A Map Of The Known World Part 6

"Um, sure," I reply. Uh-oh. A brief word never seems like a good thing; it's what cops and princ.i.p.als always had to ask my parents for when Nate was alive, after he had gotten into one kind of trouble or another.

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"Your work in this cla.s.s is quite impressive, Cora," Ms. Calico states as more people brush past us to get out of the cla.s.sroom and into the hall. "I can see so much potential in your line, in your forms. And I've seen your maps when you've turned in your sketch pad. They are fascinating, Cora." She looks at me closely as she continues, "You remember I spoke about some summer art programs at the beginning of the semester?" I nod, my gut buzzing like it's filled with a bee's nest and the inmates have just escaped, "Good. I'd like to recommend you for one of them. Would you like that?" Ms. Calico's gaze is piercing, as if she is searching me for some kind of answer or information, and meanwhile my heart might just swell so big it'll pop out of my chest. She thinks my work is impressive?

"Really?" I ask. "Yeah, I would definitely be interested. That would be incredible!" My mind is whirring so fast. Can this be real? I study Ms. Calico's face. "You really think I'm good?"

"I wouldn't stand here and say it if I didn't mean it. And this particular program has a cartography cla.s.s that I think you'd really enjoy."

"Wow," I say softly.

"Yes, well, I will bring the application forms to you tomorrow. The program is in London, so you'll have to cover the airfare, but beyond that, all expenses would be covered."

"London?" I repeat in amazement. For a moment, I feel like I'm taking off, leaping into glorious flight. Finally, I will go somewhere. Then, reality thumps me over the head, as it always seems

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to do. My mother is never going to allow me to go to London for a summer. Never. "Oh, I -- I don't know...." I whisper.

"Well, how about you just fill out the application, and let's see? All right?" Ms. Calico prods.

I can only nod my head mutely.

"Okay, go party with the rest of them," Ms. Calico says, lightly steering me back through the door. "And remember, the application is due November fifteenth."

Words are fumbling through my mind. Impressive. Potential. London. I know I'm walking a tightrope. I could let go and allow myself to believe in this fantasy that my art has potential, that I have talent, and that I could go to London to explore it. But, it's too dangerous. This is something I want so badly, too badly, and I can only crash and fall flat on my disappointed face.

I walk out into the tangle of swaying bodies, my mouth hanging open as I take in the ma.s.s of wriggling dancers, the teachers standing silently, smilingly in their cla.s.sroom doorways. Mr. Halpern, the a.s.sistant princ.i.p.al, is wading through the sea of students, helplessly flapping his arms, anxiously tugging at his greasy hair and wiping at his brow, as he tries heedlessly to shepherd everyone back to cla.s.s. He makes an absurd and lonely picture in the midst of all the jollity. Actually, the whole affair makes a pretty absurd picture -- a dance party in the high school hallway at two o'clock in the afternoon. But

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I feel lonely and removed from it all. Funny, how I am more in sync with Mr. Halpern than anyone else at this moment. I continue moving through the crowd, feeling gangly and wooden, aware of my arms hanging limply at my sides -- they feel too long and stiff.

Suddenly, I walk into something. Hard.

"Ouch." I look up. "Oh."

Damian. He is standing in front of me, rubbing his arm. "Hey," he says.

"Urn, hi," I reply. "Sorry about that. I was distracted." Was he waiting for me again?

"Yeah, I could tell," Damian says, smiling. "What's going on? You're not partaking in the senior prank?"

"Senior prank?" I echo.

"It's a tradition, the senior cla.s.s stages a prank sometime during the semester before Homecoming." I suppose my face looks blank, because Damian grins, and says, "You know, big football game, fancy dance? Homecoming?"

"Oh, right... I heard about it.., from ... Nate." We both look down, and I'll bet my face looks as twisted with confusion and discomfort as his does. "Wait, Homecoming? When is it?" I ask, my mind starting to reel. I am so not clued into anything going on at school, I haven't even thought about the dance once. I am pretty sure Rachel has mentioned it at some point or another, but I really can't recall any details.

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"Seriously? You must be the only girl in school who doesn't know when the dance is," Damian replies, laughing. "It's the second weekend in November. Sound familiar?"

"Oh," I murmur. A dance? What do I do? Do I go? Would my mother even let me go? I don't have a dress, a date. Oh my gosh, I'm not ready for this. Images of girls in poofy Pepto-Bismol pink dresses and high heels, boys with their hair slicked back, waltz through my mind. Not to mention the game ...

"Hey, do you want a ride home?" Damian asks, startling me from my train wreck of thought. He shrugs, smiling. "I thought I'd try again."

I feel my eyelids stretching to blink over my bug-eyes. Hold on a minute, what? "Um . . . okay." I answer. Wait a second; what have I just agreed to? Getting into a car with Damian Archer? I must really be losing it. My mom would have a conniption if she knew that I was riding in a car with anyone under the age of forty (Rule #3), not to mention the one person in the world she hates most and trusts least. Not to mention the fact that he's ... Damian Archer!

Little beads of sweat break out on my forehead, but I follow Damian, threading through the still-dancing students, to my locker, where he waits for me to grab my coat and books.

"You don't need to go to your locker?" I ask.

"Nope," he answers. I c.o.c.k an eyebrow. Does he ever do homework? But I continue after him toward the parking lot.

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He drives a gorgeous, carefully painted 1971 cobalt blue El Camino with a silver racing stripe down the middle.

"My lady," he says, opening the pa.s.senger-side door for me.

"Why, thank you, good sir." My voice sounds tight; this playacting at normalcy feels false. My stomach is going spastic, and suddenly I realize, I'm scared. What am I doing? What am I doing?

"Nervous?" Damian asks. He looks at me closely and climbs into the driver's seat.

I pause before answering him. That's a big fat yes. "Ah, a little bit."

He nods and turns the ignition. The car roars; it is a lion of an automobile. I jump.

"Don't worry. I'll drive carefully," Damian tells me. He grins cheekily, but true to his word, Damian drives as slowly and deliberately as my mother. We sit in silence for a while, until Damian speaks. "Hey, do you mind if I show you something before I take you home?"

"What is it?"

"Well, it's hard to explain. I'd rather just show you."

I can't imagine what he could possibly want to show me. An insatiable curiosity grips me. "All right, I guess." Those bees start kicking around in my gut again, like they're trying to sting me back to reason and out of this really stupid haze of pliancy.

"Good," he says, and smiles again.

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Soon, Damian crosses the county road and turns right onto Union Street. He's heading east, away from my neighborhood and out toward the fields of the Wright farm. Oh, where are we going? I wonder. This is likely the stupidest thing I've ever done. There is a racket of bees buzzing in my ears, p.r.i.c.king my stomach with angry stings. Two minutes later, we're pulling off the road and onto a gravel track. Damian slows before stopping altogether in front of a tall gray barn.

"We're here," Damian announces with that same cheeky grin as we get out of the car. He heads down an overgrown path and takes hold of one of the barn's ma.s.sive double doors. Damian waves me over. "Come on!"

I hover at the entry way to the dim, yawning s.p.a.ce. Motes of dust flicker in the single shaft of sunlight that penetrates the crack between the doors. Damian flicks a light switch, and I can make out a host of bulky shapes standing at attention, but I can't tell what they are. I start to feel nervous again. What am I doing here, with him?

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 ch.o.r.es around the farm," Damian explains.

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"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 s.p.a.ce, 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.

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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 gla.s.ses 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.