If I Was Your Girl Read Online Free PDF Page B

voice grew hoarse.
    I wondered what Dad would think if he knew I was watching sports of my own free will. I remembered when I quit Little League after the first game and cried in my room, how angry and disappointed he had been. This felt different from Dad and all of his buddies—always buddies, never really friends—sitting around quietly watching “the game” with beers in hand. This felt like something else, like friendship or acceptance or maybe fitting in. This felt like fun.

 
    5
    On Tuesday I found Bee behind the art building like always. She slouched against the wall, eyes closed, bobbing her head in time to the music blasting in her ears. My backpack thudded into the grass and I joined her. She opened one eye and wiggled her fingers in greeting.
    â€œWhat are you listening to?”
    â€œThe Knife. They’re this awesome Swedish experimental … thing. Here, listen.” She handed me the earbud and leaned in so I could share. I held it to my ear. I expected a cross between ABBA and Daft Punk, but instead a low, soulful voice sang about doomed love.
    â€œSo I heard Grant’s all about you,” Bee said once the song ended.
    â€œIt’s nothing,” I said, even though the thought made my heart pound. “He just invited me to a party.”
    â€œHe’s a guy,” she said. “You’re new and you’re pretty. It’s not exactly rocket science.”
    â€œI’m not pretty though.”
    â€œOh my God, whatever, yes you are. Jesus. The only thing worse than attractive people is attractive people who refuse to admit they’re attractive.”
    â€œI don’t think we’re making good use of our time,” I said, but I was fighting a smile. I doubted anyone but Bee could make a compliment sound so grouchy. “I mean, if we get caught I’d like to point to some projects we’ve done and say, ‘We used art class to make art.’”
    â€œInsanely naïve, but I’m bored so I’m still with you.”
    â€œOkay, so I spent last night on Pinterest getting ideas,” I said, pulling out my phone.
    â€œOf course you’ve got a Pinterest. I bet you’ve already planned like three different wedding themes.” Bee grabbed the phone from my hand and swiped at the screen, her brow knitted. “Half these are pinecone jewelry. This isn’t art,” she said, handing me back the phone. “This is crafts. They’re different.”
    â€œIt’s called arts and crafts.”
    â€œArt,” Bee said, slipping her feet back into her shoes, “expresses something deeply personal and private. Art shares your world with other people so they can feel even a momentary connection with you. Crafts are pinecone hats.”
    â€œI didn’t pin any pinecone hats,” I said indignantly, reaching into my backpack and pulling out an old sketchbook with a few blank pages left. Bee sat up and looked over my shoulder. “I sketched some designs you might like more—”
    â€œGo back,” she said. I went back one page, to a piece of Sailor Moon fan art I’d drawn two years before. I thought it looked amateurish and tried to turn the page away, but Bee put her hand over mine and stopped me. “You drew this?”
    I nodded. “It’s just fan art. Nothing original.”
    â€œStop,” Bee said. “There are enough people waiting to crap in your cereal without you doing it for them. You’re talented.” She stood up and scratched her back where her bare skin had touched the grass. “Come with me.”
    I took a deep breath and followed her to the parking lot. She unlocked a worn-looking red pickup truck and hopped in the driver’s seat.
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œYou want to make art,” she said. “So let’s get serious. Art is about exposing yourself. I’m going to share some things with you. You don’t have to