Free Same Difference (9780545477215) by Siobhan Vivian

between 1913 and 1917, and were a sensation at the Armory Show in New York. And see how modern, how artistically striking they still are today.”
    Is this art Mr. Frank would really value, considering how intent he is on making his students produce perfect, calculated drawings?
    â€œWould anyone like to comment?” His eyes seek me out. “Emily, what is your response to these pieces?”
    My ears fill with the imagined voices of Meg and Rick, making fun of this kind of art. How Rick could go to Home Depot and buy a white toilet and put it on a block and call it art. I shift my weight. I look down into the ripped blank sketchbook pages in my hands, hoping an answer will appear.
    â€œEmily? Do you feel like this art is meaningful?”
    I don’t know what to say. I definitely don’t want to look stupid in front of everyone. My heart pounds. I search the crowd. And there’s Fiona, watching me, waiting to hear what I have to say about her favorite pieces in the whole museum.
    â€œI’m sorry” is all I can manage. “I don’t get it.”
    Mr. Frank laughs, amused. “But that’s the point, don’t you think?” A few other chuckles come from the crowd.
    I shake my head. “Wait. What’s the point? That I don’t get it?”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œWell … what’s the point of us not getting it?” I ask.
    Mr. Frank’s grin spreads even wider across his face. “Duchamp was playing right into this kind of thinking, questioning the notion of what can be classified as art. Thank you, Emily, for illustrating my point so beautifully.”
    My face burns. Mr. Frank is basically making fun of the fact that I don’t know anything. That’s probably why he called on me in the first place. When I meet eyes with Yates, his gaze falls to the floor, no doubt wondering why he ever spent his money on a cup of coffee for me.
    The attention shifts off me, and I take the opportunity to step backward into a dark doorway. I prop myself up against the wall and wait for the students to move to another section. The rest of my energy is spent fighting back tears.
    The cool shadows of this room are a stark contrast to the brightly lit galleries we’ve circled through. Nothing’s hanging on the walls in this space. Have I stepped into somewhere I shouldn’t be?
    I turn my head to the side and stare down a long dark corridor.
    At the other end of the room is a huge barn door, made of rustic, splintered wood. Big black metal hinges bolt it to the wall. Light streams through two small knotty holes, just at eye level, tempting me to come closer.
    I take a few steps but then I stop. It’s hard to explain the feelings that suddenly overwhelm me. My hands get sweaty and my heart races. It’s like I’m at home alone, and I’ve just heard a noise in the basement and I have to decide whether or not to explore. Even though I know there’s nothing to be afraid of, I still can’t will myself to move forward. I’m still scared.
    â€œThis is my favorite piece in the whole museum.” Someone struts past me. Fiona.
    She walks straight up to the barn door, presses her face to the wood, and looks through the little hole. “It’s called The Waterfall. Duchamp didn’t tell anyone about it. Not his assistants, or the museum directors. He didn’t want to spoil the surprise. It took me, like, three times before I had the guts to look.”
    She stands there for a few seconds, taking in whatever she’s seeing. Then she pulls away and spins to face me. “It sucks, though. As soon as you know what’s behind the door, it changes the whole experience. Once you see it, you can never go back.”
    I still don’t quite have a hold of myself, and I’m sure it’s obvious. But Fiona looks at me with this sort of delighted smile, like she’s relishing my discomfort. I’m afraid she’s going