A Map of the Known World (5 page)

More than that, though, tonight, in all his earnestness—well, he looked kind of cute. Really cute, actually. Intense. I get a shiver as I recall his face and those haunting, haunted gray eyes.

This is ridiculous. He is nothing but trouble, and that is all there is to it.

The tears have dried, and I’ve finally stopped gasping and croaking like an asthmatic bullfrog, so I reach over and turn off the night table light. I try to will myself to sleep before any more absurd notions can creep into my brain.

Now that the first couple of weeks of school have passed, the days begin to feel routine, and I find I don’t have to double-check the schedule I taped to the inside of my locker anymore. I think I can even almost forget about the funny looks from other kids in the hallways and classrooms, the hesitant, awkward intonations of my teacher’s voices when they address me, when I imagine they see Nate’s face instead of my own.

The linoleum and cinder-block gloom of the place is the perfect backdrop to the callous shouts and raucous laughter that seem to perpetually fill the halls, muting everything. It suits my mood very well.

As I jog into homeroom one sunny late September morning, a second ahead of the late bell, I see Rachel bent over her desk, her shoulders shaking and her knees drawn up to her chest. Carolyn Wright, Callie Rountree, and Susan Meredith are sitting at their desks, glancing at her, and laughing softly, covering their mouths as though they don’t want her to see they are laughing at her. I don’t know if Rachel is laughing or crying. So I race over to her and throw my bag down on the ground, my arm around her shoulder, and a glare at these girls who used to be my friends. B.T.A.

“What’s wrong? Rach, are you okay?” I ask.

Rachel looks up and then I can see that she has been laughing. Small drops of moisture leak from the corners of her eyes. She is shaking helplessly. The other girls are laughing out loud, too, now.

“What is it?” I begin to smile in that
I don’t know what’s going on but you all look pretty freaking funny and I’ll laugh because you are
way. Rachel is trying—and failing miserably—to gain control. She just keeps giggling. “Oh my gosh, tell me! What happened?”

“Oh—” Rachel gasps, and hugs her knees tighter.

“Seriously! Tell me!” I can feel my chest getting tight with the giggles, too. “What!”

Rachel just shakes her head and points to her feet, which are tucked up on her chair. I bend down and look at her feet. “So?” I ask, confused.

“Look!” Rachel pushes her chair back and holds her legs straight out. She is wearing dainty ballet flats with bows on the tops of her toes. Ah. She is wearing dainty ballet flats with bows on the toes, and they are two different colors. She has on a navy shoe on the left foot and a black one on the right. In the light, the difference is plain to see.

Callie, Carolyn, Susan, Rachel, and I launch into fresh gales of laughter.

“Oh, you’re such a dork! How did you do that?” I ask, trying to snatch a breath.

“I-It was dark when I got dressed,” Rachel manages to explain. “What am I going to do?” she howls. “I can’t walk around like this all day! I’ll never live it down!” She lets out a loud guffaw.

“I can’t believe you own the same pair of shoes in two colors!” Callie says.

Rachel shakes her head helplessly. I tell her, “I think I have an extra pair of flip-flops in my locker. Come with me after the bell.”

“Cora,” Rachel says with a gulp of air. “What would I do without you?” She squeezes my arm and I smile broadly at her. It feels like the first real smile I’ve smiled in ages. My mouth muscles hurt but they’re enjoying the exercise.

Rachel follows me to my locker, where she quickly switches shoes and continues to chortle. I watch her affectionately. This is how it used to be between us. How it should be.

Suddenly, a shadow falls across us. I look up; Rachel is still bent over, wriggling her foot into one of my flip-flops.
Damian.
He has stopped in front of me, his forehead crinkled. A long black trench coat waving around him, brushing the tops of heavy black combat boots. I’ve been carefully ignoring him in art class. It’s not too hard; mostly Damian buries himself behind his easel, and we might as well be in different rooms. On different planets.

“Hey,” he says uncertainly. Rachel shoots up at the sound of a boy’s voice. “Hey,” he repeats, to Rachel this time.

I am frozen.

“Um, hi,” Rachel says, scowling.

The three of us stand there awkwardly in front of my locker, Damian’s hands shoved inside his pockets, I’m stone-still, with my history book in hand, not at all sure what to say next.

“Well, I’ll see you in class,” Damian says, his voice cool as ice.

“Yeah, um, see you,” I reply. I sound like such a dolt.

“Whoa, what was that?” Rachel asks, turning to face me as Damian takes off, long loping strides carrying him down the hall.

“He was just saying hi, you know,” I stammer. “We have art class together.”

“You
do?
” Rachel asks, her eyes huge. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, it’s not a big deal or anything.”

“It’s a
huge
deal!” Rachel exclaims. “He’s a total waster. And your mom will freak!”

“I know. Look, it’s nothing. He just said hi, is all,” I say weakly.

“Hmmm…well, just be careful.” Rachel warns, then she kisses my cheek. “Thanks for the flip-flops! I’ll bring them back tomorrow.” And she bounces down the hallway.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. That was weird. I wonder what Damian’s deal is and why he won’t leave me alone.

During geometry, as Mr. Lane drones on and on about planes and postulates, I start to think about the strange incident in the hall. Had Damian been looking for me? He’s never
once passed my locker since school began. No, it has to have just been a coincidence. Right?

When the bell finally rings, I quickly head to my locker. As I am exchanging the notebooks and textbooks in my bag for the ones I need to take home, I spot Damian, in his long trench coat that flutters about him, gliding down the hall like some large black bird. He looks over at me and nods his head solemnly.

Again I wonder if he’s been looking for me.

“Hi,” I say, and suddenly a major case of nerves descends on me, as he comes up alongside my locker.

He straightens and grins. “Hey.”

I wait for him to say more, but Damian just stares at me, giving no indication that he is going to speak again. I suddenly feel a bit unsteady. The moment stretches out, interminable, uncomfortable. I shift my bag from one shoulder to the other and shuffle my feet.

“How are your classes?” Damian finally asks, breaking the silence.

“My classes?” I repeat. I must admit, the mundanity of this conversation is breathtaking. “They’re fine. Well, except for math. Geometry kind of sucks but, yeah, they’re fine.” I pause. “How about yours?”

“They’re okay,” he responds. Then, silence.

“What are you taking?” I ask.

“You know, the usual,” he starts casually. “Art, of course, English, calc; AP physics is kicking my butt—”

“AP physics?” I ask, cringing at the note of astonishment in my voice.

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Damian smirks.

“No, I just didn’t know,” I try to explain lamely. Dolt. Dolt. Dolt.

“I know. Don’t worry about it.” He looks at me, and his harsh smile softens. He pulls a silver cell phone out of his coat pocket and checks the time. “I should get home.” He looks up at me. “Um, want a ride?”

My breath catches.
What?
“Oh, no, it’s okay. I have my bike.” Damian glances away. “Look. Why are you following me?” I am taken aback by my own directness.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bother you,” Damian mumbles. Then he is gone.

I fall back against my locker. What is going on? Does he really think I’m going to get in a car with him? Is he nuts?

He is so odd. Kind of sweet, I guess. Maybe I was too harsh? A pinprick of guilt jabs at me. Well, nevertheless, Damian is going to stay a mystery for another day. I gather my belongings and head outside to get on my bike.

As I coast down the streets, I think of Damian as a raven, his black coat flapping like feathers around him. Strange and fierce and hard.

We’ll see what this is about.

A
utumn has come, crowning the fields and woods with red golden leaves, and the wind carries with it a sharpness, the crisp hint of apple cider and wood-burning stoves. There is a buzzing, a tingling of anticipation in the air. Girls chatter back and forth in the hallways about the costumes they are going to wear for Halloween. The sad yellow walls are festooned with paper cutouts of jack-o’-lanterns and black cats alongside posters calling on kids to come out and vote in the student elections and to sign up for various committees.

I have avoided getting involved in any after-school activities. I am having a hard enough time keeping up with my classes, especially geometry. There is so much memorization, and for some reason, none of it makes any sense to me, no matter how many times I read and reread the same chapter. How did someone figure out, for instance, that a
²
+ b
²
= c
²
? Who has a brain that works like that? Who looks at a triangle and thinks, I will figure out a way to understand how the lines and angles relate
to one another? When I look at a triangle, I see the shape of a cheek or the space below a jawbone. I see the silhouette of the Arabian Peninsula.

I do not get involved. But it isn’t just because I have too much homework. It’s just that…I still feel like the girl whose brother died. I still feel the teachers holding their breath, waiting to see if I am going to turn out like Nate, if I’m going to slip up and cut class or pull a prank or talk back. I feel the other kids waiting to see if I’m going to lose it, if I’ll shatter, if whatever peculiarity I seem to embody will come exploding out of me in a terrific show of fireworks and freakdom. Nobody says anything outright; it’s just this subtle tension that sits beneath the surface.

Art class, though, is different. There, I feel like I’m really learning. There I feel unburdened. Ms. Calico is new, so she never knew Nate. And just for that I feel freer in her class. Ms. Calico has introduced us to charcoal and pastels. They can be unruly, especially the oil pastels, but I’ve grown to love the challenge of keeping my lines in line. When I leave class, my fingertips smudged black or all different colors, my cheeks streaked with green and blue and yellow, I wear those colors proudly. I might be a weirdo, but I am a weirdo who can make stuff.

I have brought all of this color home with me and I’ve introduced it into my map drawings. Suddenly, the French
countryside is blanketed with yellow and violet wildflowers, the sage green of olive trees. And the rain forests of the Amazon are ablaze with a lush green vibrance.

In art class, I sit on my stool next to the window, listening to an angry rain pelt the glass with a thrumming tattoo, as I nibble on the tip of a charcoal pencil. I stare at the basket of jelly jars and fruit posed at the front of the room. There is never much talking in this cavernous studio but for the hushed murmur of Ms. Calico’s voice as she moves from easel to easel, guiding each of us, her flock. Sometimes she lectures or demonstrates a new technique, but mostly the class remains swathed in silence.

I glance around the classroom. Damian is tucked away behind his easel and a huge drawing tablet at the front of the room. Quickly, I look away, then turn to watch as my nearest neighbor, a sophomore named Helena, who has blonde curly hair that she always keeps clipped in a messy twist, runs broad strokes across her paper with a scarlet pastel stick. The lines grow heavy and thick, livid. I love to watch Helena’s dainty hands gripping the pastel and dragging it so furiously, her plastic bangle bracelets banging and clacking boisterously. What drives this tiny girl into such a fury of motion?

Helena looks up and catches me studying her. I feel myself blushing, but she shoots me a wide smile and nods her head. “It’s therapeutic,” she says.

“Really?” I ask. When Helena nods vigorously, I add, “Maybe I should try it.”

Helena grins and replies, “Maybe you should.” Then she returns her attention to her easel. With green and black, she evokes the shapes of the fruit and jars. I am spellbound. I’ve never seen anything like it. I have seen prints of some of Picasso’s paintings in the Cubist style, and while Helena’s piece looks like some distant cousin of that, it’s a method and a look all its own.

“I’m sorry to keep spying on you, but that’s really amazing,” I tell Helena.

“You think so?” Helena takes a step back from her easel and scrutinizes her drawing. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a little too angry?”

“Why’s that a bad thing?” I ask as Helena returns to her stool.

Whatever Helena was about to answer in response is drowned out by a very loud buzzing sound. It sounds like someone is fiddling with the school’s PA system, which is only supposed to come on in the morning during homeroom, or in an emergency.

“Hey, everybody,” a voice filters through. “Here’s a little senior surprise for the semester. Some might call it a prank, call it what you will, but I present to you my bud, DJ Ben Maxwell! Everybody, I want you out in the halls, dancing and
putting your hands together for this rhymin’ fiend. Now, Benny-boy, rap!”

For a second, everyone is frozen. Nobody laughs or speaks or moves. We just stare at one another, then all eyes come to rest on Ms. Calico. A beat starts to pulse through the PA speakers.

“Well, who am I to stop you? You heard what the man said.” Ms. Calico steps back and opens the studio door.

I look at Helena, who just shrugs in return and slides off her stool. She peels off her smock and beckons for me to follow her out into the hall. The nearby classrooms are emptying into the hallway and most of the kids are standing around awkwardly, hands shoved in pockets, toes scuffing the linoleum tiles. Then, a brave few begin to dance. Now, the doors to all of the classrooms up and down the corridor are flung open, and more students are writhing and twisting to the rhythm of the PA beat. I can’t believe what is going on—it’s a dance party. Suddenly, someone touches my arm. I start and spin around. It’s Ms. Calico and she waves me back into the art room.

“Cora, before you jump into the crush, I wonder if I might have a brief word with you?” she asks.

“Um, sure,” I reply. Uh-oh. A
brief word
never seems like a good thing; it’s what cops and principals always had to ask my parents for when Nate was alive, after he had gotten into one kind of trouble or another.

“Your work in this class is quite impressive, Cora,” Ms. Calico states as more people brush past us to get out of the classroom and into the hall. “I can see so much potential in your line, in your forms. And I’ve seen your maps when you’ve turned in your sketch pad. They are fascinating, Cora.” She looks at me closely as she continues, “You remember I spoke about some summer art programs at the beginning of the semester?” I nod, my gut buzzing like it’s filled with a bee’s nest and the inmates have just escaped. “Good. I’d like to recommend you for one of them. Would you like that?” Ms. Calico’s gaze is piercing, as if she is searching me for some kind of answer or information, and meanwhile my heart might just swell so big it’ll pop out of my chest. She thinks
my
work is impressive?

“Really?” I ask. “Yeah, I would
definitely
be interested. That would be incredible!” My mind is whirring so fast.
Can this be real?
I study Ms. Calico’s face. “You really think I’m good?”

“I wouldn’t stand here and say it if I didn’t mean it. And this particular program has a cartography class that I think you’d really enjoy.”

“Wow,” I say softly.

“Yes, well, I will bring the application forms to you tomorrow. The program is in London, so you’ll have to cover the airfare, but beyond that, all expenses would be covered.”

“London?” I repeat in amazement. For a moment, I feel like I’m taking off, leaping into glorious flight.
Finally,
I will
go
somewhere. Then, reality thumps me over the head, as it always seems
to do. My mother is never going to allow me to go to London for a summer. Never. “Oh, I—I don’t know…” I whisper.

“Well, how about you just fill out the application, and let’s see? All right?” Ms. Calico prods.

I can only nod my head mutely.

“Okay, go party with the rest of them,” Ms. Calico says, lightly steering me back through the door. “And remember, the application is due November fifteenth.”

Words are fumbling through my mind.
Impressive. Potential. London.
I know I’m walking a tightrope. I could let go and allow myself to believe in this fantasy that my art has potential, that I have talent, and that I could go to London to explore it. But, it’s too dangerous. This is something I want so badly, too badly, and I can only crash and fall flat on my disappointed face.

I walk out into the tangle of swaying bodies, my mouth hanging open as I take in the mass of wriggling dancers, the teachers standing silently, smilingly in their classroom doorways. Mr. Halpern, the assistant principal, is wading through the sea of students, helplessly flapping his arms, anxiously tugging at his greasy hair and wiping at his brow, as he tries heedlessly to shepherd everyone back to class. He makes an absurd and lonely picture in the midst of all the jollity. Actually, the whole affair makes a pretty absurd picture—a dance party in the high school hallway at two o’clock in the afternoon. But
I feel lonely and removed from it all. Funny, how I am more in sync with Mr. Halpern than anyone else at this moment. I continue moving through the crowd, feeling gangly and wooden, aware of my arms hanging limply at my sides—they feel too long and stiff.

Suddenly, I walk into something. Hard.

“Ouch.” I look up. “Oh.”

Damian. He is standing in front of me, rubbing his arm. “Hey,” he says.

“Um, hi,” I reply. “Sorry about that. I was distracted.” Was he waiting for me again?

“Yeah, I could tell,” Damian says, smiling. “What’s going on? You’re not partaking in the senior prank?”

“Senior prank?” I echo.

“It’s a tradition, the senior class stages a prank sometime during the semester before Homecoming.” I suppose my face looks blank, because Damian grins, and says, “You know, big football game, fancy dance? Homecoming?”

“Oh, right…I heard about it…from…Nate.” We both look down, and I’ll bet my face looks as twisted with confusion and discomfort as his does. “Wait, Homecoming? When is it?” I ask, my mind starting to reel. I am so not clued into anything going on at school, I haven’t even thought about the dance once. I am pretty sure Rachel has mentioned it at some point or another, but I really can’t recall any details.

“Seriously? You must be the only girl in school who doesn’t know when the dance is,” Damian replies, laughing. “It’s the second weekend in November. Sound familiar?”

“Oh,” I murmur. A dance? What do I do? Do I go? Would my mother even let me go? I don’t have a dress, a date. Oh my gosh, I’m not ready for this. Images of girls in poofy Pepto-Bismol pink dresses and high heels, boys with their hair slicked back, waltz through my mind. Not to mention the game…

“Hey, do you want a ride home?” Damian asks, startling me from my train wreck of thought. He shrugs, smiling. “I thought I’d try again.”

I feel my eyelids stretching to blink over my bug-eyes. Hold on a minute, what? “Um…okay.” I answer. Wait a second; what have I just agreed to? Getting into a car with Damian Archer? I must really be losing it. My mom would have a conniption if she knew that I was riding in a car with anyone under the age of forty (Rule #3), not to mention the one person in the world she hates most and trusts least. Not to mention the fact that he’s…Damian Archer!

Little beads of sweat break out on my forehead, but I follow Damian, threading through the still-dancing students, to my locker, where he waits for me to grab my coat and books.

“You don’t need to go to your locker?” I ask.

“Nope,” he answers. I cock an eyebrow. Does he ever do homework? But I continue after him toward the parking lot.
He drives a gorgeous, carefully painted 1971 cobalt blue El Camino with a silver racing stripe down the middle.

“My lady,” he says, opening the passenger-side door for me.

“Why, thank you, good sir.” My voice sounds tight; this playacting at normalcy feels false. My stomach is going spastic, and suddenly I realize, I’m scared.
What am I doing? What am I doing?

“Nervous?” Damian asks. He looks at me closely and climbs into the driver’s seat.

I pause before answering him. That’s a big fat yes. “Ah, a little bit.”

He nods and turns the ignition. The car roars; it is a lion of an automobile. I jump.

“Don’t worry. I’ll drive carefully,” Damian tells me. He grins cheekily, but true to his word, Damian drives as slowly and deliberately as my mother. We sit in silence for a while, until Damian speaks. “Hey, do you mind if I show you something before I take you home?”

“What is it?”

“Well, it’s hard to explain. I’d rather just show you.”

I can’t imagine what he could possibly want to show me. An insatiable curiosity grips me. “All right, I guess.” Those bees start kicking around in my gut again, like they’re trying to sting me back to reason and out of this really stupid haze of pliancy.

“Good,” he says, and smiles again.

Soon, Damian crosses the county road and turns right onto Union Street. He’s heading east, away from my neighborhood and out toward the fields of the Wright farm.
Oh, where are we going?
I wonder. This is likely the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. There is a racket of bees buzzing in my ears, pricking my stomach with angry stings. Two minutes later, we’re pulling off the road and onto a gravel track. Damian slows before stopping altogether in front of a tall gray barn.

“We’re here,” Damian announces with that same cheeky grin as we get out of the car. He heads down an overgrown path and takes hold of one of the barn’s massive double doors. Damian waves me over. “Come on!”

I hover at the entryway to the dim, yawning space. Motes of dust flicker in the single shaft of sunlight that penetrates the crack between the doors. Damian flicks a light switch, and I can make out a host of bulky shapes standing at attention, but I can’t tell what they are. I start to feel nervous again. What am I doing here, with
him
?