Part 19 (1/2)

”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 211.

standing there in the kitchen, eyes flas.h.i.+ng, 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 ma.s.s 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!”

212.

”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 screw up. 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.

213.

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 s.p.a.ce, 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.

214.

Chapter Fourteen.

When I ask Mrs. Brown, the princ.i.p.al, 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.

215.

”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 gla.s.s 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 b.u.t.tercup 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.

216.

”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!”