A Map of the Known World

by Lisa Ann Sandell

  “Hey, Mom, this is my friend Cora from school,” Helena trills as we walk into the kitchen, heading for Helena’s father’s basement workshop.

  “Oh, Cora, it’s so nice to meet you!” Her mother plants herself right in Helena’s path and beams at us so widely, she looks a bit like a satellite dish. “I’ll call you girls when the cookies are ready,” she says, still smiling as we duck around her and head for the stairs.

  Helena looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Sorry about that,” she whispers.

  “What do you mean? Your mom seems really nice,” I reply.

  “Well, she is nice. That’s the problem. She’s too nice, and she just takes the crap my dad dishes out to her. It’s pathetic,” Helena sneers, but her voice is soft and sad.

  “I guess even when things seem perfect, they never are,” I murmur.

  “I guess so,” Helena responds, shaking her head.

  As I’m mulling this over, a flash of inspiration strikes, and I look up as though a bolt of lightning has touched my head. That’s it…the last piece of the map. I know what it should be.

  My home.

  We get to the bottom of the stairs where a long workbench of two plywood planks resting across three sawhorses stretches along the far wall. All kinds of tools are hung up on display, and shelves with little containers of nails and screws and bolts and washers fill the back side of the workbench.

  “Here we are!” Helena announces. “The shop. Come on, let’s empty out all our loot and see what we’ve got.”

  We dump the contents of our shopping bags out onto the rough surface and spread all the pieces around.

  My eyes catch a fake amethyst pendant. “Ooh, I love this color,” I say, and hold up the stone against the leather cord from another necklace.

  “Let’s get to work,” Helena says.

  We begin cutting and pulling apart all of the jewelry we bought, separating beads and chains and stones and shells and cords into piles, then rearranging and putting them back together again.

  “Who says making your own stuff isn’t better than buying designer stuff?” Helena asks out loud, waving a pair of pliers as if punctuating her point. She cuts some lengths of thread and fishing line and hands me a needle and scissors.

  “This is amazing,” I reply. “Making exactly what I want, how I want it.”

  “And it’s relaxing, too,” Helena adds.

  “Yes, not exactly retail therapy, but therapeutic all the same.” It’s true—working with my hands like this, designing, being creative feels invigorating, liberating somehow.

  “So, what’s up with you and Damian?” Helena asks.

  “What do you mean?” I can feel the heat of a blush coloring my cheeks. I can’t ever seem to not show how I feel. It’s becoming pretty annoying.

  “What do you mean?” Helena repeats, mocking me with a grin. “Come on. I know you like him, and you’ve been spending a lot of time together. So, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing is going on,” I stammer, my cheeks growing hotter.

  “But you do like him, right?”

  It feels like all the air in my lungs is spiraling out of me in this bubbling rush, and suddenly, talking like this feels good.

  “Yes, I like him!” I shout, louder than I intended. “Satisfied?”

  “Yes!” Helena yelps gleefully. “I knew it! So, what are we going to do about it?” Her conspiratorial we makes my insides feel even fizzier.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think there’s anything I can do. He was my brother’s best friend. He was in the car with Nate when he died. It’s a little weird, isn’t it? I’m sure Damian, let alone everyone else in this tiny town, would think so—would think I’m totally creepy for even considering liking him that way.”

  “I think you’re looking at this all wrong,” Helena begins. “I mean, the fact that Damian was Nate’s best friend means that he and you share this special bond, this closeness and connection that he can’t have with anyone else. Except, maybe, your parents.”

  “Who hate him,” I break in.

  “Right. Well, anyway, what I was saying is that you need to look at this tie between the two of you as a good thing.”

  I pause and let Helena’s words sink in. Maybe she has a point. What if I’ve been so freaked out by the idea of the very thing that has actually brought Damian and me together?

  “So what do I do?” I ask her.

  Her brow crinkles up as she contemplates my question. “This I need to think on,” she tells me. “But we’ll come up with a plan.” She pauses. “Hey, whatever happened with the London thing?”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “I sent off the application. I should hear in the next couple of weeks.”

  “Your mom finally gave in, huh?” she asks, smiling. “See, I told you! It always works out in the end.”

  Yeah right, I think. But I nod in pretend agreement and force a grin to my face.

  By the time I have to leave, we have gorged ourselves on chocolate chip cookies, and Helena has a new pair of feather-and-beaded earrings. I leave with a leather cuff bracelet with the purple stone and some shells stitched around it and a somewhat hopeful feeling. Helena and I have agreed to meet at the diner tomorrow afternoon to talk about the art show. I’m supposed to call Damian when I get home and ask him to come, too. Helena says that when she sees us together, she’ll be able to get a better read on the situation and come up with a strategy. We’ll see. The whole idea of, well, any of this makes my stomach turn cartwheels and kick like an angry gymnast.

  As I reach my house, I meet the mailman at the foot of the driveway. Accepting the small bundle of letters, I thank him, and walk my bike into the garage. I’m thumbing through the envelopes, mostly bills for my parents and junk mail, when I see a yellow envelope poking up from the bottom of the stack. There’s a strange blue stamp with a lady in profile on it.

  “What’s this?” I mutter aloud.

  I slide the envelope to the top and my heart skips a whole lot of beats when I see my name printed on it. And a London, United Kingdom, return address. It feels as though a whole garden of butterflies has been released into my gut. Could it be from the art school? Already? It’s early. Hungrily, I tear open the envelope and pull out the small sheaf of papers tucked inside.

  The letter begins:

  Dear Ms. Bradley,

  We are pleased to offer you a place in the King’s School of Art Summer Program.

  Oh my gosh. I got in. I freaking got in! I fall back against my dad’s Volkswagen. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe they thought my drawings were good enough and let me in. My eyes fall down across the rest of the letter. And the engines on the jet I was about to fly to the moon, to London, to wherever, flicker and die as I read the last line:

  Kindly include the enclosed permission form signed by a parent or legal guardian with requisite registration materials.

  Crash-landing. A signed permission form. How am I supposed to achieve that? It would take nothing less than sheer magic. I wonder if Ms. Calico could sign it for me. No, the note says it must be signed by a parent or legal guardian. Suddenly, I feel like a deflated balloon. The registration forms are due back by March 15. That leaves me about two months to figure this one out. I fold up the letter and place it back inside the envelope, and when I get upstairs to my bedroom, I place the envelope at the bottom of my backpack.

  “Rest safely,” I whisper. “I’ll figure out how to get to London. Promise.”

  Helena and I are seated on one side of the red Formica table, across from Damian. He’s twisting a straw wrapper around his finger, over and over, and not looking at either of us. I’ll admit it, I took care this afternoon as I got ready to come to the diner. I put cream in my hair to flatten the frizzy flyaways, I brushed it until it was glossy and smooth. I dabbed some lip gloss onto my lips and I chose my favorite blue jeans and the ocean blue sweater with the delicate navy embroidery around the neck. I wanted to look good. Here we are, though, and
Damian won’t even make eye contact. Very glad I went to all that effort.

  “So, I thought we should figure out how we’re going to pull off this art show party, how to get permission to enter Nate’s stuff, and how to advertise it,” Helena begins brightly.

  Damian is silent, sullen.

  “Well, I was thinking you could ask Ms. Calico, Helena,” I say, “and I’ll ask Mrs. Brown.” The principal of LGHS is infamous for saying no to student-organized activities, and she was certainly no fan of my brother’s. I’m going to have to figure out a way to appeal to her soft side. If she has one.

  “That sounds like a good plan,” Helena replies, looking uncertainly at Damian. Still he says nothing. “So, Damian, what do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” he grumbles. “Do whatever you want.”

  “Well, I would love to know what you think,” Helena continues, cocking her head like a bird examining a juicy-looking worm. “I mean, you worked with Nate, and besides, your paintings will be such an important part of the show, you should have a voice in this.”

  Damian looks up and squints, as though he’s trying to see inside of Helena. Then he looks at me. “Okay,” he starts slowly. “I was thinking that maybe we could ask Ms. Calico if we could do it on February eighth.”

  “The anniversary,” I say softly. Damian nods and looks at me, his gray eyes piercing. I return his nod. “That’s it. I’ll ask first thing tomorrow.”

  “Wait, the anniversary of what?” Helena asks, confused.

  “Of the day Nate died,” I tell her gently.

  “Oh…I’m sorry,” she mumbles.

  “No, it’s fine,” I reassure her.

  “Great. Then we’ll just have to make posters calling for submissions and advertising the date.”

  Damian and I both start at Helena’s words. “Call for submissions?” I ask.

  “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s already open to whoever wants to show their art. Don’t you think we should encourage everyone to submit stuff?” she says.

  I stop and think about it. She’s right. The whole point of doing this is to give Nate the opportunity to be recognized for what he made. Shouldn’t everyone get that chance?

  “Cool,” Damian says, and I look at him, surprised.

  “Yeah, great,” I add.

  “Okay, it’s a plan. See you guys tomorrow!” Helena slides out of the booth and stands up. She winks at me and, shaking her hips, makes her way out of the diner.

  Damian shifts in his seat and stirs his coffee.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask, peering at him. His forehead is creased with lines and he looks ill at ease.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he answers tersely.

  “You sure? You look kind of, I don’t know, upset.”

  Damian drops the spoon into his coffee and sinks back against the vinyl seat. He folds his hands together and picks up his head to meet my eyes. “You know, I’m just kind of nervous.”

  “You mean about showing your stuff?”

  “Yes. And the whole thing with Nate—marking the anniversary, showing his work. People are going to…I don’t know…look at me; I’m the guy who killed his best friend. What right do I have to be showing his art?”

  “Damian, you didn’t kill him,” I say quietly. I don’t know how to make this better. I don’t know how to take away the hurt and the guilt, how to soothe it. “He was the one behind the wheel. He was the one being reckless. And, he could have killed you, too. Then what?” I can’t seem to catch my breath. “Then what?” I repeat, louder. “I never would have found out about his art. And I…” my voice trails off.

  “And you what?” he asks, looking hard at me.

  “And I would never have gotten to know you, Damian. And I don’t know how I would have survived this year without you.”

  “Really?” he asks, his voice heavy with disbelief.

  “Yes, really,” I reply, feeling embarrassed and, somehow, excited at the same time.

  “That’s good,” Damian says slowly. “Because I don’t know how I would have survived without you, either.”

  “Really?” Now excitement is definitely gaining on my embarrassment.

  “Yup.” Damian is looking at me intently, his silver eyes glinting. “Hey, want to get out of here?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I do.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  My heart is thumping as fast and hard as a jackrabbit runs. We pay our bill and get up together. Damian stands back to let me walk ahead of him, and I can’t help but think, He’s a gentleman, and I can’t help but sigh. I’m such a dork. We cross Union Street in silence, cut diagonally across the county road, and begin heading down toward the park, neither of us saying a word.

  Damian matches my pace and stays close to me, his arm brushing my shoulder every so often. With each touch, as light as a breath, waves of electricity swim up my arm, through my chest and my belly. His black trench coat can’t be nearly warm enough. Icicles hang from branches, clear and jagged, as though all the boughs of all the trees are weeping. I want to take Damian’s hand, but something stops me. Once again, I find we are so close, only a hairbreadth stands between us, but it might as well be the Grand Canyon. I wish I knew what he was thinking.

  Finally, we reach the snowy, muddy swath of grass that surrounds the playground and leads out to the baseball diamond. My breath fogs out in front of me in puffs. Damian stares straight ahead, marching forward, ignoring the belching, slippery mud beneath our boots. Unexpectedly, as I take a step, my foot slides in the wet muck and I start to fall down, when something grabs hold of my waist and hauls me back to my feet. I’m pressed against Damian, and he is looking down at me, grinning.

  “Careful there,” he tells me gently.

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  His arm is still around my waist, and when I turn away to keep walking, he keeps it there. I want to lean into him, but my whole being feels electrified, and I can’t help but keep ramrod straight. I wouldn’t be surprised if my hair were standing on end, too. And all I can think is Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh. We continue tramping across the field, Damian’s arm warm and heavy around me. Finally, we reach the playground, where the tire swing sways slightly in the frosty breeze.

  “I used to come here with Nate,” I say quietly.

  “I know,” Damian answers. “It’s in your map. Want to swing?” I nod, and Damian unwraps his arm. In an instant, I miss his warmth. He stretches his long leg over the lip of the tire and hops on. “Come on!” he calls.

  I quickly scramble up onto the tire and sit across from him, the cold of the chains whistling through my woolen gloves. Damian kicks his legs back and holds us poised, ready, then lifts his feet, and the tire swings crazily, tilting and spinning in wild circles. Damian is smiling a wide smile that is as unburdened and light as a child’s. He throws his head back and laughs a deep belly laugh. The lurching of the swing loosens something inside of me, and I can’t help but giggle madly, too.

  Finally, as the tire starts to lose its momentum and we begin to slow down, Damian drops his feet and lets them drag us to a halt. We stay in place, knees just brushing.

  “So,” he says.

  “So,” I search for something to say, “I have news.” I feel buoyed by the wild freedom of the swing, by his closeness, by the memory of his arm around my waist.

  “What’s your news?” Damian asks, eyeing me keenly, a small grin playing at his lips.

  “I got accepted to the summer art school.”

  “The one in London?”

  As I nod yes, Damian lets out a loud whoop. “That’s amazing!” he shouts, and reaches across to grab me in a hug.

  Oh my gosh, he smells good, like some exotic but comforting spice, nutmeg or cardamom. Slowly, Damian lowers his head to mine and I think my chest might explode, my heart is tap-dancing so quickly.

  He’s going to kiss me.

  I’ve imagined this and now that it’s really happening, I am like a block of wood. I can’t move. I
can’t breathe. I close my eyes just as the lightest feather of a breath, then lips, brush over my lips. His breath is sweet and the taste of coffee barely lingers in his mouth. I feel as though my whole body has turned to liquid, into a river of millions of droplets, rushing apart and then back together.

  “You have the softest lips,” he whispers as he pulls back to look at me.

  “So do you,” I murmur. Oh, was that a stupid thing to say? I turn my face into his jacket and breathe in his scent.

  “Hey, are you okay?” he asks.

  I straighten up and nod. “Fine. Better than fine, actually.” I feel shy all of a sudden.

  “Good,” Damian says, a satisfied grin spreading over his face. “So, how about London? When do you leave?”

  “I don’t think I’ll be going, I’m afraid.” I sigh and scuff my boots against the ground, letting the tire rock back and forth.

  “Your mom?” Damian prods.

  “Yeah. I need to get her to sign a permission form. And as we all know, that’s about as likely to happen as Mr. Wyatt’s horses growing wings,” I say sarcastically.

  “Well, we need to strategize. There has to be a way to get you to London.” Damian’s brow wrinkles in concentration.

  “Unless I can get my dad to sign it in his zombie-like state, it’s never going to happen for me. Unless…” I have an idea. I’m certain it’s a bad one, but it could work.

  “Unless what?” Damian asks eagerly.

  “Unless I sign the form myself.”

  “What do you mean?” Damian’s confusion is evident, scrawled all across his face, etched into his eyes.

  “I mean, I could forge her signature.”

  “But then what? What happens when it’s time to go?”

  “Then I just go.” A cocky sureness is growing inside me. I could do this. I could do it and get away with it. Just leave and finally slip out from underneath my mother’s controlling thumb.

  “Cor, I don’t know. I don’t think—”