A Map Of The Known World Part 19

"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 211.

standing there in the kitchen, eyes flas.h.i.+ng, 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 ma.s.s 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!"

212.

"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 screw up. 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.

I feel as though all the breath has been knocked from me. I'm literally shaking. I can't stop trembling, my hands, my legs, all of me. There is so much hate and hurt in here, and I can't live with it anymore. I curl up on my bed, boots and clothes and all and feel my thoughts grow cold and still. I have to get out of here.

213.

Sometime in the middle of the night I wake up. At first I lie on my back and look for stars outside my window. But the sky is cloudy and I can't see any, just a sliver of moonlight. Then I sit up and turn on the lamp beside my bed. I pull my sketchbook from my backpack and begin flipping through the pages. This map of all that I know, all the places I've known my whole life ... well, it's small and large at once. There are acres and acres of fields stretching out, yawning for miles to meet an endless sky. There's so much s.p.a.ce, but everything feels so close. Here in the middle of this country, where we are locked in by land and more land on all sides, hemmed in by roads and fences and little white and yellow houses with their blue and red shutters and all these people who have lived in this tiny town their whole lives, whose parents and grandparents have lived here all their lives. My parents and grandparents were all born here. No one could belong here more than me.

So why do I feel like I don't fit?

If I run away to some far-off place, will that sever my connection to Lincoln Grove? If someday I don't live here anymore, will I stop belonging altogether? And can it even matter if I don't feel like I belong? Will I ever know the answers to these questions? Something tells me it may be a long time before I figure it out. For now, though, this house doesn't feel much like a home.

214.

Chapter Fourteen.

When I ask Mrs. Brown, the princ.i.p.al, if we can feature Nate's art and have a special gala opening at the start of the art show, the crease between her eyes deepens until it's a small canyon. She twists her face into the sternest grimace. But as I explain that it would still be a chance for all the students of LGHS to show their artwork -- not just Damian and me and Nate -- the frown lines smooth out, and she gives the most imperceptible nod.

"All right," she says. "I'm going to give you permission to do this in Ms. Calico's art studio. But I don't want any funny business. Clean and quiet, you understand, Ms. Bradley?"

The emphasis on my last name wasn't lost on me. I got it. No Nathaniel antics. Not that I'd go in for that anyway. It still astonishes me how so many teachers and kids lump me together with my brother.

I report all this to Helena as we huddle in the library during lunch. She just tosses her head. "Witch. Forget about her. At least we got the green light. Now, we paper the place."

"Huh?" I ask, confused.

215.

"Posters. We're going to wallpaper the school with posters. Only the posters have to be art, too. You know, to incite, to excite. It'll be awesome. What are you doing after school? Can you come to my place to plan?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure I'm grounded for life, since my mom caught me with Damian yesterday, so --"

"Wait, what!" Helena interrupts with a squeal. The librarian, Ms. Sheldon, glances over and shushes us loudly.

"Easy there, you might break every single pane of gla.s.s in a five-mile radius," I tell Helena wryly.

"You are clearly holding something huge back, and I don't like it! You'd better tell me everything. And don't even think about leaving one single little detail out."

"Well, I was getting to that, but Mrs. Brown seemed like a priority."

"Lady, it would seem your priorities are not straight. Spit it out!" Helena is anxiously twisting a lock of b.u.t.tercup hair around her index finger. It's like her whole being is carried away by her excitement and energy and curiosity -- about everything, anything. She is electricity.

"Okay, well... we kissed."

There, I just say it and sort of enjoy the blazing heat that engulfs my ears and neck and cheeks.

"Seriously?" she shouts, earning her another glare from the librarian.

"Helena, quiet! Yes, seriously," I reply.

216.

"Wait, No, This is most unsatisfactory. Start from the beginning," she instructs me.

"You left us at the diner, and, I don't know, somehow we ended up walking to the park together."

"To the park!" she screeches, then quickly lowers her voice. "What next? What did he say? What did you say?"

"I'll get to it if you give me a chance," I tell her. "We were walking, and I sort of slipped, and he put his arm around me, and he just... kept it there. Then we got on the tire swing --"

"The tire swing?" Helena sighs. "That's so romantic!"

"Will you let me finish?" I wait for her to nod. "So, we were swinging, and then he just sort of leaned over and kissed me."

"And it was amazing?" she prods.

"Yes, it was amazing," I reply, and there is nothing I can do to peel off the goofy grin that is plastered to my lips. "He smells so good."

"That's the best, isn't it?" Helena says. "When they smell so good, and you just want to stick your nose against their neck and stay there?"

I nod in agreement. Not that I have much experience. Beyond yesterday, none, actually. But it did feel good to be close to Damian like that, breathing him in.

Helena is staring off into s.p.a.ce, and she has her own silly smile stuck to her mouth, and I imagine she is thinking of Cam. I don't tell her all the things Damian and I spoke of; it's 217.

not for her to hear or to know. Those words are between Damian and me, and maybe Nate.

"Anyway, when I got home, my mom came after me, because she saw Damian walk me up to our driveway, and she completely flipped out. It was like Antietam. Awful. So, I don't know if I should be traipsing around town after school today."

"Yikes," Helena says.

"Yeah, Thanks," I reply.

"Well, if you're grounded, should I come over to your house?" she asks.

"You're willing to risk it?" I say disbelievingly.

Helena flashes a c.o.c.ky grin, then bolts as the bell rings. I watch her as she leaves. Everything about her is fluid as a river. Her messy hair, her xylophone voice, the strokes of her paintbrush. Even her camouflage army jacket hangs loose, flowing like ribbons.

While everyone else has treated me like I have a mildly contagious rash, Helena just swept in and nursed me back; she makes me feel normal. And what a wonderful feeling that is.

We're sitting in my bedroom, Helena at my desk, thumbing through my copy of The Odyssey, while I'm stretched out on the floor, sketch pad and pencil in hand.

"So, what do we write?" I ask.

"Something that will make everyone want to come see what's 218.

going on, and everyone who has some kind of artwork stashed in their back pocket want to come show it," Helena says as she flips the atlas to a page showing a map of France. "What if we make a collage of pictures of Paris or famous museums or something like that?" she suggests.

"Sounds like a good idea to me."

We set to work, cutting photos from the unread, unopened National Geographic magazines that have been languis.h.i.+ng in a wicker basket in our living room, pasting them down onto sheets of poster board, then filling in the white s.p.a.ces with charcoal sticks, colored pencils, and tempera paints.

"So, how did you meet Cam?" I ask.

"Cam? Well, I don't know. I've always known him. We've been best friends since we were little kids. Like, since first grade. And one day, things just changed."

"Really? I mean ..." I struggle for the right words. "How did that happen?" So often, when I'm around other kids, I feel at a loss for words, like language just escapes me. Then the wrong thing comes out. I never used to feel this way with Rachel... until recently, that is. When I think about how Helena and I came together, I can't help but wonder at how, even from the start, I felt perfectly comfortable around her. She never made me feel like she would judge me, or if I said the wrong thing, she would tease me or be embarra.s.sed by me -- or hate me -- for it.

"You know, I don't remember how it happened. But one day, 219.

when we were in eighth grade, we were hanging out in my backyard, just sitting under this big old oak tree we have, and he just leaned over and kissed me. And it was perfect." I imagine she is bathing in her memory; her face has turned a light shade of pink, and she's lit up and happy. A carnation.

"It wasn't weird between you two after that?" I ask.

"No. I mean, it was different. Completely different. And not. It was like everything suddenly made sense, you know?" She looks at me earnestly, the dopey glow still lighting her face.

I remember how I felt with Damian at the park, as we sat on the bleachers, our arms around each other. As if, in that short s.p.a.ce of a half hour and the few inches of cold metal bleacher between us, all of the shards of this fractured life came hurtling together like the pieces of a kaleidoscope, forming a pattern that actually makes sense. "Maybe," I reply. "Maybe I do know."

"It's like you can get through anything -- the ridiculously cruel fights your parents have, the stupid craziness of school --"

"A dead brother," I interrupt.

"Why not?" she asks ironically, a giggle escaping her.

I giggle, too, and then it becomes totally contagious. We are both doubled over with laughter. We lean into each other and laugh until tears are streaming down our cheeks.

Perfect, I think. Just perfect 220.

Today I feel like I'm floating outside of my body, hovering just on the periphery of life, watching myself feeling so happy. This moment, like a snapshot, will be frozen forever in my memory.

Helena, Damian, and I arrive at school early, a whole hour before the first bell, to tape up the posters that Helena and I painted last night and photocopied in the school office this morning. We are working our way through the corridors, from one end of the school to the other and have a system down -- Helena picks a spot, Damian holds the poster in place, Helena rips the masking tape, and I roll each strip into loops and hand them to Damian, who carefully lifts each corner of the poster, places a loop of tape on it, then waves his hand over it, smoothing any creases and b.u.mps.

We work mainly in silence, but every so often, Helena or I will murmur to Damian that the poster he is holding up is crooked, or he complains that his arms are falling asleep if I take too long to pa.s.s him a loop of tape. Then he shoots me a crooked grin and hangs his head between his raised arms as if unbearably weary.

"These posters look pretty good," he admits in a teasing voice. "Even if they are starting to feel like they weigh a ton."

Artists! LGHS wants you to bring your drawings, paintings, sculptures, and any other works to a celebration of art and life.

February 8, 6 o'clock in the evening 221.

"Maybe you should start working out," I joke.

"Maybe if you weren't so slow --" I elbow Damian in the ribs, then fall against him laughing. He lets the poster he's holding fall and wraps his arms around me. He's so warm and solid. Suddenly I'm the carnation. I can't imagine feeling brighter or more beautiful. And I can't believe I could feel more at home anywhere.

"Hey, I hate to break up the love fest, but the halls are going to start filling up in about ten minutes, so let's get a move on and try to finish. We only have the D hallway left," Helena urges, an impish smile playing over her lips.

"Okay, okay," Damian says with a heavy sigh and a playful shrug of his shoulders. "The lady is a taskmaster."

His silver eyes are dancing with laughter. I have never seen Damian so light of heart. It is contagious and it is wonderful.

We quickly finish papering the last hall just as the first bell rings. Waves of bodies pour into the D hallway as we gather the leftover posters and rolls of tape. We stand back and watch as, one by one, kids notice the posters and stop and stare, as if trying to puzzle out the answer to some complex math problem.

"Think people will show?" Damian asks, looking down at Helena and me.

"I do," Helena says with certainty. "For sure."

"Well, here's hoping," I add. Damian reaches over and 222.