A Map of the Known World

by Lisa Ann Sandell

  “Damian, I don’t really see any other options. Do you?”

  He looks at me pleadingly, then drops his gaze.

  “Look,” he mutters, “just promise me you won’t do anything rash just yet, okay?”

  “Fine, I promise.” It is as though a chilly frost has fallen down upon us, hangs in the air between us. In an instant, this discussion has opened up a chasm between us, like a paper cut. Narrow, almost invisible at first, until the blood begins to pump to the surface, and the cut widens, becoming painful.

  “I just don’t want you to do something stupid,” Damian says warningly.

  “How is it stupid? If I don’t go—” I take a deep breath and look into Damian’s eyes. “If I don’t go, I will die.” I want him to understand; I need someone to help me know what to do.

  “I don’t want to fight, Cor,” Damian says, reaching for my hand. “Just promise me you’ll wait a while. And that you’ll talk to me before doing anything irrevocable, okay?”

  “I promise you,” I reply, squeezing his hand and smiling into his gray eyes. He leans over to kiss me again, and this time I bring my hand to his cheek, which is cold and rough. “I promise,” I repeat.

  “I’m freezing here,” Damian says, pulling back. “Let’s walk?”

  “Let’s walk,” I agree.

  We disentangle ourselves from the tire swing and begin to walk, muddy snow squirting and squirching beneath our feet, toward the baseball diamond. Damian holds my hand.

  “You know, all of this just makes me wonder, what are we supposed to do?” I tell him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, am I meant to just eat, sleep, go to school, do what my mother says, work, and then, someday, die? Is that all there is to life? To living? Because something tells me there is more to it than that. More to it than just existing like an animal. Might as well be a cat if we’re just supposed to eat, work, sleep, and die.”

  “Well,” Damian starts slowly, “no, I don’t think that’s all we’re meant to do. I mean, I think that’s probably part of it. But I think we’re put here to do more than just exist. We’re meant to live. To experience and to create. To sense, to taste, to see things and make new things. To love.”

  “That’s what I think,” I tell him. “Life is supposed to be about passion, but how am I supposed to know that, to experience it, if I’m stuck here?” Damian looks down at the ground. Oh, I’ve put my foot in it. “No, Damian, that’s not what I meant. I mean beyond this town, beyond high school. What about when we grow up? My family has always lived in Lincoln Grove. My parents were born here, their parents, too. Not one of them has ever lived anywhere else. How can staying in this one tiny town be living and experiencing life to the fullest?” I ask.

  “Well, I would guess that it works differently for everybody,” Damian explains. “I would guess that for you and me, living has a very different meaning than it does for our parents.”

  “Maybe. I guess that makes sense. I just think that if I can’t get to London, I will shrivel up and then I might as well be dead. You know what I mean?”

  “I think I do,” Damian says, looking off to the tree line. “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Damian, could I ask you something?” I am hesitant to go on, but at his questioning nod, I take a breath and continue. “What happened in the car that night?”

  Damian sucks in a sharp breath and winces. His eyebrows climb into his forehead and crash down, casting shadows over his eyes.

  “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I say quickly.

  “No, it’s okay,” he says, pulling me down beside him on a snowy-damp bench next to the baseball diamond. “It’s all right.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. Damian nods, then begins to talk.

  “Nate, you know, was really ticked off because Julie had just broken up with him. Over the phone. And he called me and said, ‘Hey man, I just have to drive, but I don’t want to be alone.’ And he asked if he could pick me up, and I said sure, and then he was driving so fast, and I started to get scared when he pulled out onto the county road and you know, as he drove out of town, he started flying all over the road, and I kept asking him to slow down, telling him ‘Man, just take it easy,’ but he wasn’t listening. It was like some demon just took over, and then he looked at me and said, ‘Here’s a new trick,’ and he switched off the headlights, and I was shouting at him, telling him to stop the car, to just pull over, but he was somewhere else, and then all I can remember was this horrible rending screeching crashing sound. Like the tree was screaming. Maybe it was me screaming. And then I passed out. That’s it.”

  Damian shakes his head, and his eyes are shining with tears that he wipes away roughly. “I tried to make him stop, and he just…he just wouldn’t. I replay that night over and over, trying to figure out how I could have made him pull over. How I could have pulled up the emergency brake or grabbed the wheel. Something. Anything. But I did nothing, and he’s dead because of it.” A veil of tears clings to his eyes, and he blinks, trying to shake them loose. I feel my nose and my own eyes leaking.

  “Damian, you did everything you could. I know Nate. I know how stubborn and pigheaded he was. I know. There’s nothing you could have said to convince him to stop. And I just…” A sob shudders through me. “I am just so grateful that he didn’t kill you, too.”

  I wrap my arms around Damian’s neck and pull his head down to me, and we stay like that, huddled together, crying and breathing each other in, until the sun has nearly set.

  “You should get back,” Damian says. “Or your mom might get upset.”

  “You’re right.” I sigh with remorse.

  We begin the long march back through the meadow, hand in hand, and watch as the sky turns a hazy tangerine, streaked with long, scarlet fingers. Damian walks me home, wheeling my bike for me. As we turn onto my street, Damian brushes his lips against my forehead and says good night. Then he heads off in the direction of the diner to pick up his car.

  “See you tomorrow?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Damian answers, his voice warm with affection.

  I walk up the driveway and notice the curtain at the kitchen window that faces the street move. Was someone watching us? Shortly, I open the door into the house, and my mother is standing there in the kitchen, eyes flashing, hands balled into fists at her waist.

  “What were you doing, Cora?” she snaps.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. I have no idea what she’s seen, what she knows.

  “I mean, Cora, what were you doing with that boy?” Her tone has grown nasty, and it catches on boy, which she spits out like acid.

  “You mean what was I doing with Damian Archer?” I sneer.

  “Do not even think about getting smart with me, young lady. What were you doing with that boy. What on earth were you doing? I want to know right this instant.”

  “I was taking a walk with him. Is that against one of your many ridiculous rules?”

  “Is that boy taking advantage of you?” Now her voice grows higher, tighter.

  “Would you stop calling him that boy?” I snap back. “He has a name. It’s Damian. And no, he is not taking advantage of me. He is kind and gentle and generous to me.” All of the anger that has been building inside of me for the past eleven months is seething like a mass of snakes. “Nothing like you.” My mother’s head jerks back as though I’ve slapped her.

  “How dare you! How dare you!” she hollers. “You don’t know the first thing, you hear me? That boy killed Nate. He is good for nothing. How dare you gallivant about with him! How dare you!”

  “Damian did not kill Nate!” I shout back at her. “Nate took care of that all by himself. And we’re just lucky Nate didn’t take Damian with him! Nate was a beautiful artist, and he wanted to live, but it was you and Dad who pushed him and pushed him and made him feel like a failure, like a screwup. It’s your fault he died! Do you hear me?” I scream. “It’s all your fault!”
>
  My mother’s face is as white as the snow outside. “You little monster. Don’t you tell me it was my fault! Don’t you dare. You don’t know anything about it, about what it’s like to be a parent,” she says, her voice quiet and mean. “You couldn’t possibly know what it’s like to lose a son. You couldn’t possibly know!” she roars. Tears are streaming down both of our faces.

  “I know you lost a son, Mom. It’s impossible to forget it, because you and Dad have turned this house into a cemetery. I lost my brother, Mom! I lost Nate, too! But I want to live!” And I spring from the kitchen and up the stairs. Then I slam my bedroom door behind me, taking no comfort in the way the walls shudder and a picture frame containing a photo of the four of us falls from its perch over my desk.

  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.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When 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.