A Map Of The Known World Part 5

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Rachel shakes her head helplessly. I tell her, "I think I have an extra pair of flip-flops in my locker. Come with me after the bell."

"Cora," Rachel says with a gulp of air. "What would I do without you?" She squeezes my arm and I smile broadly at her. It feels like the first real smile I've smiled in ages. My mouth muscles hurt but they're enjoying the exercise.

Rachel follows me to my locker, where she quickly switches shoes and continues to chortle. I watch her affectionately. This is how it used to be between us. How it should be.

Suddenly, a shadow falls across us. I look up; Rachel is still bent over, wriggling her foot into one of my flip-flops. Damian. He has stopped in front of me, his forehead crinkled. A long black trench coat waving around him, brus.h.i.+ng the tops of heavy black combat boots. I've been carefully ignoring him in art cla.s.s. It's not too hard; mostly Damian buries himself behind his easel, and we might as well be in different rooms. On different planets.

"Hey," he says uncertainly. Rachel shoots up at the sound of a boy's voice. "Hey," he repeats, to Rachel this time.

I am frozen.

"Urn, hi," Rachel says, scowling.

The three of us stand there awkwardly in front of my locker, Damian's hands shoved inside his pockets, I'm stone-still, with my history book in hand, not at all sure what to say next.

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"Well, I'll see you in cla.s.s," Damian says, his voice cool as ice.

"Yeah, um, see you," I reply. I sound like such a dolt.

"Whoa, what was that?" Rachel asks, turning to face me as Damian takes off, long loping strides carrying him down the hall.

"He was just saying hi, you know," I stammer. "We have art cla.s.s together."

"You do?" Rachel asks, her eyes huge. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, it's not a big deal or anything."

"It's a huge deal!" Rachel exclaims. "He's a total waster. And your mom will freak!"

"I know. Look, it's nothing. He just said hi, is all," I say weakly.

"Hmmm ... well, just be careful." Rachel warns, then she kisses my cheek. "Thanks for the flip-flops! I'll bring them back tomorrow." And she bounces down the hallway.

I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. That was weird. I wonder what Damian's deal is and why he won't leave me alone.

During geometry, as Mr. Lane drones on and on about planes and postulates, I start to think about the strange incident in the hall. Had Damian been looking for me? He's never

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once pa.s.sed my locker since school began. No, it has to have just been a coincidence. Right?

When the bell finally rings, I quickly head to my locker. As I am exchanging the notebooks and textbooks in my bag for the ones I need to take home, I spot Damian, in his long trench coat that flutters about him, gliding down the hall like some large black bird. He looks over at me and nods his head solemnly.

Again I wonder if he's been looking for me.

"Hi," I say, and suddenly a major case of nerves descends on me, as he comes up alongside my locker.

He straightens and grins. "Hey."

I wait for him to say more, but Damian just stares at me, giving no indication that he is going to speak again. I suddenly feel a bit unsteady. The moment stretches out, interminable, uncomfortable. I s.h.i.+ft my bag from one shoulder to the other and shuffle my feet.

"How are your cla.s.ses:1" Damian finally asks, breaking the silence.

"My cla.s.ses?" I repeat. I must admit, the mundanity of this conversation is breathtaking. "They're fine. Well, except for math. Geometry kind of sucks but, yeah, they're fine," I pause. "How about yours?"

"They're okay," he responds. Then, silence.

"What are you taking?" I ask.

"You know, the usual," he starts casually. "Art, of course, English, calc; AP physics is kicking my b.u.t.t --"

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"AP physics?" I ask, cringing at the note of astonishment in my voice.

"Don't sound so surprised." Damian smirks.

"No, I just didn't know," I try to explain lamely. Dolt. Dolt. Dolt.

"I know. Don't worry about it." He looks at me, and his harsh smile softens. He pulls a silver cell phone out of his coat pocket and checks the time. "I should get home." He looks up at me. "Urn, want a ride?"

My breath catches. What? "Oh, no, it's okay. I have my bike." Damian glances away. "Look. Why are you following me?" I am taken aback by my own directness.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to bother you," Damian mumbles. Then he is gone.

I fall back against my locker. What is going on? Does he really think I'm going to get in a car with him? Is he nuts?

He is so odd. Kind of sweet, I guess. Maybe I was too harsh? A pinp.r.i.c.k of guilt jabs at me. Well, nevertheless, Damian is going to stay a mystery for another day. I gather my belongings and head outside to get on my bike.

As I coast down the streets, I think of Damian as a raven, his black coat flapping like feathers around him. Strange and fierce and hard.

We'll see what this is about.

52.

Chapter Four.

autumn has come, crowning the fields and woods with red golden leaves, and the wind carries with it a sharpness, the crisp hint of apple cider and wood-burning stoves. There is a buzzing, a tingling of antic.i.p.ation in the air. Girls chatter back and forth in the hallways about the costumes they are going to wear for Halloween. The sad yellow walls are festooned with paper cutouts of jack-o'-lanterns and black cats alongside posters calling on kids to come out and vote in the student elections and to sign up for various committees.

I have avoided getting involved in any after-school activities. I am having a hard enough time keeping up with my cla.s.ses, especially geometry. There is so much memorization, and for some reason, none of it makes any sense to me, no matter how many times I read and reread the same chapter. How did someone figure out, for instance, that a2 + b2 = c2? Who has a brain that works like that? Who looks at a triangle and thinks, I will figure out a way to understand how the lines and angles relate

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to one another? When I look at a triangle, I see the shape of a cheek or the s.p.a.ce below a jawbone. I see the silhouette of the Arabian Peninsula.

I do not get involved. But it isn't just because I have too much homework. It's just that... I still feel like the girl whose brother died. I still feel the teachers holding their breath, waiting to see if I am going to turn out like Nate, if I'm going to slip up and cut cla.s.s or pull a prank or talk back. I feel the other kids waiting to see if I'm going to lose it, if I'll shatter, if whatever peculiarity I seem to embody will come exploding out of me in a terrific show of fireworks and freak dom. n.o.body says anything outright; it's just this subtle tension that sits beneath the surface.

Art cla.s.s, though, is different. There, I feel like I'm really learning. There I feel unburdened. Ms. Calico is new, so she never knew Nate. And just for that I feel freer in her cla.s.s. Ms. Calico has introduced us to charcoal and pastels. They can be unruly, especially the oil pastels, but I've grown to love the challenge of keeping my lines in line. When I leave cla.s.s, my fingertips smudged black or all different colors, my cheeks streaked with green and blue and yellow, I wear those colors proudly. I might be a weirdo, but I am a weirdo who can make stuff.

I have brought all of this color home with me and I've introduced it into my map drawings. Suddenly, the French

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countryside is blanketed with yellow and violet wildflowers, the sage green of olive trees. And the rain forests of the Amazon are ablaze with a lush green vibrance.

In art cla.s.s, I sit on my stool next to the window, listening to an angry rain pelt the gla.s.s with a thrumming tattoo, as I nibble on the tip of a charcoal pencil. I stare at the basket of jelly jars and fruit posed at the front of the room. There is never much talking in this cavernous studio but for the hushed murmur of Ms. Calico's voice as she moves from easel to easel, guiding each of us, her flock. Sometimes she lectures or demonstrates a new technique, but mostly the cla.s.s remains swathed in silence.

I glance around the cla.s.sroom. Damian is tucked away behind his easel and a huge drawing tablet at the front of the room. Quickly, I look away, then turn to watch as my nearest neighbor, a soph.o.m.ore named Helena, who has blonde curly hair that she always keeps clipped in a messy twist, runs broad strokes across her paper with a scarlet pastel stick. The lines grow heavy and thick, livid. I love to watch Helena's dainty hands gripping the pastel and dragging it so furiously, her plastic bangle bracelets banging and clacking boisterously. What drives this tiny girl into such a fury of motion?

Helena looks up and catches me studying her. I feel myself blus.h.i.+ng, but she shoots me a wide smile and nods her head. "It's therapeutic," she says.

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"Really?" I ask. When Helena nods vigorously, I add, "Maybe I should try it."

Helena grins and replies, "Maybe you should." Then she returns her attention to her easel. With green and black, she evokes the shapes of the fruit and jars. I am spellbound. I've never seen anything like it. I have seen prints of some of Pica.s.so's paintings in the Cubist style, and while Helena's piece looks like some distant cousin of that, it's a method and a look all its own.

"I'm sorry to keep spying on you, but that's really amazing," I tell Helena.

"You think so?" Helena takes a step back from her easel and scrutinizes her drawing. "I don't know. Maybe it's a little too angry?"

"Why's that a bad thing?" I ask as Helena returns to her stool.

Whatever Helena was about to answer in response is drowned out by a very loud buzzing sound. It sounds like someone is fiddling with the school's PA system, which is only supposed to come on in the morning during homeroom, or in an emergency.

"Hey, everybody," a voice filters through. "Here's a little senior surprise for the semester. Some might call it a prank, call it what you will, but I present to you my bud, DJ Ben Maxwell! Everybody, I want you out in the halls, dancing and

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putting your hands together for this rhymin' fiend. Now, Benny-boy, rap!"

For a second, everyone is frozen. n.o.body laughs or speaks or moves. We just stare at one another, then all eyes come to rest on Ms. Calico. A beat starts to pulse through the PA speakers.

"Well, who am I to stop you? You heard what the man said." Ms. Calico steps back and opens the studio door, I look at Helena, who just shrugs in return and slides off her stool. She peels off her smock and beckons for me to follow her out into the hall. The nearby cla.s.srooms are emptying into the hallway and most of the kids are standing around awkwardly, hands shoved in pockets, toes scuffing the linoleum tiles. Then, a brave few begin to dance. Now, the doors to all of the cla.s.srooms up and down the corridor are flung open, and more students are writhing and twisting to the rhythm of the PA beat. I can't believe what is going on -- it's a dance party. Suddenly, someone touches my arm. I start and spin around. It's Ms. Calico and she waves me back into the art room.

"Cora, before you jump into the crush, I wonder if I might have a brief word with you?" she asks.