A Map Of The Known World Part 14

"Why does everyone hate Damian? It's like the whole school is out to get him!" I snarl.

"Cora, I don't know what you're talking about, but no one is out to get Damian. I just saw you two dancing and thought maybe something had happened between you." Helenas blue eyes are flas.h.i.+ng with hurt and frustration.

"Helena, I'm sorry," I sigh. "I just... We're friends, and after I danced with him, my supposed best friend reamed me out for it,"

"Oh," Helena says, her mouth pursed. "What a jerk!"

143.

"Yeah, well..." I don't know what to say. Helena puts her arm around my shoulder and draws me into an embrace. Even though she's older, she's shorter than I am and slight, and so it feels like being hugged by a fairy, and in her sea-colored blue dress of filmy organza with iridescent beads sewn onto it, she looks like she could be a water nymph. "Hey, you look really pretty," I tell her as I pull back.

"Thanks," she says, smiling, then peering at me searchingly. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, really, I'm fine. Thank you. Thank you for listening and for -- caring."

"Look, I don't know Damian that well," she begins, "but he's always seemed like a nice guy to me. Trouble, maybe, but not a bad guy. You know?" she says. She squeezes my hand then ducks into the girls' room. Turning back to me, she calls, "I have to get back soon; Cam awaits. Have a good night, Cor, and don't be sad!"

144.

Chapter Nine.

The viciousness of my exchange with Rachel at the dance plays itself over and over again in my mind. I am lying in bed, blanket pulled to my chin. I threw my beautiful green dress on the floor, where it remains, crumpled like a piece of garbage. Part of me aches to pick up the phone and call her, to make up and take back all the hurtful things I said. But as the cruelty of her part in the fight comes back to me, I get burned up with anger again.

Are people really calling me a freak? Do I look or act like a freak? The word itself sounds scary, sick. Freak, It is an ugly word. There's so much malice in it, in people's voices when they speak it.

Freak. The way the mouth puckers, like it's filled with revulsion or loathing, to form the f the disgust that gets spit out with the final hard k. I roll the shape of the word around in my mouth, and my eyes narrow with the long e.

And a baby. Because I don't want to dress up and hang around with the Nasties and wear makeup and hook up? Does 145.

this also brand me a freak? If it does, so be it. I'm not ready. For any of it.

I shudder. I've become an object of disdain, of hatred, maybe. Does death mark those it touches this way? Are the real victims of Nate's accident those of us who were left to survive him?

My thoughts turn to Damian, whose life was also turned upside down since Nate's death. He and Nate worked so hard over the past three years to make sure no one knew about their artwork. Why? Why didn't they want anyone to know what they did, what they cared about?

I can't imagine life without my art. It would feel so empty. Barren and cold and terrible, like that Siberian tundra. I reach under my bed and slide out the bundle of Nate's watercolor paintings. Leafing through them, I study the delicate splashes of line and color. I pause when I come to an image of a young woman staring out a window. It is a portrait of Julie. Her profile is rendered with such grace and care. There's something about the edge of her nose, the hint of eyelashes, and a wistful-ness in her bearing. Nate captured her humanity, her very humanness, with so much longing and desire and hope. Sometimes I feel I am filled with hope. Had Nate been hopeful? I can't be sure. He was so angry all the time.

Maybe boys just don't manage it as well, don't handle all the pain and worry and need as well as girls do. It's frightening facing the fact that things may or may not work out as you'd 146.

like them to. I figure all I can do is hope that life will turn out the way I want it to be, that I will turn out to be who I want to be, that I'll accomplish all that I want to do. That someday I'll reach a point where all the wis.h.i.+ng and dreaming and hoping finishes in something grand. And hope is a flimsy thing. So maybe boys don't deal with the unpredictability, the capriciousness of hope as well as girls do.

Oh, I do not want to be trapped in this tiny town, watching tiny football games with the same people year after year, with no chance to see what lies beyond the highway, beyond the county road. Was Nate afraid of this, too? Is Damian scared, as well? Is everybody in the whole world walking around feeling frightened all the time? Full of the sense that life promises so many possibilities, yet we're totally petrified of missing them, at the same time? I suspect that this might be the case.

Nothing would be more dreadful than being stuck in Lincoln Grove for the rest of my life -- like my parents. I have to get out. I have to get to London. I stand up, filled up with resolution. My mom has to see. Has to be convinced. But what can I do to change her mind? Is it hopeless? My dad will certainly be of no help -- his silence is worse than my mother's shrill anger, her bitterness, her fear.

I need to talk to someone about all of this. I need help. I need to get out of this house. With a deep breath, I reach for my cell phone and again thank Damian silently for 147.

programming his number into it. Will he think it's weird that I'm calling him now -- after the dance? I begin to dial.

"h.e.l.lo?" His voice sounds m.u.f.fled, gruff.

"Dannan? Hi, it's me, Cora," I say.

"Hey, what's up?" he answers. He sounds happy to hear from me, I think -- or, at least he doesn't sound horrified.

"Hey, um, I wondered if you would meet me at the diner? I just.. "Just what? I have no idea. "I guess I just want to talk to someone. To you." Ah, I am such a dolt! "I'm sorry. I'm just..."

"No problem. I can meet you. Twenty minutes?"

"Sounds great," I reply, very relieved. I open my window, look out on the roof and down at the ground below. I've never snuck out this way before, but my mom is still roving around in the kitchen. I hear her opening cabinets and running water in the sink, I think of Nate, how carelessly he pulled himself out through the window. Then, carefully, nervously, I throw one leg over the windowsill and pull my body through the window after it. Have I joined Nate's rebel ranks? Or maybe I'm already way past that point.

Balanced on the roof, I have plenty of room, but my knees are knocking. My whole body is shaking, actually. I teeter down the length of the roof until I come to the gutter. I hook my arms and legs around the pipe and let myself slide to the ground. All together it isn't more than a twelve-foot drop. I land easily and, brus.h.i.+ng off the front of my coat and pajama bottoms, I look around, checking to make sure I haven't caught 148.

my parents' attention, then I sprint down the driveway, toward the diner.

Twenty-three minutes later, Damian and I are tucked into a booth at the back of the diner on Union Street. The orange-and-yellow vinyl benches are cracked and stained. The smell of cleaning fluids and grease and stale coffee coats the red formica table, the long countertop, the air.

I swirl a straw around in my chocolate shake, watching the milk froth and mix with the ice cream. I glance up quickly and find Damians steady gray eyes on me. I look down into my shake again. He is drinking coffee: one sugar, no milk. He's so much more grown up than I am.

"So, what's up?" Damian asks casually, curiosity leaking into his voice.

"I'm not sure," I respond. "I'm just having all these thoughts about Nate and my parents and what I want to do. And I don't know what to think." I stop to take a sip of my milk shake.

"Well, what are you thinking exactly?" Damian prods.

The thick shake travels up the straw slowly, and I wince when it finally fills my mouth, the cold sending a shot of dull pain to the center of my forehead. Brain freeze ... how appropriate. I shake my head, then, as the pain subsides, I speak quietly. "I'm thinking that I have to get out of here, but I'm too much of a wimp, a coward, to do anything about it."

"Okay, start from the beginning," Damian directs with a half grin.

149.

"The beginning? I don't even know where that is anymore. But I can start here: Remember how Ms. Calico told us about some summer art programs?" I wait for him to nod yes. "Well, she wants to recommend me for one. She gave me the application and everything. They have a cla.s.s on mapmaking. All expenses are paid except for the travel -- meals, housing, everything."

"Sounds good so far," he says questioningly.

"Yeah, well, the catch is the program is in London. And there is no way my parents will ever, ever let me go. Not in a million years." A heavy sigh escapes me.

A sigh is like a salty yellow triangle.

"Are you sure? Did you ask?"

"Yes, I asked. But really, does it surprise you? My mom doesn't want to let me out of the house, out of her sight. I'm lucky she hasn't started home schooling me. Ever since -- you know -- it's like she's convinced I'm going to do something stupid, something dangerous -- something unlike anything I've ever done before in the fourteen years of my life."

"Well, you have gotten in a car with me. She probably wasn't prepared for that one," Damian adds, his grin widening.

"It's just so unfair! Seriously -- it's not like we make a run to the liquor store before you drive me home!" I wail. "I'm just so sick of not standing up to her, of taking her crazy rules all the time. Why can't I be strong -- like Nate was? He always stood up to her." I twirl the straw some more. " just want to 150.

run away, you know?" I look up at Damian. His gray eyes have narrowed as he considers my words.

Finally, he speaks. "Cora, you're not weak."

"Uh-huh." I smirk, disbelief seeping into my voice.

"Really. Look, ever since school started -- ever since Nate died -- I've been thinking about this stuff, about all of us, a lot. Cora, you've always been the stronger one," he says vehemently. "You were always stronger than Nate. Think about it -- all Nate and I could do was act like royal nightmares, thinking we were so rebellious and cool, and really we were just a pair of jerks. And look how we ended up -- dead and a deadbeat."

"What are you talking about?" I ask softly, a scalding heat climbing up my ears, my neck.

"Don't you get it? We put on this ridiculous act because we were afraid that to be smart, to be talented, to like art, to care about anything like grades or college or the future, to be even a little bit responsible or mature wasn't cool. It was easier to be bad, dangerous, to drive really fast, to not listen to anyone. We were just scared. Can't you see?" Damian's voice grows higher, as if he is pleading with me to understand. "And acting like this made us feel free, made our art feel raw ... real. Pure. No one could tell us what to do, and we were free from all the rules and restrictions, anything that could stifle. But the worse we behaved, the less everyone expected from us. And we didn't know ..." His voice trails off, and Damian looks down into his 151.

coffee cup. "We didn't know that we could be creative without destroying everything around us ... including ourselves." His brow creases and he won't meet my gaze. "And we couldn't just be. You know? We had to be tough, cool. It was easier to be crazy. But we were really just cowards. Phonies putting on this whole big stupid act. And Nate died because of it." Damian stops and slumps back in his seat, shaking his head as though he still can't believe it.

"I -- I don't know what to say," I whisper lamely. I feel like someone has picked up the whole restaurant and shaken it like dice in a cup. I'm also shaking. Could Damian be right? Could he possibly be right? I do want the same things as Nate did -- to get out, to make art, to do so much. I don't think I feel like I have to destroy anything to do it.

Could I be stronger than I thought?

"It's okay. You don't have to say anything," Damian replies bitterly.

"No, it's not okay. I mean, Damian, there's so much you can do. So much. You're so talented; those paintings in the barn - why are you hiding them? And the drawing sin art cla.s.s -- they're amazing. You should show them to somebody. To everybody."

"Thanks," he says, his voice laced with cynicism, "but everybody -- my mom, my teachers, even my friends, well, ex-friends -- have pretty much given up on me. I don't think there's any room for me to change. n.o.body wants me to.... I'm just a misfit, a loser. And that's it. They don't think I'll ever 152.

change. I don't think I'll ever change. n.o.body wants to see the stuff in the barn, Cora, because it's garbage. And n.o.body gives a c.r.a.p about garbage that comes from human garbage."

"Damian, stop! Please. Listen to me. You're not garbage. Your art is not garbage. And I'm your friend, and I care. I care a lot. Your work is beautiful and you have changed. Or, you've grown up or something. There is so much you can do," I cry. I can feel my heart breaking.

He smiles ruefully. "I want to do something with my life. All Nate and I ever wanted was to do something that would matter. But we screwed up bad. So bad. Nate is dead, and it's my fault. It's over. I'm over. I'll never go to art school. I'll never do anything. Probably work in a garage or something." His eyes glisten and he looks into his coffee cup again. He takes a sip, cupping his hands around the mug as though offering it in prayer. "Cold," he murmurs.

My eyes are filling with tears, too. It's gotten to be a habit, it seems. But Damian looks so small, so lost and scared and weak. Scared. "It's not over. It can't be too late. You're only seventeen." I am desperate. "What about Ms. Calico? She is new.... She doesn't know about Nate or -- or any of it. You could show her your paintings." When he just shakes his head, defeated, a wave of panic and sorrow engulfs me. "Damian, it's not too late!"

"Anyway," he says, the wry half smile returning, turning the 153.

attention away from himself. "What will you do? We have to get you to London."

"I don't know ... but I know I have to go."

We pay the check and stand up to go. I look at Damian, really look at him. His long black coat hangs like the wings of a raven around him, and his eyes are downcast. But his hands and shoulders are strong, and his eyes are clear, sharp. If only he could see.

Damian drops me off half a block from my house, and, praying I don't meet either of my parents, I silently let myself in the front door and head up the stairs. As I get ready for bed, my mind is racing. I throw myself back against the pillows and try to find sleep, but my eyes do not want to stay closed. Each thought pries them wider apart. What is happening now, here? What is happening to me? Maybe there's a part of me that will never feel at peace again, but there has to be a way to make things better. For me, for Damian. Maybe for my parents. For Rachel, even. I just have to find the right path.

I get out of bed, cross my room, and pull the application papers out of my book bag. I smooth out the wrinkles and creases, and begin filling in the blanks on the page. Like a scientist on the brink of discovery, or a mountain climber nearing the summit, I feel ready to plunge ahead. I pore through my sketch pads and books and begin to plan my portfolio. I wonder if I can use anything I've already done. Since the cartography 154.

cla.s.s they offer is a big part of why I want to go, why Ms. Calico recommended me, I decide to include my maps. Mongolia, Kyrgyzstan, Bhutan, France... there are many to choose from. It's so strange to think how these maps used to be all my own. They didn't serve a purpose. Except, maybe to keep me sane. But they certainly weren't for anyone else to see, to use. Now, though, I am going to release them into the world, use them for something -- something concrete. Is this growing up? I wonder.

I am just putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches on a drawing of Sevilla, Spain. A flamenco dancer whirls around in the middle of a plaza. Her layered dress fanning out behind her, flas.h.i.+ng eyes and flas.h.i.+ng castanets. There, the portfolio is ready. I am ready to submit my application. Oh my gosh.

On Monday, I can hardly concentrate during any of my cla.s.ses, I'm so nervous about turning my application over to Ms. Calico. The package feels like it is burning a hole through my bag, scorching my shoulder. Before Ms. Calico can begin making her rounds to all of the students, I tiptoe up to the front of the cla.s.sroom and whisper that I have my application and portfolio ready to send out.

"May I see it?" she asks. I hand my portfolio to her, and she turns the pages, studying each of the drawings critically. "These are lovely," she tells me. "I think you stand an excellent chance of being accepted." My eyes widen. "I have a letter of 155.

recommendation ready -- if you'd like to leave this packet with me, I will send out the whole thing after school."

"Oh, that would be amazing," I reply, my heart pounding with excitement. "Thank you."

"I'm really glad your parents agreed to let you do this. I think it will be a wonderful opportunity for you."

I step back uncomfortably. Under no circ.u.mstances can Ms. Calico know how messed up my family is, how crazy the whole situation is, how my mom actually said no. "Uh-huh," I mutter stupidly.

Well, it's a start.

156.

Chapter Ten.

The holiday season is here. It feels as though the whole house is holding its breath. Today is Thanksgiving, and each of us is locked in his or her own room -- my dad in his den, gin and tonic in hand; my mom in her sewing room, doing who knows what; and me -- well, I'm in Nate's room, lying flat on his bed. I've been dreading the start of the holidays since September. I knew it would be awful, but I wasn't ready for how lonely I am. How dead this house feels.

Last year, I remember my parents argued with Nate all morning about coming downstairs for dinner. My grandparents were supposed to arrive, but Nate said that he thought holidays were stupid excuses for consumerism and that family time was a fake front.

"A fake front for what?" my dad had asked less than calmly.

"For the fact that we have nothing in common!" Nate had screamed back.

My mother was twisting the beads of her pearl necklace 157.

around her fingers, pulling the string taut against her throat; she'd looked so hurt.

We sat around the table, five of us, my grandparents, parents, and me, caught in a silence as thick as an oil spill and twice as deadly. We waited and waited, the room mute and heavy. We waited for sixty-five minutes. Nate eventually came down for dinner, and ate as much turkey as anyone. He'd refused the pumpkin pie, though, and charged back up to his room after a terse good-bye to my grandparents, completely ignoring me.

Back then, I could tell myself, He's just a jerk, but someday he'll snap out of it That day never came.

Today it's rainy and the rain is a little bit frozen. The whole world looks like a ceaseless wash of gray. As it happens on weekends, I made my own breakfast, got my own lunch. I haven't heard my mom in the kitchen, so I expect dinner will be another micro waved wonder. I can't wait.

Nate, where did you go? I wonder. Where is he now? Is his soul floating around the house? Is he haunting Julie? Did he go to heaven? Does someone who puts the princ.i.p.al's office placard on a stall in the boys' bathroom have a place in heaven?

Are you sorry you won't get to taste Mom's turkey or her pumpkin pie again? Will I get to taste them again? Will we ever snap out of it, heal, come back together as a family? Is this the end of the Bradley family?

158.