A Map Of The Known World Part 3

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back, back to Lincoln Grove and my bedroom and the sound of tire wheels squeaking on the smooth concrete of the garage floor. My dad is home. I feel my whole body tense up as I wait for him to enter the kitchen, as I wait for the greeting I know won't come, and as I wait for the inevitable clink of ice cubes.

The door slams, footsteps. Then I hear the cupboard bang shut, a gla.s.s slams onto the countertop, the refrigerator opens and closes, the freezer door swings open ... pause, clink, clink, clink, and close. Then footsteps into the den, and silence. My fingernails have been digging into my palms.

When I was in middle school, B.T.A., my dad would come home, race up the stairs -- the thudding of his footsteps like a happy waltz -- and he'd knock, saying, "Shave and a haircut," to which I'd answer with a shouted "Two bits!"

"Hey, Rabbit, how's the homework coming? I know I'm old, but need any help?" he would ask. It was like a dance that we'd performed over and over, so many times for all thirteen years of my life. Till now.

I leave the pencils and paper and map behind, pull my textbooks and notebooks from my backpack and, sliding onto the bed, begin to do my homework.

Geometry, with its postulates and proofs, theorems and corollaries, will be hard. American history might not be too bad, but biology will surely be. For English cla.s.s, I'm going to have to read a ton, but honestly, I'm kind of looking forward to reading some of the books, like The Odyssey, Wuthering

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Heights, Romeo and Juliet, and Invisible Man. And then there is art cla.s.s. Ms. Calico explained that we will start with sketching still lifes, then painting them, and then we'll each have to find an independent project to focus on. I wonder if I could make something of my map drawings. How much freedom to explore will Ms. Calico allow us? Just thinking about it starts a tingle of excitement in my stomach. Or my gut. Even if I have to face Damian Archer, there is a glimmer of promise yet.

The door to the garage suddenly crashes shut, and my mother's voice rings out. "Daniel, Cora, I'm home! Cora, are you here?" she calls shrilly.

I run down the stairs and meet her in the kitchen. "Here, let me help," I say, bending to a.s.sist her in hauling in and putting away the bags of groceries that now cover every inch of floor s.p.a.ce between the stove and dishwasher.

"How was school, Cor?" my mother asks, eyeing me keenly and ignoring the fact that my dad still has not answered her call.

"Fine," I reply.

"Fine? Just fine? How were your cla.s.ses? Are you in many with Rachel?" she peppers me with questions. I'm not in the mood to be grilled, but it looks like it will be unavoidable.

"My cla.s.ses were fine. I only have homeroom with Rachel, and we had lunch together today."

"I see," Mom says, sighing, looking tired and downcast.

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My mom used to look pretty young -- younger than most of the other kids' mothers, at any rate -- for her age with her short, light-brown hair and once-bright hazel eyes. But the dark, puffy circles beneath them cast a shadow over her face. Now she looks old and tired beyond her years.

"Art cla.s.s seems cool," I add, feeling sorry for her. If only there was something I could say that would make her feel better, less worried about me falling into an abyss, which would pull her back from her own black hole. There's no way I'm telling her about Damian.

"That's nice," she murmurs, her voice, her gaze far away. Where does she go when she grows distant like this? Is she thinking of Nate? Of how our family used to be? Is she traveling through time? Or does she get caught in some quicksand pit of despair?

"Well, what's for dinner?" I ask, trying to stir her, bring her back to the present.

"Meat loaf," my mom replies absently, then she sort of shakes herself and sets about making the preparations.

"Can I help?" I offer.

"No, it's okay. Go do your homework."

"Um, Mom, could I ask you something?" I begin.

"Sure, what is it?" she answers, coming back to me.

"There's this thing, the LGH Bonfire. They have it every year. It's an official school thing, like a pep rally, only it's at night. Could I go? Mom? I'd go with Rachel, and it'd be really

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safe." I know I am talking way too fast, but I don't know how else to ask this. Just bringing it up feels like an act of contrition. If I seem normal, maybe she'll feel better.

"Oh. I -- I don't know."

"Please, Mom? You can't -- I -- It's a school thing. Teachers will be there, and tons of kids. It'll be safe. I promise." I think about how I don't even want to go, but as I speak, I realize this is a battle I have to win. For both our sakes.

"But you'll be roaming around at night, and I know how these things are -- I remember --" Her voice breaks. But she clears her throat and presses on. "There will be drinking there. And I don't want you out on the roads at night."

"Mom, I can't drive, remember? Can't I go if you drive me? Or Rachel's mom?" I can see that she is considering this.

"Well..." She drifts away again.

"Mom?" I try. "Mom!"

"All right." She snaps back to life. "You can go. But I'll drive you there, and pick you up at nine thirty, no later."

"Mom, it only starts at eight. Can't you pick me up at ten thirty?" I plead.

"Ten o'clock. No later, Cora. I mean it. If you're not in my car by ten, I'll come and get you," she warns.

"Fine!" I snarl, contrition and guilt and concern to the wind. I stomp upstairs to call Rachel and wait for the awkward dinner that is bound to follow.

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Chapter Three.

The air is thick with falling ash, black-and-gray snow.

As the sun slowly sinks, the sky turns as orange as the bonfire itself. All around, kids, their faces painted red and black with the school initials, whoop and dance around the fire. Voices rise in a crescendo, chanting, "LGH! LGH! LGH!".

Rachel and I arrived early, and until more people came, we hovered several feet away from the pyramid of sticks, looking on as a teacher, Mr. Cross, flicked match after match, trying to start the fire. He kneaded his brow with soot-stained fingers and wiped away the sweat. Finally the match caught, and the bits of gra.s.s and paper lit, and the flames grew and billowed. We watched as students trickled onto the field, and dusk fell, bringing with it the chirping song of crickets and the blinking flickers of fireflies. Cliques seem to gather their members, the way a magnet will draw filings of iron. Soccer guys find soccer guys, drama kids find drama kids, and even though I don't know all of these people, each group is pretty much

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distinguishable on sight. The football players shuffle their feet and stand in a crooked line, uniform in their black leather team jackets with the red sleeves and the fighting badger on the back. The stoners stand off to one side, baggy pants and dreadlocks their own kind of uniform. The cool kids are easy to spot, the girls dabbing at their sparkling lip gloss, fluffing their manes of hair, dressed perfectly, while hangers-on orbit around them like they are caught in a gravitational pull. These kids glow.

I cannot figure out for the life of me how to put together an outfit like these girls do. I can never seem to find that adorable top or the perfect pair of jeans. And even if I do have the "right" clothes, forget about wearing them the way these girls do. I simply cannot carry it off. Rachel says it's about att.i.tude. Clearly I have an att.i.tude problem.

I study them, each and every group in turn, and wonder, how do these kids find one another? How does someone decide, I'm going to be a stoner or a goth or a princess or a jock? Why haven't I found a place, a definition? Would being a part of the group chase the loneliness away? Or does everyone feel as scared as I do?

A part of me aches to be in one of those cliques, laughing easily, knowing exactly where I'm supposed to be, knowing exactly who I am. Categorizing, cla.s.sifying is so easy, so certain. Yet, I'm here on the fringe, on the outside, a watcher.

Soon the field is crowded with students from all four cla.s.ses,

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and the chanting, singing, shouting is echoed by the rattle of waving gra.s.ses and chirruping crickets.

Rachel squeezes my arm tightly, her fingernails like a hawk's talons. "There he is! He's here! How do I look?" she squeaks. I follow Rachel's gaze to see Josh with his baggy jeans and unlaced sneakers shuffling up to the fire.

"You look fine," I tell her, shaking my head, feeling lame.

"Just fine?" Rachel asks, her eyes filled with panic. "Do I look fat?" She really looks scared now.

"You look great," I say. I smile and nudge Rachel's shoulder. "You should go talk to him."

"Really? You really think so?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"I don't know...." Rachel looks down. She seems so vulnerable, so frightened. And I see her, really see her, probably for the first time since school started, and I realize -- sort of surprised by my own surprise -- that she looks good. Rachel has always been a little bit plump, but the suntan she cultivated over the summer and the blond streaks in her hair give her a pretty glow. "I just want this year to be great, you know?" she says softly.

"Yeah. I know. Just go on!"

"What if... He's so cute. He probably won't want to talk to me. Don't you think?" Rachel says doubtfully.

"Rach, you're cute! I bet he'll be happy if you go over to him!" I am trying to sound cheerfully confident.

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"Well..." Rachel pauses. "All right. Will you be okay here by yourself?"

"I'm fine," I reply. "Just flash him your gorgeous smile."

"'Kay, wish me luck!" Rachel sings out and starts off toward her target.

I watch Rachel blend into the thickening crowd. As she disappears, I wonder if I'm weird for not liking any of the boys in our cla.s.s. If Nate hadn't died, would I be as carefree as Rachel and all the rest of them? Would I be able to jump into the fray and dance and laugh and be happy? Why does this thing mark me, anyway? It's like the other kids can sense it -- well, I figure most of them know, anyway. But it's not just that they treat me strangely. It's me, too. Acting different. Feeling different. Nate hardly even talked to me anymore.... Why has his absence, his death changed everything?

I keep to the edge of the crowd, listening to the jocks singing fight songs and the murmur of conversations and the crackling of the flames. Suddenly, a tingle creeps down my spine, and I look up. Like I've been shocked, my eyes meet another pair, across the field. In the graying light, I can just make out who it is. And as the realization sets in, I step back in surprise. Datnian. He lifts his chin slowly in greeting and begins to move toward me, deliberately weaving through the throngs of students. My knees quiver and my stomach takes a turn. I look around, as if help was going to arrive (which it's not), but I can't stir from my spot.

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Feet, let's go, I plead with myself. They won't move, though; they are firmly rooted to the gra.s.sy field. Why does Damian do this to me?