A Map Of The Known World Part 7

65.

"How long have you guys been working on all this?" I ask Damian, and silently curse the quiver in my voice.

"I guess it's been, like, three years."

"I can't believe it." I wipe away the traitorous tears, hating myself for appearing so weak, for feeling so weak.

I turn my back on Damian and begin to wander among the pieces. "Here's that yield sign he got in trouble for stealing." I sniff and stop in front of a mammoth statue that has the shape of a man's silhouette, constructed of gnarled metal rods, with the triangular traffic sign for a head.

"Basically," Damian starts with a chuckle, "everything Nate was ever accused of taking without permission' is down here. In one of these pieces."

"And the paintings?" I ask.

"I made the paintings," Damian admits abashedly.

"They are amazing," I whisper. The canvases look like bruised flesh with slashes of violet and black pigment, metal parts sticking out of small hills of oil paint. I walk closer and see that there are all sorts of objects concealed in the canvases: b.u.t.tons, nails and bolts, a small wrench, computer keyboard letters.

We stand together and survey the cluttered, chaotic gallery. There are car parts that look like they came from Nate's first car, which he also wrecked; broken bits of furniture; sc.r.a.ps of fabric. I'm pretty sure I recognize a pattern from an old set

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of my mother's sheets. Everything precarious and wild. Yet there is a rhythm to the pieces, a poetry and a logic.

"I always thought that one day he would grow up and stop destroying everything," I say quietly. "And it turns out, he already had." I turn to Damian. "Why did you bring me here, show me all of this?" I ask.

Maybe if I stare at him long enough, hard enough, I'll be able to pierce his brittle exterior and learn some truth. Some kind of truth. There has to be a meaning to all of it, a secret that he will reveal to me. Because I never, never believed that Nate -- or Damian -- might be capable of creating such ,.. such beauty.

None of it makes any sense. All the time everyone thought they were just out to destroy and take everything apart, they were creating and building this wonder. My chest hurts. My chest hurts and I think my heart might be breaking. Again.

"I don't know why," Damian replies. "Ever since I saw you in school, I've been thinking about it. That's why I was following you. I mean, your mom made it pretty clear at the funeral that I wasn't welcome anymore, and I didn't think you'd want to see me, either. I didn't know how else to tell you about this, except to bring you here to see it." Damian pauses, averting his eyes. "And I think -- I think Nate would have wanted you to know." The words fall between us like a thousand raindrops.

"Well. Thank you."

67.

Silently, I weave between the sculptures and pa.s.s all around the barn walls one more time, as Damian stands by, watching.

"What is this one?" I've stopped in front of a large round stone with a tall metal pole poking from its flat top. Several two-by-six boards have been nailed together, and are leaning against the wall behind the pole and stone.

"Oh, that was ... well, that was Nate's last piece. He never finished it.... Obviously." Damian has come to stand next to me. "I think he was going to mount those boards onto the rod when he was done, but I'm not sure what he was going to do with the wood itself."

I circle the stone base, and kneel down to study the boards, which are marked with soft gray swirls and dots and lines and smudges.

"His last piece, huh?" I turn to look at Damian. He nods. I look back at the pieces of wood. I wonder what it is, what Nate was going to do with them. I will never know.

Finally, I rise and realize that I've made an illegal stop after school with the Bradleys' Number One Most Undesirable. I pull out my cell phone and check the time. It's just after four. "I should go home, before my parents get there first. Would you take me?" I ask Damian.

"Sure. Let's go. But, first --" Damian grabs the phone out of my hand and punches some b.u.t.tons. He hands it back to me with a grin and says, "Just in case." Then he leads me through

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the barn, out into the fresh air, and back to his car. And the whole time my ears feel like they've ignited and my heart is racing. Did he just give me his number? Oh my gosh ...

Damian drives slowly through town, crossing back over Union Street. I watch the ramshackle houses trickle past. Then the houses begin to grow nicer and the lawns better kept when we near my neighborhood. I can't think of a thing to say. I'm still flabbergasted.

But the silence between us is comfortable. When I'm sure he's concentrating on driving, I turn to study him. His gray eyes are focused intently on the road. They are light against his caramel skin. He looks lonely, terribly lonely. And then it occurs to me that he is bereft, too, in a way. He lost his best friend. I haven't seen him hanging around with anyone at school, certainly no one from his and Nate's old gang.

I don't actually know anything about Damian, who his friends are, what his family is like.

Turns out I hardly knew my brother, either.

As all these thoughts are pa.s.sing through my mind, I'm not paying attention when we finally pull up in front of my house. So, I don't notice my mother's car in the open garage, or my mother pacing back and forth on the front porch.

"Uh, Cora?" Damian mumbles as he comes to a stop. "Cora," he repeats, s.n.a.t.c.hing me back to planet Earth.

"What?" I reply, then, "Oh, no," as I notice my mom noticing Damian's car and me in it.

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My mother freezes, her eyes popping wide open with shock then narrowing with anger. She starts to stride toward the car, then stops, and begins waving her arm, motioning for me to get out of the car -- Right That Instant.

I nod at her, and turn to Damian. "I guess I'd better go."

"Yeah, it looks like it," he says with a rueful smile. "Well, see you at school."

"Bye, Damian." I swing around and start to open the door, then look back at him. "And thank you. Really."

I brace myself for the onslaught, straightening as I come face-to-face with my mom, who is marching agitatedly across the lawn.

"What were you thinking?" As she approaches, I can see that her face is drawn and white. "Please. Tell me what were you thinking?" she shouts.

"I --" I start; she won't let me speak.

"Do you know what that boy -- what he did?"

"Yes, Mother. It's kind of hard to forget. So, why don't you spare me?" I answer, cool as a cuc.u.mber.

"He was in the car with your brother that night, and now you get into a car with him?. Into a car! I just can't believe it." Then, abruptly, she switches tacks. "Where have you been all afternoon? You had a dentist appointment! And you aren't supposed to go anywhere after school; you're supposed to come straight home. And you skip your appointment to go gallivanting around with that -- that..." All of a sudden, she runs out of steam.

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The dentist. I forgot all about it. Too late -- I'm not apologizing now, not when she is treating me like this, like a child. Like a prisoner.

"That what?" I yell. "What is he, Mom? Because I'm pretty sure he isn't some monster. You know, I think Nate took care of messing up everything all by himself!" I am really shaking now. "And you know what, you can't keep me locked up in the house all the time, like Rapunzel! You can't!" All of the heat that has crept up my neck and into my cheeks blooms into a hot fountain of tears that now courses over my face, spilling around my collar and down the front of my jacket. Hot, then cold.

At that moment, my father's car pulls into the driveway, and he gets out of the car. Great, perfect timing.

"What's going on here?" he asks in an empty voice, drained of life, as he slowly walks over to us. Family huddle.

Mom whirls around, rallying for his sake. "I was home early to take Cora to her dentist appointment, only she never came home. Then, she shows up almost two hours late in Damian Archer's car."

My father stares at me mutely.

"Well, what do you have to say to her, Daniel?" My mother's voice has risen to a decibel that would deafen bats. Still, he just stares without speaking. "Would you say something?" she screams.

"Cora, your mother told you to come home directly after

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school," he mutters halfheartedly, then turns away. Seriously? That's all he can muster? "Go inside," he says, not directing the last part to anyone in particular.

I feel like spitting. "Wow, this is your united front? Well done!" And without looking at either of them, I run into the house, slamming the front door behind me. I let out a shriek, releasing some of the frustration and fury and fly up the stairs, into my bedroom, slamming that door, as well, I wrap my earphones around my head, and begin to play my most p.i.s.sed-off play list.

How dare she! How can she even think that locking me up in the house is okay? That I'll just take it?

For so long she filled me up with so much hatred for Damian. She taught me to blame him for Nate's accident, and it was easy to do. But now I'm not so sure. Nate was behind the wheel that night, after all.

Oh my gosh, how can she be so wrong about everything? My mind is spinning furiously, but suddenly, with a pause in the music, I feel as though all the clouds in my mind have suddenly cleared, letting a shaft of pure light in. All of us were wrong. None of us knew Nate -- not Mom or Dad, or even me.

I pull off the headphones and tiptoe to the door. I do not want to see either of them. I turn the k.n.o.b as slowly as I can so as not to make a sound. I check both ways down the hall, making sure neither of my parents is about. The dull murmur of the television travels up the corridor from the den. I can hear

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my mother b.u.mping around in the kitchen, slamming pots and pans onto the countertop. It is safe.

I slink out of my room and down the hall until I am standing before Nate's door. I haven't been inside since the night he died. I take a deep breath, as though steeling myself. Then I start to turn the k.n.o.b. It is cool to the touch.

Suddenly, I snap my hand back. No, I can't do it, can't go into his room and remember. I've had enough of Nate and the memories and all the emotions he always dredges up. I don't want to think about this, about him anymore.

I run back to my room, and with relief, replace my earphones. I've learned enough for one night. Discovering that I've never known Nate at all, learning that he was an artist who made beautiful things and then was lost to me -- it is too much. I let the music carry me off. I'll never let that happen with anyone else. I will know the ones I love.

73.

Chapter Five.

Puh-leeese, Cora! You have to go with me!"

Just two weeks away, the Homecoming dance is on the tips of everybody's tongues and at the fore of Rachel's mind. I don't have a date or a dress or a desire to attend. Rachel has a dress, but no date, and she fully expects me to go to the dance with her. She hounds me about it relentlessly. She has made begging a daily habit in homeroom, pleading with me to come to the dance with her. She has given up on my company at any other school events, especially the sporty kind. I've told her that there was no way, no how I would ever subject myself to sitting in the freezing cold, watching a bunch of guys beat up on one another. Rachel just shrugs her shoulders helplessly, shaking her head, unable to comprehend my complete lack of school spirit or interest, probably unable to understand how she got saddled with such a lame best friend.

But I am really trying to be a better friend, trying to restore some semblance of normalcy to our friendship. So I've made a decision.