A Map of the Known World (10 page)

“Nah, don’t be. My mom’s around. She works a lot, but, well, we’re pretty close,” he says. He turns, climbs out of the car, and begins to head toward the barn again. I stare at his back, straight and tall and broad.

I hope I haven’t made him feel self-conscious. I didn’t mean to do that. I just thought, if I’m going to hang out with him, I should know more about him. We’re virtually strangers, even though he’s spent so much time in my house over the years.

I enter the barn and follow him across the rickety floorboards, again admiring his grace, the ease with which he moves. As he switches on the lights, I walk, almost reflexively, to the boards Nate had nailed together. Then I sit down in front of
them. The floor is cold and hard, and Damian brings a blanket over. “Here,” he says gruffly.

“Thanks,” I say, looking up at him, trying to keep the surprise from my voice. When he is gentle and kind like this, I do not feel prepared for it.

The blanket is plaid and navy blue and scratchy. The scent of horse and hay clings to it. After I am settled on top of the blanket, I pull my pad and pencils from my book bag.

Silently, Damian moves off toward his workshop corner. Beginning is always hard, so I gaze around the barn. The high vaulted ceiling shelters a loft that looks to be filled with odd bits of furniture and farming equipment. Damian’s paintings cover every inch of space around the walls of the barn, seeming to jump away from the knotty gray pinewood boards. The topographies of his work range widely, and there are slashes and explosions of color. Nate’s sculptures stand like hulking hunchbacks, rusty bits of metal scraps, ragged shards of glass and wood stretching and poking like skeletons. All of the art in this space speaks to volcanoes of fury and rage and heartbreak. Somehow, though, I feel closer to Nate here, and all of the anger he brought home with him begins to make sense.

I tear the used pages out of my sketch pad and spread the drawings around me in a semicircle. My eyes dart quickly back and forth between the white slips of paper and the knotty boards leaning against the wall.

I shift the drawings around, figuring on top is north, right is east, left is west, and closest to me is south. I arrange the pages in a loose layout of the town. The map is like Swiss cheese, full of holes, but I can recognize the unseen order of it. I continue to move and play and plot with the pages. Until a shadow falls across them.

I glance up to see Damian standing over me, gazing thoughtfully at the drawings.

“These are really good,” he says, crouching down beside me.

“Thanks.” Again, I can’t keep the amazement out of my voice.

“What are you thinking?” he asks as he continues to look over the pages on the ground.

“I’m not really sure,” I answer slowly. “I’m trying to figure out how to make a map…”

“A map of Lincoln Grove?”

“Yes! You could tell?” Damian bounces on his toes as if his crouch has become uncomfortable. “Here,” I say, sliding over, making room on the blanket for him. “Sit.”

“Thanks,” he replies. “Of course I can tell.” He gestures at the drawings. “There’s the pool, the park. But, where’s that?” Damian points to the sketch of the bent tree, the curved and empty road. He squints at it. “Oh,” he finishes, not waiting for my response. I catch the glint of recognition registering in his eyes.

“Yeah…” I murmur, not knowing what to say.

“Well, are you thinking of putting this map on Nate’s piece?” Damian asks, changing the subject.

I nod. “I just have no idea how to do it. You know, I want it to look like it fits with the base and all the rest of his stuff.”

Damian props his chin on his fist. “Well, you could sketch these scenes onto the boards, then paint over them,” he offers.

“I was thinking that, but I feel like it needs something more.”

“Well, you can look around and see if there are any scraps you want to use.”

“Really? Would you help me?” I ask. Multimedia…That would be something new.

“Of course,” he counters matter-of-factly. Then he stands up in a single fluid movement and returns to his corner. He comes back shortly, carrying a battered-looking cardboard box. “Here,” he says, putting the box down on the ground beside me. “Here’s some scraps of stuff that Nate and I collected. Take whatever you want.” He strides away again, and returns to his corner.

I begin to rifle through the box, picking up slivers of wood, metal nuts, steel rods, shards of plastic, a one-way traffic sign, a pane of glass, a small box filled with buttons and another filled with dried marigold heads. I pull some of the objects from the box and place them to the side. This is cool. There are so many possibilities, I feel as though my veins are throbbing and pulsing with ideas and art. It’s like I’ve been shocked back to life.

I get so caught up in the thousands of thoughts that are whirling through my brain that I forget to keep track of the time. Damian is suddenly beside me again.

“Hey,” he says, glancing over my shoulder at the pile of objects I’ve taken from the box.

“Oh, hey,” I reply, smiling up at him.

“Um, I’m not trying to kick you out or anything, but do you have to get back home?” he asks.

“Oh, no! What time is it?”

Damian pulls out his cell phone. “It’s almost a quarter to five.”

“Oh, no!” I shout. “What should I do with all this stuff?” I ask, turning to him.

“Just leave it here. I’ll put your stuff in a separate box.” When he sees the worried look on my face, Damian reassures me, “Don’t worry, no one ever comes in here, except me. Come on, I’ll take you home.”

We quickly extinguish the lights and unplug the little electric heater, then race outside into the chill evening air. I jump into the car, and Damian brings the El Camino roaring to life. I know I’m acting like a big freak, twitching nervously in the passenger seat, checking the time on my cell phone display over and over again.

“I can’t get caught again,” I mutter anxiously. “They’ll lock me up for good, if I do.”

“I think you’re safe,” Damian replies with a chuckle. We’ve pulled into my driveway, and there isn’t any sign of my parents.

“Oh my gosh, thank you so much!” I say, turning to him. “For everything.”

“Don’t worry about it. Same time tomorrow?” He grins wickedly at me.

“Sure,” I call as I climb out of the car and begin to trot up the path to the front door. “Thanks again! See ya!”

Damian rockets out of the driveway and speeds off down the street. I turn to watch him go, then open the door, blowing out a relieved breath. I made it. I am really going to have to be much more careful in the future. I cannot risk getting caught.

I sprint up the steps and into my bedroom. I throw all of my belongings down on the floor, and pull out the drawing tablet and begin to sketch, plotting out my approach to the map. My head is bursting with music and colors and ideas. And when I hear my dad come home, the familiar slam of the door, and tinkle of the ice cubes, I do not feel knotted up inside. When my mother gets home, I join her in the kitchen for dinner. In a halfhearted voice, she asks me how my day was, and I answer in an equally halfhearted way. I guess there will be peace between us tonight, an uneasy peace. I am too busy to worry about it, anyway.

T
he week of Homecoming is finally here. The thought of it fills me with a sadness, but the dance, thankfully, strangely, manages to distract me.

Every night for the last week I’ve had to spend at least an hour on the phone with Rachel, listening to her babble about hairstyles and who is going with whom and flowers and Josh and Josh and Josh.

Rachel had heard that, oh my gosh, Josh doesn’t have a date. This is good. The soccer guys are going as a group instead. I am very relieved to hear this news, because the notion of listening to Rachel moan about Josh liking another girl would be just unbearable.

A couple of times, Rachel has asked what I do in the afternoons—poor me, trapped like a prisoner by my mean mom, don’t I get bored? I haven’t told her about the days at Damian’s studio. How we work mostly in comfortable silence, each of us caught up in our own world, in our own work.

I do not tell her about how much I look forward to going to the Wright barn. How those couple of hours in his studio feel
like an escape, a refuge. Nor do I tell Rachel that I think Damian has the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen, that he walks like a cat, that he has the clearest eyes, which seem able to see absolutely everything about me. That he seems to be the loneliest person I’ve ever met, and it breaks my heart. All of these things feel private. Precious. And I don’t want to share them with Rachel. Not yet, anyway.

I have also neglected to tell Rachel about the application papers for the summer art program that are still lying at the bottom of my backpack. I haven’t told anyone about them; I’m trying my best to push them far from my thoughts. But the application is there, and it weighs on my mind like an anchor. I know the deadline for the application is quickly approaching. I am going to have to talk to my mom about it again soon or give it up.

Just another week.

I’m back in Damian’s studio, and I return to the map. I’ve laid out the board flat on the cement floor of the barn. Using the blue plaid blanket as a pad for my knees, I kneel over it, drawing in outlines of the roads and houses, the pond and farms, our school, the park—the whole town—with my charcoal. For the places on my list, I’ve added the scenes I sketched and am dabbing spots of paint, gluing bits of fabric or wood, and pasting down various odds and ends to give these scenes texture, life.

Damian comes to sit beside me on the blanket. “This is looking really good,” he comments.

“Really?” I ask, glancing up at him.

“Yes, really.” He smiles at me, then nudges me with his shoulder. “So, ah, are you going to Homecoming on Saturday?” he asks, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

Wait—what? Damian Archer has just asked me about the dance? He thinks about dances? I am completely caught off guard. I never would have expected Damian to care about something as school-spirity as Homecoming.

“Oh. Yeah. Just with Rachel. She kind of twisted my arm. Are you?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” He grins.

“Well, what will help you make up your mind?” I ask, desperately hoping I sound cheeky. I feel like my insides are at war: My brain is screaming out,
What are you playing at?,
while my gut, tingling with hope, whispers,
Maybe he’ll ask me to go with him? Maybe?
My heart is beating so fast, and I just know a big, red, embarrassing stain is crawling over my cheeks.

Why do I feel like I’m two different people lately?

“I don’t know…” Damian suddenly looks serious. “Probably no one will even want me there anyway.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the most popular guy at school these days,” he says, tracing his finger on the
dusty floor. “Guys who help their best friends die in a car wreck and then walk away from it aren’t really so sought-after.” He looks at me. “I’m sorry. I mean, I shouldn’t complain about this stuff. Not to you,” he mutters darkly.

“Hey,” I say, twisting around to face Damian. “It’s okay. I mean, I can’t imagine what it’s like for you. I know it’s got to be hard. He was your best friend.” He won’t meet my gaze. “I can’t imagine what it’s like for you,” I repeat softly. “But I know it’s hard.”

“Yeah.” Damian stands and brushes off his pants. “Well, thanks, and I’m, uh, sorry.” He lopes off to his workshop corner, covers his ears with headphones, and doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the afternoon.

When we’re back in his car, Damian still won’t speak. The drive feels like it lasts for hours. Finally, Damian eases the car into my driveway. What do I do? Is he just never going to speak to me again? Do I want him to? I mean, he’s right. Right? Oh, how do I fix this?

“Hey, Damian,” I speak up, shattering the thick silence. “I hope you’ll come to the dance.”

I want the driveway to split open and swallow me. I want to die. I can’t get out of this car fast enough. I fumble with the door handle, then finally it opens, and I hop out as quickly as possible. I don’t look back as I run up the path to the front door. I hear the El Camino snarling down the street. I cannot believe I said that to him, I can’t. My face heats up again as I
remember the feel of the words on my tongue. I roll them around. I hope you’ll come. Do I? Will he?

In art class the next day, I continue to draw sketches for my map, and try hard not to look at Damian. When I think about what I said to him, my ears heat up. You could cook eggs on them. “So, Cora,” Ms. Calico says, suddenly coming up behind me, “have you sent in the application yet?” She is a sneaky one.

“Oh—uh—not yet. I’m almost done, though,” I answer nervously.

“The deadline is coming up, isn’t it?” Ms. Calico asks pointedly. “I’d hate for you to miss it.”

“I know. I’m on it.” I’m trying to sound confident. Probably failing miserably.

“Well, if you want me to look at your portfolio before you send it, I’m happy to,” she offers.

“Thanks. Yeah, I’ll definitely take you up on that,” I say. I suck.

I rock back on my stool as Ms. Calico walks away. Why did I just say that? How am I ever going to get out of this mess?

For now, I’ll ignore it.

I squint my eyes and peer at the drawing in front of me. I’ve colored in the park meadow and the playground with oil pastels. The children clambering on the tire swing are practically
bursting to life. When that was me, when I was one of those little kids, I thought I could do anything.

“Hey.” Helena’s voice swims from behind me. I whip around to see her staring at me curiously.

“Hey, what’s up?” I respond.

“What was all that about?” Helena asks, gesturing to Ms. Calico, whose back is turned to us as she speaks quietly with another student.

“Oh, nothing,” I groan.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” Helena rejoins.

“Well, Ms. Calico asked me to apply to one of those summer art programs she told us about on the first day, and I said I would.”

“That’s amazing!” Helena exclaims, throwing an arm around my neck.

“Yeah, well, I can’t go,” I say, wriggling uncomfortably out of her grasp.

“What do you mean? Why not?” Helena asks, puzzled.

“It’s in London, and there’s no way my mom will ever let me go.” Something releases in me. It is a relief to finally tell someone about the application.

“Really? Have you asked?”

“Yes, actually. And she flipped out.”

“Maybe your mom will change her mind?”

“No, I know she won’t. I just know.”

“Hmmm…This is a tricky one,” Helena says sympathetically. “I’ll think about it and we’ll figure out what you should do.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t waste too much time thinking about it,” I tell her glumly.

“Hey, cheer up.” Helena is trying to comfort me. It’s futile, but I don’t have the heart to tell her that. She points to the drawing on my easel. “This one is going really well, at least.”

“I guess so,” I say doubtfully. But the truth is, even if I’m too embarrassed to admit it to Helena, I’m pretty happy with how all of the studies I’ve done so far for the map are turning out. And the map itself is growing more colorful, more alive every day. “How about your painting?” I ask, standing up to examine the canvas on Helena’s easel. It is stunning—an argument of color and texture, flames of orange and red fighting tongues of violet and olive. “This is amazing,” I tell her. “You should exhibit this somewhere.”

“Well, I’ll let you know when the Chicago Art Institute is banging down my door,” Helena says with a dry grin. “Hey, I meant to ask you, are you going to the Homecoming dance tomorrow night?”

My gaze flicks to Damian. As usual, he’s completely wrapped up in his painting. We seem to have arrived at an unspoken agreement not to speak to each other in art class. Not to give the other students even a hint of our knowing each other.

“Yeah. But I don’t have a date or anything,” I reply. “I told my friend Rachel I’d go just to keep her company while she moons over some guy.”

“Ah, I see.” Helena’s face lights up with a big smile. “Well, I’m glad you’re coming. I’ll be there with Cam.” Cam is her boyfriend. Her very cool, very cute boyfriend, whom I’ve never met, but I’ve seen him wait for her outside of art class. He is dark and handsome, just as arty and beautiful as Helena. I am not surprised that they’re together. I study Helena’s profile. She is gorgeous, with her flowing blonde curls, perfect skin, big blue eyes, and funky style.

“Nice.” I smile as the bell rings and we begin gathering up our materials. A part of me is wistful—I wish I could tell her how mixed up I feel about Damian. Or just tell her about Damian and his paintings and his studio in the barn and our afternoons there. I wish I could tell her about what I said to him when I got out of his car yesterday. I’m dying to ask if I’ve made a hopeless fool of myself. But I just can’t bring myself to open up to her about him. Especially not here, not when he’s sitting twenty feet away. Oh my gosh.

“I’ll see you at the dance!” Helena calls, and glides out of the classroom.

But before the dance comes the football game. Homecoming. I remember asking my dad why a football game was called Homecoming. What about watching two teams scrabble
around on a muddy field suggested coming home? His voice would grow soft with patience and take on this warm timbre when he answered my little-kid questions. “Rabbit,” he had explained in a very serious tone, “Homecoming is a celebration for everyone who has ever gone to the school to come home and cheer for the team,” which was why most of the residents of Lincoln Grove came out for the LGHS Homecoming game.

My family went to the Homecoming game every year. The four of us would huddle together on the bleachers, surrounded by all of our neighbors and friends. We’d share blankets, and my dad always brought a thermos of hot chocolate, which my mom would pass around in steaming cups to keep us warm. I never paid much attention to the game, but the Homecoming parade and the crowning of the court was wonderful. I loved to watch the marching band, anchored by the enormous sousaphones that wrapped around their players, leading the homemade floats. The band would play familiar marches that were rousing and made us clap our hands and cheer, as convertible muscle cars with the previous years’ homecoming courts, the school president, the principal drove past, and the floats constructed by each class would circle slowly around the gravel track that encompassed the football field. Then, once the parade had completed its circuit, the court would be announced, and these girls who looked so glamorous and grown-up, like Barbie dolls, would be called onto the field,
presented with red roses and, finally, the sparkling silver crown would be placed on the queen’s inevitably poofy blonde head. It was always raucous. It was always so much fun.

This year, our family isn’t going. Surprise, surprise. The memory of the four of us sitting, squeezed together, laughing and filled with a warmth in the cold November air squeezes my chest like a vise.

Yet, the day of the game, something leads me out to the garage to my bike, down the street, and into the high school parking lot. I walk my bike over to the chain-link fence surrounding the football field, and I look up into the bleachers. The same faces are there, families tucked beneath wool blankets, Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate in mittened hands, the black-and-red badger pennants waving in the air. Cheerleaders in their black-and-red uniforms, tiny skirts fluttering in the wind, are bouncing around in front of the stands, leading the cheering of the onlookers. Homecoming used to be the time when I most felt like I belonged—to my family, to this town. I’ve never felt more on the outside than I do today.

Slowly, I back away from the field, jump on my bike and pump my legs, pushing the pedals up and down and around as fast as I can. I race home, and open my sketch pad to a blank page. Then I take a breath and look at the map over my desk. Today, I’ll draw Kenya, the tall grasses of the Serengeti Plain, a herd of wildebeests drinking from a river. Escape…

The gym shimmers with flashing strobe lights and gold-and-crimson leaves that dangle from the ceiling on fishing lines. A white vinyl mat painted with more leaves of ocher, yellow, rust, and scarlet has been laid down to protect the basketball court floor from the hundreds of feet.

I pause in the entryway. It feels like I’ve stepped into a movie. A film about high school. This is one of those soaring music montage scenes, upbeat and uplifting. I gaze around in wonder. This is my first
high school dance.
It is surreal. Maybe more than a movie it feels like a dream.

The guys are barely recognizable. Gone are the messy T-shirts, scruffy blue jeans, and raggedy sneakers. They are all dressed up, some in suits, others wearing button-down shirts with ties and khakis. The transformation of the girls, though, is truly incredible. Like exotic fish, they float through the gym, filmy fins of dresses in all colors, some sparkling with sequins and delicate beads, others in flowing chiffon and clinging satin.

I suck in a breath and turn to Rachel, who is standing beside me looking as excited as I’ve ever seen her. How does she not feel terrified? I’m pretty sure my own terror must be written plainly all over my face. I am certain I do not fit in here. Even in my green dress, which I still love. But I feel like a fraud, a fake. The dress is too good for me. Too pretty.