess that makes sense.”

  I kick around a few pebbles. “I don’t think it’s that exactly.”

  “I can tell the way you look at stuff. You’re definitely an artist, whether or not you know it yet.” He smiles at me.

  I take out my camera, and Charlie helps me make a photo flip book, which I guess I’ll give to Beth for her birthday. Since she always complains that I never smile like a normal person, we take about ten photos as I go from a tight-lipped, plain face to a big, normal grin.

  Then we go and get vegan sloppy joes at this crazy place called Zephyr’s. I’m a little afraid of fake meat, being that I’m a huge fan of the breakfast sausage at Dodie’s, but it actually tastes good. Not quite like meat, but still yummy. Charlie saves me some of his hero to feed to the weird black squirrels Kent has running all over campus.

  We follow some flyers and enter a gallery for the fashion school. They have a whole bunch of costumes on display in glass cases from the fibers majors. I wonder if Beth knows you can major in fibers. I certainly didn’t.

  “What are you going to be for Halloween?” Charlie asks, checking out one insane butterfly costume made completely out of woven labels from Mountain Dew bottles.

  “I found an old Girl Scout uniform at the thrift store. But I have to make my own badges.”

  “Cute,” he says. “What kind of badges?”

  I think back to the printout Beth had placed in the bag of felt scraps. “Probably classic stuff, like birdhouses and rainbows and a guitar.”

  Charlie stops walking and puts both his hands on my shoulders. “Wait. You know how to play guitar?”

  “No,” I say, shrugging him off to get a better look at a knight’s suit of armor, knit entirely with Christmas tinsel. “That’s just one of the badges.” Sometimes I think I disappoint Charlie, in a way. Like he’s expecting me to be cooler than I am. Like the more he gets to know me, the lamer I’ll get.

  Charlie tsks. “You can’t wear a guitar badge if you don’t really play guitar.” He raises his right hand and twists his fingers into some kind of weird gang sign. “Scout’s honor.”

  I laugh. “I don’t think the Girl Scouts give out badges for my kinds of expertise,” I say. And then I get a great idea. “Oh my God, you know what? In the spirit of Halloween, I think subversive badges would be way more appropriate. Like … I don’t know. Something like a divorced-parents badge.”

  Charlie recoils in mock horror. “You’re not a Girl Scout. You’re the anti–Girl Scout.” He throws up devil horns. “From hell.”

  “Exactly,” I say, popping up and down on my toes. My good idea is pumping excitement through my whole body. “I could make a therapy badge with someone lying down on a couch!”

  “That’s awesome. Hey, I could help you if you wanted. We could do them all as buttons.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve got a mess of felt scraps that Beth gave me to use.” Then, there’s silence. A pretty uncomfortable one. It’s like I’m programmed to make things as awkward as they can be. “But thanks.”

  Charlie nods and smiles a little bit. He walks over to another case and pretends to be really interested, even though there are only naked dress forms inside. “Where are you going for Halloween anyway?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I lie. I still haven’t decided if I should ask Beth if Charlie could come as my date.

  “Teddy Baker is having a party, but it’ll be stupid. All the Lambert girls are going to show up in plastic slutty nurse outfits and the Fisher guys are dressing up as pimps or Mafia guys.” He sighs. “You know, in Pittsburgh my friends and I made a tradition of going to the midnight showing of Night of the Living Dead and then we’d all walk the streets as zombies and scare the crap out of people. Every year we had more and more people coming along to haunt the streets with us. It was awesome.”

  “You miss home?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Sometimes. Mostly I miss having my mom around. She was a good buffer between me and my dad. She kept me from having to deal with his tantrums. I guess she needed a break, so I’m kind of handling him in the meantime.”

  I really want to invite him to Beth’s. I mean, I don’t think she’ll have a problem with it. I like Charlie, and the only reason I’m here with him right now is because of her. This is a good thing. She’ll be happy for me.

  “Well, I do think my friend Beth is planning on having a party. But you have to come in a costume.”

  Charlie breaks out into a grin. “Will I be going as your boyfriend? Because if so, I’ll need to prepare accordingly.”

  My face ignites. I try to play off this very awesome and exciting development by examining a Kent brochure on campus recycling procedures. “You can if you want.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m going to surprise you with the most awesome costume accompaniment in the history of coupledom ever.”

  We continue to walk the halls, now hand-in-hand. His is a little bit sweaty, but I don’t even care. It’s like I am living another life with Charlie, one where I don’t have any problems or worries. It’s an amazing feeling. He leads us to a huge library. We walk inside, past all the kids cramming at big oversized desks or checking their e-mail on rows of computers. We go down into the basement, following the signs for ART SLIDES AND FILMSTRIPS. Charlie walks like he knows exactly where he’s going, and leads me into a small viewing room, no bigger than a closet, with only one chair. But we don’t need a lot of room. He shuts the door and we kiss for what feels like both forever and a minute.

  For the first time, I’m not worried about where my hands should go, or how slobbery I’m getting, or if I’m breathing too heavy out my nose, or if I’ll feel ticklish when his hands slide up and down my sides. I let myself be vulnerable.

  After a while, we head to the Michener Gallery to see the university’s collection of photographs. There’s a glass door leading inside. A few other students and some adults mill around the stark white gallery. I’ve never seen pictures blown up this big before. Each one has its own spotlight and dark black frame.

  I’m so glad it’s not crowded, because I get to stand in front of each picture and really take it in. Charlie moves a lot faster than me, but I don’t mind. I want to take my time. He also offers to hold my book bag — he wears mine on his back and his strapped on his front.

  The first really cool photo I see is called Water and Foam, by Ansel Adams. I read a little plaque and learn that he’s famous for taking landscape pictures. This one is black and white. I can tell it really is what it says — a close-up of running water dotted by swirls of bubbly foam. But it’s more than that. It looks otherworldly too, like outer space, complete with shooting stars and the Milky Way. In a very tiny way, it reminds me of the photo I took of that tree that looked like an umbrella. Not saying that I’m anywhere near as amazing as Ansel Adams, of course. But I can understand a little of what he was going for and it makes me feel … I don’t know … smart, I guess.

  Another print catches my attention and I make a beeline for it. All you see is a close-up of a girl making a damsel-in-distress sort of face, but the thing you really notice are her eyes. They have very long and very fake eyelashes stuck to them. And she’s crying. But instead of real tears, they are drops of silicone or plastic or something. They look completely artificial on purpose.

  I love the way this picture makes me feel. Aware of the phoniness of emotions. The photographer’s name is Man Ray. I wond
er if that’s his real name. I definitely want to learn more about him.

  Charlie comes over and grabs my hand. “Are you having fun?”

  “Oh, yeah!” This is seriously awesome. Looking at all these photographs makes me want to run wild with my own camera. I’m feeling really inspired. I’m so glad we came here, together. Somehow it feels like this never would have happened, I never would have felt this good today, if not for Charlie. It’s totally magical.

  We get to the last wall of the gallery. A sign explains that this section features some of the last of Diane Arbus’s photographs before she committed suicide. Which is a downer. I guess she had problems too. Maybe all artists do. But I’m really excited to see her work anyway … and, like Maria had mentioned, it might be a little bit like mine.

  The first print is of four young kids, each wearing homemade Halloween costumes made of paper-bag masks and big sheets. One girl has cut out a couple of bats from black paper and stuck them on her dress. It’s pretty cute. The next is of a single over-weight girl, wrapped up in a sheet and wearing a mask, standing in a field. It’s weird and sad.

  When I step over to the next print, my smile fades.

  I notice now that the people featured in these particular pictures are mentally retarded. There’s a shot of them smiling and running through a field with their masks, innocent and happy, like little kids would be. But they are older. Some probably older than me. And their faces are soft in a way that tells you something’s wrong with them.

  I let go of Charlie’s hand and step over to the next print. Now the people look less happy. They look like they don’t know what’s going on. One young guy has an old-fashioned mustache drawn sloppily across his mouth. An older woman in a black mask is leading him forward, and he’s just kind of dragging limply behind her.

  “This isn’t right,” I say and turn to Charlie.

  “I know, it’s insane, right?”

  “No. It’s. Not. Right.”

  “Wait …” Charlie says slowly and carefully, sensing how upset I am. “Talk to me. What’s not right?”

  “I mean, everyone’s happy and smiling and having a good time, but you know.” I turn away from him and stare deep into the photograph.

  “Ruby, don’t feel bad for them. Look, they’re having fun.”

  I shrug off his shoulder and try to walk through the gallery, but my eyes well up and pour out big fat tears. I am such an idiot.

  Charlie puts his hand on my shoulder again but doesn’t let me shrug it off this time. Instead, he pushes me and tries to look me in the face. I drop my chin and try to bury myself in the collar of my jacket.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “She’s just using these poor people. She’s exploiting them because she thinks they don’t know better.”

  “Well, yeah. A lot of her pictures are like that. But she doesn’t only take pictures of retarded people, Ruby. She did portraits of cross-dressers, midgets, and nudists — all kinds of crazy people. It’s like she was obsessed with weirdness.”

  “But don’t you see? She’s not just showing us them, and the weird things or sad things about them. She’s forcing us to view things in a certain way. Her way.” I rub some of the tears out of my eyes. These pictures are making me feel terrible. I have to get out of here before I completely lose it. When I open them, Charlie takes a big open picture of my red wet face with my camera.

  “What are you doing?” I shout, throwing my hands up and nearly knocking my camera out of his hands. The other people in the gallery turn and stare at us.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but hurt and pain can be good things. They put us in touch with ourselves. Why do you think my dad is able to express himself so well though printing? Because he’s miserable.”

  “I don’t want to be miserable! And I don’t want people manipulating me to feel a certain way!”

  “No, of course not. But being able to look at something and have feelings is like a basic component of art.” He shakes his head. “Listen. I know you’re scared of feeling something, something you’re afraid everyone can see, but you can’t let that fear hold you back. It’s part of who you are.”

  He shows me the picture of myself. And to my surprise, I don’t look like a complete mess. I look, well, alive. A hot rush of everything hits me at once. All the pictures and memories have been pulling me to this moment of actually looking at what’s happened. I’m not wearing a goofy face like a mask, or staging the perfect smile for someone else. I’m just being me.

  Charlie leads me out of the gallery and over to the big lawn. I feel it’s about a million degrees, so I peel off my peacoat and scarf and leave them in a pile on the grass. He sits me down and waits for me to talk.

  It doesn’t take long.

  I open up and tell him everything. I tell him about Jim, about him leaving and how badly it messed me up. I tell him about all the other memories that have been holding me hostage. I tell him Jim’s staying in a hotel across town and that I’m not supposed to know it. I tell him that Beth has my letter. That she stole it. And I don’t know what to do.

  Talking to Charlie is nothing like talking to Beth. He doesn’t nod or even shake his head. Best of all, he doesn’t interrupt with his take on things, or try to force me to see things from his point of view. He just listens. It’s amazing. And my mind, which usually shuts down or does what it’s told, spirals all over the place in a frenzy that is madness and liberation and relief.

  For the first time, I admit out loud that maybe Beth doesn’t really know what’s good for me anymore. Once it’s out there, in the air, I know it’s true. It sounds true. It feels true. And while it’s totally sad, it also gives me courage to face what that really means.

  I need to tell Beth that I know she has my letter.

  While Mr. Eid takes attendance from behind his wooden podium and the rest of the kids in my homeroom joke around or finish their homework, I rip out a sheet of notebook paper and gnaw the cap of my pen.

  After a ridiculous amount of deliberation, I scribble:

  Beth — Meet me in the library @ lunch — URGENT!

  I fold the note into a tight triangle and put it in the front pocket of my hooded sweatshirt. Then I pull my book bag up on my lap and hug it tight. The pointy corners of my cardboard box poke through the nylon. As the clock on the wall ticks homeroom down the final minute, I second-guess myself and what I’m about to do.

  The thing is, I decided that I didn’t want to call Beth out showdown style. I just want her to come clean about having the letter of her own accord, and if I have to lead her into admitting the truth, I’m okay with that.

  Beth had left me a couple of messages last night to make sure I was feeling better and she dropped off my assignments to my mom when I went to bed early. It was really nice of her to go through all the trouble. I so wanted to trust her again. I hated having those kinds of feelings, and I knew they were ruining what was left of our friendship. Now that I was letting myself deal with the truth, the truth was that I still cared about what was left. I cared about her.

  So I came up with a plan. I’d show Beth the box Jim left for me and play dumb. I’d pretend I didn’t know anything about his letter, and when I asked her what she thought about everything, she’d have to tell me about it, or at the very least give me a clue why she stole it in the first place.

  Homeroom bell rings, and it’s time to head to first period. I go in the opposite direction of History, toward the English wing, where Beth’s classroom is, and plant myself in the doorway.

  “Hi!” Beth says as she approaches. “What’s up? Couldn’t get enough of me on the ride to school?”

  “For you.” I hand her the note and she smiles. Beth loves notes. I smile back, even though it feels like lying.

  I’m walking back toward my classroom when a pair of hands covers my eyes from behind. I can tell who it is by the smell of gingerbread.

  “Maria?”

  “Ha!” she says, spinning me around. “So, you feeling an
y better? What’d you have — mono? Catch the make-out disease from your new boy?”

  I fake cough for her. “Hardly. Just the flu.”

  “Well, how are things going with Charlie?”

  “Fine, I guess.” I watch Maria’s smile fade as I don’t give her any more details. I know she’d LOVE to hear the story of my Kent afternoon, about my crazy reaction to Diane Arbus, but I can’t say anything. It’s a wonder she still likes me. Our friendship is totally one-sided. “Well, I did invite Charlie to the party. Like you said.”

  “And did he say yes?”

  I nod and smile. Maria nearly knocks me over with a huge hug.

  “Only thing is … I haven’t asked Beth yet if he can come.”

  “She’s not going to care. She’ll be happy for you.”

  “I don’t know. Remember how weird she got during the car ride when you first mentioned it?”

  She puckers her lips. “Whatever. I think I’m going to invite Davey, even though she thinks I’m wasting my time on him. You know, we still haven’t kissed? I don’t know what’s wrong with him. Maybe he really does just want to be friends.”

  “He’s probably nervous. Because you’re, you know … so experienced.” I bite on my fingernail. “Wait. That came out wrong.”

  Maria just laughs. “No, I get it. Maybe that’s it. I doubt Davey’s kissed many girls. He’s kind of quiet and shy, like you.” She shakes her head. “Anyhow, I don’t think you have anything to worry about with Beth. But tell her in front of me, if you want. I’ll act so excited that she definitely won’t say anything negative.”

  I could hug her. I do hug her. “Thanks, Maria.”

  A thought flashes across my brain like lightning. I pull back a chunk of thick black hair from her ear and lean in. “Hey,” I whisper. “Do me a favor, okay, and meet me in the library during lunch. There’s something I want to talk to you about.” I let her hair fall back and spot a tall blond girl strutting down the hallway toward us, looking pissed as usual. “And don’t tell Katherine.”