A Map of the Known World (14 page)

“Hey, come on.” Helena breaks into my thoughts. “Let’s pay and go back to my house.” She looks at me with big, earnest eyes.

The truth hits me: Helena is my friend. I am not alone, and whatever happens between Rachel and me, Helena is my friend. Maybe I know how to be a friend because of Rachel. I don’t know…Now I’m getting corny in a way I don’t think I want to carry on pursuing.

Helena lives on Elm Street, on the other side of the county road, a quick walk from the mall. As she strides down the sidewalk, she bounces on the balls of her feet, a funny, rolling, cheerful gait, and when we arrive, her mother, who also has a mane of blond curls, welcomes us warmly. She is wearing an apron tied around her waist, and the whole house smells deliciously sweet, of cookies or muffins. I’m struck by how normal everything here seems. Like one of those old sitcoms—but not in a bad way.

“Hey, Mom, this is my friend Cora from school,” Helena trills as we walk into the kitchen, heading for Helena’s father’s basement workshop.

“Oh, Cora, it’s so nice to meet you!” Her mother plants herself right in Helena’s path and beams at us so widely, she looks a bit like a satellite dish. “I’ll call you girls when the cookies are ready,” she says, still smiling as we duck around her and head for the stairs.

Helena looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Sorry about that,” she whispers.

“What do you mean? Your mom seems really nice,” I reply.

“Well, she is nice. That’s the problem. She’s too nice, and she just takes the crap my dad dishes out to her. It’s pathetic,” Helena sneers, but her voice is soft and sad.

“I guess even when things seem perfect, they never are,” I murmur.

“I guess so,” Helena responds, shaking her head.

As I’m mulling this over, a flash of inspiration strikes, and I look up as though a bolt of lightning has touched my head. That’s it…the last piece of the map. I know what it should be.

My home.

We get to the bottom of the stairs where a long workbench of two plywood planks resting across three sawhorses stretches along the far wall. All kinds of tools are hung up on display, and shelves with little containers of nails and screws and bolts and washers fill the back side of the workbench.

“Here we are!” Helena announces. “The shop. Come on, let’s empty out all our loot and see what we’ve got.”

We dump the contents of our shopping bags out onto the rough surface and spread all the pieces around.

My eyes catch a fake amethyst pendant. “Ooh, I love this color,” I say, and hold up the stone against the leather cord from another necklace.

“Let’s get to work,” Helena says.

We begin cutting and pulling apart all of the jewelry we bought, separating beads and chains and stones and shells and cords into piles, then rearranging and putting them back together again.

“Who says making your own stuff isn’t better than buying designer stuff?” Helena asks out loud, waving a pair of pliers as if punctuating her point. She cuts some lengths of thread and fishing line and hands me a needle and scissors.

“This is amazing,” I reply. “Making exactly what I want, how I want it.”

“And it’s relaxing, too,” Helena adds.

“Yes, not exactly retail therapy, but therapeutic all the same.” It’s true—working with my hands like this, designing, being creative feels invigorating, liberating somehow.

“So, what’s up with you and Damian?” Helena asks.

“What do you mean?” I can feel the heat of a blush coloring my cheeks. I can’t ever seem to not show how I feel. It’s becoming pretty annoying.

“
What do you mean?
” Helena repeats, mocking me with a grin. “Come on. I know you like him, and you’ve been spending a lot of time together. So, what’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on,” I stammer, my cheeks growing hotter.

“But you do like him, right?”

It feels like all the air in my lungs is spiraling out of me in this bubbling rush, and suddenly, talking like this feels good.

“Yes, I like him!” I shout, louder than I intended. “Satisfied?”

“Yes!” Helena yelps gleefully. “I knew it! So, what are we going to do about it?” Her conspiratorial we makes my insides feel even fizzier.

“I don’t know. I don’t think there’s anything I can do. He was my brother’s best friend. He was in the car with Nate when he died. It’s a little weird, isn’t it? I’m sure Damian, let alone everyone else in this tiny town, would think so—
would think I’m totally creepy for even considering liking him that way.”

“I think you’re looking at this all wrong,” Helena begins. “I mean, the fact that Damian was Nate’s best friend means that he and you share this special bond, this closeness and connection that he can’t have with anyone else. Except, maybe, your parents.”

“Who hate him,” I break in.

“Right. Well, anyway, what I was saying is that you need to look at this tie between the two of you as a good thing.”

I pause and let Helena’s words sink in. Maybe she has a point. What if I’ve been so freaked out by the idea of the very thing that has actually brought Damian and me together?

“So what do I do?” I ask her.

Her brow crinkles up as she contemplates my question. “This I need to think on,” she tells me. “But we’ll come up with a plan.” She pauses. “Hey, whatever happened with the London thing?”

“Oh,” I say, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “I sent off the application. I should hear in the next couple of weeks.”

“Your mom finally gave in, huh?” she asks, smiling. “See, I told you! It always works out in the end.”

Yeah right,
I think. But I nod in pretend agreement and force a grin to my face.

By the time I have to leave, we have gorged ourselves on chocolate chip cookies, and Helena has a new pair of
feather-and-beaded earrings. I leave with a leather cuff bracelet with the purple stone and some shells stitched around it and a somewhat hopeful feeling. Helena and I have agreed to meet at the diner tomorrow afternoon to talk about the art show. I’m supposed to call Damian when I get home and ask him to come, too. Helena says that when she sees us together, she’ll be able to get a better read on the situation and come up with a strategy. We’ll see. The whole idea of, well, any of this makes my stomach turn cartwheels and kick like an angry gymnast.

As I reach my house, I meet the mailman at the foot of the driveway. Accepting the small bundle of letters, I thank him, and walk my bike into the garage. I’m thumbing through the envelopes, mostly bills for my parents and junk mail, when I see a yellow envelope poking up from the bottom of the stack. There’s a strange blue stamp with a lady in profile on it.

“What’s this?” I mutter aloud.

I slide the envelope to the top and my heart skips a whole lot of beats when I see my name printed on it. And a
London, United Kingdom,
return address. It feels as though a whole garden of butterflies has been released into my gut. Could it be from the art school? Already? It’s early. Hungrily, I tear open the envelope and pull out the small sheaf of papers tucked inside.

The letter begins:

Dear Ms. Bradley,

We are pleased to offer you a place in the King’s School of Art Summer Program.

Oh my gosh. I got in. I freaking got in! I fall back against my dad’s Volkswagen. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe they thought my drawings were good enough and let me in. My eyes fall down across the rest of the letter. And the engines on the jet I was about to fly to the moon, to London, to wherever, flicker and die as I read the last line:

Kindly include the enclosed permission form signed by a parent or legal guardian with requisite registration materials.

Crash-landing. A signed permission form. How am I supposed to achieve that? It would take nothing less than sheer magic. I wonder if Ms. Calico could sign it for me. No, the note says it must be signed by a parent or legal guardian. Suddenly, I feel like a deflated balloon. The registration forms are due back by March 15. That leaves me about two months to figure this one out. I fold up the letter and place it back inside the envelope, and when I get upstairs to my bedroom, I place the envelope at the bottom of my backpack.

“Rest safely,” I whisper. “I’ll figure out how to get to London. Promise.”

Helena and I are seated on one side of the red Formica table, across from Damian. He’s twisting a straw wrapper around his finger, over and over, and not looking at either of us. I’ll admit it, I took care this afternoon as I got ready to come to the diner. I put cream in my hair to flatten the frizzy flyaways, I brushed it until it was glossy and smooth. I dabbed some lip gloss onto my lips and I chose my favorite blue jeans and the ocean blue sweater with the delicate navy embroidery around the neck. I wanted to look good. Here we are, though, and Damian won’t even make eye contact. Very glad I went to all that effort.

“So, I thought we should figure out how we’re going to pull off this art show party, how to get permission to enter Nate’s stuff, and how to advertise it,” Helena begins brightly.

Damian is silent, sullen.

“Well, I was thinking you could ask Ms. Calico, Helena,” I say, “and I’ll ask Mrs. Brown.” The principal of LGHS is infamous for saying no to student-organized activities, and she was certainly no fan of my brother’s. I’m going to have to figure out a way to appeal to her soft side. If she has one.

“That sounds like a good plan,” Helena replies, looking uncertainly at Damian. Still he says nothing. “So, Damian, what do you think?”

“I don’t know,” he grumbles. “Do whatever you want.”

“Well, I would love to know what
you
think,” Helena continues, cocking her head like a bird examining a juicy-looking
worm. “I mean, you worked with Nate, and besides, your paintings will be such an important part of the show, you should have a voice in this.”

Damian looks up and squints, as though he’s trying to see inside of Helena. Then he looks at me. “Okay,” he starts slowly. “I was thinking that maybe we could ask Ms. Calico if we could do it on February eighth.”

“The anniversary,” I say softly. Damian nods and looks at me, his gray eyes piercing. I return his nod. “That’s it. I’ll ask first thing tomorrow.”

“Wait, the anniversary of what?” Helena asks, confused.

“Of the day Nate died,” I tell her gently.

“Oh…I’m sorry,” she mumbles.

“No, it’s fine,” I reassure her.

“Great. Then we’ll just have to make posters calling for submissions and advertising the date.”

Damian and I both start at Helena’s words. “Call for submissions?” I ask.

“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s already open to whoever wants to show their art. Don’t you think we should
encourage
everyone to submit stuff?” she says.

I stop and think about it. She’s right. The whole point of doing this is to give Nate the opportunity to be recognized for what he made. Shouldn’t everyone get that chance?

“Cool,” Damian says, and I look at him, surprised.

“Yeah, great,” I add.

“Okay, it’s a plan. See you guys tomorrow!” Helena slides out of the booth and stands up. She winks at me and, shaking her hips, makes her way out of the diner.

Damian shifts in his seat and stirs his coffee.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, peering at him. His forehead is creased with lines and he looks ill at ease.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he answers tersely.

“You sure? You look kind of, I don’t know, upset.”

Damian drops the spoon into his coffee and sinks back against the vinyl seat. He folds his hands together and picks up his head to meet my eyes. “You know, I’m just kind of nervous.”

“You mean about showing your stuff?”

“Yes. And the whole thing with Nate—marking the anniversary, showing his work. People are going to…I don’t know…look at me; I’m the guy who killed his best friend. What right do I have to be showing his art?”

“Damian, you didn’t kill him,” I say quietly. I don’t know how to make this better. I don’t know how to take away the hurt and the guilt, how to soothe it. “He was the one behind the wheel. He was the one being reckless. And, he could have killed you, too. Then what?” I can’t seem to catch my breath. “Then what?” I repeat, louder. “I never would have found out about his art. And I…” my voice trails off.

“And you what?” he asks, looking hard at me.

“And I would never have gotten to know you, Damian. And
I don’t know how I would have survived this year without you.”

“Really?” he asks, his voice heavy with disbelief.

“Yes, really,” I reply, feeling embarrassed and, somehow, excited at the same time.

“That’s good,” Damian says slowly. “Because I don’t know how I would have survived without you, either.”

“Really?” Now excitement is definitely gaining on my embarrassment.

“Yup.” Damian is looking at me intently, his silver eyes glinting. “Hey, want to get out of here?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I do.”

M
y heart is thumping as fast and hard as a jackrabbit runs. We pay our bill and get up together. Damian stands back to let me walk ahead of him, and I can’t help but think, He’s a gentleman, and I can’t help but sigh. I’m such a dork. We cross Union Street in silence, cut diagonally across the county road, and begin heading down toward the park, neither of us saying a word.

Damian matches my pace and stays close to me, his arm brushing my shoulder every so often. With each touch, as light as a breath, waves of electricity swim up my arm, through my chest and my belly. His black trench coat can’t be nearly warm enough. Icicles hang from branches, clear and jagged, as though all the boughs of all the trees are weeping. I want to take Damian’s hand, but something stops me. Once again, I find we are so close, only a hairbreadth stands between us, but it might as well be the Grand Canyon. I wish I knew what he was thinking.

Finally, we reach the snowy, muddy swath of grass that surrounds the playground and leads out to the baseball diamond.
My breath fogs out in front of me in puffs. Damian stares straight ahead, marching forward, ignoring the belching, slippery mud beneath our boots. Unexpectedly, as I take a step, my foot slides in the wet muck and I start to fall down, when something grabs hold of my waist and hauls me back to my feet. I’m pressed against Damian, and he is looking down at me, grinning.

“Careful there,” he tells me gently.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

His arm is still around my waist, and when I turn away to keep walking, he keeps it there. I want to lean into him, but my whole being feels electrified, and I can’t help but keep ramrod straight. I wouldn’t be surprised if my hair were standing on end, too. And all I can think is
Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh.
We continue tramping across the field, Damian’s arm warm and heavy around me. Finally, we reach the playground, where the tire swing sways slightly in the frosty breeze.

“I used to come here with Nate,” I say quietly.

“I know,” Damian answers. “It’s in your map. Want to swing?” I nod, and Damian unwraps his arm. In an instant, I miss his warmth. He stretches his long leg over the lip of the tire and hops on. “Come on!” he calls.

I quickly scramble up onto the tire and sit across from him, the cold of the chains whistling through my woolen gloves. Damian kicks his legs back and holds us poised, ready, then lifts his feet, and the tire swings crazily, tilting and
spinning in wild circles. Damian is smiling a wide smile that is as unburdened and light as a child’s. He throws his head back and laughs a deep belly laugh. The lurching of the swing loosens something inside of me, and I can’t help but giggle madly, too.

Finally, as the tire starts to lose its momentum and we begin to slow down, Damian drops his feet and lets them drag us to a halt. We stay in place, knees just brushing.

“So,” he says.

“So,” I search for something to say, “I have news.” I feel buoyed by the wild freedom of the swing, by his closeness, by the memory of his arm around my waist.

“What’s your news?” Damian asks, eyeing me keenly, a small grin playing at his lips.

“I got accepted to the summer art school.”

“The one in London?”

As I nod yes, Damian lets out a loud whoop. “That’s amazing!” he shouts, and reaches across to grab me in a hug.

Oh my gosh, he smells good, like some exotic but comforting spice, nutmeg or cardamom. Slowly, Damian lowers his head to mine and I think my chest might explode, my heart is tap-dancing so quickly.

He’s going to kiss me.

I’ve imagined this and now that it’s really happening, I am like a block of wood. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I close my eyes just as the lightest feather of a breath, then lips, brush
over my lips. His breath is sweet and the taste of coffee barely lingers in his mouth. I feel as though my whole body has turned to liquid, into a river of millions of droplets, rushing apart and then back together.

“You have the softest lips,” he whispers as he pulls back to look at me.

“So do you,” I murmur.
Oh, was that a stupid thing to say?
I turn my face into his jacket and breathe in his scent.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asks.

I straighten up and nod. “Fine. Better than fine, actually.” I feel shy all of a sudden.

“Good,” Damian says, a satisfied grin spreading over his face. “So, how about London? When do you leave?”

“I don’t think I’ll be going, I’m afraid.” I sigh and scuff my boots against the ground, letting the tire rock back and forth.

“Your mom?” Damian prods.

“Yeah. I need to get her to sign a permission form. And as we all know, that’s about as likely to happen as Mr. Wyatt’s horses growing wings,” I say sarcastically.

“Well, we need to strategize. There
has
to be a way to get you to London.” Damian’s brow wrinkles in concentration.

“Unless I can get my dad to sign it in his zombie-like state, it’s never going to happen for me. Unless…” I have an idea. I’m certain it’s a bad one, but it could work.

“Unless what?” Damian asks eagerly.

“Unless I sign the form myself.”

“What do you mean?” Damian’s confusion is evident, scrawled all across his face, etched into his eyes.

“I mean, I could forge her signature.”

“But then what? What happens when it’s time to go?”

“Then I just go.” A cocky sureness is growing inside me. I could do this. I could do it and get away with it. Just leave and finally slip out from underneath my mother’s controlling thumb.

“Cor, I don’t know. I don’t think—”

“Damian, I don’t really see any other options. Do you?”

He looks at me pleadingly, then drops his gaze.

“Look,” he mutters, “just promise me you won’t do anything rash just yet, okay?”

“Fine, I promise.” It is as though a chilly frost has fallen down upon us, hangs in the air between us. In an instant, this discussion has opened up a chasm between us, like a paper cut. Narrow, almost invisible at first, until the blood begins to pump to the surface, and the cut widens, becoming painful.

“I just don’t want you to do something stupid,” Damian says warningly.

“How is it stupid? If I don’t go—” I take a deep breath and look into Damian’s eyes. “If I don’t go, I will die.” I want him to understand; I need someone to help me know what to do.

“I don’t want to fight, Cor,” Damian says, reaching for my
hand. “Just promise me you’ll wait a while. And that you’ll talk to me before doing anything irrevocable, okay?”

“I promise you,” I reply, squeezing his hand and smiling into his gray eyes. He leans over to kiss me again, and this time I bring my hand to his cheek, which is cold and rough. “I promise,” I repeat.

“I’m freezing here,” Damian says, pulling back. “Let’s walk?”

“Let’s walk,” I agree.

We disentangle ourselves from the tire swing and begin to walk, muddy snow squirting and squirching beneath our feet, toward the baseball diamond. Damian holds my hand.

“You know, all of this just makes me wonder, what are we supposed to do?” I tell him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, am I meant to just eat, sleep, go to school, do what my mother says, work, and then, someday, die? Is that all there is to life? To living? Because something tells me there is more to it than that. More to it than just existing like an animal. Might as well be a cat if we’re just supposed to eat, work, sleep, and die.”

“Well,” Damian starts slowly, “no, I don’t think that’s all we’re meant to do. I mean, I think that’s probably part of it. But I think we’re put here to do more than just exist. We’re meant to
live.
To experience and to create. To sense, to taste, to see things and make new things. To love.”

“That’s what I think,” I tell him. “Life is supposed to be about passion, but how am I supposed to know that, to experience it, if I’m stuck here?” Damian looks down at the ground. Oh, I’ve put my foot in it. “No, Damian, that’s not what I meant. I mean beyond this town, beyond high school. What about when we grow up? My family has always lived in Lincoln Grove. My parents were born here, their parents, too. Not one of them has ever lived anywhere else. How can staying in this one tiny town be living and experiencing life to the fullest?” I ask.

“Well, I would guess that it works differently for everybody,” Damian explains. “I would guess that for you and me, living has a very different meaning than it does for our parents.”

“Maybe. I guess that makes sense. I just think that if I can’t get to London, I will shrivel up and then I might as well be dead. You know what I mean?”

“I think I do,” Damian says, looking off to the tree line. “Yes, I think I do.”

“Damian, could I ask you something?” I am hesitant to go on, but at his questioning nod, I take a breath and continue. “What happened in the car that night?”

Damian sucks in a sharp breath and winces. His eyebrows climb into his forehead and crash down, casting shadows over his eyes.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I say quickly.

“No, it’s okay,” he says, pulling me down beside him on a snowy-damp bench next to the baseball diamond. “It’s all right.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. Damian nods, then begins to talk.

“Nate, you know, was really ticked off because Julie had just broken up with him. Over the phone. And he called me and said, ‘Hey man, I just have to drive, but I don’t want to be alone.’ And he asked if he could pick me up, and I said sure, and then he was driving so fast, and I started to get scared when he pulled out onto the county road and you know, as he drove out of town, he started flying all over the road, and I kept asking him to slow down, telling him ‘Man, just take it easy,’ but he wasn’t listening. It was like some demon just took over, and then he looked at me and said, ‘Here’s a new trick,’ and he switched off the headlights, and I was shouting at him, telling him to stop the car, to just pull over, but he was somewhere else, and then all I can remember was this horrible rending screeching crashing sound. Like the tree was screaming. Maybe it was me screaming. And then I passed out. That’s it.”

Damian shakes his head, and his eyes are shining with tears that he wipes away roughly. “I tried to make him stop, and he just…he just wouldn’t. I replay that night over and over, trying to figure out how I could have made him pull over. How I could have pulled up the emergency brake or grabbed the wheel. Something. Anything. But I did nothing, and he’s dead
because of it.” A veil of tears clings to his eyes, and he blinks, trying to shake them loose. I feel my nose and my own eyes leaking.

“Damian, you did everything you could. I know Nate. I know how stubborn and pigheaded he was. I know. There’s nothing you could have said to convince him to stop. And I just…” A sob shudders through me. “I am just so grateful that he didn’t kill you, too.”

I wrap my arms around Damian’s neck and pull his head down to me, and we stay like that, huddled together, crying and breathing each other in, until the sun has nearly set.

“You should get back,” Damian says. “Or your mom might get upset.”

“You’re right.” I sigh with remorse.

We begin the long march back through the meadow, hand in hand, and watch as the sky turns a hazy tangerine, streaked with long, scarlet fingers. Damian walks me home, wheeling my bike for me. As we turn onto my street, Damian brushes his lips against my forehead and says good night. Then he heads off in the direction of the diner to pick up his car.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Damian answers, his voice warm with affection.

I walk up the driveway and notice the curtain at the kitchen window that faces the street move.
Was someone watching us?
Shortly, I open the door into the house, and my mother is
standing there in the kitchen, eyes flashing, hands balled into fists at her waist.

“What were you doing, Cora?” she snaps.

“What do you mean?” I ask. I have no idea what she’s seen, what she knows.

“I mean, Cora, what were you doing with that boy?” Her tone has grown nasty, and it catches on boy, which she spits out like acid.

“You mean what was I doing with Damian Archer?” I sneer.

“Do not even think about getting smart with me, young lady. What were you doing with that boy. What on earth were you doing? I want to know right this instant.”

“I was taking a walk with him. Is that against one of your many ridiculous rules?”

“Is that boy taking advantage of you?” Now her voice grows higher, tighter.

“Would you stop calling him that boy?” I snap back. “He has a name. It’s Damian. And no, he is not taking advantage of me. He is kind and gentle and generous to me.” All of the anger that has been building inside of me for the past eleven months is seething like a mass of snakes. “Nothing like you.” My mother’s head jerks back as though I’ve slapped her.

“How dare you! How
dare
you!” she hollers. “You don’t know the first thing, you hear me? That boy killed Nate. He is good for nothing. How dare you gallivant about with him! How dare you!”

“Damian did not kill Nate!” I shout back at her. “Nate took care of that all by himself. And we’re just lucky Nate didn’t take Damian with him! Nate was a beautiful artist, and he wanted to live, but it was you and Dad who pushed him and pushed him and made him feel like a failure, like a screwup. It’s
your
fault he died! Do
you
hear
me
?” I scream. “It’s all
your
fault!”

My mother’s face is as white as the snow outside. “You little monster. Don’t you tell me it was my fault! Don’t you dare. You don’t know anything about it, about what it’s like to be a parent,” she says, her voice quiet and mean. “You couldn’t possibly know what it’s like to lose a son. You couldn’t possibly know!” she roars. Tears are streaming down both of our faces.

“I know you lost a son, Mom. It’s impossible to forget it, because you and Dad have turned this house into a cemetery. I lost my brother, Mom! I lost Nate, too! But I want to live!” And I spring from the kitchen and up the stairs. Then I slam my bedroom door behind me, taking no comfort in the way the walls shudder and a picture frame containing a photo of the four of us falls from its perch over my desk.