A Map of the Known World (6 page)

Despite my trepidation, I follow Damian into the barn. I step gingerly, cringing as the wooden floorboards creak and groan beneath me. Damian treads lightly as a cat, carefully placing his feet to avoid the complaining planks.

“Look, what are we doing here?” I ask.

“You’ll see,” he answers. “The Wrights let Nate and me use their barn in exchange for help with some chores around the farm,” Damian explains.

“You and Nate worked on the farm?” My voice cracks with disbelief.

“You’ll see,” Damian repeats.

When we reach the back of the barn, Damian strikes another switch, and golden light floods the space. I suck in a sharp breath. “Oh my.”

There, before us, lay a jungle of sculptures, hulking pieces of twisted metal and torn wood, jumbles of wire and slabs of stone. Giant canvases covered with thick, violent slabs of oil paint, and other
things
hang on the walls.

“What is all this?”

“This is my studio. It was, ah, Nate’s and mine,” Damian says in answer.

“Yours and Nate’s?” I ask. “You
made
all of this?”

“We both worked here,” Damian explains nervously.

“When—how—how did you make all this?” I stutter.

“Well, I have a welding workshop in here; it’s over there, around in the corner, behind those sculptures. And, you know, we, uh, collected all this stuff to use, and—”

I interrupt, “You’re telling me that you and my brother made all of this?”

“Yes. I just told you—”

“I know what you told me, but how come…” My voice trails off as I gaze around the room, my eyes crawling over each piece. I can barely process any of it.

“Cora?” Damian asks.

I turn to look at him. “How come I never knew Nate was an artist?” A towering dam of tears is piling up, burning behind my eyes, threatening to spill over my cheeks.

“He didn’t…No one knew but him and me,” Damian responds softly. “He didn’t want to tell anyone.”

A vision of Nate, at ten or eleven, racing into the living room, a sheet of paper flapping in his hand, pops into my head.

“Look!” my brother cried, holding out the page to our grandfather, our dad’s father, who was visiting for the day. It was a drawing of a dog.

Grandpa drew a breath, his cheeks caving in and his lips puckering. “Did you trace this, son?” he’d asked. He’d lifted me from his lap, where we’d been reading a story together.

Nate solemnly shook his head. “No, sir,” he’d replied. “I drew it.”

My grandfather held up the drawing close, close, and lifted his glasses and peered at it. I stood up on tiptoe, straining to see the page, but my grandfather would not lower it. “Are you telling the truth?” Grandpa growled. At Nate’s vehement nod, he said, “Son, if you truly drew this, well, then I’d say you have a mighty fine talent. Mighty fine.” And Nate had grown pink, a proud flush.

That’s the only time I can recall seeing Nate show any interest in art. I knew he doodled, but nothing like this.

“How long have you guys been working on all this?” I ask Damian, and silently curse the quiver in my voice.

“I guess it’s been, like, three years.”

“I can’t believe it.” I wipe away the traitorous tears, hating myself for appearing so weak, for feeling so weak.

I turn my back on Damian and begin to wander among the pieces. “Here’s that yield sign he got in trouble for stealing.” I sniff and stop in front of a mammoth statue that has the shape of a man’s silhouette, constructed of gnarled metal rods, with the triangular traffic sign for a head.

“Basically,” Damian starts with a chuckle, “everything Nate was ever accused of ‘taking without permission’ is down here. In one of these pieces.”

“And the paintings?” I ask.

“I made the paintings,” Damian admits abashedly.

“They are amazing,” I whisper. The canvases look like bruised flesh with slashes of violet and black pigment, metal parts sticking out of small hills of oil paint. I walk closer and see that there are all sorts of objects concealed in the canvases: buttons, nails and bolts, a small wrench, computer keyboard letters.

We stand together and survey the cluttered, chaotic gallery. There are car parts that look like they came from Nate’s first car, which he also wrecked; broken bits of furniture; scraps of fabric. I’m pretty sure I recognize a pattern from an old set
of my mother’s sheets. Everything precarious and wild. Yet there is a rhythm to the pieces, a poetry and a logic.

“I always thought that one day he would grow up and stop destroying everything,” I say quietly. “And it turns out, he already had.” I turn to Damian. “Why did you bring me here, show me all of this?” I ask.

Maybe if I stare at him long enough, hard enough, I’ll be able to pierce his brittle exterior and learn some truth. Some kind of truth. There has to be a meaning to all of it, a secret that he will reveal to me. Because I never, never believed that Nate—or Damian—might be capable of creating such…such beauty.

None of it makes any sense. All the time everyone thought they were just out to destroy and take everything apart, they were creating and building this wonder. My chest hurts. My chest hurts and I think my heart might be breaking. Again.

“I don’t know why,” Damian replies. “Ever since I saw you in school, I’ve been thinking about it. That’s why I was following you. I mean, your mom made it pretty clear at the funeral that I wasn’t welcome anymore, and I didn’t think you’d want to see me, either. I didn’t know how else to tell you about this, except to bring you here to see it.” Damian pauses, averting his eyes. “And I think—I think Nate would have wanted you to know.” The words fall between us like a thousand raindrops.

“Well. Thank you.”

Silently, I weave between the sculptures and pass all around the barn walls one more time, as Damian stands by, watching.

“What is this one?” I’ve stopped in front of a large round stone with a tall metal pole poking from its flat top. Several two-by-six boards have been nailed together, and are leaning against the wall behind the pole and stone.

“Oh, that was…well, that was Nate’s last piece. He never finished it…Obviously.” Damian has come to stand next to me. “I think he was going to mount those boards onto the rod when he was done, but I’m not sure what he was going to do with the wood itself.”

I circle the stone base, and kneel down to study the boards, which are marked with soft gray swirls and dots and lines and smudges.

“His last piece, huh?” I turn to look at Damian. He nods. I look back at the pieces of wood. I wonder what it is, what Nate was going to do with them. I will never know.

Finally, I rise and realize that I’ve made an illegal stop after school with the Bradleys’ Number One Most Undesirable. I pull out my cell phone and check the time. It’s just after four. “I should go home, before my parents get there first. Would you take me?” I ask Damian.

“Sure. Let’s go. But, first—” Damian grabs the phone out of my hand and punches some buttons. He hands it back to me with a grin and says, “Just in case.” Then he leads me through
the barn, out into the fresh air, and back to his car. And the whole time my ears feel like they’ve ignited and my heart is racing.
Did he just give me his number? Oh my gosh
…

Damian drives slowly through town, crossing back over Union Street. I watch the ramshackle houses trickle past. Then the houses begin to grow nicer and the lawns better kept when we near my neighborhood. I can’t think of a thing to say. I’m still flabbergasted.

But the silence between us is comfortable. When I’m sure he’s concentrating on driving, I turn to study him. His gray eyes are focused intently on the road. They are light against his caramel skin. He looks lonely, terribly lonely. And then it occurs to me that he is bereft, too, in a way. He lost his best friend. I haven’t seen him hanging around with anyone at school, certainly no one from his and Nate’s old gang.

I don’t actually know
anything
about Damian, who his friends are, what his family is like.

Turns out I hardly knew my brother, either.

As all these thoughts are passing through my mind, I’m not paying attention when we finally pull up in front of my house. So, I don’t notice my mother’s car in the open garage, or my mother pacing back and forth on the front porch.

“Uh, Cora?” Damian mumbles as he comes to a stop. “Cora,” he repeats, snatching me back to planet Earth.

“What?” I reply, then, “Oh, no,” as I notice my mom noticing Damian’s car and me in it.

My mother freezes, her eyes popping wide open with shock then narrowing with anger. She starts to stride toward the car, then stops, and begins waving her arm, motioning for me to get out of the car—Right That Instant.

I nod at her, and turn to Damian. “I guess I’d better go.”

“Yeah, it looks like it,” he says with a rueful smile. “Well, see you at school.”

“Bye, Damian.” I swing around and start to open the door, then look back at him. “And thank you. Really.”

I brace myself for the onslaught, straightening as I come face-to-face with my mom, who is marching agitatedly across the lawn.

“What were you thinking?” As she approaches, I can see that her face is drawn and white. “Please. Tell me what were you thinking?” she shouts.

“I—” I start; she won’t let me speak.

“Do you know what that boy—what he did?”

“Yes, Mother. It’s kind of hard to forget. So, why don’t you spare me?” I answer, cool as a cucumber.

“He was in the car with your brother that night, and now
you
get into a
car
with
him
? Into a
car!
I just can’t believe it.” Then, abruptly, she switches tacks. “Where have you been all afternoon? You had a dentist appointment! And you aren’t supposed to go anywhere after school; you’re supposed to come straight home. And you skip your appointment to go gallivanting around with that—that…” All of a sudden, she runs out of steam.

The dentist. I forgot all about it. Too late—I’m not apologizing now, not when she is treating me like this, like a child. Like a prisoner.

“That
what
?” I yell. “What is he, Mom? Because I’m pretty sure he isn’t some monster. You know, I think Nate took care of messing up everything all by himself!” I am really shaking now. “And you know what, you can’t keep me locked up in the house all the time, like Rapunzel! You can’t!” All of the heat that has crept up my neck and into my cheeks blooms into a hot fountain of tears that now courses over my face, spilling around my collar and down the front of my jacket. Hot, then cold.

At that moment, my father’s car pulls into the driveway, and he gets out of the car. Great, perfect timing.

“What’s going on here?” he asks in an empty voice, drained of life, as he slowly walks over to us. Family huddle.

Mom whirls around, rallying for his sake. “I was home early to take Cora to her dentist appointment, only she never came home. Then, she shows up almost two hours late in Damian Archer’s car.”

My father stares at me mutely.

“Well, what do you have to say to her, Daniel?” My mother’s voice has risen to a decibel that would deafen bats. Still, he just stares without speaking. “Would you say something?” she screams.

“Cora, your mother told you to come home directly after
school,” he mutters halfheartedly, then turns away. Seriously? That’s all he can muster? “Go inside,” he says, not directing the last part to anyone in particular.

I feel like spitting. “Wow, this is your united front? Well done!” And without looking at either of them, I run into the house, slamming the front door behind me. I let out a shriek, releasing some of the frustration and fury and fly up the stairs, into my bedroom, slamming that door, as well. I wrap my earphones around my head, and begin to play my most pissed-off playlist.

How dare she! How can she even think that locking me up in the house is okay? That I’ll just take it?

For so long she filled me up with so much hatred for Damian. She taught me to blame him for Nate’s accident, and it was easy to do. But now I’m not so sure. Nate was behind the wheel that night, after all.

Oh my gosh, how can she be so wrong about everything? My mind is spinning furiously, but suddenly, with a pause in the music, I feel as though all the clouds in my mind have suddenly cleared, letting a shaft of pure light in. All of us were wrong. None of us knew Nate—not Mom or Dad, or even me.

I pull off the headphones and tiptoe to the door. I do not want to see either of them. I turn the knob as slowly as I can so as not to make a sound. I check both ways down the hall, making sure neither of my parents is about. The dull murmur of the television travels up the corridor from the den. I can hear
my mother bumping around in the kitchen, slamming pots and pans onto the countertop. It is safe.

I slink out of my room and down the hall until I am standing before Nate’s door. I haven’t been inside since the night he died. I take a deep breath, as though steeling myself. Then I start to turn the knob. It is cool to the touch.

Suddenly, I snap my hand back. No, I can’t do it, can’t go into his room and remember. I’ve had enough of Nate and the memories and all the emotions he always dredges up. I don’t want to think about this, about him anymore.

I run back to my room, and with relief, replace my earphones. I’ve learned enough for one night. Discovering that I’ve never known Nate at all, learning that he was an artist who made beautiful things and then was lost to me—it is too much. I let the music carry me off. I’ll never let that happen with anyone else. I will know the ones I love.

P
uh-leeese, Cora! You
have
to go with me!”

Just two weeks away, the Homecoming dance is on the tips of everybody’s tongues and at the fore of Rachel’s mind. I don’t have a date or a dress or a desire to attend. Rachel has a dress, but no date, and she fully expects me to go to the dance with her. She hounds me about it relentlessly. She has made begging a daily habit in homeroom, pleading with me to come to the dance with her. She has given up on my company at any other school events, especially the sporty kind. I’ve told her that there was no way, no how I would ever subject myself to sitting in the freezing cold, watching a bunch of guys beat up on one another. Rachel just shrugs her shoulders helplessly, shaking her head, unable to comprehend my complete lack of school spirit or interest, probably unable to understand how she got saddled with such a lame best friend.

But I am really trying to be a better friend, trying to restore some semblance of normalcy to our friendship. So I’ve made a decision.

“Okay, Rach, I’ll go to the dance with you,” I tell her, not quite prepared for the explosion of hysterics.

“What!” Rachel shrieks. “You will?” She looks so happy, I have to smile with her. “Oh my gosh, we have to go shopping! We have to get you a dress! Oh, thank you thank you thank you!” She throws her arms around my neck and hugs me way too tight.

“There’re two conditions, though,” I caution.

“What?” Rachel looks unfazed.

“I’m not going to the game,” I say.

“But—” Rachel begins.

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” she answers. “What’s the second condition?”

“
You
have to get my mom to agree. She is all about keeping me locked up in the house at night. Like I’m Rapunzel or something. So, that’s the condition. If you can get her to say okay, I’m all yours.”

“No problem!” Rachel crows. “I have a way with your mother. It’ll be easy.”

And true to her word, Rachel calls my house that night to convince my mother to let me go to the dance.

“I
promise,
” Rachel swears, “my mom will drive us both ways.” She’s so excited, her voice pours through the receiver with all the subtlety of a locomotive.

“Will there be adults at the dance?” my mother asks.

“Oh, yes,” Rachel answers. “The dance is in the school, so there’ll be tons of teachers there. And the principal.”

“No funny business,” my mom warns.

“
Of course not!
” Rachel promises.

And that’s that. I tell Rachel that I’ll meet her at the mall on Saturday to go shopping, as Rachel has assumed responsibility for finding an appropriate dress and shoes for me to wear.

Now, as I walk through the halls at school and sit in class, where I can’t get away from the chatter about dresses and corsages, hairstyles and shoe styles, I feel I am a part of it. For the first time since school began, I feel like a piece of the whole.

The rest of the week flies by, and I am buoyed by Ms. Calico’s praise and encouragement and by Rachel’s cheerful banter. The spectre of Damian and the studio seems to have faded. I put both from my mind. Maybe life, maybe high school isn’t doomed to suck after all. There is only one dark spot in my week: when I open my locker and spy the application to the London art program just sitting there at the bottom, peeping out from beneath a stack of papers, a daily reminder that I’m too chicken to show it to my mom. Maybe this weekend. I have to make a move soon; the application is due in a couple of weeks. With a sigh, I excavate it from the mess on the floor of my locker and stuff the packet into my backpack.

The mall is buzzing with families and pairs of teenagers. I am trailing behind Rachel, letting her sweep me from one store to the next as we search for the “perfect dress.” I have some money saved up from my last birthday, and my mom gave me a bit more, so I should be able to get a nice dress and a pair of shoes. I’ve also agreed to go with Rachel to the tanning salon, where we’re going to get spray-on tans—a test run for the dance, Rachel says.

We finally end up in the department store at the far end of the mall, where Rachel is tearing through the racks with a ferocity and intensity I don’t think I’ve seen in her before. This is good, right? Girl bonding? We’re supposed to chat and gossip and talk about life in this sort of situation, right?

“So,” I oh-so-casually attempt, “um, what’s up with you and the Nasties?”

“What do you mean?” Rachel asks blandly.

“I mean, you hang around with them a lot now, and, well, I just wondered…” No, I don’t think this is going well at all. My face is growing warm.

“You know, they’re not
so
bad,” Rachel says coolly.

Uh-huh.
I shoot her a look, cross my eyes, and waggle my eyebrows. Rachel chuckles.

“Well, I think Macie is supercool. I mean, she’s so mature,” Rachel tells me. Her face is screwed up in a look of serious concentration as she pushes aside several hangers.

“How so?” I ask halfheartedly.

“She hooked up with Matt James over the summer. She said it was amazing.” A look of wistfulness has replaced the bossy squint of her eyes and crinkle in her nose.

“Ew,” I say, hardly able to believe that Rachel thinks this is a good thing.

“Oh, Cora, you’re such a baby.”

“Yeah? Well, in that case, I guess I’ll stay a baby for a while longer.”

“Suit yourself,” Rachel snorts.

“Well, what about you?” I ask her.

“If Josh wanted to hook up with me, I’d do it,” she says enthusiastically. My insides are melting. I cringe and feel like I might throw up.

“Seriously?”

“Of course,” Rachel says matter-of-factly. “I mean, Macie said that guys only hook up with girls they think are cool. So, you know, it’d mean he was really into me.”

“Ew,” I say again. Her explanation hardly even makes sense. One would hope that if a guy wanted to hook up with a girl, he’d be into her, right? Isn’t that how it works? “Rach, don’t do it if you don’t feel totally ready. I mean, don’t let them pressure you into anything. They
are
the Nasties,” I remind her.

“Yeah, well, it’s just that the guys worship them like they’re goddesses, and Josh is always hanging around them, and I just…I’m sick of being a loser, you know?” Rachel says, avoiding my eyes.

Oh, Rach.
“You were never a loser,” I say softly.

“You know what I mean, though, don’t you? I’m tired of being the girl the guys never see, never notice, never talk to. I want this year to be different.” Rachel speaks quietly but with force. “High school should be fun and about boys and parties.”

“Yeah, but it’s about other stuff, too. Like figuring out what you like to do and what you want to do, and what you’re good at and who your friends are.”

“I know
you’re
my friend,” Rachel replies.

“Well, duh.” I grab a black halter dress off the rack and walk over to her, holding it up. “What do you think of this?” I wait for Rachel to nod her approval, then continue, “I just don’t want you to get hurt, is all. Because they’re still the Nasties.”

“I know,” Rachel answers shortly. “It’s fine. Let’s just concentrate on the shopping, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, and turn back to the racks. I can’t seem to say anything right. When did it become so hard to be a friend to Rachel?

When our arms are piled high with dresses in all kinds of colors—my one stipulation was that I will not wear red—we move into the dressing room. Rachel stands outside the booth issuing orders like a drill sergeant, directing me from one dress to the next.

“I don’t think you should go the mermaid route,” Rachel tells me after I come out in a blue dress that is weirdly wide at
the waist and tapered as it falls to my ankles. “Also,
no one
will be wearing a long dress!”

“Rach, I don’t know if I can hold out much longer. This is torture,” I whine through the dressing room door.

“Well, you need a dress, Cor. Come on, suck it up!”

Finally,
finally,
I try on an emerald green silk gown that hugs my body in just the right places and falls to my knees in a sweeping skirt. It even looks nice against my pasty skin. Rachel utters her approval: “Oh, Cor, it’s beautiful. It’s like it was made for you.”

It’s pretty. I twirl and watch with satisfaction as the skirt spins out. Every Christmas I used to watch the
Nutcracker
on TV and covet Clara’s dress. When she would spin into a pirouette and her skirt would bloom around her in a perfect circle, I didn’t think anything could look more elegant. I sigh with relief as I peel off the dress and carefully replace it on its hanger. I really, really like this dress.

The hunt for shoes is, thankfully, much easier and quicker, and I find a pair of strappy gold heels. Soon we’re on our way to the spa.

A woman wearing what looks like a pink nurse’s uniform ushers us into a changing room, where we don fluffy white terry robes. Then we are led into separate areas that look like showers. There is a heavy, cloying stink in the air, and I feel like I could maybe faint. But I step into the shower
anyway and let the noxious spray fall over my body. When I step out again, I can’t help but marvel at the golden tan I’m now sporting.

Everything looks brighter—my dull brown hair, my brown eyes, even my smile. I stare at myself in the mirror for a long while, watching as all the pieces of my face seem to fall apart and come back together.

It is still my face, but I look so different somehow. Older, maybe.

I find Rachel in the changing room and, as I’m getting dressed, Rachel suddenly lets out a piercing shriek.

“Oh my gosh!” she screams, peering at herself in the mirror, pulling back her bangs from her forehead. “Oh my gosh,” she repeats.

“What? What happened?” I call, racing over to her.

“Look what happened!” Rachel moans. She turns to face me, and when I see what has Rachel so upset, I try very unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh.

Right in the middle of Rachel’s forehead is a big bronze streak. A stain.

“Did you rub it in?” I ask.

“Oh…I thought I did,” Rachel says tearfully. “I guess I missed a spot.” She sniffs and turns back to the mirror. “I look ridiculous!”

“No, it’s fine…your bangs cover it up.” I reach over to try and brush her bangs down across her forehead.

“No, they don’t!” Rachel argues. “I look so stupid!”

“You can barely notice it, Rach,” I say, straining to keep the grin from my face.

We both examine Rachel’s forehead in the mirror. The bangs do cover a little bit of the stain, but a substantial part of the zigzag line still shows. As we stare at Rachel’s reflection, our eyes meet and I can’t hold it in any longer. I burst out laughing and, holding up my hand as I double over, I manage to squeal, “I’m sorry, Rach! I’m sorry…it’s just so—you look like—”

“Harry Potter!” we both finish at the same time.

I help her rub at the streak with a wet paper towel, until Rachel’s forehead is red and raw. We’re still giggling when we get on our bikes, with the green dress folded carefully into my backpack. We wave good-bye, and pedal our separate ways home.

I can’t remember feeling so light in ages. As I ride back to my house, the wind rakes over my face and through my hair, making my eyes water. I pump my legs faster and faster, then stand up on the pedals and coast, and with the trees and fields whizzing past, I feel like I might take flight. I am free, unburdened, and it is the most wondrous sensation. I ride, the sun behind me, and decide it is time to tell my mom about London. If she agreed to let me go to the dance, maybe she is lightening up.

I pull into the driveway and lean my bike up against the
garage. I burst into the house, calling, “Mom! Hey, Mom, I’m home! Where are you?”

“Cora? Hi, I’m here, in the kitchen,” my mother answers.

I run down the hall and find her washing dishes at the sink.

“Did you get a dress?” she asks.

“Yup. Want to see?”

My mom nods, and I pull the bag out of my backpack, carefully releasing it from the plastic. I feel a little bit giddy. I hold it up against me, once again admiring the rich grassy green of the silk and the way the fabric catches the light. I sway, letting the gown fan out at my knees. Happy. Hopeful. That’s what I feel.

“It’s really beautiful, Cor,” my mom says. “You look so grown up.” She pauses, and I swear she looks a little misty around the eyes. “I can hardly believe it,” she murmurs, then shakes herself. “Anyway, what about shoes?” She wipes her hands on a dish towel and comes closer to rub her fingers against the smooth silky material.

“Got them, too,” I tell her, marveling at how normal our conversation is. How good it feels to be talking with her like this, peacefully. I reach into the bag and grab the shoe box, sliding it out, and opening it to show my mother the gold slingbacks with the tiny heels and slender straps. I slip them on and suddenly feel very grown-up.

“You’ll look gorgeous, Cor,” my mom says softly. “So mature.”

This is it, I decide. Things are going so well; it is time.

“Hey, uh, Mom, could I ask you something?” I begin as I slide my feet out of the shoes.

“Sure,” she responds distractedly. She is holding up one of the pumps.

My heart pounds like a jackhammer. “So, my art teacher, Ms. Calico, told me that she thinks my work is really good,” I say hesitantly.

“Really?” she replies. “That’s nice.”

“Yeah, well, she thinks it’s really,
really
good; she said she thinks I have a lot of potential.” My mother is paying attention now, looking closely at me, wondering where this is leading. I continue, “And, um, she wants me to apply for this summer art school that has a mapmaking course.”

“That sounds great, Cor. That is really nice of her. Is it at the high school?”

“Well, no, that’s the thing,” I hedge. “It’s kind of—well, it’s in London. But all the expenses are covered, everything but airfare, and I figured that I could use some of the money that Grandma and Grandpa gave me, and—”

“London?” my mother interrupts.

“Uh-huh.”

“Is she kidding? Who does she think she is?” my mom
thunders. “Trying to send
my
kid so far away, off to some
foreign
country?” Her face is growing red, and the crease between her brows has deepened.