Part 12 (1/2)

I spot Damian's blue El Camino. And there he is, leaning up against the driver's-side door. He is fiddling with his keys, eyes narrow, a lock of his hair lifting gently in the wind.

He looks dangerous. My stomach twists and jumps nervously. Damian looks up and finds my eyes. He gives a small wave and straightens up. There, now he looks more harmless. I wave back and go to join him by his car.

This feels like I'm turning a corner, and once I make this turn, I can't go back. But what exactly am I leaving behind? Nothing good, I think. If this is a turning point, I'll take it.

”Hey,” Damian greets me. He moves around the ma.s.sive blue body of the car to the pa.s.senger side and unlocks the door, then holds it open.

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”Hi.” I am smiling, probably like a big dork, but I am sort of happy to go with him, I realize. ”Thanks,” I say as he closes the door after me. His gray eyes are warm and they crinkle at the corners when he grins back at me.

”Ready?” he asks.

”Yup,” I answer. And we're off.

The drive to the Wright farm feels faster this time. The way is familiar to me now and the houses in their graduating tumbled owned ness not as noticeable. The trees are beginning to look naked. Golden leaves carpet the lawns and sidewalks, covering up overgrown gra.s.s and cracked cement. The sky is a moody gray. Geese rise in a V above us, tilting and wheeling in the wind. Winter is approaching.

As we pull into the pebbly driveway, I think about how my mom would ground me for life if she knew I was here, that I had disobeyed her again. I wonder if Damian has told his mom.

”Hey, Damian?” I start. ”Could I ask you something?”

”Yeah,” Damian replies, sounding cautious. He parks the car in front of the barn, gravel crunching beneath the tires.

”Where are your parents?” I ask timidly. ”I mean, do they know about all of this?”

Damian pauses, stopping awkwardly, half in and half out of his car door. He pulls himself back inside and settles into the seat for a moment. ”My dad took off when I was just a baby. I 118.

don't talk to him, really.” He picks at his thumbnail. ”Well, he doesn't talk to me, actually. He hasn't tried to talk to me or see me since he left.” Damian shrugs his shoulders and tries to look nonchalant. ”You know, back when he and my mom were together, it wasn't so cool for a white guy to be with a black woman, and I guess he just wimped out, couldn't hack it, and left.”

”I'm sorry,” I murmur. My mind is whirring. I sure opened that can of worms all on my own, but I guess I wasn't prepared for the starkness of his answer. It explains his coloring, which can only be called beautiful, with his bright gray eyes and light brown skin. How could I have known Damian all these years and never known any of this about him:'

”Nah, don't be. My mom's around. She works a lot, but, well, we're pretty close,” he says. He turns, climbs out of the car, and begins to head toward the barn again. I stare at his back, straight and tall and broad.

I hope I haven't made him feel self-conscious. I didn't mean to do that. I just thought, if I'm going to hang out with him, I should know more about him. We're virtually strangers, even though he's spent so much time in my house over the years.

I enter the barn and follow him across the rickety floorboards, again admiring his grace, the ease with which he moves. As he switches on the lights, I walk, almost reflexively, to the boards Nate had nailed together. Then I sit down in front of 119.

them. The floor is cold and hard, and Damian brings a blanket over. ”Here,” he says gruffly.

”Thanks,” I say, looking up at him, trying to keep the surprise from my voice. When he is gentle and kind like this, I do not feel prepared for it.

The blanket is plaid and navy blue and scratchy. The scent of horse and hay clings to it. After I am settled on top of the blanket, I pull my pad and pencils from my book bag.

Silently, Damian moves off toward his workshop corner. Beginning is always hard, so I gaze around the barn. The high vaulted ceiling shelters a loft that looks to be filled with odd bits of furniture and farming equipment. Damian's paintings cover every inch of s.p.a.ce around the walls of the barn, seeming to jump away from the knotty gray pinewood boards. The topographies of his work range widely, and there are slashes and explosions of color. Nate's sculptures stand like hulking hunchbacks, rusty bits of metal sc.r.a.ps, ragged shards of gla.s.s and wood stretching and poking like skeletons. All of the art in this s.p.a.ce speaks to volcanoes of fury and rage and heartbreak. Somehow, though, I feel closer to Nate here, and all of the anger he brought home with him begins to make sense.

I tear the used pages out of my sketch pad and spread the drawings around me in a semicircle. My eyes dart quickly back and forth between the white slips of paper and the knotty boards leaning against the wall.

120.

I s.h.i.+ft the drawings around, figuring on top is north, right is east, left is west, and closest to me is south. I arrange the pages in a loose layout of the town. The map is like Swiss cheese, full of holes, but I can recognize the unseen order of it. I continue to move and play and plot with the pages. Until a shadow falls across them.

I glance up to see Damian standing over me, gazing thoughtfully at the drawings.

”These are really good,” he says, crouching down beside me.

”Thanks.” Again, I can't keep the amazement out of my voice.

”What are you thinking?” he asks as he continues to look over the pages on the ground.

”I'm not really sure,” I answer slowly, ”I'm trying to figure out how to make a map....”

”A map of Lincoln Grove?”

”Yes! You could tell?” Damian bounces on his toes as if his crouch has become uncomfortable. ”Here,” I say, sliding over, making room on the blanket for him. ”Sit.”

”Thanks,” he replies. ”Of course I can tell.” He gestures at the drawings. ”There's the pool, the park. But, where's that?” Damian points to the sketch of the bent tree, the curved and empty road. He squints at it. ”Oh,” he finishes, not waiting for my response. I catch the glint of recognition registering in his eyes.

”Yeah ...” I murmur, not knowing what to say.

121.

”Well, are you thinking of putting this map on Nate's piece?” Damian asks, changing the subject.

I nod. ”I just have no idea how to do it. You know, I want it to look like it fits with the base and all the rest of his stuff.”

Damian props his chin on his fist. ”Well, you could sketch these scenes onto the boards, then paint over them,” he offers.

”I was thinking that, but I feel like it needs something more.”

”Well, you can look around and see if there are any sc.r.a.ps you want to use.”

”Really? Would you help me?” I ask. Multimedia ... That would be something new.

”Of course,” he counters matter-of-factly. Then he stands up in a single fluid movement and returns to his corner. He comes back shortly, carrying a battered-looking cardboard box. ”Here,” he says, putting the box down on the ground beside me. ”Here's some sc.r.a.ps of stuff that Nate and I collected. Take whatever you want.” He strides away again, and returns to his corner.

I begin to rifle through the box, picking up slivers of wood, metal nuts, steel rods, shards of plastic, a one-way traffic sign, a pane of gla.s.s, a small box filled with b.u.t.tons and another filled with dried marigold heads. I pull some of the objects from the box and place them to the side. This is cool. There are so many possibilities, I feel as though my veins are throbbing and pulsing with ideas and art. It's like I've been shocked back to life.

122.

I get so caught up in the thousands of thoughts that are whirling through my brain that I forget to keep track of the time. Damian is suddenly beside me again.

”Hey,” he says, glancing over my shoulder at the pile of objects I've taken from the box.

”Oh, hey,” I reply, smiling up at him.

”Um, I'm not trying to kick you out or anything, but do you have to get back home?” he asks.