A Map Of The Known World Part 8

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"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.

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"Oh, yes," Rachel answers. "The dance is in the school, so there'll be tons of teachers there. And the princ.i.p.al."

"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 Sat.u.r.day to go shopping, as Rachel has a.s.sumed responsibility for finding an appropriate dress and shoes for me to wear.

Now, as I walk through the halls at school and sit in cla.s.s, 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.

76.

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 50 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 super cool. 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.

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"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 wors.h.i.+p them like they're G.o.ddesses, and Josh is always hanging around them, and I just... I'm sick of being a loser, you know?" Rachel says, avoiding my eyes.

78.

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

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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

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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 gos.h.!.+" 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.

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"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.