A Map of the Known World, Page 3

  “Okay, everyone!” Ms. Calico’s voice cuts through my nausea, and I glimpse Damian taking a stool at the front of the room, as far from me as possible. Thank goodness.

  “Welcome to Advanced Art. I have a couple of announcements to start with,” Ms. Calico continues. “First, there will be a school-wide art show at the beginning of February, and while it’s not mandatory that my students participate, I highly encourage all of you to think about submitting pieces to the show. The second piece of business is that I have information for a couple of summer art programs at my desk. The applications are due in mid-November for most of them. If you are interested in more information, please see me at the end of class.”

  Summer art programs. An art show. Oh my gosh. I look around and all of the other kids in the class look so much older than I am, so much more…capable. Even if they’re only a year or two older, they just seem more confident than I feel. I don’t have the nerve to ask about the art show or the summer programs. Anyway, Ms. Calico was probably talking to the upperclassmen, not to me.

  I glance up and catch my breath when I catch Damian peeking at me around his easel. How am I going to share art class with Damian? It was the one class I was excited to take. Now, though…Does he hate me as much as I hate him? I wonder. He must hate my whole family.

  I go straight home, just as my mother had commanded me to do. I have at least three hours before my parents get back, so rather than starting on the homework I seriously cannot believe the teachers had the gall to assign on the first day of school, and rather than think about the first day of high school at all, I go straight to my bedroom. I move to turn on my computer, but I stop to consider the map of the world.

  This map is a little—or a lot—out-of-date. The shapes and borders of many of the nations have changed…entire pieces of the world have switched hands, been broken apart and put back together differently since this piece of paper was printed. All of it, the world, home, life, just keeps shifting, keeps on moving.

  Idly, I let my fingers run over continents and mountain ranges and oceans. There is so much. There is no land that remains to be discovered, no continent left unexplored. Still, the whole world is out there, waiting, just waiting for me.

  Oh, I want to do things—I want to walk the rain-soaked streets of London, and drink mint tea in Casablanca; I want to wander the wastelands of the Gobi desert and see a yak. I think my life’s ambition is to see a yak. There is just so much, so much to see, to touch and taste and explore. And above all, I want to do things, things that will mean something, that will matter. More than anything else, I am terrified I won’t have that chance.

  So, I do what I always do when the fear of being trapped here in Lincoln Grove for the rest of my life wells up in my throat and threatens to choke me. I escape to my refuge.

  I take out a tablet of drawing paper and cradle it in my lap. As I stare up at the continent of Asia, I let the soft graphite follow the lines of China and Mongolia, Russia, then move south, to Burma, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam, Malaya, Sumatra (I told you the map was outdated), Borneo. I look north again and study the vastness of Siberia. I know the Russians used to exile criminals—revolutionaries—at various points in the country’s history to Siberia. I imagine an empty ice field, barren and cheerless, inhabited by a solitary woman in a sable fur cap and coat, a countess, marching by herself to a looming, frozen doom. How dreadful. Lines meet and capture the bent shape of a cold and lonely woman as my pencil flies over the paper, tracing this scene inside the boundaries of Siberian tundra.

  I move back down the map again, pausing at Sumatra, which I think is a part of Indonesia now. I picture lush green jungles, dense with shiny leaves and vines, rich black soil, and eyes of varying colors peering out from among the trees. My pencils scratch across the page, the paper wrinkling finely. I don’t mind when the paper looks crumpled—it gives the drawing an old map quality. I love watching the supple gray line chase the point of the pencil. Strokes and strokes giving shape to a great, wild, jungle life, monkeys and frogs peeping from between leaves.

  The sudden grumbling of the garage door opening pulls me back, back to Lincoln Grove and my bedroom and the sound of tire wheels squeaking on the smooth concrete of the garage floor. My dad is home. I feel my whole body tense up as I wait for him to enter the kitchen, as I wait for the greeting I know won’t come, and as I wait for the inevitable clink of ice cubes.

  The door slams, footsteps. Then I hear the cupboard bang shut, a glass slams onto the countertop, the refrigerator opens and closes, the freezer door swings open…pause, clink, clink, clink, and close. Then footsteps into the den, and silence. My fingernails have been digging into my palms.

  When I was in middle school, B.T.A., my dad would come home, race up the stairs—the thudding of his footsteps like a happy waltz—and he’d knock, saying, “Shave and a haircut,” to which I’d answer with a shouted “Two bits!”

  “Hey, Rabbit, how’s the homework coming? I know I’m old, but need any help?” he would ask. It was like a dance that we’d performed over and over, so many times for all thirteen years of my life. Till now.

  I leave the pencils and paper and map behind, pull my textbooks and notebooks from my backpack and, sliding onto the bed, begin to do my homework.

  Geometry, with its postulates and proofs, theorems and corollaries, will be hard. American history might not be too bad, but biology will surely be. For English class, I’m going to have to read a ton, but honestly, I’m kind of looking forward to reading some of the books, like The Odyssey, Wuthering Heights, Romeo and Juliet, and Invisible Man. And then there is art class. Ms. Calico explained that we will start with sketching still lifes, then painting them, and then we’ll each have to find an independent project to focus on. I wonder if I could make something of my map drawings. How much freedom to explore will Ms. Calico allow us? Just thinking about it starts a tingle of excitement in my stomach. Or my gut. Even if I have to face Damian Archer, there is a glimmer of promise yet.

  The door to the garage suddenly crashes shut, and my mother’s voice rings out. “Daniel, Cora, I’m home! Cora, are you here?” she calls shrilly.

  I run down the stairs and meet her in the kitchen. “Here, let me help,” I say, bending to assist her in hauling in and putting away the bags of groceries that now cover every inch of floor space between the stove and dishwasher.

  “How was school, Cor?” my mother asks, eyeing me keenly and ignoring the fact that my dad still has not answered her call.

  “Fine,” I reply.

  “Fine? Just fine? How were your classes? Are you in many with Rachel?” she peppers me with questions. I’m not in the mood to be grilled, but it looks like it will be unavoidable.

  “My classes were fine. I only have homeroom with Rachel, and we had lunch together today.”

  “I see,” Mom says, sighing, looking tired and downcast.

  My mom used to look pretty young—younger than most of the other kids’ mothers, at any rate—for her age with her short, light-brown hair and once-bright hazel eyes. But the dark, puffy circles beneath them cast a shadow over her face. Now she looks old and tired beyond her years.

  “Art class seems cool,” I add, feeling sorry for her. If only there was something I could say that would make her feel better, less worried about me falling into an abyss, which would pull her back from her own black hole. There’s no way I’m telling her about Damian.

  “That’s nice,” she murmurs, her voice, her gaze far away. Where does she go when she grows distant like this? Is she thinking of Nate? Of how our family used to be? Is she traveling through time? Or does she get caught in some quicksand pit of despair?

  “Well, what’s for dinner?” I ask, trying to stir her, bring her back to the present.

  “Meat loaf,” my mom replies absently, then she sort of shakes herself and sets about making the preparations.

  “Can I help?” I offer.

  “No, it’s okay. Go do your homework.” />
  “Um, Mom, could I ask you something?” I begin.

  “Sure, what is it?” she answers, coming back to me.

  “There’s this thing, the LGH Bonfire. They have it every year. It’s an official school thing, like a pep rally, only it’s at night. Could I go? Mom? I’d go with Rachel, and it’d be really safe.” I know I am talking way too fast, but I don’t know how else to ask this. Just bringing it up feels like an act of contrition. If I seem normal, maybe she’ll feel better.

  “Oh. I—I don’t know.”

  “Please, Mom? You can’t—I—It’s a school thing. Teachers will be there, and tons of kids. It’ll be safe. I promise.” I think about how I don’t even want to go, but as I speak, I realize this is a battle I have to win. For both our sakes.

  “But you’ll be roaming around at night, and I know how these things are—I remember—” Her voice breaks. But she clears her throat and presses on. “There will be drinking there. And I don’t want you out on the roads at night.”

  “Mom, I can’t drive, remember? Can’t I go if you drive me? Or Rachel’s mom?” I can see that she is considering this.

  “Well…” She drifts away again.

  “Mom?” I try. “Mom!”

  “All right.” She snaps back to life. “You can go. But I’ll drive you there, and pick you up at nine thirty, no later.”

  “Mom, it only starts at eight. Can’t you pick me up at ten thirty?” I plead.

  “Ten o’clock. No later, Cora. I mean it. If you’re not in my car by ten, I’ll come and get you,” she warns.

  “Fine!” I snarl, contrition and guilt and concern to the wind. I stomp upstairs to call Rachel and wait for the awkward dinner that is bound to follow.

  Chapter Three

  The air is thick with falling ash, black-and-gray snow. As the sun slowly sinks, the sky turns as orange as the bonfire itself. All around, kids, their faces painted red and black with the school initials, whoop and dance around the fire. Voices rise in a crescendo, chanting, “LGH! LGH! LGH!”

  Rachel and I arrived early, and until more people came, we hovered several feet away from the pyramid of sticks, looking on as a teacher, Mr. Cross, flicked match after match, trying to start the fire. He kneaded his brow with soot-stained fingers and wiped away the sweat. Finally the match caught, and the bits of grass and paper lit, and the flames grew and billowed. We watched as students trickled onto the field, and dusk fell, bringing with it the chirping song of crickets and the blinking flickers of fireflies. Cliques seem to gather their members, the way a magnet will draw filings of iron. Soccer guys find soccer guys, drama kids find drama kids, and even though I don’t know all of these people, each group is pretty much distinguishable on sight. The football players shuffle their feet and stand in a crooked line, uniform in their black leather team jackets with the red sleeves and the fighting badger on the back. The stoners stand off to one side, baggy pants and dreadlocks their own kind of uniform. The cool kids are easy to spot, the girls dabbing at their sparkling lip gloss, fluffing their manes of hair, dressed perfectly, while hangers-on orbit around them like they are caught in a gravitational pull. These kids glow.

  I cannot figure out for the life of me how to put together an outfit like these girls do. I can never seem to find that adorable top or the perfect pair of jeans. And even if I do have the “right” clothes, forget about wearing them the way these girls do. I simply cannot carry it off. Rachel says it’s about attitude. Clearly I have an attitude problem.

  I study them, each and every group in turn, and wonder, how do these kids find one another? How does someone decide, I’m going to be a stoner or a goth or a princess or a jock? Why haven’t I found a place, a definition? Would being a part of the group chase the loneliness away? Or does everyone feel as scared as I do?

  A part of me aches to be in one of those cliques, laughing easily, knowing exactly where I’m supposed to be, knowing exactly who I am. Categorizing, classifying is so easy, so certain. Yet, I’m here on the fringe, on the outside, a watcher.

  Soon the field is crowded with students from all four classes, and the chanting, singing, shouting is echoed by the rattle of waving grasses and chirruping crickets.

  Rachel squeezes my arm tightly, her fingernails like a hawk’s talons. “There he is! He’s here! How do I look?” she squeaks. I follow Rachel’s gaze to see Josh with his baggy jeans and unlaced sneakers shuffling up to the fire.

  “You look fine,” I tell her, shaking my head, feeling lame.

  “Just fine?” Rachel asks, her eyes filled with panic. “Do I look fat?” She really looks scared now.

  “You look great,” I say. I smile and nudge Rachel’s shoulder. “You should go talk to him.”

  “Really? You really think so?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “I don’t know…” Rachel looks down. She seems so vulnerable, so frightened. And I see her, really see her, probably for the first time since school started, and I realize—sort of surprised by my own surprise—that she looks good. Rachel has always been a little bit plump, but the suntan she cultivated over the summer and the blond streaks in her hair give her a pretty glow. “I just want this year to be great, you know?” she says softly.

  “Yeah. I know. Just go on!”

  “What if…He’s so cute. He probably won’t want to talk to me. Don’t you think?” Rachel says doubtfully.

  “Rach, you’re cute! I bet he’ll be happy if you go over to him!” I am trying to sound cheerfully confident.

  “Well…” Rachel pauses. “All right. Will you be okay here by yourself?”

  “I’m fine,” I reply. “Just flash him your gorgeous smile.”

  “’Kay, wish me luck!” Rachel sings out and starts off toward her target.

  I watch Rachel blend into the thickening crowd. As she disappears, I wonder if I’m weird for not liking any of the boys in our class. If Nate hadn’t died, would I be as carefree as Rachel and all the rest of them? Would I be able to jump into the fray and dance and laugh and be happy? Why does this thing mark me, anyway? It’s like the other kids can sense it—well, I figure most of them know, anyway. But it’s not just that they treat me strangely. It’s me, too. Acting different. Feeling different. Nate hardly even talked to me anymore…Why has his absence, his death changed everything?

  I keep to the edge of the crowd, listening to the jocks singing fight songs and the murmur of conversations and the crackling of the flames. Suddenly, a tingle creeps down my spine, and I look up. Like I’ve been shocked, my eyes meet another pair, across the field. In the graying light, I can just make out who it is. And as the realization sets in, I step back in surprise. Damian. He lifts his chin slowly in greeting and begins to move toward me, deliberately weaving through the throngs of students. My knees quiver and my stomach takes a turn. I look around, as if help was going to arrive (which it’s not), but I can’t stir from my spot.

  Feet, let’s go, I plead with myself. They won’t move, though; they are firmly rooted to the grassy field. Why does Damian do this to me?

  When he reaches me, I can’t help but stare down at the ground awkwardly. When I glance up to meet his eyes, I find him studying me carefully, tensed as though afraid I might run away—which I very much want to do, if only it weren’t for my stupid, stubborn, mutinous feet.

  “Hi, Cora,” he says softly.

  “Hi,” I reply, my voice barely a whisper, my stomach still roiling.

  “How are you? How’s—” He stops and clears his throat. “How’s your family?”

  “Everyone is fine. We’re all fine,” I say, my voice pitched in that hard, shaky tone I get when I lie.

  “That’s good,” he replies, gazing at me closely.

  “Huh,” I grunt.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Like you care,” I mutter darkly.

  Damian takes a step back, recoiling as if I’ve slapped him. His eyes fill with a look of hurt that pricks me down to my soul. There’s so much hurt
to go around.

  I feel like I’m melting. I wish I were melting. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It’s just…” I shake my head and focus on the ground. “Anyway, how about you?” I ask.

  “What about me?” Damian replies, uncertain.

  “How are you?”

  His shoulders had been hunched, and they relax a bit now. “Oh, okay. You know.” He shifts his weight and looks up at me. “So, uh, how do you like art class so far?”

  My stomach lurches. It feels wrong to share something—anything—with Damian. Even something as harmless and unavoidable as art class. But his face is open, and somehow I can’t muster my rage just now.

  “It seems like it’ll be okay, right?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I think so.” Damian gives a small laugh. When he smiles, his eyes go all squinty. His strange gray eyes look almost silver in the twilight. And when he smiles the straight angles and high planes of his cheekbones and jaw seem softer.

  He is handsome, if a little unusual-looking, with his crooked nose, broad cheeks, smooth coffee-and-milk complexion, and short curly hair. I never really noticed that before. And he looks older. Older, but lost a little bit, too.

  Stupid stomach doing gymnastics.

  “Well, we’ll see.” I stare into his face, while my mind turns circles trying to understand what Damian is doing here, talking to me. Why did he cross the field to speak to me when in all the years he was Nate’s best friend, he practically ignored me? And when, now, I see him standing in front of me, I can’t help but hate him just for being able to stand here.

  We are both silent. I wonder if he knows what I’m thinking. I peer down at my watch; I have to squint to make out the numbers in the dying light. Quarter to ten. “Look, I should go. My mom is probably waiting for me,” I tell Damian. Without waiting for a response, I walk away, silently chastising myself. What am I doing talking to him? He’s bad news.