A Map Of The Known World Part 13

I squint my eyes and peer at the drawing in front of me. I've colored in the park meadow and the playground with oil pastels. The children clambering on the tire swing are practically 129.

bursting to life. When that was me, when I was one of those little kids, I thought I could do anything.

"Hey." Helena's voice swims from behind me. I whip around to see her staring at me curiously.

"Hey, what's up?" I respond.

"What was all that about?" Helena asks, gesturing to Ms. Calico, whose back is turned to us as she speaks quietly with another student.

"Oh, nothing," I groan.

"Doesn't sound like nothing," Helena rejoins.

"Well, Ms. Calico asked me to apply to one of those summer art programs she told us about on the first day, and I said I would."

"That's amazing!" Helena exclaims, throwing an arm around my neck.

"Yeah, well, I can't go," I say, wriggling uncomfortably out of her grasp.

"What do you mean? Why not?" Helena asks, puzzled.

"It's in London, and there's no way my mom will ever let me go." Something releases in me. It is a relief to finally tell someone about the application.

"Really? Have you asked?"

"Yes, actually. And she flipped out."

"Maybe your mom will change her mind?"

"No, I know she won't. I just know."

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"Hmmm ... This is a tricky one," Helena says sympathetically. "I'll think about it and we'll figure out what you should do."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't waste too much time thinking about it," I tell her glumly.

"Hey, cheer up." Helena is trying to comfort me. It's futile, but I don't have the heart to tell her that. She points to the drawing on my easel. "This one is going really well, at least."

"I guess so," I say doubtfully. But the truth is, even if I'm too embarra.s.sed to admit it to Helena, I'm pretty happy with how all of the studies I've done so far for the map are turning out. And the map itself is growing more colorful, more alive every day. "How about your painting?" I ask, standing up to examine the canvas on Helena's easel. It is stunning -- an argument of color and texture, flames of orange and red fighting tongues of violet and olive. "This is amazing," I tell her. "You should exhibit this somewhere."

"Well, I'll let you know when the Chicago Art Inst.i.tute is banging down my door," Helena says with a dry grin. "Hey, I meant to ask you, are you going to the Homecoming dance tomorrow night?"

My gaze flicks to Damian. As usual, he's completely wrapped up in his painting. We seem to have arrived at an unspoken agreement not to speak to each other in art cla.s.s. Not to give the other students even a hint of our knowing each other.

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"Yeah. But I don't have a date or anything," I reply. "I told my friend Rachel I'd go just to keep her company while she moons over some guy."

"Ah, I see." Helena's face lights up with a big smile. "Well, I'm glad you're coming. I'll be there with Cam." Cam is her boyfriend. Her very cool, very cute boyfriend, whom I've never met, but I've seen him wait for her outside of art cla.s.s. He is dark and handsome, just as arty and beautiful as Helena. I am not surprised that they're together. I study Helena's profile. She is gorgeous, with her flowing blonde curls, perfect skin, big blue eyes, and funky style.

"Nice." I smile as the bell rings and we begin gathering up our materials. A part of me is wistful -- I wish I could tell her how mixed up I feel about Damian. Or just tell her about Damian and his paintings and his studio in the barn and our afternoons there. I wish I could tell her about what I said to him when I got out of his car yesterday. I'm dying to ask if I've made a hopeless fool of myself. But I just can't bring myself to open up to her about him. Especially not here, not when he's sitting twenty feet away. Oh my gosh.

"I'll see you at the dance!" Helena calls, and glides out of the cla.s.sroom.

But before the dance comes the football game. Homecoming. I remember asking my dad why a football game was called Homecoming. What about watching two teams scrabble 132.

around on a muddy field suggested coming home? His voice would grow soft with patience and take on this warm timbre when he answered my little-kid questions. "Rabbit," he had explained in a very serious tone, "Homecoming is a celebration for everyone who has ever gone to the school to come home and cheer for the team," which was why most of the residents of Lincoln Grove came out for the LGHS Homecoming game.

My family went to the Homecoming game every year. The four of us would huddle together on the bleachers, surrounded by all of our neighbors and friends. We'd share blankets, and my dad always brought a thermos of hot chocolate, which my mom would pa.s.s around in steaming cups to keep us warm. I never paid much attention to the game, but the Homecoming parade and the crowning of the court was wonderful. I loved to watch the marching band, anch.o.r.ed by the enormous sousaphones that wrapped around their players, leading the homemade floats. The band would play familiar marches that were rousing and made us clap our hands and cheer, as convertible muscle cars with the previous years' homecoming courts, the school president, the princ.i.p.al drove past, and the floats constructed by each cla.s.s would circle slowly around the gravel track that encompa.s.sed the football field. Then, once the parade had completed its circuit, the court would be announced, and these girls who looked so glamorous and grown-up, like Barbie dolls, would be called onto the field, 133.

presented with red roses and, finally, the sparkling silver crown would be placed on the queen's inevitably poofy blonde head. It was always raucous. It was always so much fun.

This year, our family isn't going. Surprise, surprise. The memory of the four of us sitting, squeezed together, laughing and filled with a warmth in the cold November air squeezes my chest like a vise.

Yet, the day of the game, something leads me out to the garage to my bike, down the street, and into the high school parking lot. I walk my bike over to the chain-link fence surrounding the football field, and I look up into the bleachers. The same faces are there, families tucked beneath wool blankets, Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate in mittened hands, the black-and-red badger pennants waving in the air. Cheerleaders in their black-and-red uniforms, tiny skirts fluttering in the wind, are bouncing around in front of the stands, leading the cheering of the onlookers. Homecoming used to be the time when I most felt like I belonged -- to my family, to this town. I've never felt more on the outside than I do today.

Slowly, I back away from the field, jump on my bike and pump my legs, pus.h.i.+ng the pedals up and down and around as fast as I can. I race home, and open my sketch pad to a blank page. Then I take a breath and look at the map over my desk. Today, I'll draw Kenya, the tall gra.s.ses of the Serengeti Plain, a herd of wildebeests drinking from a river. Escape ...

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The gym s.h.i.+mmers with flas.h.i.+ng strobe lights and gold-and-crimson leaves that dangle from the ceiling on fis.h.i.+ng lines. A white vinyl mat painted with more leaves of ocher, yellow, rust, and scarlet has been laid down to protect the basketball court floor from the hundreds of feet.

I pause in the entryway. It feels like I've stepped into a movie. A film about high school. This is one of those soaring music montage scenes, upbeat and uplifting. I gaze around in wonder. This is my first high school dance. It is surreal. Maybe more than a movie it feels like a dream.

The guys are barely recognizable. Gone are the messy T-s.h.i.+rts, scruffy blue jeans, and raggedy sneakers. They are all dressed up, some in suits, others wearing b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rts with ties and khakis. The transformation of the girls, though, is truly incredible. Like exotic fish, they float through the gym, filmy fins of dresses in all colors, some sparkling with sequins and delicate beads, others in flowing chiffon and clinging satin.

I suck in a breath and turn to Rachel, who is standing beside me looking as excited as I've ever seen her. How does she not feel terrified? I'm pretty sure my own terror must be written plainly all over my face. I am certain I do not fit in here. Even in my green dress, which I still love. But I feel like a fraud, a fake. The dress is too good for me. Too pretty.

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I think Rachel senses my anxiety. She reaches over and squeezes my hand. "You look great, Cor. Really."

I squeeze her hand back and whisper, "Thanks, Rach. So do you." I glance down at my dress. The gra.s.s green silk swishes daintily around my knees. Maybe it will be all right.

Holding hands, we step farther into the gym. The ba.s.s backbeat throbs in my chest, echoing in reverberations through the floor and walls of the gymnasium. Kids are cl.u.s.tered in tight circles, swaying to the music. Some look around themselves self-consciously, checking to see if others are watching them. Others -- fewer -- look truly enthralled by the music and the dancing. More kids stand in an uneven line ringing the dance floor, looking on wistfully.

There is such beauty in this room -- such hope. It's almost tangible. And just a little bit, I feel moved, like the gentle stirring of a bow over the strings of a violin. Every day these kids do everything they can to keep apart, to avoid mixing, but here, on the dance floor, all the colors bleed together, blending like watercolors.

At the same time, though, I watch as the usual groups cling together, still identifiable in formal wear. And that makes me a little bit sad. The picture is so much prettier without the boundaries of geek and jock and loser, "Want to dance?" Rachel asks.

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"Sure," I answer. We link arms and thread our way through the throng of people and onto the dance floor.

"It's so crowded!" I have to shout to be heard over the music, "Look, here's some s.p.a.ce." I try to guide Rachel over to a hole in the tangle of bodies.

"No, wait, let's go farther in," Rachel says, tugging me in the opposite direction.

"Why? It's more packed."

"But I can see Josh over there, dancing with Kellie and Macie. Come on, please!" Rachel insists. She tightens her grip on my arm.

"Okay," I sigh, rolling my eyes.

We continue to push our way through the crowd, when suddenly, I have the sense that I am being watched. The noise, the music, and the press of warm bodies seem to fall away. I feel as though I am swimming underwater, following Rachel, but not seeing, the echo of the din m.u.f.fled and far away. My neck grows itchy and tight, and my steps feel jerky.

Then, I find him. I find Damian's gray eyes across the dance floor, focused on my own, and everything comes back. He smiles and dips his head, and I send him a nod and a grin in return. He came! A million thoughts are rioting in my mind. Did he come for me? Oh my, he looks cute. He's wearing a crisp white s.h.i.+rt, a lavender tie, and khakis. I tear my eyes away, embarra.s.singly aware that I've been ogling him and staring like a total nut-job. I follow Rachel until we're just outside 137.

the circle of Nasties and soccer jocks, including Josh. My heart is racing, and I crane my neck, trying to keep Damian in my line of sight. He's disappeared.

"Ready?" Rachel asks, planting her feet before starting to dance.

I can't sense him watching me now, but I still feel completely self-conscious. If I'm going to be perfectly honest with myself, I must admit, I had hoped, but I had never actually expected him to come to the dance. I am jittery and nervous.

"Come on, Cor, dance with me!" Rachel begs. I realize I've been standing leadenly in the middle of the dance floor, probably looking like a weirdo.

Enough. Just stop thinking, I tell myself.

I close my eyes and let the music in, let it fill me up. My limbs loosen and my feet un stick and I begin to dance. I don't pay any attention to the Nasties, or to the fact that their circle remains closed to Rachel and me. I try not to pay attention to Rachel or to the longing so apparent in her eyes. It's sad, but I'm afraid I might look the same way. Because I am lonely, too. And Damian, let's face it, looks amazing, and I hope -- oh, I really do hope -- he came to the dance because of me.

Then suddenly, the tempo of the music s.h.i.+fts and the lights dim further. A slow song. I see Rachel's gaze dart over to Josh, then down to the ground. Josh has wrapped his arms around Pearl O'Riley's waist.

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"Come on, Rachel," I say gently, and begin to steer her from the dance floor.

"Hey, Cora," a deep, rumbling voice interrupts us. I look up quickly to see Damian blocking our path from the dance floor. It's weird to see him without his customary trench coat; he looks vulnerable, younger, as though he's shed his battle armor.

"Hi," I reply. My voice trembles.

"So, um," Damian begins, scuffing his toe on the vinyl mat, "would you, uh, like to dance?" He looks nervous, I notice. That's curious. Wait, what did he say?

"Oh, um --" I look back at Rachel, whose mouth is hanging wide open. She wraps her fingers around my wrist and squeezes. Like a vise.

"Come on, Cor," Rachel whines. "I have to go to the bathroom."

I freeze. Pathetic, yes, I know. Then I remember the bonfire and the lunch table abandonment, and I defrost real quick. Looking up at Damian I say, "Yes, I'd like to." I turn to Rachel. "Go on to the bathroom without me. I'll see you after, okay?" Without waiting for a response, I follow Damian back into the crush of bodies on the dance floor.

Slowly, we turn to face each other. My stomach flutters nervously. There must be about a hundred b.u.t.terflies in there. We've sat this close inside the barn, but this feels very different. Carefully, with such care and gentleness, Damian wraps 139.

his arms around my waist, and draws me nearer to him. His touch is soft.

He looks very serious. I bring my arms up to his shoulders. His cheeks are dusted with the tiniest hint of stubble, and he smells of something warm and spicy -- nutmeg, maybe -- and a pine forest. His eyes are moving over the dance floor, but as they settle on me, I feel a stinging heat wash over my face. We've barely started, but my stomach feels like it is dancing, dancing. I can't get used to the warmth of his hands on my back; it feels right. The palms of my hands tingle against the smooth fabric of his s.h.i.+rt. What do we look like to all the other kids at the dance -- do we fit together, do we look like a couple? Do Damian and I look graceful together? Are the others even looking at us? Is everyone thinking about Nate and what a pair of freaks we are?

The song is languid and speaks of love and loneliness and loss. Why does love always seem to go with the sad things? Damian and I do not look at each other as we sway, turning in circles, and I can't bring my eyes up to his face. Yet, every piece of me is aware of him, of his closeness. For this moment, I can almost believe that his loneliness has run away.

We're both lonely. Like two empty halves of a seash.e.l.l.

When the song winds to an end, Damian and I quickly drop our arms and step apart. I don't know where to look, what to say.

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"Thanks." Damian speaks hesitantly, smiling a small, mysterious smile down at me.

"You're welcome," I whisper back. "Thank you, too." My heart is squeezing and expanding and jumping and maybe breaking apart just a little bit.

"I think your friend is waiting for you," Damian says, tilting his chin toward the press of kids on the edge of the dance floor. Rachel is there, an impatient look on her face.

"Oh, I should probably go to her," I reply. Damian's face drops, his eyes darkening, and for a moment, I wonder if I've hurt him.

"All right," he says. "I'll see you around."

"See you."

Damian vanishes into the crowd. My heart hurts. I sigh and make my way to Rachel. A thundercloud seems to have descended over her.

"Hi," I say, making my voice sound bright as I come to her side.

"I can't believe you," Rachel practically spits.

"What? What did I do?"

"I can't believe you went out there and danced with that waster, in front of everybody. Everyone saw," Rachel hisses.

"I'm sorry?" I say stupidly. "What did you say?" I couldn't have heard her right.

"You heard me. You danced with that loser in front of the whole world."

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"What?" I repeat, louder this time, as I realize what Rachel is saying. "Who are you to call Damian a loser? And who cares if everyone saw us dance? He's my friend. What is your problem? Is it that you're jealous?" Rachel flinches, but I press on. "You're just jealous, aren't you? Because Josh didn't ask you to dance, because he was there dancing with Pearl! Is that your problem?"

"You're my problem," Rachel shouts. "You are. You walk around school, acting like a giant weirdo, and now you're a.s.sociating with a freak, and you know what? People are talking about you. They're calling you a freak. You're just a freak and a baby, and I don't need to be a.s.sociated with that." Rachel's eyes glow with anger. "I'm done." She whirls around and marches away, not looking back.

I stand rooted to the spot. What just happened? Rachel... Rachel of all people calling me a freak -- these awful names? Rachel? Well, I don't need her, either. What a monster! I can feel my neck, my ears, my cheeks burning as Rachel's words burn in my mind. Weirdo. Freak. Done. Did she really say all those ugly things?

Tears p.r.i.c.k the back of my eyes, and I run outside. I pull my cell phone from my purse and, with shaking fingers, dial my mother. "Mom?" I ask, my voice quaking with sobs. "Could you come pick me up?"

As I'm cras.h.i.+ng through the halls, blinded by tears, someone calls my name. I keep sprinting down the corridor; faces 142.

are blurry, and I hear my name shouted again. I slow to a walk and I realize that Helena is streaking toward me, her corn silk curls flying out behind her. Her face is filled with concern and as she reaches me, she takes my hand in hers. "Cora, are you okay? What happened?" she asks.

I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and swat away the tears dripping down my cheeks. "I'm sorry," I say, not really sure why I'm apologizing, except I hate to think that I'm messing up the dance for anyone else. Especially Helena. "I'm fine. I'm just... I'm just going to go home now."

"Why? Cor, what happened to you? Did Damian do something?"

When I whip my head around to glare at her, she stutters, "I'm s-sorry. I just saw you two dancing and thought maybe he'd said something to hurt -- Sorry ..." she finishes lamely.