A Map of the Known World

by Lisa Ann Sandell

  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 unstick 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 shifts 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.

  “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 butterflies in there. We’ve sat this close inside the barn, but this feels very different. Carefully, with such care and gentleness, Damian wraps 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 shirt. 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 seashell.

  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.

  “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.”

  “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 associating 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 associated 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 prick 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 crashing through the halls, blinded by tears, someone calls my name. I keep sprinting down the corridor; faces 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.

  “Why does everyone hate Damian? It’s like the whole school is out to get him!” I snarl.

  “Cora, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but no one is out to get Damian. I just saw you two dancing and thought maybe something had happened between you.” Helena’s blue eyes are flashing with hurt and frustration.

  “Helena, I’m sorry,” I sigh. “I just…We’re friends, and after I danced with him, my supposed best friend reamed me out for it.”

  “Oh,” Helena says, her mouth pursed. “What a jerk!”

  “Yeah, well…” I don’t know what to say. Helena puts her arm around my shoulder and draws me into an embrace. Even though she’s older, she’s shorter than I am and slight, and so it feels like being hugged by a fairy,
and in her sea-colored blue dress of filmy organza with iridescent beads sewn onto it, she looks like she could be a water nymph. “Hey, you look really pretty,” I tell her as I pull back.

  “Thanks,” she says, smiling, then peering at me searchingly. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, really, I’m fine. Thank you. Thank you for listening and for—caring.”

  “Look, I don’t know Damian that well,” she begins, “but he’s always seemed like a nice guy to me. Trouble, maybe, but not a bad guy. You know?” she says. She squeezes my hand then ducks into the girls’ room. Turning back to me, she calls, “I have to get back soon; Cam awaits. Have a good night, Cor, and don’t be sad!”

  Chapter Nine

  The viciousness of my exchange with Rachel at the dance plays itself over and over again in my mind. I am lying in bed, blanket pulled to my chin. I threw my beautiful green dress on the floor, where it remains, crumpled like a piece of garbage. Part of me aches to pick up the phone and call her, to make up and take back all the hurtful things I said. But as the cruelty of her part in the fight comes back to me, I get burned up with anger again.

  Are people really calling me a freak? Do I look or act like a freak? The word itself sounds scary, sick. Freak. It is an ugly word. There’s so much malice in it, in people’s voices when they speak it.

  Freak. The way the mouth puckers, like it’s filled with revulsion or loathing, to form the f, the disgust that gets spit out with the final hard k. I roll the shape of the word around in my mouth, and my eyes narrow with the long e.

  And a baby. Because I don’t want to dress up and hang around with the Nasties and wear makeup and hook up? Does this also brand me a freak? If it does, so be it. I’m not ready. For any of it.

  I shudder. I’ve become an object of disdain, of hatred, maybe. Does death mark those it touches this way? Are the real victims of Nate’s accident those of us who were left to survive him?

  My thoughts turn to Damian, whose life was also turned upside down since Nate’s death. He and Nate worked so hard over the past three years to make sure no one knew about their artwork. Why? Why didn’t they want anyone to know what they did, what they cared about?

  I can’t imagine life without my art. It would feel so empty. Barren and cold and terrible, like that Siberian tundra. I reach under my bed and slide out the bundle of Nate’s watercolor paintings. Leafing through them, I study the delicate splashes of line and color. I pause when I come to an image of a young woman staring out a window. It is a portrait of Julie. Her profile is rendered with such grace and care. There’s something about the edge of her nose, the hint of eyelashes, and a wistfulness in her bearing. Nate captured her humanity, her very humanness, with so much longing and desire and hope. Sometimes I feel I am filled with hope. Had Nate been hopeful? I can’t be sure. He was so angry all the time.

  Maybe boys just don’t manage it as well, don’t handle all the pain and worry and need as well as girls do. It’s frightening facing the fact that things may or may not work out as you’d like them to. I figure all I can do is hope that life will turn out the way I want it to be, that I will turn out to be who I want to be, that I’ll accomplish all that I want to do. That someday I’ll reach a point where all the wishing and dreaming and hoping finishes in something grand. And hope is a flimsy thing. So maybe boys don’t deal with the unpredictability, the capriciousness of hope as well as girls do.

  Oh, I do not want to be trapped in this tiny town, watching tiny football games with the same people year after year, with no chance to see what lies beyond the highway, beyond the county road. Was Nate afraid of this, too? Is Damian scared, as well? Is everybody in the whole world walking around feeling frightened all the time? Full of the sense that life promises so many possibilities, yet we’re totally petrified of missing them, at the same time? I suspect that this might be the case.

  Nothing would be more dreadful than being stuck in Lincoln Grove for the rest of my life—like my parents. I have to get out. I have to get to London. I stand up, filled up with resolution. My mom has to see. Has to be convinced. But what can I do to change her mind? Is it hopeless? My dad will certainly be of no help—his silence is worse than my mother’s shrill anger, her bitterness, her fear.

  I need to talk to someone about all of this. I need help. I need to get out of this house. With a deep breath, I reach for my cell phone and again thank Damian silently for programming his number into it. Will he think it’s weird that I’m calling him now—after the dance? I begin to dial.

  “Hello?” His voice sounds muffled, gruff.

  “Damian? Hi, it’s me, Cora,” I say.

  “Hey, what’s up?” he answers. He sounds happy to hear from me, I think—or, at least he doesn’t sound horrified.

  “Hey, um, I wondered if you would meet me at the diner? I just…“Just what? I have no idea. “I guess I just want to talk to someone. To you.” Ah, I am such a dolt! “I’m sorry. I’m just…”

  “No problem. I can meet you. Twenty minutes?”

  “Sounds great,” I reply, very relieved. I open my window, look out on the roof and down at the ground below. I’ve never snuck out this way before, but my mom is still roving around in the kitchen. I hear her opening cabinets and running water in the sink. I think of Nate, how carelessly he pulled himself out through the window. Then, carefully, nervously, I throw one leg over the windowsill and pull my body through the window after it. Have I joined Nate’s rebel ranks? Or maybe I’m already way past that point.

  Balanced on the roof, I have plenty of room, but my knees are knocking. My whole body is shaking, actually. I teeter down the length of the roof until I come to the gutter. I hook my arms and legs around the pipe and let myself slide to the ground. All together it isn’t more than a twelve-foot drop. I land easily and, brushing off the front of my coat and pajama bottoms, I look around, checking to make sure I haven’t caught my parents’ attention, then I sprint down the driveway, toward the diner.

  Twenty-three minutes later, Damian and I are tucked into a booth at the back of the diner on Union Street. The orange-and-yellow vinyl benches are cracked and stained. The smell of cleaning fluids and grease and stale coffee coats the red formica table, the long countertop, the air.

  I swirl a straw around in my chocolate shake, watching the milk froth and mix with the ice cream. I glance up quickly and find Damian’s steady gray eyes on me. I look down into my shake again. He is drinking coffee: one sugar, no milk. He’s so much more grown up than I am.

  “So, what’s up?” Damian asks casually, curiosity leaking into his voice.

  “I’m not sure,” I respond. “I’m just having all these thoughts about Nate and my parents and what I want to do. And I don’t know what to think.” I stop to take a sip of my milk shake.

  “Well, what are you thinking exactly?” Damian prods.

  The thick shake travels up the straw slowly, and I wince when it finally fills my mouth, the cold sending a shot of dull pain to the center of my forehead. Brainfreeze…how appropriate. I shake my head, then, as the pain subsides, I speak quietly. “I’m thinking that I have to get out of here, but I’m too much of a wimp, a coward, to do anything about it.”

  “Okay, start from the beginning,” Damian directs with a half grin.

  “The beginning? I don’t even know where that is anymore. But I can start here: Remember how Ms. Calico told us about some summer art programs?” I wait for him to nod yes. “Well, she wants to recommend me for one. She gave me the application and everything. They have a class on mapmaking. All expenses are paid except for the travel—meals, housing, everything.”

  “Sounds good so far,” he says questioningly.

  “Yeah, well, the catch is the program is in London. And there is no way my parents will ever, ever let me go. Not in a million years.” A heavy sigh escapes me.

  A sigh is like a salty yellow triangle.

  “Are you sure? Did you ask?”

  “Yes, I asked. But really, does it sur
prise you? My mom doesn’t want to let me out of the house, out of her sight. I’m lucky she hasn’t started homeschooling me. Ever since—you know—it’s like she’s convinced I’m going to do something stupid, something dangerous—something unlike anything I’ve ever done before in the fourteen years of my life.”

  “Well, you have gotten in a car with me. She probably wasn’t prepared for that one,” Damian adds, his grin widening.

  “It’s just so unfair! Seriously—it’s not like we make a run to the liquor store before you drive me home!” I wail. “I’m just so sick of not standing up to her, of taking her crazy rules all the time. Why can’t I be strong—like Nate was? He always stood up to her.” I twirl the straw some more. “I just want to run away, you know?” I look up at Damian. His gray eyes have narrowed as he considers my words.

  Finally, he speaks. “Cora, you’re not weak.”

  “Uh-huh.” I smirk, disbelief seeping into my voice.

  “Really. Look, ever since school started—ever since Nate died—I’ve been thinking about this stuff, about all of us, a lot. Cora, you’ve always been the stronger one,” he says vehemently. “You were always stronger than Nate. Think about it—all Nate and I could do was act like royal nightmares, thinking we were so rebellious and cool, and really we were just a pair of jerks. And look how we ended up—dead and a deadbeat.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask softly, a scalding heat climbing up my ears, my neck.

  “Don’t you get it? We put on this ridiculous act because we were afraid that to be smart, to be talented, to like art, to care about anything like grades or college or the future, to be even a little bit responsible or mature wasn’t cool. It was easier to be bad, dangerous, to drive really fast, to not listen to anyone. We were just scared. Can’t you see?” Damian’s voice grows higher, as if he is pleading with me to understand. “And acting like this made us feel free, made our art feel raw…real. Pure. No one could tell us what to do, and we were free from all the rules and restrictions, anything that could stifle. But the worse we behaved, the less everyone expected from us. And we didn’t know…” His voice trails off, and Damian looks down into his coffee cup. “We didn’t know that we could be creative without destroying everything around us…including ourselves.” His brow creases and he won’t meet my gaze. “And we couldn’t just be. You know? We had to be tough, cool. It was easier to be crazy. But we were really just cowards. Phonies putting on this whole big stupid act. And Nate died because of it.” Damian stops and slumps back in his seat, shaking his head as though he still can’t believe it.