Is it possible to live, to exist in the world without any connection to another person? To not care about other people, to not care if other people care about you?
I look up and find Damian sitting across the room, his forehead crinkled as he chews his lower lip and rubs a stick of charcoal between his fingers. He’s staring intensely at the paper on the easel before him. He concentrates with such ferocity, I think. He doesn’t look up.
“Hey, whatcha working on?”
I startle and surface from my creepy staring and ridiculously moody thoughts. Helena is standing in front of me, curiously studying the drawing perched on my easel. Her flaxen hair hangs loose today, falling in untidy curls around her shoulders.
“Huh? Oh, um, just some drawings,” I mutter.
“Yes, I can see that they’re drawings,” Helena replies with a friendly smirk. “What are they for?”
I hesitate. Should I tell Helena? Will she think I’m weird, will she laugh at me? Helena looks at me expectantly with wide blue eyes.
“Well, they’re drawings of places my brother and I used to go.” I step back and scrutinize Helena’s expression, waiting for the mockery I’m sure will follow. But Helena nods—of course she knows who Nate was, she was at school here last year when he died—and she looks even more curious. “And, well, I just wanted to, um, I don’t know…” I can’t finish, unnerved by Helena’s unwavering stare.
“You’re sort of making, like, a memorial to him?” Helena asks softly.
Another lump grows in my throat, bigger this time. I nod my head. “Um, yeah. I guess so.” I look down at my feet, the torn cuffs of my blue jeans. “Do you think it’s dumb?” Why do I always cry? Tears have filled my stupid traitor eyes. Almost reflexively, I turn toward Damian. As if he can feel my gaze on him, he glances over, and he lets a tiny half grin find its way to his lips. Then he returns to his work.
“I think it’s a brilliant idea.” Helena smiles at me then moves back to her own easel.
Something lifts in my chest, the twenty thousand pounds of seawater and sadness. I turn back to my sketches and flip the pages slowly from one drawing to the next. When I reach the last picture, the one of the tree, the empty road, I sit back on the stool and put a finger to my lips. Not comfortable. I rest my elbows on my knees and my chin on my clasped hands. I tilt my head and cross my legs. I crack my knuckles and twirl a stick of charcoal. Can’t stop fidgeting.
“What’s up, Cora?” I jump in surprise. Ms. Calico has crept up behind me, silent as a panther. “You’ve been sitting here fidgeting for the past twenty minutes. What’s going on?”
Helena shuffles over, reaching back to pull her hair into a bun. “She’s making a memorial to her brother,” she offers helpfully. She comes to stand next to Ms. Calico, behind my stool.
“Your brother?” Ms. Calico repeats quietly.
“He died last year, and—” I don’t know how to finish.
“So, she drew all these places that they used to go to together,” Helena finishes for me.
“I see,” Ms. Calico says thoughtfully. “Well, what are you going to do with them?” she asks, moving around to face me.
“I’m not sure,” I reply, looking down at my hands.
Ms. Calico begins to carefully thumb through the pages, pausing to examine each drawing. Her forehead creases in contemplation. “These are really good, Cora.” As I meet her eyes, she repeats, “What do you think you will do with them?”
I desperately want to tell Ms. Calico and Helena about the sculptures in Damian’s studio, about Nate’s artwork, about the unfinished piece, and how I want to show the world what Nate did, who he was. But I don’t know how to say the words, how to say them without feeling foolish. What if they scorn me the way my mother did? And besides, Damian is here. This is not my secret to tell. He and I share it. There is a fluttering twist in my gut. Damian and I have a secret to share.
I lean back and study Helena and Ms. Calico, their heads bowed close to the sketch pad, to each other, to me. I like the closeness. It feels good. A sense of warmth floods through my hands and arms and feet and legs and chest. It surrounds my gut, fills in the hollow space.
“I don’t know what to do with them. I’m trying to figure it out,” I tell them.
“Well, whenever you do figure it out,” Helena says pointedly, “you should put the whole thing someplace where everyone can see it. I think a lot of people would like that.”
Really? I can only gape at her.
“I think that’s a lovely idea,” Ms. Calico agrees. “Cora, if you need any help, if you want to talk about anything, you know where to find me,” she tells me before moving over to Helena’s easel. “Come, Helena, let’s see what you’ve been up to besides counseling Cora.”
I watch them talk. Ms. Calico stands with one foot in front of the other, leaning back, as she listens to Helena describe her painting. Helena speaks animatedly, waving her hands, her curls escaping from their makeshift bun and bouncing around her shoulders. Ms. Calico nods a couple of times, then bends forward to confer quietly with Helena. They make an elegant picture.
I turn back to my own work. How will I transfer these sketches to the boards in the barn? What will I do with it all?
I sit down again on my stool and stare some more, my thoughts not really touching down. They jump around hazily. I look up once more at Damian, who is hunched over on his stool, one hand gripping the top of his easel, the other furiously slashing at his pad with the charcoal. What does he think about me? Does he think about me? I’ve been so caught up in learning about Nate, but Damian’s talent is remarkable, too. It seems so unlikely, because, whereas I used to know Nate as a sweet kid, Damian has always seemed tougher, harder somehow. My thoughts aren’t really making sense, and I’m not paying attention, when suddenly the bell rings.
Oh my gosh, I’m supposed to go to Damian’s studio today. I begin to feel nervous again at the prospect of going back there with him. Then, the argument with my mother, the blow of my father’s refusal to eat with us come racing back to me, and, with a burst of energy, I say good-bye to Helena and Ms. Calico and dash out of the art room with a nod of acknowledgment to Damian. “I’ll meet you by your car,” I murmur as I push past him.
I swing through the gloomy corridors, not noticing the other kids also pushing through the halls, racing to get out of school. When I reach my locker, I hastily spin the lock around, watching the numbers. Then, as it pops open, I grab my books and notebooks and jacket and slide the books I don’t need onto the shelf, and slam the metal door shut.
“Hey, Cora!” Rachel’s voice rings out through the fast-emptying hall.
I don’t turn. I freeze.
Heavy footsteps pound the tile floor. I still don’t move.
“Hey, Cora!” Rachel is out of breath, her cheeks puffing heavily. She jogs up to my locker and comes to an abrupt halt. She bends forward a bit, fighting to catch her breath. “Hey, what are you—” She stops talking as she notices the ferocity of my glare.
“Excuse me,” I say coldly and push past her.
“Um, is something wrong?” Rachel asks. But her heart isn’t in the sneer. She has a guilty look.
I spin around. “Why would something be wrong, Rach?” I say deridingly. “Oh, maybe because you ditched me at lunch today and then didn’t even have the guts to look at me? Or because you totally sold out and sat with the Nasties, who couldn’t even be bothered to look at you, let alone talk to you? Because you left me out to dry? Hmm…could it be any of that?”
“Huh. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m allowed to sit with other people, Cora,” she scoffs. “God, don’t be such a baby!”
“You know what, Rach, you don’t have to worry about having a baby bothering you anymore. I’ll get out of your way.” I am seething, my voice has turned lethally quiet. I march down the hall, leaving Rachel behind to stare at my back. I hope her mouth is hanging open.
“Wait, Cor!” Rachel calls. “Please, wait!
”
I stop but I don’t turn to look at her.
“I’m sorry, Cora. Really. I am.” Rachel says pleadingly. “I should have told you. It’s just, Josh asked me if I was going to sit with them, and I didn’t know what to say. And I wanted to sit with him. But…” I turn around and face her. Rachel’s chin begins to quiver. “I’m sorry.”
I sigh, and my anger fades. “It’s fine. Just don’t do it again. Okay?”
Rachel nods vigorously.
“Look, I’ve got to go,” I tell her, and without another word, walk away.
When I get outside, I start to breathe again. I feel my hands and legs shaking madly. Tears spring to my eyes for the second—or is it the third?—time today, and the fall breeze blows the scent of fallen leaves and coming rain across my face. I wipe roughly at my eyes. What is wrong with me lately?
I spot Damian’s blue El Camino. And there he is, leaning up against the driver’s-side door. He is fiddling with his keys, eyes narrow, a lock of his hair lifting gently in the wind.
He looks dangerous. My stomach twists and jumps nervously. Damian looks up and finds my eyes. He gives a small wave and straightens up. There, now he looks more harmless. I wave back and go to join him by his car.
This feels like I’m turning a corner, and once I make this turn, I can’t go back. But what exactly am I leaving behind? Nothing good, I think. If this is a turning point, I’ll take it.
“Hey,” Damian greets me. He moves around the massive blue body of the car to the passenger side and unlocks the door, then holds it open.
“Hi.” I am smiling, probably like a big dork, but I am sort of happy to go with him, I realize. “Thanks,” I say as he closes the door after me. His gray eyes are warm and they crinkle at the corners when he grins back at me.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yup,” I answer. And we’re off.
The drive to the Wright farm feels faster this time. The way is familiar to me now and the houses in their graduating tumbledownedness not as noticeable. The trees are beginning to look naked. Golden leaves carpet the lawns and sidewalks, covering up overgrown grass and cracked cement. The sky is a moody gray. Geese rise in a V above us, tilting and wheeling in the wind. Winter is approaching.
As we pull into the pebbly driveway, I think about how my mom would ground me for life if she knew I was here, that I had disobeyed her again. I wonder if Damian has told his mom.
“Hey, Damian?” I start. “Could I ask you something?”
“Yeah,” Damian replies, sounding cautious. He parks the car in front of the barn, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
“Where are your parents?” I ask timidly. “I mean, do they know about all of this?”
Damian pauses, stopping awkwardly, half in and half out of his car door. He pulls himself back inside and settles into the seat for a moment. “My dad took off when I was just a baby. I don’t talk to him, really.” He picks at his thumbnail. “Well, he doesn’t talk to me, actually. He hasn’t tried to talk to me or see me since he left.” Damian shrugs his shoulders and tries to look nonchalant. “You know, back when he and my mom were together, it wasn’t so cool for a white guy to be with a black woman, and I guess he just wimped out, couldn’t hack it, and left.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. My mind is whirring. I sure opened that can of worms all on my own, but I guess I wasn’t prepared for the starkness of his answer. It explains his coloring, which can only be called beautiful, with his bright gray eyes and light brown skin. How could I have known Damian all these years and never known any of this about him?
“Nah, don’t be. My mom’s around. She works a lot, but, well, we’re pretty close,” he says. He turns, climbs out of the car, and begins to head toward the barn again. I stare at his back, straight and tall and broad.
I hope I haven’t made him feel self-conscious. I didn’t mean to do that. I just thought, if I’m going to hang out with him, I should know more about him. We’re virtually strangers, even though he’s spent so much time in my house over the years.
I enter the barn and follow him across the rickety floorboards, again admiring his grace, the ease with which he moves. As he switches on the lights, I walk, almost reflexively, to the boards Nate had nailed together. Then I sit down in front of them. The floor is cold and hard, and Damian brings a blanket over. “Here,” he says gruffly.
“Thanks,” I say, looking up at him, trying to keep the surprise from my voice. When he is gentle and kind like this, I do not feel prepared for it.
The blanket is plaid and navy blue and scratchy. The scent of horse and hay clings to it. After I am settled on top of the blanket, I pull my pad and pencils from my book bag.
Silently, Damian moves off toward his workshop corner. Beginning is always hard, so I gaze around the barn. The high vaulted ceiling shelters a loft that looks to be filled with odd bits of furniture and farming equipment. Damian’s paintings cover every inch of space around the walls of the barn, seeming to jump away from the knotty gray pinewood boards. The topographies of his work range widely, and there are slashes and explosions of color. Nate’s sculptures stand like hulking hunchbacks, rusty bits of metal scraps, ragged shards of glass and wood stretching and poking like skeletons. All of the art in this space speaks to volcanoes of fury and rage and heartbreak. Somehow, though, I feel closer to Nate here, and all of the anger he brought home with him begins to make sense.
I tear the used pages out of my sketch pad and spread the drawings around me in a semicircle. My eyes dart quickly back and forth between the white slips of paper and the knotty boards leaning against the wall.
I shift the drawings around, figuring on top is north, right is east, left is west, and closest to me is south. I arrange the pages in a loose layout of the town. The map is like Swiss cheese, full of holes, but I can recognize the unseen order of it. I continue to move and play and plot with the pages. Until a shadow falls across them.
I glance up to see Damian standing over me, gazing thoughtfully at the drawings.
“These are really good,” he says, crouching down beside me.
“Thanks.” Again, I can’t keep the amazement out of my voice.
“What are you thinking?” he asks as he continues to look over the pages on the ground.
“I’m not really sure,” I answer slowly. “I’m trying to figure out how to make a map…”
“A map of Lincoln Grove?”
“Yes! You could tell?” Damian bounces on his toes as if his crouch has become uncomfortable. “Here,” I say, sliding over, making room on the blanket for him. “Sit.”
“Thanks,” he replies. “Of course I can tell.” He gestures at the drawings. “There’s the pool, the park. But, where’s that?” Damian points to the sketch of the bent tree, the curved and empty road. He squints at it. “Oh,” he finishes, not waiting for my response. I catch the glint of recognition registering in his eyes.
“Yeah…” I murmur, not knowing what to say.
“Well, are you thinking of putting this map on Nate’s piece?” Damian asks, changing the subject.
I nod. “I just have no idea how to do it. You know, I want it to look like it fits with the base and all the rest of his stuff.”
Damian props his chin on his fist. “Well, you could sketch these scenes onto the boards, then paint over them,” he offers.
“I was thinking that, but I feel like it needs something more.”
“Well, you can look around and see if there are any scraps you want to use.”
“Really? Would you help me?” I ask. Multimedia…That would be something new.
“Of course,” he counters matter-of-factly. Then he stands up in a single fluid movement and returns to his corner. He comes back shortly, carrying a battered-looking cardboard box. “Here,” he says, putting the box down on the ground beside me. “Here’s some scraps of stuff that Nate and I collected. Take whatever you want.” He strides away again, and returns to his corner.
I begin to
rifle through the box, picking up slivers of wood, metal nuts, steel rods, shards of plastic, a one-way traffic sign, a pane of glass, a small box filled with buttons and another filled with dried marigold heads. I pull some of the objects from the box and place them to the side. This is cool. There are so many possibilities, I feel as though my veins are throbbing and pulsing with ideas and art. It’s like I’ve been shocked back to life.
I get so caught up in the thousands of thoughts that are whirling through my brain that I forget to keep track of the time. Damian is suddenly beside me again.
“Hey,” he says, glancing over my shoulder at the pile of objects I’ve taken from the box.
“Oh, hey,” I reply, smiling up at him.
“Um, I’m not trying to kick you out or anything, but do you have to get back home?” he asks.
“Oh, no! What time is it?”
Damian pulls out his cell phone. “It’s almost a quarter to five.”
“Oh, no!” I shout. “What should I do with all this stuff?” I ask, turning to him.
“Just leave it here. I’ll put your stuff in a separate box.” When he sees the worried look on my face, Damian reassures me, “Don’t worry, no one ever comes in here, except me. Come on, I’ll take you home.”
We quickly extinguish the lights and unplug the little electric heater, then race outside into the chill evening air. I jump into the car, and Damian brings the El Camino roaring to life. I know I’m acting like a big freak, twitching nervously in the passenger seat, checking the time on my cell phone display over and over again.
“I can’t get caught again,” I mutter anxiously. “They’ll lock me up for good, if I do.”
“I think you’re safe,” Damian replies with a chuckle. We’ve pulled into my driveway, and there isn’t any sign of my parents.
“Oh my gosh, thank you so much!” I say, turning to him. “For everything.”
“Don’t worry about it. Same time tomorrow?” He grins wickedly at me.
“Sure,” I call as I climb out of the car and begin to trot up the path to the front door. “Thanks again! See ya!”
A Map of the Known World Page 9
