Part 13 (1/2)

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 129.

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.”

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”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 embarra.s.sed 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 Inst.i.tute 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 cla.s.s. Not to give the other students even a hint of our knowing each other.

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”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 cla.s.s. 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 cla.s.sroom.

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 132.

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 pa.s.s 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, anch.o.r.ed 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 princ.i.p.al drove past, and the floats constructed by each cla.s.s would circle slowly around the gravel track that encompa.s.sed 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, 133.

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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 gra.s.ses of the Serengeti Plain, a herd of wildebeests drinking from a river. Escape ...

134.

The gym s.h.i.+mmers with flas.h.i.+ng strobe lights and gold-and-crimson leaves that dangle from the ceiling on fis.h.i.+ng 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-s.h.i.+rts, scruffy blue jeans, and raggedy sneakers. They are all dressed up, some in suits, others wearing b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rts 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.

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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 gra.s.s green silk swishes daintily around my knees. Maybe it will be all right.

Holding hands, we step farther into the gym. The ba.s.s backbeat throbs in my chest, echoing in reverberations through the floor and walls of the gymnasium. Kids are cl.u.s.tered 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 everything 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.

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”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 s.p.a.ce.” 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.”