“Hey! Emily!” Meg says, knocking into me with an embarrassed laugh. “Come on, we’re leaving.”
Everything snaps back into normal focus. Rick is across the parking lot, unlocking the door to his truck. There’s no one else around. Jimmy and Chad are gone. I’m standing here alone, in the middle of the parking lot, all by myself. My Blizzard is almost empty.
“What’s everyone doing?”
“Nothing. Going home. You know how it is.” Meg turns toward Rick’s truck.
The night is slipping away. “Hey,” I say, and take hold of her arm. “Let’s go sneak into a movie, like we used to do.”
Meg shrugs her shoulders. “Hmm . . . maybe. You know, ever since they redid the movie theater, they have people double-checking ticket stubs. I’m dying to see that new one about the florist who falls in love with her delivery guy, but it doesn’t open until this weekend. We should just go next week. Maybe on Tuesday. I think it’s supposed to rain on Tuesday.”
“Well, we could go down to the fields and hang out there.” Someone discovered that the back door to the football equipment room never locks. We’ve snuck in there to drink beers and listen to music sometimes. It’s not all that much fun, but at least it’s something.
Meg laughs. “Didn’t you hear? Coach Heller got the locks replaced.”
“Oh.” I try to think of another possibility. I’m not ready for tonight to be over. Nothing’s even happened yet.
Meg turns and looks back at the truck. “I think we’re going to just go and watch some TV or something at Rick’s house.” She pauses briefly. “You can totally come if you want.”
It’s nice of Meg to invite me, but I will never go and watch television with her and Rick again. The last time I did that, they were either cuddled under a blanket together or disappearing upstairs to the kitchen together to get more snacks or whatever. I’d be left alone in Rick’s dark basement watching some dumb show or movie, the kind of thing you decide to “watch” when you have a boyfriend because you don’t plan on “watching” anything.
“That’s okay.” I say. “I’ve got class tomorrow anyhow. Oh! But I have to bring Claire a Blizzard or I’ll never hear the end of it when I get home. Can you give me one second?”
“Of course,” Meg says. “I’ll be in the truck.”
I run over to the counter and place my order. Across the parking lot, Meg talks to Rick in the truck. She’s saying something to him, probably that I’m not coming. Rick smiles, and they start kissing. I hold Claire’s Blizzard and walk as slow as I can. I don’t care if the ice cream melts. I’m not rushing back over there. Their night is just getting started, and mine’s about to end.
The Philadelphia Museum of Art is an enormous building on top of a grassy hill. Almost a hundred steps lead up to the front entrance, carved in stone. Behind the building stretches a winding river, like one you might find in the country, but this one has skyscrapers rising from its banks. Long, skinny crew boats filled with shirtless frat guys from Penn slice through the dark water in unison, making lots of frothy splashes with their oars. Their chants of Row, Row, Row give it a pulse.
Four yellow buses drop us off at the base of the stairs. Robyn and Fiona are on my bus. Robyn has on gray leggings, a blousy yellow tank 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.
“Every 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?”
“Because 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?”
“Umm . . . don’t I have until next Tuesday?” I keep blowing every opportunity to look cool in front of Yates. I sound like I don’t care.
Yates shakes his head and tsks me. “Here,” he says, and carefully rips some pages out of his own book. “Make sure you get your own today. You don’t want to make Mr. Frank think you’re slacking. He takes these summer classes very seriously, and if he decides that you don’t, there’s no changing his mind.”
I appreciate how nice