Part 19 (2/2)

”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 s.p.a.ce, 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 217.

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 c.o.c.ky 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 218.

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 languis.h.i.+ng in a wicker basket in our living room, pasting them down onto sheets of poster board, then filling in the white s.p.a.ces 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 embarra.s.sed by me -- or hate me -- for it.

”You know, I don't remember how it happened. But one day, 219.

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 s.p.a.ce 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.

Perfect, I think. Just perfect 220.

Today I feel like I'm floating outside of my body, hovering just on the periphery of life, watching myself feeling so happy. This moment, like a snapshot, will be frozen forever in my memory.

Helena, Damian, and I arrive at school early, a whole hour before the first bell, to tape up the posters that Helena and I painted last night and photocopied in the school office this morning. We are working our way through the corridors, from one end of the school to the other and have a system down -- Helena picks a spot, Damian holds the poster in place, Helena rips the masking tape, and I roll each strip into loops and hand them to Damian, who carefully lifts each corner of the poster, places a loop of tape on it, then waves his hand over it, smoothing any creases and b.u.mps.

We work mainly in silence, but every so often, Helena or I will murmur to Damian that the poster he is holding up is crooked, or he complains that his arms are falling asleep if I take too long to pa.s.s him a loop of tape. Then he shoots me a crooked grin and hangs his head between his raised arms as if unbearably weary.

”These posters look pretty good,” he admits in a teasing voice. ”Even if they are starting to feel like they weigh a ton.”

Artists! LGHS wants you to bring your drawings, paintings, sculptures, and any other works to a celebration of art and life.

February 8, 6 o'clock in the evening 221.

”Maybe you should start working out,” I joke.

”Maybe if you weren't so slow --” I elbow Damian in the ribs, then fall against him laughing. He lets the poster he's holding fall and wraps his arms around me. He's so warm and solid. Suddenly I'm the carnation. I can't imagine feeling brighter or more beautiful. And I can't believe I could feel more at home anywhere.

”Hey, I hate to break up the love fest, but the halls are going to start filling up in about ten minutes, so let's get a move on and try to finish. We only have the D hallway left,” Helena urges, an impish smile playing over her lips.

”Okay, okay,” Damian says with a heavy sigh and a playful shrug of his shoulders. ”The lady is a taskmaster.”

His silver eyes are dancing with laughter. I have never seen Damian so light of heart. It is contagious and it is wonderful.

We quickly finish papering the last hall just as the first bell rings. Waves of bodies pour into the D hallway as we gather the leftover posters and rolls of tape. We stand back and watch as, one by one, kids notice the posters and stop and stare, as if trying to puzzle out the answer to some complex math problem.

”Think people will show?” Damian asks, looking down at Helena and me.

”I do,” Helena says with certainty. ”For sure.”

”Well, here's hoping,” I add. Damian reaches over and 222.

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