A Map of the Known World

by Lisa Ann Sandell

  Damian rockets out of the driveway and speeds off down the street. I turn to watch him go, then open the door, blowing out a relieved breath. I made it. I am really going to have to be much more careful in the future. I cannot risk getting caught.

  I sprint up the steps and into my bedroom. I throw all of my belongings down on the floor, and pull out the drawing tablet and begin to sketch, plotting out my approach to the map. My head is bursting with music and colors and ideas. And when I hear my dad come home, the familiar slam of the door, and tinkle of the ice cubes, I do not feel knotted up inside. When my mother gets home, I join her in the kitchen for dinner. In a halfhearted voice, she asks me how my day was, and I answer in an equally halfhearted way. I guess there will be peace between us tonight, an uneasy peace. I am too busy to worry about it, anyway.

  Chapter Eight

  The week of Homecoming is finally here. The thought of it fills me with a sadness, but the dance, thankfully, strangely, manages to distract me.

  Every night for the last week I’ve had to spend at least an hour on the phone with Rachel, listening to her babble about hairstyles and who is going with whom and flowers and Josh and Josh and Josh.

  Rachel had heard that, oh my gosh, Josh doesn’t have a date. This is good. The soccer guys are going as a group instead. I am very relieved to hear this news, because the notion of listening to Rachel moan about Josh liking another girl would be just unbearable.

  A couple of times, Rachel has asked what I do in the afternoons—poor me, trapped like a prisoner by my mean mom, don’t I get bored? I haven’t told her about the days at Damian’s studio. How we work mostly in comfortable silence, each of us caught up in our own world, in our own work.

  I do not tell her about how much I look forward to going to the Wright barn. How those couple of hours in his studio feel like an escape, a refuge. Nor do I tell Rachel that I think Damian has the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen, that he walks like a cat, that he has the clearest eyes, which seem able to see absolutely everything about me. That he seems to be the loneliest person I’ve ever met, and it breaks my heart. All of these things feel private. Precious. And I don’t want to share them with Rachel. Not yet, anyway.

  I have also neglected to tell Rachel about the application papers for the summer art program that are still lying at the bottom of my backpack. I haven’t told anyone about them; I’m trying my best to push them far from my thoughts. But the application is there, and it weighs on my mind like an anchor. I know the deadline for the application is quickly approaching. I am going to have to talk to my mom about it again soon or give it up.

  Just another week.

  I’m back in Damian’s studio, and I return to the map. I’ve laid out the board flat on the cement floor of the barn. Using the blue plaid blanket as a pad for my knees, I kneel over it, drawing in outlines of the roads and houses, the pond and farms, our school, the park—the whole town—with my charcoal. For the places on my list, I’ve added the scenes I sketched and am dabbing spots of paint, gluing bits of fabric or wood, and pasting down various odds and ends to give these scenes texture, life.

  Damian comes to sit beside me on the blanket. “This is looking really good,” he comments.

  “Really?” I ask, glancing up at him.

  “Yes, really.” He smiles at me, then nudges me with his shoulder. “So, ah, are you going to Homecoming on Saturday?” he asks, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

  Wait—what? Damian Archer has just asked me about the dance? He thinks about dances? I am completely caught off guard. I never would have expected Damian to care about something as school-spirity as Homecoming.

  “Oh. Yeah. Just with Rachel. She kind of twisted my arm. Are you?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.” He grins.

  “Well, what will help you make up your mind?” I ask, desperately hoping I sound cheeky. I feel like my insides are at war: My brain is screaming out, What are you playing at?, while my gut, tingling with hope, whispers, Maybe he’ll ask me to go with him? Maybe? My heart is beating so fast, and I just know a big, red, embarrassing stain is crawling over my cheeks.

  Why do I feel like I’m two different people lately?

  “I don’t know…” Damian suddenly looks serious. “Probably no one will even want me there anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the most popular guy at school these days,” he says, tracing his finger on the dusty floor. “Guys who help their best friends die in a car wreck and then walk away from it aren’t really so sought-after.” He looks at me. “I’m sorry. I mean, I shouldn’t complain about this stuff. Not to you,” he mutters darkly.

  “Hey,” I say, twisting around to face Damian. “It’s okay. I mean, I can’t imagine what it’s like for you. I know it’s got to be hard. He was your best friend.” He won’t meet my gaze. “I can’t imagine what it’s like for you,” I repeat softly. “But I know it’s hard.”

  “Yeah.” Damian stands and brushes off his pants. “Well, thanks, and I’m, uh, sorry.” He lopes off to his workshop corner, covers his ears with headphones, and doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the afternoon.

  When we’re back in his car, Damian still won’t speak. The drive feels like it lasts for hours. Finally, Damian eases the car into my driveway. What do I do? Is he just never going to speak to me again? Do I want him to? I mean, he’s right. Right? Oh, how do I fix this?

  “Hey, Damian,” I speak up, shattering the thick silence. “I hope you’ll come to the dance.”

  I want the driveway to split open and swallow me. I want to die. I can’t get out of this car fast enough. I fumble with the door handle, then finally it opens, and I hop out as quickly as possible. I don’t look back as I run up the path to the front door. I hear the El Camino snarling down the street. I cannot believe I said that to him, I can’t. My face heats up again as I remember the feel of the words on my tongue. I roll them around. I hope you’ll come. Do I? Will he?

  In art class the next day, I continue to draw sketches for my map, and try hard not to look at Damian. When I think about what I said to him, my ears heat up. You could cook eggs on them. “So, Cora,” Ms. Calico says, suddenly coming up behind me, “have you sent in the application yet?” She is a sneaky one.

  “Oh—uh—not yet. I’m almost done, though,” I answer nervously.

  “The deadline is coming up, isn’t it?” Ms. Calico asks pointedly. “I’d hate for you to miss it.”

  “I know. I’m on it.” I’m trying to sound confident. Probably failing miserably.

  “Well, if you want me to look at your portfolio before you send it, I’m happy to,” she offers.

  “Thanks. Yeah, I’ll definitely take you up on that,” I say. I suck.

  I rock back on my stool as Ms. Calico walks away. Why did I just say that? How am I ever going to get out of this mess?

  For now, I’ll ignore it.

  I squint my eyes and peer at the drawing in front of me. I’ve colored in the park meadow and the playground with oil pastels. The children clambering on the tire swing are practically bursting to life. When that was me, when I was one of those little kids, I thought I could do anything.

  “Hey.” Helena’s voice swims from behind me. I whip around to see her staring at me curiously.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I respond.

  “What was all that about?” Helena asks, gesturing to Ms. Calico, whose back is turned to us as she speaks quietly with another student.

  “Oh, nothing,” I groan.

  “Doesn’t sound like nothing,” Helena rejoins.

  “Well, Ms. Calico asked me to apply to one of those summer art programs she told us about on the first day, and I said I would.”

  “That’s amazing!” Helena exclaims, throwing an arm around my neck.

  “Yeah, well, I can’t go,” I say, wriggling uncomfortably out of her grasp.

  “What do you mean? Why not?” Helena asks,
puzzled.

  “It’s in London, and there’s no way my mom will ever let me go.” Something releases in me. It is a relief to finally tell someone about the application.

  “Really? Have you asked?”

  “Yes, actually. And she flipped out.”

  “Maybe your mom will change her mind?”

  “No, I know she won’t. I just know.”

  “Hmmm…This is a tricky one,” Helena says sympathetically. “I’ll think about it and we’ll figure out what you should do.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t waste too much time thinking about it,” I tell her glumly.

  “Hey, cheer up.” Helena is trying to comfort me. It’s futile, but I don’t have the heart to tell her that. She points to the drawing on my easel. “This one is going really well, at least.”

  “I guess so,” I say doubtfully. But the truth is, even if I’m too embarrassed to admit it to Helena, I’m pretty happy with how all of the studies I’ve done so far for the map are turning out. And the map itself is growing more colorful, more alive every day. “How about your painting?” I ask, standing up to examine the canvas on Helena’s easel. It is stunning—an argument of color and texture, flames of orange and red fighting tongues of violet and olive. “This is amazing,” I tell her. “You should exhibit this somewhere.”

  “Well, I’ll let you know when the Chicago Art Institute is banging down my door,” Helena says with a dry grin. “Hey, I meant to ask you, are you going to the Homecoming dance tomorrow night?”

  My gaze flicks to Damian. As usual, he’s completely wrapped up in his painting. We seem to have arrived at an unspoken agreement not to speak to each other in art class. Not to give the other students even a hint of our knowing each other.

  “Yeah. But I don’t have a date or anything,” I reply. “I told my friend Rachel I’d go just to keep her company while she moons over some guy.”

  “Ah, I see.” Helena’s face lights up with a big smile. “Well, I’m glad you’re coming. I’ll be there with Cam.” Cam is her boyfriend. Her very cool, very cute boyfriend, whom I’ve never met, but I’ve seen him wait for her outside of art class. He is dark and handsome, just as arty and beautiful as Helena. I am not surprised that they’re together. I study Helena’s profile. She is gorgeous, with her flowing blonde curls, perfect skin, big blue eyes, and funky style.

  “Nice.” I smile as the bell rings and we begin gathering up our materials. A part of me is wistful—I wish I could tell her how mixed up I feel about Damian. Or just tell her about Damian and his paintings and his studio in the barn and our afternoons there. I wish I could tell her about what I said to him when I got out of his car yesterday. I’m dying to ask if I’ve made a hopeless fool of myself. But I just can’t bring myself to open up to her about him. Especially not here, not when he’s sitting twenty feet away. Oh my gosh.

  “I’ll see you at the dance!” Helena calls, and glides out of the classroom.

  But before the dance comes the football game. Homecoming. I remember asking my dad why a football game was called Homecoming. What about watching two teams scrabble around on a muddy field suggested coming home? His voice would grow soft with patience and take on this warm timbre when he answered my little-kid questions. “Rabbit,” he had explained in a very serious tone, “Homecoming is a celebration for everyone who has ever gone to the school to come home and cheer for the team,” which was why most of the residents of Lincoln Grove came out for the LGHS Homecoming game.

  My family went to the Homecoming game every year. The four of us would huddle together on the bleachers, surrounded by all of our neighbors and friends. We’d share blankets, and my dad always brought a thermos of hot chocolate, which my mom would pass around in steaming cups to keep us warm. I never paid much attention to the game, but the Homecoming parade and the crowning of the court was wonderful. I loved to watch the marching band, anchored by the enormous sousaphones that wrapped around their players, leading the homemade floats. The band would play familiar marches that were rousing and made us clap our hands and cheer, as convertible muscle cars with the previous years’ homecoming courts, the school president, the principal drove past, and the floats constructed by each class would circle slowly around the gravel track that encompassed the football field. Then, once the parade had completed its circuit, the court would be announced, and these girls who looked so glamorous and grown-up, like Barbie dolls, would be called onto the field, presented with red roses and, finally, the sparkling silver crown would be placed on the queen’s inevitably poofy blonde head. It was always raucous. It was always so much fun.

  This year, our family isn’t going. Surprise, surprise. The memory of the four of us sitting, squeezed together, laughing and filled with a warmth in the cold November air squeezes my chest like a vise.

  Yet, the day of the game, something leads me out to the garage to my bike, down the street, and into the high school parking lot. I walk my bike over to the chain-link fence surrounding the football field, and I look up into the bleachers. The same faces are there, families tucked beneath wool blankets, Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate in mittened hands, the black-and-red badger pennants waving in the air. Cheerleaders in their black-and-red uniforms, tiny skirts fluttering in the wind, are bouncing around in front of the stands, leading the cheering of the onlookers. Homecoming used to be the time when I most felt like I belonged—to my family, to this town. I’ve never felt more on the outside than I do today.

  Slowly, I back away from the field, jump on my bike and pump my legs, pushing the pedals up and down and around as fast as I can. I race home, and open my sketch pad to a blank page. Then I take a breath and look at the map over my desk. Today, I’ll draw Kenya, the tall grasses of the Serengeti Plain, a herd of wildebeests drinking from a river. Escape…

  The gym shimmers with flashing strobe lights and gold-and-crimson leaves that dangle from the ceiling on fishing lines. A white vinyl mat painted with more leaves of ocher, yellow, rust, and scarlet has been laid down to protect the basketball court floor from the hundreds of feet.

  I pause in the entryway. It feels like I’ve stepped into a movie. A film about high school. This is one of those soaring music montage scenes, upbeat and uplifting. I gaze around in wonder. This is my first high school dance. It is surreal. Maybe more than a movie it feels like a dream.

  The guys are barely recognizable. Gone are the messy T-shirts, scruffy blue jeans, and raggedy sneakers. They are all dressed up, some in suits, others wearing button-down shirts with ties and khakis. The transformation of the girls, though, is truly incredible. Like exotic fish, they float through the gym, filmy fins of dresses in all colors, some sparkling with sequins and delicate beads, others in flowing chiffon and clinging satin.

  I suck in a breath and turn to Rachel, who is standing beside me looking as excited as I’ve ever seen her. How does she not feel terrified? I’m pretty sure my own terror must be written plainly all over my face. I am certain I do not fit in here. Even in my green dress, which I still love. But I feel like a fraud, a fake. The dress is too good for me. Too pretty.

  I think Rachel senses my anxiety. She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You look great, Cor. Really.”

  I squeeze her hand back and whisper, “Thanks, Rach. So do you.” I glance down at my dress. The grass green silk swishes daintily around my knees. Maybe it will be all right.

  Holding hands, we step farther into the gym. The bass backbeat throbs in my chest, echoing in reverberations through the floor and walls of the gymnasium. Kids are clustered in tight circles, swaying to the music. Some look around themselves self-consciously, checking to see if others are watching them. Others—fewer—look truly enthralled by the music and the dancing. More kids stand in an uneven line ringing the dance floor, looking on wistfully.

  There is such beauty in this room—such hope. It’s almost tangible. And just a little bit, I feel moved, like the gentle stirring of a bow over the strings of a violin. Every day these kids do everyth
ing they can to keep apart, to avoid mixing, but here, on the dance floor, all the colors bleed together, blending like watercolors.

  At the same time, though, I watch as the usual groups cling together, still identifiable in formal wear. And that makes me a little bit sad. The picture is so much prettier without the boundaries of geek and jock and loser.

  “Want to dance?” Rachel asks.

  “Sure,” I answer. We link arms and thread our way through the throng of people and onto the dance floor.

  “It’s so crowded!” I have to shout to be heard over the music. “Look, here’s some space.” I try to guide Rachel over to a hole in the tangle of bodies.

  “No, wait, let’s go farther in,” Rachel says, tugging me in the opposite direction.

  “Why? It’s more packed.”

  “But I can see Josh over there, dancing with Kellie and Macie. Come on, please!” Rachel insists. She tightens her grip on my arm.

  “Okay,” I sigh, rolling my eyes.

  We continue to push our way through the crowd, when suddenly, I have the sense that I am being watched. The noise, the music, and the press of warm bodies seem to fall away. I feel as though I am swimming underwater, following Rachel, but not seeing, the echo of the din muffled and far away. My neck grows itchy and tight, and my steps feel jerky.

  Then, I find him. I find Damian’s gray eyes across the dance floor, focused on my own, and everything comes back. He smiles and dips his head, and I send him a nod and a grin in return. He came! A million thoughts are rioting in my mind. Did he come for me? Oh my, he looks cute. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, a lavender tie, and khakis. I tear my eyes away, embarrassingly aware that I’ve been ogling him and staring like a total nut-job. I follow Rachel until we’re just outside the circle of Nasties and soccer jocks, including Josh. My heart is racing, and I crane my neck, trying to keep Damian in my line of sight. He’s disappeared.

  “Ready?” Rachel asks, planting her feet before starting to dance.