The Black Sheep by Sandy Rideout Yvonne Collins Page B

calls from people I don’t even know asking if they can hang with you.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous,” I say. Although I owe a lot of my newfound popularity to the cameras I can take credit for some of it. While I’m not cool myself, I do come from a cool place. I’m practically an ambassador.
    Clicking my purse shut, I throw my shoulders back and lead Carrie up the front stairs with a new attitude—a Black Sheep attitude. There’s a crowd on the front porch, Judy among them. She takes a long drag from her cigarette as I approach.
    â€œYou made it,” she says, exhaling a stream of smoke in my face. She’s wearing a low-cut sundress, high-heeled mules, and bright blue contact lenses. For a moment I dare to hope she’s off duty, but she snaps her fingers at me to follow her into the house.
    Chili turns his lens on me, and within seconds I am surrounded by a circle of strangers. A very well-dressed circle of strangers. It’s only a house party, but everyone has gone all out. In fact, I’m underdressed. I turn to Carrie to complain, but the bright lights have already driven her out the back door.
    Aaron welcomes me with a kiss on the cheek and introduces Jordan, who promptly offers me a beer.
    I hesitate. I haven’t explored Black Sheepism enough to know whether underage drinking is part of the movement—especially underage drinking on national television. However, a Black Sheep cannot be a wimp. These people think I’m an urban sophisticate—a cultural trailblazer. They might even believe my life is one long string of concerts, parties, and gallery openings.
    Black Sheep Rule Number Seven: Give the public what they want .
    â€œI prefer martinis,” I say, waving the bottle away.
    Aaron and Jordan glance at each other quickly, probably impressed by my worldliness.
    â€œI’ll see what I can do,” Aaron says, “although my parents locked the bar.”
    Tia, who has joined us, says, “According to In Style, martinis are the hip drink in New York clubs right now. Are you into the club scene?”
    I’d say yes but I doubt she’s referring to the Algebra Club. “I’m, uh, more into the gallery scene. There’s a phenomenal retrospective at the Guggenheim right now.” At least, Mom said it’s phenomenal. I was sulking too much over giving up an afternoon of discount shopping with Lucy to get anything out of it. “It’s on modern art of the 1920s.”
    â€œHow can art that’s eighty years old be called ‘modern’?” Aaron asks.
    â€œModernism actually dates back to the late nineteenth century,” I explain, happy to share my knowledge, as a good ambassador must. Mom covered the modern art movement so extensively during our après-gallery quiz that I almost passed out over my tea and scones. “The movement got its name because artists were rejecting the past as a model for the present.” Much like Black Sheepism, in fact.
    â€œThat’s cool,” Tia says. She sounds serious, but a couple of the other kids snicker and start edging away, revealing Mitch leaning against the living room mantel. He’s smirking.
    Okay, so I overestimated my audience’s appetite for culture, but maybe I can recapture their interest by exploring common ground.
    â€œI haven’t missed the art scene, though,” I say. “Your aquarium is more interesting than any gallery.”
    Aaron shrugs indifferently. “Never been.”
    â€œMe either,” Jordan says.
    â€œI went on a school trip once,” Tia says. “There are fish, right?”
    â€œMore than fish,” I say, trying not to look surprised that they know so little about a local landmark. After all, plenty of New Yorkers haven’t been to the Empire State Building. “There are penguins and turtles, and a pool where you can touch a stingray.”
    â€œIs there a pool where you can touch a