A Map of the Known World (4 page)

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.

T
he 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.

Somehow, though, thinking of him as a monster has now become just a little bit harder.

I suppose I should find Rachel. But the number of students has grown, and as I push through the crowd, everything starts to feel crooked, as if the earth is tilted and I’m in a fun house. I’m dizzy and all the kids I pass seem to be laughing at me, turning leering faces with twisted grimaces on me. I spin around, vainly looking for Rachel. Then I stop.
Get ahold of yourself.
I take a deep breath and sweep my eyes over the crowd.

There she is, standing off to the side of a narrow circle of bodies near the fire. She is smiling, but I can tell that it is pasted on. Her hair has flattened in the warm, humid air, and she holds her hands clasped in front of her. I can sense her sadness and I feel sad
for
her. Rachel is on the outside, too.

The Nasties are busily ignoring Rachel, leaning on each other’s shoulders and giggling and talking to Josh and three other boys. And clearly, the boys are eating up the attention like starving cubs. Macie, as always, is at the center, a sun for the others to revolve around. Rachel and Elizabeth Tillson hover at the outskirts of the circle, like distant planets, while
Pearl and Kellie, Josh, Matt James, and Evan Miller compose the rest of the Nasty solar system.

I remember when Macie first moved to town; we were in the fourth grade. This odd-looking girl with a big puff of hair and mismatched socks and electric pink sneakers stood hunched at the front of our classroom as the teacher introduced her as the new girl. I remember Pearl and Kellie scorning her outrageous outfit and ridiculous hair. One week later, however, Macie had turned the tables on the other two and installed herself as Queen Bee, the barometer by which every measure of cool was measured. And the Nastiest trio was cemented.

I hate watching the Nasties treat Rachel like this now. I hate seeing her just standing there, being purposefully ignored, seeing her watching Josh flirt and be flirted with. I can feel their Nasty intentions spreading out like rotten roots curling beneath the ground; I know they are perfectly aware of Rachel standing beside them. I can feel their cruelty curdling the soil. It makes me so mad.

I walk over to Rachel and tap her on the shoulder. As she spins around, I say, “Hey, I have to go. Are you coming?”

“What? Is it already ten?” Rachel looks annoyed and glances around at Josh and the Nasties. “Uh, I think I’ll hang around here. Is that okay? I can get a ride from someone else.” She avoids my gaze, kicking at the straw on the ground.

“Are you sure?” I ask almost pleadingly.
Why?
I add silently.
Why do this to yourself?

“Yesss,” Rachel hisses.

“Fine.” I turn on my heel and snake my way out of there and head for the parking lot. Sure enough, my mother is there, waiting. As I near the car, I can see that she is anxiously tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.

“Hey, Mom,” I say casually as I climb into the passenger seat.

“Where’s Rachel?” she asks.

“She’s staying,” I tell her, my voice wavering.

“Well, how was it, honey?” my mother asks, quickly putting the car in drive.

She looks so tired. I’d bet all of my best drawing pencils that I look the same.

“It was fine,” I reply.

Except everything isn’t fine. I sit on my bed, staring across the room at the map pinned to the wall. Nothing is fine at all, actually. I am mad. Mad at Rachel for being different from how she’s always been and for being obsessed with “everyone who’s anyone” and for wanting to be accepted by the Nasties when they won’t even open their circle to her. How could she ditch me at the bonfire, leaving me by myself to talk to Damian? How could she make me walk out of that field alone? I’m mad at her for her stupid valley girl voice and her tight miniskirt and her green eyeshadow and her dumb crush on Josh.
Josh!
Whom she’s never spoken to, who probably doesn’t remember
her name, who probably has never read a book in his whole stupid life.

“Auggghhh!” I cry and pound my fists against the comforter. “I hate her!” And I burst into tears. Fat, hot, angry tears that course down my cheeks in a very satisfying way, while snot leaks from my nose. I sob like this until I can’t catch my breath and can only gasp.

I cry like this a lot. It’s like someone has hooked up my tear ducts to the county water line. Ever since the funeral.

Funeral.

Damian was at the funeral, in a dark gray suit. His eyes were dark, dull as lead. Dead. But not dead like Nate’s. I remember my mother had walked up to Damian after the service and asked him to leave. She had sounded so cold. So furious and hateful. And Damian had looked as though he’d been struck. Stunned, he’d blinked and stared back at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, before he turned and left the cemetery.

It’s so easy to blame Damian for that night—for Nate getting so angry over Julie breaking up with him that he jumped in his car, picked up Damian, then flew off into the darkness without his headlights like a demon. It’s so easy to think that Damian should have made Nate stop, turn on the headlights, hand over the keys.

I wish I could stop thinking about this, thinking about
Nate. It’s constant, and it leaves me feeling dead myself. Or dying. Yet in these moments of silence and loneliness, it’s as though I’ve stuck my toe in the cold, cold ocean. And I get caught, turned upside down in a riptide as my mind skips over to him all of its own volition. Then comes the instant when I lose my breath and feel the freezing water tumbling, battering, covering me, and it’s the most painful tug of my heart, an aching hollowness that never stops, as I remember over and over, like the never-ending waves of the ocean, that I won’t ever see him again. He’s gone.

But Damian…this is something different. Somehow, at the bonfire, he seemed thoughtful, subdued. He looked so serious, so different from the laughing, easygoing guy I remember, the delinquent bad boy who had been my brother’s partner in crime, in detention and suspension.