Part 20 (2/2)

229.

He doesn't waver, continues moving in a straight line toward the center of the ice. I can hear his heavy black combat boots crunching over the frozen surface. My stomach is churning, my brain is churning. Before I am even aware of what I'm doing, I have started after him. All I know is I have to get him back.

The ice is mostly covered with a light dusting of snow, but before I am five steps from the sh.o.r.eline, my foot suddenly slides out from under me, and the rest of my body follows. I hit the ice hard, and my breath escapes in a grunt.

I am sitting on my bottom when I hear it. The worst sound. A thunderous cracking, like the report of a starter pistol, shakes me to my senses. I look down and see a long seam in the milky ice threading out from under me, snaking toward Damian. The white ripple grows like an arm, reaching, reaching. And it is crossed by a second fissure.

”Cora!” Damian calls. He turns around gingerly and I can read in the horror splashed across his face that things do not look promising. I glance down. The ice has begun to splinter, jagged branches radiating out from under my b.u.t.t. ”Cora,” he says, ”look at me.”

It's impossible to tear my eyes from the doom I see scrawled across the ice. Another gasping, tearing sound clenches at the air. I look up and find Damian on his hands and knees, crawling achingly slowly toward me, weaving around the fissures and cracks.

230.

He comes close to me and reaches for my hand. ”Cora, can you slide toward me?”

I shake my head, I am frozen; I think my bottom may be frozen, fixed to the pond's surface. A crowd has formed at the far end of the pond. People point and shout, but I can't focus on what they're saying. We're really a spectacle now.

”Hey, Cora, you can do this. Just look at me, and push off with your hands and slide.” Damian is coaxing me in the soft, lulling tone he might use if he were trying to soothe a wild animal. A crease of worry pocks his forehead. He reaches out a hand to me, and slowly, so slowly, I lift my hand, too.

The booming of another gash opening up spurs me into action. I plant my back hand on the ice, feeling the rough unevenness of the fractured surface through my glove. I begin to crab walk, moving deliberately as though in slow motion, toward Damian. My heart is beating an angry, frightened tattoo. This must be how deer feel when the rumbling explosion of a hunter's rifle pursues them. Must move quickly, smoothly.

”That's it, Cor.” He is crawling closer, then I feel the steadying warmth of his hand closed around my wrist. Then Damian begins to inch toward the sh.o.r.eline, towing me after him. As we reach the bank of the pond, another rupture in the smooth, frosty surface follows us to the very edge. Damian quickly shoves me forward, and then I am splayed out on my stomach on the snowy bank. I feel him beside me before I can turn my head to look for him. ”I'm sorry,” he gasps. ”I'm so sorry, Cor.”

231.

That's when I realize I am shuddering with great, heaving sobs. I am lying facedown in the snow, and the cold damp is filling my nostrils, and I cough and splutter, and sit up before I drown in snow.

”What were you doing, Damian?” I manage between sobs.

”I -- I don't know,” he admits, his voice low. I cannot bring my eyes to meet his.

”Were you trying to prove something?” I ask. ”Because I don't know what you possibly could have been thinking. Or what you were trying to prove.”

”I can't even remember now,” Damian mumbles. ”I was so upset, and now ... I just can't remember.”

I look hard at him, study the right angle his jawline makes, the teardrop shape of his cheekbones, the line of his nose, the square of his chin. He is handsome, but maybe he isn't for me. Not anymore, not after this. ”I don't know if I can do this,” I say.

”Cora, I'm sorry. I thought --”

”What? What could you possibly have thought to make you believe that walking out onto that ice was okay?”

”I thought you were ashamed of me, to be seen with me,” he replies, a deep blush staining his cheeks.

”What?” I splutter. ”That is insane. Where could you possibly have gotten that idea from?”

”I don't know. I guess ... I guess I just don't understand why you would ever want to be with me. I'm a total screw up,”

232.

he says. ”I mean, look at me. Look at what I just did. Seriously, if you never wanted to speak to me again, I'd understand,” he tells me, disgust filling his voice.

”Damian, we're all screw ups. Each in our own special, stupid way,” I tell him. As I say the words, I realize how true they are. And maybe that's the trick to getting through it, through life: realizing that everybody, including ourselves, is lugging around some kind of screwed-up baggage. Maybe we are put here to help each other carry the loads.

”Do you hate me?” Damian asks, his voice cracking.

”Don't be stupid. How could I hate your1 You're the only one who gets me,” I answer ruefully. He puts his head down in the snow with a relieved sigh. I do the same, then he turns over onto his back and begins waving his arms and legs back and forth. ”A snow angel?” I have not made one for years. I flip over onto my back, too, and move my arms and my legs in and out like a scissor. And there we lie, side by side, two screw up angels in the snow.

When we are too wet and s.h.i.+very to lie there any longer, we roll ourselves up and Damian helps me to my feet.

”Thank you,” he says softly, then plants a kiss, soft as a snowflake, on my cheek. And we walk back to his car, hand in hand.

233.

Chapter Fifteen.

I am about to do something. Something bad. My whole body is trembling. Whether it's with disgust or excitement or fear, I can't tell. The permission forms for London are due soon, by March 15, but I can't wait. I am sitting on my bed, the acceptance and registration papers balanced on my lap. Where I have the pen point pressed, the black ink bleeds deep into the fibers of the paper. I hold the pen there, willing my hand to steady itself. Then quickly I trace the swoops and swirls of my mother's signature. There it is, Marie Bradley, outlined in heavy script, and I stare at the thick, familiar-looking letters. I can't see anything else.

Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh. What did I just do?

I did it. My blood feels like it has frozen in my veins. I signed my mother's name. I forged her signature. Now my hands won't stop shaking. I have never done something like this before. I've never even imagined doing something like this before.

One part of me is horrified, the other part is exhilarated. I feel free, independent -- grown up. She can't tell me what to 234.

do, nor can she stop me from doing what I want to do. When it's time to buy my ticket, I will walk to the bank and get a cas.h.i.+er's check, drawn from the savings account flush with the money my grandparents have sent me over the past fourteen birthdays.

Wow. I can get away with this. I am really going to London. I s.h.i.+ver with excitement. And nausea. This is a lie bigger, so much bigger, than any I've ever told before. I shake my head, as if to clear it of dust. I should feel glad that I did this. Empowered. But, I have to admit, it feels -- I feel -- kind of awful. My parents will be so sad when they discover I've left. Left without a word and without a warning.

Now, I just need a stamp. How much is it to send an envelope to London? I wonder. Silently, I wend my way to the door and into the dark hallway. I need a stamp, and there's only one place to find stamps in this house. My dad's study. I start off down the hall, pausing to listen for any noises, but I don't hear a thing. Maybe they've gone to bed. When I'm in front of my dad's study, I halt and press my ear to the door. Not a sound escapes. Slowly, I turn the k.n.o.b and nudge the door open.

”Cora?” comes a weak voice.

My heart sinks into my stomach. ”Dad?” I whisper hesitantly. What do I do? Should I turn around and return to my room? Do I make up a story for why I need the stamps?

”Come on in, Cor,” he says. His voice is so soft, so low, I can barely hear him.

235.

”What's up?” I ask warily, thinking maybe I can make him forget that I am the one breaking into his study.

”What are you up to?” he inquires gently.

”I just... I was just looking for a stamp. I wanted to send a letter to -- uh -- to Auntie Janie,” I lie. She's the only sibling of either of my parents who moved out of state.

”Oh, well, stamps are in the top drawer,” he says, indicating the oak desk that fills up part of the room. ”You know.”

<script>