Part 21 (2/2)

243.

Chapter Sixteen.

February 8. One year has pa.s.sed since The Accident. I don't know how a whole year got by me. On one hand, it feels like just yesterday that Nate was calling me a dork as he breezed out of the house. On the other, it's as though we three remaining Bradleys got tangled up in a pool of quicksand, were left hanging in some kind of suspended animation, just trying to keep breathing -- and time got stuck in there with us.

What's changed? Well, there is the obvious stuff, like Nate is dead, and I miss him. My parents act like zombie prison-masters. I started high school and have been kissed -- a few times -- by Nate's best friend. And Rachel and I aren't speaking to each other, but I have a new friend.

Then, there are the more subtle changes. Like when I think about Nate, I no longer concentrate on the fact that he either ignored me or tormented me. I remember how he used to help me catch minnows in the creek and hold my hand when we crossed the street to go to the pool. I remember his laugh and 244.

the way his nose scrunched up when he smiled. I remember how intent he looked when he stood out in the baseball field, and how he would daydream with his eyes open, sucking on his lower lip. I remember how looking into his eyes felt, somehow, like looking into my own. I suppose another difference is that I know about Nate's art now, and I am so proud of him. And I'm making my own art, and I feel good about it.

My parents used to trust me, they used to pay attention to me. Now, I am treated like a broken thing to be guarded. But they're broken. When I think about what I've done, forging my mother's signature, I guess they'll never trust me again. The thought makes me feel sick to my stomach.

One thing that's stayed the same: I don't want to be a screw up.

If Nate were alive, I wonder if he would still be acting so crazy. I wonder if I would have found out about his art, or if he'd have continued to guard that secret. Well, today is the day his secret is released into the world. My heart flutters excitedly. This is it.

I get ready for school, carefully packing a change of clothes and some makeup into my backpack. Damian said he'd leave early this morning to pick up all of the artwork in the Wright barn and bring it over to school in his El Camino. Helena and Cam were supposed to meet him there, too, to help bring out all the pieces and load them into the back of the truck. I'm aching to know what happened, that everything went okay.

245.

As I step into the school today, I can't help but remember my first day, how I felt like a fish swimming upstream, against the flow of all the other kids, of how cold, how alienating this building felt. But this school has come to be as much mine as anyone else's, and it feels comfortable. I make my way to the art room, where I find Helena, Cam, and Damian huddled in a corner of the room, popping the bubbles in giant sheets of bubble wrap, laughing. Nate's sculptures are strewn across every flat surface in the cla.s.sroom, Damian's paintings are resting on easels. And there's my map, balanced on its stone-and-metal base.

”Cora!” Helena drops her bubble-wrap sheet and prances over to me and throws her arm around my neck. ”Look, we did it!” she proclaims happily.

”Wow! Thank you, guys, for doing all this. I'm sorry I couldn't come help. But you know, the jailer wouldn't let me out of her sight.”

”Don't worry about it,” Cam chimes in. ”It was no problem. And, hey, I like your map. It's really cool,” he adds, brus.h.i.+ng his floppy brown hair out of his eyes. A dimple winks in his cheek as he tosses me a shy smile.

”Thanks,” I reply, feeling a warm glow heat my cheeks. I like this feeling of us being a foursome. ”So, did anyone else drop off any pieces to be in the show?” I ask.

”Not yet,” Damian says. He comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder. ”Hey, how are you doing today?”

246.

I smile, grateful for his thoughtfulness, ”I'm fine. How about you?”

”I'm okay, too. Hey, look, I think we have our first partic.i.p.ant.” Damian thrusts his chin in the direction of the door. ”Hey, Dana,” he greets her.

I turn, and recognize a girl from the junior cla.s.s.

”Cora, this is Dana. She's in my English cla.s.s,” Damian introduces her. ”Dana, this is Cora, my girlfriend, and Helena, and Cam.”

Wait. What? His girlfriend? Oh my gosh.

I realize that Damian is staring at me, and for a second time this morning I am blus.h.i.+ng. He smiles at me, his gray eyes silvery in the bright sunlight pouring through the windows. And I smile back at him.

”Hi, Dana,” I manage to reply. ”We're still trying to figure out how to set up everything --” I stop talking as a stream of people start to file into the art room. There must be at least two dozen kids here from various cla.s.ses, all carrying paintings, sketches, prints, collages, sculptures, mobiles, and other a.s.sorted works.

Helena comes over to Damian and me with her hand over her mouth. ”Can you believe this? Most of these kids don't even take art! It's all our posters,” she whisper-screams. ”Pretty soon there won't be room for all of this stuff. It's amazing!”

”It is amazing,” I agree.

247.

I never would have guessed that all of these people were artists. I survey the crowd of kids dropping off their works. It seems every clique is represented; there are kids from the basketball and soccer teams, there are goths and emos, and skaters and calculator nerds, cheerleaders and hip-hop wannabes. It's like a high school rainbow.

Some more kids trickle in, leave their pieces and walk out again. The first bell will ring any minute. One last silhouette appears in the doorway, hesitates there. Suddenly, Damian is by my side. He squeezes my hand and nudges me toward the door. As I move toward it, the figure steps forward into the room.

”Rachel?” I ask, wincing at the note of shock in my voice.

”Hi,” she says uncertainly.

”Hey, what are you doing here?” I ask. ”Do you have something to submit?”

”No,” she answers with a gruff chuckle. ”I don't have an artistic bone in my body. You know.” I nod in agreement with a small smile. ”I just wanted to come by and see if you needed help.”

”Oh,” I say, surprised. ”Thanks, but I don't think we do.”

Her eyes meet mine. They are wide and full of apprehension and growing moist.

”Please don't cry,” I whisper. ”Because then I'll cry, too.” Too late, a tear has already slipped down my cheek.

248.

”Okay, well, then, I guess I'll go.” She turns to leave, then twists around again. ”Look, I'm sorry, Cor,” Rachel says, ”I'm sorry for everything. For not being there for you, for being such a jerk,” A rush of-- I am not sure what -- affection, warmth, relief washes over me.

”Oh, Rach, it's okay. I'm sorry, too.” We both sniffle and smile wavery, watery smiles, then step out into the hallway. We sit on the sill of one of the tall windows across from the art room. ”I was so angry after Nate died, and I just held on to that anger for months,” I tell her. ”And I think I took a lot of that anger out on you. So, I'm truly sorry for that.” Rachel wipes her nose with her sleeve then digs through her bag for tissues, offering me one.

”I just didn't know how to react,” she says. ”How to talk to you or be with you. And I wanted this year to be different. I just wanted to think about boys and clothes. And somewhere between not knowing how to talk to you and not wanting to think about what had happened to you, I became this giant jerk,” she says. ”I'm sorry for that.”

”Peace?” I ask.

”Peace,” she replies.

”Hey, do you want a sneak preview of the show?” I propose.

”Well,” Rachel begins uncomfortably, ”I already promised Lizzie -- Elizabeth -- that I'd meet her before homeroom. But I will definitely be there after school.”

249.

I guess things are not going to go back to the way they used to be, but as I look at my old friend and think about my new friends in the art room, I realize it's okay. ”All right, I'll see you later then,” I tell her.

When I return to the art studio, Helena, Cam, and Damian are lining up tables and stools around the periphery of the room, and Ms. Calico, whom I didn't even see slip inside, is directing them and helping to clear tabletops and easels.

<script>