Somehow, though, thinking of him as a monster has now become just a little bit harder.
I suppose I should find Rachel. But the number of students has grown, and as I push through the crowd, everything starts to feel crooked, as if the earth is tilted and I’m in a fun house. I’m dizzy and all the kids I pass seem to be laughing at me, turning leering faces with twisted grimaces on me. I spin around, vainly looking for Rachel. Then I stop. Get ahold of yourself. I take a deep breath and sweep my eyes over the crowd.
There she is, standing off to the side of a narrow circle of bodies near the fire. She is smiling, but I can tell that it is pasted on. Her hair has flattened in the warm, humid air, and she holds her hands clasped in front of her. I can sense her sadness and I feel sad for her. Rachel is on the outside, too.
The Nasties are busily ignoring Rachel, leaning on each other’s shoulders and giggling and talking to Josh and three other boys. And clearly, the boys are eating up the attention like starving cubs. Macie, as always, is at the center, a sun for the others to revolve around. Rachel and Elizabeth Tillson hover at the outskirts of the circle, like distant planets, while Pearl and Kellie, Josh, Matt James, and Evan Miller compose the rest of the Nasty solar system.
I remember when Macie first moved to town; we were in the fourth grade. This odd-looking girl with a big puff of hair and mismatched socks and electric pink sneakers stood hunched at the front of our classroom as the teacher introduced her as the new girl. I remember Pearl and Kellie scorning her outrageous outfit and ridiculous hair. One week later, however, Macie had turned the tables on the other two and installed herself as Queen Bee, the barometer by which every measure of cool was measured. And the Nastiest trio was cemented.
I hate watching the Nasties treat Rachel like this now. I hate seeing her just standing there, being purposefully ignored, seeing her watching Josh flirt and be flirted with. I can feel their Nasty intentions spreading out like rotten roots curling beneath the ground; I know they are perfectly aware of Rachel standing beside them. I can feel their cruelty curdling the soil. It makes me so mad.
I walk over to Rachel and tap her on the shoulder. As she spins around, I say, “Hey, I have to go. Are you coming?”
“What? Is it already ten?” Rachel looks annoyed and glances around at Josh and the Nasties. “Uh, I think I’ll hang around here. Is that okay? I can get a ride from someone else.” She avoids my gaze, kicking at the straw on the ground.
“Are you sure?” I ask almost pleadingly. Why? I add silently. Why do this to yourself?
“Yesss,” Rachel hisses.
“Fine.” I turn on my heel and snake my way out of there and head for the parking lot. Sure enough, my mother is there, waiting. As I near the car, I can see that she is anxiously tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.
“Hey, Mom,” I say casually as I climb into the passenger seat.
“Where’s Rachel?” she asks.
“She’s staying,” I tell her, my voice wavering.
“Well, how was it, honey?” my mother asks, quickly putting the car in drive.
She looks so tired. I’d bet all of my best drawing pencils that I look the same.
“It was fine,” I reply.
Except everything isn’t fine. I sit on my bed, staring across the room at the map pinned to the wall. Nothing is fine at all, actually. I am mad. Mad at Rachel for being different from how she’s always been and for being obsessed with “everyone who’s anyone” and for wanting to be accepted by the Nasties when they won’t even open their circle to her. How could she ditch me at the bonfire, leaving me by myself to talk to Damian? How could she make me walk out of that field alone? I’m mad at her for her stupid valley girl voice and her tight miniskirt and her green eyeshadow and her dumb crush on Josh. Josh! Whom she’s never spoken to, who probably doesn’t remember her name, who probably has never read a book in his whole stupid life.
“Auggghhh!” I cry and pound my fists against the comforter. “I hate her!” And I burst into tears. Fat, hot, angry tears that course down my cheeks in a very satisfying way, while snot leaks from my nose. I sob like this until I can’t catch my breath and can only gasp.
I cry like this a lot. It’s like someone has hooked up my tear ducts to the county water line. Ever since the funeral.
Funeral.
Damian was at the funeral, in a dark gray suit. His eyes were dark, dull as lead. Dead. But not dead like Nate’s. I remember my mother had walked up to Damian after the service and asked him to leave. She had sounded so cold. So furious and hateful. And Damian had looked as though he’d been struck. Stunned, he’d blinked and stared back at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, before he turned and left the cemetery.
It’s so easy to blame Damian for that night—for Nate getting so angry over Julie breaking up with him that he jumped in his car, picked up Damian, then flew off into the darkness without his headlights like a demon. It’s so easy to think that Damian should have made Nate stop, turn on the headlights, hand over the keys.
I wish I could stop thinking about this, thinking about Nate. It’s constant, and it leaves me feeling dead myself. Or dying. Yet in these moments of silence and loneliness, it’s as though I’ve stuck my toe in the cold, cold ocean. And I get caught, turned upside down in a riptide as my mind skips over to him all of its own volition. Then comes the instant when I lose my breath and feel the freezing water tumbling, battering, covering me, and it’s the most painful tug of my heart, an aching hollowness that never stops, as I remember over and over, like the never-ending waves of the ocean, that I won’t ever see him again. He’s gone.
But Damian…this is something different. Somehow, at the bonfire, he seemed thoughtful, subdued. He looked so serious, so different from the laughing, easygoing guy I remember, the delinquent bad boy who had been my brother’s partner in crime, in detention and suspension.
More than that, though, tonight, in all his earnestness—well, he looked kind of cute. Really cute, actually. Intense. I get a shiver as I recall his face and those haunting, haunted gray eyes.
This is ridiculous. He is nothing but trouble, and that is all there is to it.
The tears have dried, and I’ve finally stopped gasping and croaking like an asthmatic bullfrog, so I reach over and turn off the night table light. I try to will myself to sleep before any more absurd notions can creep into my brain.
Now that the first couple of weeks of school have passed, the days begin to feel routine, and I find I don’t have to double-check the schedule I taped to the inside of my locker anymore. I think I can even almost forget about the funny looks from other kids in the hallways and classrooms, the hesitant, awkward intonations of my teacher’s voices when they address me, when I imagine they see Nate’s face instead of my own.
The linoleum and cinder-block gloom of the place is the perfect backdrop to the callous shouts and raucous laughter that seem to perpetually fill the halls, muting everything. It suits my mood very well.
As I jog into homeroom one sunny late September morning, a second ahead of the late bell, I see Rachel bent over her desk, her shoulders shaking and her knees drawn up to her chest. Carolyn Wright, Callie Rountree, and Susan Meredith are sitting at their desks, glancing at her, and laughing softly, covering their mouths as though they don’t want her to see they are laughing at her. I don’t know if Rachel is laughing or crying. So I race over to her and throw my bag down on the ground, my arm around her shoulder, and a glare at these girls who used to be my friends. B.T.A.
“What’s wrong? Rach, are you okay?” I ask.
Rachel looks up and then I can see that she has been laughing. Small drops of moisture leak from the corners of her eyes. She is shaking helplessly. The other girls are laughing out loud, too, now.
“What is it?” I begin to smile in that I don’t know what’s going on but you all look pretty freaking funny and I’ll laugh because you are way. Rachel is trying—and failing miserably—to gain control. She just kee
ps giggling. “Oh my gosh, tell me! What happened?”
“Oh—” Rachel gasps, and hugs her knees tighter.
“Seriously! Tell me!” I can feel my chest getting tight with the giggles, too. “What!”
Rachel just shakes her head and points to her feet, which are tucked up on her chair. I bend down and look at her feet. “So?” I ask, confused.
“Look!” Rachel pushes her chair back and holds her legs straight out. She is wearing dainty ballet flats with bows on the tops of her toes. Ah. She is wearing dainty ballet flats with bows on the toes, and they are two different colors. She has on a navy shoe on the left foot and a black one on the right. In the light, the difference is plain to see.
Callie, Carolyn, Susan, Rachel, and I launch into fresh gales of laughter.
“Oh, you’re such a dork! How did you do that?” I ask, trying to snatch a breath.
“I-It was dark when I got dressed,” Rachel manages to explain. “What am I going to do?” she howls. “I can’t walk around like this all day! I’ll never live it down!” She lets out a loud guffaw.
“I can’t believe you own the same pair of shoes in two colors!” Callie says.
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, brushing the tops of heavy black combat boots. I’ve been carefully ignoring him in art class. 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.
“Um, 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.
“Well, I’ll see you in class,” 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 class 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 once passed 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 shift my bag from one shoulder to the other and shuffle my feet.
“How are your classes?” Damian finally asks, breaking the silence.
“My classes?” 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 butt—”
“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. “Um, 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 pinprick 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.
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 anticipation 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 classes, 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 to one another? When I look at a triangle, I see the shape of a cheek or the space 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 class 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 freakdom. Nobody says anything outright; it’s just this subtle tension that sits beneath the surface.
Art class, th
ough, 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 class. 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 class, 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 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 class, I sit on my stool next to the window, listening to an angry rain pelt the glass 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 class remains swathed in silence.
I glance around the classroom. 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 sophomore 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 blushing, but she shoots me a wide smile and nods her head. “It’s therapeutic,” she says.
“Really?” I ask. When Helena nods vigorously, I add, “Maybe I should try it.”
A Map of the Known World Page 4
