A Map of the Known World (15 page)

I feel as though all the breath has been knocked from me. I’m literally shaking. I can’t stop trembling, my hands, my legs, all of me. There is so much hate and hurt in here, and I can’t live with it anymore. I curl up on my bed, boots and clothes and all and feel my thoughts grow cold and still. I have to get out of here.

Sometime in the middle of the night I wake up. At first I lie on my back and look for stars outside my window. But the sky is cloudy and I can’t see any, just a sliver of moonlight. Then I sit up and turn on the lamp beside my bed. I pull my sketchbook from my backpack and begin flipping through the pages. This map of all that I know, all the places I’ve known my whole life…well, it’s small and large at once. There are acres and acres of fields stretching out, yawning for miles to meet an endless sky. There’s so much space, but everything feels so close. Here in the middle of this country, where we are locked in by land and more land on all sides, hemmed in by roads and fences and little white and yellow houses with their blue and red shutters and all these people who have lived in this tiny town their whole lives, whose parents and grandparents have lived here all their lives. My parents and grandparents were all born here. No one could belong here more than me.

So why do I feel like I don’t fit?

If I run away to some far-off place, will that sever my connection to Lincoln Grove? If someday I don’t live here anymore, will I stop belonging altogether? And can it even matter if I don’t feel like I belong? Will I ever know the answers to these questions? Something tells me it may be a long time before I figure it out. For now, though, this house doesn’t feel much like a home.

W
hen I ask Mrs. Brown, the principal, if we can feature Nate’s art and have a special gala opening at the start of the art show, the crease between her eyes deepens until it’s a small canyon. She twists her face into the sternest grimace. But as I explain that it would still be a chance for all the students of LGHS to show their artwork—not just Damian and me and Nate—the frown lines smooth out, and she gives the most imperceptible nod.

“All right,” she says. “I’m going to give you permission to do this in Ms. Calico’s art studio. But I don’t want any funny business. Clean and quiet, you understand, Ms.
Bradley
?”

The emphasis on my last name wasn’t lost on me. I got it. No Nathaniel antics. Not that I’d go in for that anyway. It still astonishes me how so many teachers and kids lump me together with my brother.

I report all this to Helena as we huddle in the library during lunch. She just tosses her head. “Witch. Forget about her. At least we got the green light. Now, we paper the place.”

“Huh?” I ask, confused.

“Posters. We’re going to wallpaper the school with posters. Only the posters have to be art, too. You know, to incite, to excite. It’ll be awesome. What are you doing after school? Can you come to my place to plan?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I’m grounded for life, since my mom caught me with Damian yesterday, so—”

“Wait,
what
!” Helena interrupts with a squeal. The librarian, Ms. Sheldon, glances over and shushes us loudly.

“Easy there, you might break every single pane of glass in a five-mile radius,” I tell Helena wryly.

“You are clearly holding something
huge
back, and I don’t like it! You’d better tell me everything. And don’t even think about leaving one single little detail out.”

“Well, I was getting to that, but Mrs. Brown seemed like a priority.”

“Lady, it would seem your priorities are not straight. Spit it out!” Helena is anxiously twisting a lock of buttercup hair around her index finger. It’s like her whole being is carried away by her excitement and energy and curiosity—about everything, anything. She is electricity.

“Okay, well…we kissed.”

There, I just say it and sort of enjoy the blazing heat that engulfs my ears and neck and cheeks.

“Seriously?” she shouts, earning her another glare from the librarian.

“Helena, quiet! Yes, seriously,” I reply.

“Wait. No. This is most unsatisfactory. Start from the beginning,” she instructs me.

“You left us at the diner, and, I don’t know, somehow we ended up walking to the park together.”

“To the park!” she screeches, then quickly lowers her voice. “What next? What did he say? What did you say?”

“I’ll get to it if you give me a chance,” I tell her. “We were walking, and I sort of slipped, and he put his arm around me, and he just…kept it there. Then we got on the tire swing—”

“The tire swing?” Helena sighs. “That’s so romantic!”

“Will you let me finish?” I wait for her to nod. “So, we were swinging, and then he just sort of leaned over and kissed me.”

“And it was amazing?” she prods.

“Yes, it was amazing,” I reply, and there is nothing I can do to peel off the goofy grin that is plastered to my lips. “He smells so good.”

“That’s the best, isn’t it?” Helena says. “When they smell so good, and you just want to stick your nose against their neck and stay there?”

I nod in agreement. Not that I have much experience. Beyond yesterday, none, actually. But it did feel good to be close to Damian like that, breathing him in.

Helena is staring off into space, and she has her own silly smile stuck to her mouth, and I imagine she is thinking of Cam. I don’t tell her all the things Damian and I spoke of; it’s
not for her to hear or to know. Those words are between Damian and me, and maybe Nate.

“Anyway, when I got home, my mom came after me, because she saw Damian walk me up to our driveway, and she completely flipped out. It was like Antietam. Awful. So, I don’t know if I should be traipsing around town after school today.”

“Yikes,” Helena says.

“Yeah. Thanks,” I reply.

“Well, if you’re grounded, should I come over to your house?” she asks.

“You’re willing to risk it?” I say disbelievingly.

Helena flashes a cocky grin, then bolts as the bell rings. I watch her as she leaves. Everything about her is fluid as a river. Her messy hair, her xylophone voice, the strokes of her paintbrush. Even her camouflage army jacket hangs loose, flowing like ribbons.

While everyone else has treated me like I have a mildly contagious rash, Helena just swept in and nursed me back; she makes me feel normal. And what a wonderful feeling that is.

We’re sitting in my bedroom, Helena at my desk, thumbing through my copy of
The Odyssey,
while I’m stretched out on the floor, sketch pad and pencil in hand.

“So, what do we write?” I ask.

“Something that will make everyone want to come see what’s
going on, and everyone who has some kind of artwork stashed in their back pocket want to come show it,” Helena says as she flips the atlas to a page showing a map of France. “What if we make a collage of pictures of Paris or famous museums or something like that?” she suggests.

“Sounds like a good idea to me.”

We set to work, cutting photos from the unread, unopened
National Geographic
magazines that have been languishing in a wicker basket in our living room, pasting them down onto sheets of poster board, then filling in the white spaces with charcoal sticks, colored pencils, and tempera paints.

“So, how did you meet Cam?” I ask.

“Cam? Well, I don’t know. I’ve always known him. We’ve been best friends since we were little kids. Like, since first grade. And one day, things just changed.”

“Really? I mean…” I struggle for the right words. “How did that happen?” So often, when I’m around other kids, I feel at a loss for words, like language just escapes me. Then the wrong thing comes out. I never used to feel this way with Rachel…until recently, that is. When I think about how Helena and I came together, I can’t help but wonder at how, even from the start, I felt perfectly comfortable around her. She never made me feel like she would judge me, or if I said the wrong thing, she would tease me or be embarrassed by me—or hate me—for it.

“You know, I don’t remember how it happened. But one day,
when we were in eighth grade, we were hanging out in my backyard, just sitting under this big old oak tree we have, and he just leaned over and kissed me. And it was perfect.” I imagine she is bathing in her memory; her face has turned a light shade of pink, and she’s lit up and happy. A carnation.

“It wasn’t weird between you two after that?” I ask.

“No. I mean, it was different. Completely different. And not. It was like everything suddenly made sense, you know?” She looks at me earnestly, the dopey glow still lighting her face.

I remember how I felt with Damian at the park, as we sat on the bleachers, our arms around each other. As if, in that short space of a half hour and the few inches of cold metal bleacher between us, all of the shards of this fractured life came hurtling together like the pieces of a kaleidoscope, forming a pattern that actually makes sense. “Maybe,” I reply. “Maybe I do know.”

“It’s like you can get through anything—the ridiculously cruel fights your parents have, the stupid craziness of school—”

“A dead brother,” I interrupt.

“Why not?” she asks ironically, a giggle escaping her.

I giggle, too, and then it becomes totally contagious. We are both doubled over with laughter. We lean into each other and laugh until tears are streaming down our cheeks.

Perfect,
I think.
Just perfect.

Today I feel like I’m floating outside of my body, hovering just on the periphery of life, watching myself feeling so happy. This moment, like a snapshot, will be frozen forever in my memory.

Helena, Damian, and I arrive at school early, a whole hour before the first bell, to tape up the posters that Helena and I painted last night and photocopied in the school office this morning. We are working our way through the corridors, from one end of the school to the other and have a system down—Helena picks a spot, Damian holds the poster in place, Helena rips the masking tape, and I roll each strip into loops and hand them to Damian, who carefully lifts each corner of the poster, places a loop of tape on it, then waves his hand over it, smoothing any creases and bumps.

We work mainly in silence, but every so often, Helena or I will murmur to Damian that the poster he is holding up is crooked, or he complains that his arms are falling asleep if I take too long to pass him a loop of tape. Then he shoots me a crooked grin and hangs his head between his raised arms as if unbearably weary.

“These posters look pretty good,” he admits in a teasing voice. “Even if they are starting to feel like they weigh a ton.”

A
RTISTS
! LGHS
WANTS YOU TO BRING YOUR DRAWINGS,
PAINTINGS, SCULPTURES, AND ANY OTHER WORKS TO A
CELEBRATION OF ART AND LIFE
.
F
EBRUARY
8, 6
O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

“Maybe you should start working out,” I joke.

“Maybe if you weren’t so slow—” I elbow Damian in the ribs, then fall against him laughing. He lets the poster he’s holding fall and wraps his arms around me. He’s so warm and solid. Suddenly I’m the carnation. I can’t imagine feeling brighter or more beautiful. And I can’t believe I could feel more at home anywhere.

“Hey, I hate to break up the lovefest, but the halls are going to start filling up in about ten minutes, so let’s get a move on and try to finish. We only have the D hallway left,” Helena urges, an impish smile playing over her lips.

“Okay, okay,” Damian says with a heavy sigh and a playful shrug of his shoulders. “The lady is a taskmaster.”

His silver eyes are dancing with laughter. I have never seen Damian so light of heart. It is contagious and it is wonderful.

We quickly finish papering the last hall just as the first bell rings. Waves of bodies pour into the D hallway as we gather the leftover posters and rolls of tape. We stand back and watch as, one by one, kids notice the posters and stop and stare, as if trying to puzzle out the answer to some complex math problem.

“Think people will show?” Damian asks, looking down at Helena and me.

“I do,” Helena says with certainty. “For sure.”

“Well, here’s hoping,” I add. Damian reaches over and
squeezes my hand. My stomach flutters nervously. Excitedly. It’s as though a new page is turning over.

Later that afternoon, Damian and I are in the barn, sitting beside each other, staring at my map. Now that I am several feet away from it, my breath catches as I recall the plain board covered with gray smudges I found just half a year ago. Half a year. Time goes so fast. It’s almost a year since—

The map. The pieces of Lincoln Grove spring from the pine surface. The board is shaded over with greens and browns and yellows and blues, from pastel pencils and acrylic paints. The background colors and textures reflect the fields and roads, rivers, woods, creek, and pond. On top of the paints and pastels, I drew in some of the buildings and houses and streets of Lincoln Grove with charcoal and marker. Every single fragment of this town is there, painted and positioned in its proper place.

I’ve highlighted the spots from my list with all sorts of odds and ends: bits of earth, metal, wood, grass, leaves, cotton wool, and fabric. And I’ve drawn the scenes atop these materials with markers and paint. The schools are built of piles of pebbles, the baseball diamond a mat of grass, the Wyatt cornfields yellow flannel. I used moss and leaves for
the park grounds and creek, a standing tree branch at the bend in the county road, blue mylar from a balloon for the swimming pool, cotton stuffing for the skating pond, and a black button strung from a tripod of paper clips for the tire swing. The details are intricate, and although the distances are not to scale, I can truly see my town in it. It is a living thing.

But, there is a hole in the northwest corner, where my house should rest. It gapes at me. I do not know how to make a house that no longer feels like a home. How do I render that?

Then I know. Seashells. Houses that are no longer homes.

I turn to Damian. “Where can I find seashells?” I ask.

“Seashells?” he repeats. He puts his fingers to his temples as he ponders the question. “There are clams in the pond. Would clamshells work?”

“Yes! You’re a genius!” I exclaim, and kiss him roundly on the lips. I pull back quickly, embarrassed by my forwardness.

“I know,” Damian answers smugly. He leans in for another kiss. It’s become completely natural, this kissing business. Still weird to me. But lovely.

“Fancy a trip to the skating pond?” I ask.

“I hear it’s beautiful this time of the year,” he replies. “Let’s go.” Damian extends a hand and pulls me to my feet.

“Beautiful it may be, but do you think we can find clamshells this time of the year? I mean, the pond is frozen over.”

“Maybe we should bring shovels, just in case,” Damian suggests.

“Where are we going to get shovels?” I grumble.

“Not to fear. I have a place,” he replies with a grin. We pile into the El Camino and roar across Union Street, keeping south of the county road. We’re passing houses that don’t look very dissimilar from mine, but some are slightly run-down. Soon, Damian pulls into a driveway. The house is painted a mustard yellow with green shutters, and although the driveway is cracked with weeds sprouting in many places, the house looks well kept.

“Welcome to my humble abode. Now, you stay here,” Damian urges me to stay in the car. But I follow him up the driveway and into the garage anyway.

Clutter. I’ve never seen so many
things
all in one place. It is practically filled to the ceiling, from wall to wall, with stuff. There are naked lamps without shades; there are lamps with shades that have turned brown and yellow with age; there is a pair of wooden chairs with red upholstered seat bottoms littered with holes and tears where the stuffing climbs out; there is a wilted cardboard box with a baseball bat and a collection of various balls—baseballs, basketball, soccer ball, football, tennis balls; there is a mustard yellow stove that is missing a burner; there is a crowd of vases and flowerpots, many of which are chipped and cracked; there is a dirt bike and a lawn mower and a tool bench and shelves of plastic containers holding nuts and screws and nails and bolts. The back wall is lined with a wooden plank to which hooks are nailed, holding up hammers
and mallets and screwdrivers, two kinds of handsaws, and a drill.