A Map of the Known World

by Lisa Ann Sandell

  I don’t doubt that tomorrow everything will go back to the way it has always been, but for one night, to come together like this feels like a miracle. “Thank you, Nate,” I whisper.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find Rachel standing before me. “Hi,” I say.

  “Hey,” she replies, then turns to my parents. “Hello, Mrs. Bradley. Hello, Mr. Bradley.”

  My mom and dad greet Rachel, then wander off to look at the rest of the art.

  “This is really great, Cor,” Rachel says. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thanks,” I return. “I am just so happy it all worked out okay.”

  Another voice interrupts. “It really did.”

  Julie Castor, Nate’s ex-girlfriend, has come up beside me. Her green eyes are thickly lined and her blonde hair hangs limply around her face. “Hey,” she says. “I just—I just wanted to thank you for doing this. I knew about Nate, his art. And one of the things that I just couldn’t deal with was how he hid it. How he acted like such a total—” she stops.

  “Jerk?” I fill in.

  “Yes,” Julie looks at me gratefully. “And all the time he had this amazing talent and wouldn’t do anything about it. It drove me crazy.”

  “I can imagine,” I tell her.

  “Well,” she says, “I’m glad you finally got his stuff out in the open. It should be.”

  “Yeah,” I say. How strange and wonderful this evening has been.

  Once more, I try to find Damian, and as the crowd thins, and people begin filing out of the room, I realize that he’s gone. He left without saying good-bye.

  I reach my parents and tell them that I want to go home. Ms. Calico stops us on the way out, and says to my parents, “You must be so proud. Cora has so much potential. I’m so pleased you’re allowing her to explore it in London this summer.”

  My mouth goes dry and I look at my mother. She smiles cryptically, and says, “Well, we’re very grateful to you for encouraging her. And for allowing her to include Nate’s artwork in the show. Thank you.” They shake hands all around, and as we walk through the school building, I hope Damian will materialize. He doesn’t, and my parents shepherd me to the car.

  Once we’re all seat-belted in and on our way home, I speak up from the backseat, “So, what happened?”

  “When I found the envelope,” my mother begins, “I realized that we were on the verge of losing you, too. Or, that somehow, somewhere along the way, I already had lost you. Then your father and I had a very long and frank talk. It wasn’t easy, and the discussion we’re going to have won’t be easy, either. But if this family is going to stay together, it is necessary.”

  I sink back in my seat and mull over my mother’s words. I don’t expect our family and all our problems will be fixed by tomorrow, but I expect things will be better.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The stink of greasy pizza fills the house. There was a long night of talking and explaining and crying and pizza. My parents and I got to know each other again, and we reached a point of understanding, I think. They lifted the 4:00 P.M. curfew, they told me I could see Damian, and they said they would discuss whether I could go to London and decide before March 15, when the permission form is due. It’s not like before Nate died, it never will be; there will always be a hole in our family. But now, it feels like all three of us have come inside, together, from the cold.

  I am in bed and my face feels tight from dried tears. I take out my cell phone and dial Damian’s number. I can’t wait to tell him what happened. How everything changed in one night, and that I’m allowed to see him, and we don’t have to hide or sneak anymore.

  The phone doesn’t ring; it goes straight to voice mail. I try again. Same result. I dial a third time and receive the voice mail once again. What is going on? I start to feel nervous.

  I turn out my light and try willing myself to sleep. It doesn’t work. Why did he leave the art show early? Did something happen to him? Is he upset? Did he decide that the whole thing was a mistake? He called me his girlfriend this morning, though. Could he regret that? I toss around in my sheets. I won’t know anything until I see him in school tomorrow.

  When I arrive at school, I immediately spy his blue El Camino in the parking lot. He’s here, so he must be okay, I think with relief. After I chain up my bike, I run into the building, fighting through the slow-moving crowd of students toward Damian’s locker. No sign of him. I duck my head into his homeroom and spy him crumpled into a desk in the corner of the classroom, his ever-present black trench coat wrapped around him. Like a shroud, I think.

  “Damian!” I cry.

  Dully, he looks up at me. I wave my hand, hoping he’ll smile and leap to his feet, run to the classroom door, and swallow me in a hug. He doesn’t stir from his seat. I feel unsteady, uncertain. I’m not sure how I fit now. I start to enter the classroom. All I know is that I have to understand why Damian won’t speak to me. I have to know why he left the show early last night and why he will barely even look at me. What happened.

  Yet, two steps in, a booming voice rings out, “Miss, I don’t know what you’re doing in here, but you’d better have a note from the principal saying you’ve been promoted to the junior class and you’re supposed to be in my classroom now.” The very tall, very infamously mean Mr. Cross has risen from his desk at the front of the room and is glaring at me crossly. How appropriate. I dart a pleading look in Damian’s direction, then bow my head, and mumble an apology and back out of the room.

  I hear the footsteps behind me before Mr. Cross’s thunderous voice calls, “Mr. Archer, I suggest you return to your seat.”

  “What is it, Cora?” Damian is standing before me, his eyes dull and wary.

  “Damian,” I say, and I raise my hand to touch his cheek, but Damian takes a step back.

  “What is it?” he repeats.

  “I—you left early last night. Without saying good-bye. What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. I just didn’t feel like hanging around any longer.”

  “But why? I was looking for you. And you didn’t even say good-bye.” I sound pathetic. I know I do. Plaintive and wimpy and lame. I can’t help it. I am so confused. “Did I do something?” I ask.

  “You didn’t do anything,” he says. “Nothing happened. I just didn’t—I don’t—” Damian stops and stares at a point above my head.

  “What?” I press.

  “Cora, I don’t think we should be together.”

  It’s as though someone has released all the fury of a raging sea on me. I am knocked down and battered. “Why not?” I can barely whisper.

  He takes a deep breath and lets out a loud sigh, as if he is about to explain. Then he seems to think better of it and says, “Look, I’ve got to go. See you around.”

  And before I can say a word, Damian has spun around on the heel of his boot and marched back into the classroom. I stand still as a statue. Frozen like petrified wood. I don’t understand, tears pricking at my eyes. None of this makes any sense.

  The bell rings. Now, not only have I been summarily dumped in the hallway outside of Mr. Cross’s classroom, but I’m late. I begin to jog toward my homeroom and all the while trying to puzzle out the reasoning behind Damian’s behavior.

  At lunch I sit with Helena and Cam and describe our exchange in the hallway.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  Helena says, “Maybe he was upset that his parents didn’t come to see his artwork.”

  “No, that doesn’t seem like Damian, and besides, he knew his mom had to work,” I respond.

  “Well, maybe he was intimidated by your parents,” Helena guesses. She turns to Cam. “Don’t you think that could be why he’s acting so weird, if he thinks Cora’s parents still hate him?”

  Cam appears to consider her suggestion, running his fingers through his hair, then shakes his head. “Why don’t you just go talk to him and stop guessing?”

  “Huh. That’s a good idea,” I say, picking at
a loose thread on my sleeve. I crane my neck, hoping to spot him in the cafeteria. There’s Rachel, perched at the end of the Nasty table, Elizabeth by her side. A sense of regret, of loss rips at me, but I am glad Rachel has Elizabeth. As I look around, I notice that many of the kids who were at the art gallery show last night are here in the cafeteria. Each returned to his or her usual group of friends. Maybe nothing good lasts, I think.

  Enough. I’m going to find Damian today and I’m going to figure this out.

  After school, I look for him again, but he must have slipped out early. The most obvious place to look for him now is at his house. I haven’t ridden my bike there before, and it’s quite a ways away, but I take a deep breath and resolve to find him.

  I’m coasting down the county road, when I spot the El Camino, unmistakable with its racing stripe, pulled off to the side by the park. I quickly turn my bike into the park grounds parking lot and leave it on the sidewalk. Then I begin trudging through the snowy field, regretting not wearing my waterproof boots, following another pair of footprints toward the playground. There, I find Damian seated on the tire swing, the chain twisting and untwisting in rapid circles.

  “Hey,” I say, out of breath from tramping through the snow.

  Damian jumps, visibly startled. “What are you doing here?” he asks. He doesn’t look at me, his eyes are downcast, and his cheek muscle twitches.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” I reply. All the hurt I feel is pouring out in my voice, and I hate it. I hate that my emotions are so obvious.

  “What about?”

  “Damian, come off it. What is going on with you? What is your problem?” I stomp around the tire swing until I am directly in front of him, and he has to look at me. “One minute you say I’m your girlfriend, and then eight hours later you leave the show and stop talking to me? Come on. I deserve to know what happened,” I snap. This anger feels good, a refreshing change from sadness.

  Damian exhales loudly, then motions for me to sit on the swing across from him. Cautiously, I climb onto the tire and keep very still, so my knees won’t brush his.

  “You’re right,” he says softly. “But I don’t know how to tell you.”

  “Just say it, Damian. Because I’m hurting so badly right now, I don’t know how to breathe.”

  His face crumples, and for an instant I think he might cry. But he straightens and grips the chains so tightly, his knuckles turn white. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmurs. “I just…”

  “Just what?” I prod.

  “I just saw you with your parents and didn’t want to get in the way. You should be with them. You guys should be talking and working things out. And I know how they feel about me. I can’t get in the way of you guys making up.”

  “That’s it?” I ask, astonished.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” he replies bitterly.

  “Oh, Damian, you idiot.” I begin to laugh.

  “Look,” he starts angrily, and stands, swinging one leg over the rim of the tire.

  “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you an idiot. It’s just—look, I forged my mom’s signature on the London form, and they found out. You were totally right. I shouldn’t have done it, but in the end, it helped all of us to see that our family was broken. And we need to fix it, and make it better,” I explain.

  “Great,” Damian says. “I’m happy for you. I really am.” He extracts his other leg from the tire and begins to head back in the direction of the parking lot.

  “Would you wait a second, please?” I shout at him. Slowly, almost unwillingly, Damian turns around. “What I was trying to say was that my mom finding out that I forged her signature made her realize that she’d been unfair. Completely psychotic, actually. To me, and to you, too. We want to try to work things out, to make our family right again. And I want you to be a part of this. They want you there, too.”

  Damian is staring at me uncertainly now, as if he doesn’t know what to believe. “I don’t—I don’t understand. They don’t hate me anymore?”

  “Well, I don’t think they actually ever hated you. I think they are confused and you can’t just turn feelings on and off, but they realize they were wrong. And they want to try to make it up to you. And to me. Would you give us a chance?” I ask.

  “A chance,” Damian repeats softly.

  I nod and feel a flutter of hope in my chest. “Please?”

  He walks toward me, and I rise, trying to step out of the tire, but my legs get tangled and I trip, falling forward over the tire.

  Damian runs over and catches me. “You do this a lot,” he whispers fondly.

  “I need you here to catch me,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” I ask.

  “Okay.” And Damian leans down and plants a gentle kiss on my lips.

  I wish I could say we all lived happily ever after. I can’t. But I can say we lived. Our love for Nate lives, and he’s left us this piece of himself in his art; it was his gift to us. We know him now through his art, and I can take comfort in that.

  I guess the thing about high school is, it’s the moment when you start to cross from being a kid to being an adult, and this journey to know yourself begins. Nate’s journey ended too early, and I thought I had to run away to some far-off land to start mine. But, for now, it seems to me that I have enough to explore right here. There’s a whole continent to discover in myself, and I know that it’s love—love for my parents, my friends, my brother, and my art—that will guide me. Love will be my map.

  Acknowledgments

  I am so grateful to everyone who had a hand in bringing A Map of the Known World into being—from those who actually worked on the book to those who supported me as I wrote it.

  This book would not be possible without two people: Meredith Kaffel, my very wise and patient agent, who is very much responsible for drawing Cora out of me and helping me to shape her world; and Aimee Friedman, my insightful and brilliant editor, who helped me to craft this story with her astute pen. To both of you, your unflagging enthusiasm and deft eyes, your fortitude and love and nourishment mean the world to me and make me far less neurotic. Thank you both so much.

  Additionally, I must thank my wonderful family at Scholastic, all of whom have given so generously of their time, talents, and friendship to me over the years, including: Becky Amsel, Stephanie Anderson, Tara Bermingham, Duryan Bhagat-Clark, Anamika Bhatnagar, Alan Boyko, Susan Jeffers Casel, Margaret Coffee, Jody Corbett, Billy DiMichele, Kathleen Donohoe, Brandi Dougherty, Sheila Marie Everett, Nancy Feldman, Sue Flynn, Jacquelyn Fortier, Leslie Garych, Jacky Harper, Dianne Hess, Jazan Higgins, Roz Hilden, Annette Hughes, Cecily Kaiser, Marijka Kostiw, Carolyn Longest, Grace Maccarone, Nick Martin, Ed Masessa, John Mason, Siobhan McGowan, Charisse Meloto, Suzanne Murphy, Brenda Murray, Nikki Mutch, Stephanie Nooney, Arlene Robillard, Dick Robinson, Mark Seidenfeld, Lizette Serrano, Joy Simpkins, Alan Smagler, Jill Smith, Janet Speakman, Tracy van Straaten, Adrienne Vrettos, Elizabeth Whiting, Dawn Zahorik, and so many others.

  Also at Scholastic, I’d like to extend my gratitude to Karyn Browne, a kindred spirit; Rachel Coun, for her immense generosity, support, and friendship; David Saylor, a marvelous teacher and guide; Ellie Berger, whose faith in me has meant so much; Elizabeth Parisi, whom I thank for her beautiful design and for her friendship; David Levithan, an incomparable friend who has supported and encouraged me for so many years; and Ken Geist, who has been a mentor in every sense of the word and a dear friend.

  I would also like to thank Charlotte Sheedy; Joe and the folks at Vintage; Kristin Dumont; Tamar Hermesh; Margaret Jones; Joan Konner and Al Perlmutter; Edric Mesmer; Eric Mortensen; Jackie Parker; Alison Pollet; Andrea and Steve Popofsky; Rhoda Sherbell and my friends at the Art Students League of New York; Jerry Weiss; Sarah Gelt; Molly D. Leibovitz; my parents, Nancy and Lionel Sandell; Sharon Sandell; Sarah Trabucchi—dearest friend, thank you for reading this manuscript over and over and over; and Liel—how can I ever repay you for all the push
ing, reading, editing, supporting, and loving me? I’ll be forever grateful.

  About the Author

  Lisa Ann Sandell is the author of Song of the Sparrow, which was a Book Sense Summer 2007 Pick, as well as The Weight of the Sky, which was named one of the New York Public Library’s Books for the Teen Age. Music and art have always been an important part of Lisa’s life; she studies sculpture and drawing and plays several instruments. Lisa works as a children’s book editor in New York City. You can visit her at her Web site: www.lisaannsandell.com.

  ALSO BY LISA ANN SANDELL

  THE WEIGHT OF THE SKY

  SONG OF THE SPARROW

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2009 by Lisa Ann Sandell

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available

  First edition, April 2009

  Jacket Illustration © 2009 by Tim O’Brien, with sculptural elements taken from the work of Leo Sewell

  Jacket Design by Elizabeth B. Parisi

  E-ISBN: 978-0-545-22979-1