Part 22 (1/2)

”Unfortunately, we won't be able to hang the paintings -- we're just not equipped for that -- but we can rest them on these easels,” she announces. ”And if you guys can come at lunchtime, we can clear out the center of the room, so there's s.p.a.ce for people to walk through the exhibit and stop in front of each of the pieces.”

I'm s.h.i.+fting some easels to stand against the wall by the door, when I sense that someone is waiting to enter the cla.s.sroom. I look up and my breath catches as I recognize who the latecomer is: Macie Jax, Nasty #3, Queen Bee.

”Hi,” she mumbles.

”Um, hi,” I respond. Very smooth. Just giving the Nasties more fuel to use against me.

”I brought -- I brought something for the art show,” Macie stammers.

I think my jaw just sc.r.a.ped the floor. Quickly, I close my mouth and try to not act like a total idiot. ”Oh, wow. That's 250.

great,” I say. ”You can bring it in and just set it down somewhere.”

Macie gingerly sets one foot inside the art room, almost as though she were afraid of walking into a snake pit. She looks around, taking in all of the artwork we've ama.s.sed for the show, and she seems to regain her bravura and walks boldly the rest of the way. She lays her piece, a collage of papier mache and found objects, which, I have to admit, is pretty brilliant, on a table with her index card on top of it. Then she gives a small wave and exits the room.

Whoa, I think. A Nasty in the art show. This is unexpected. But kind of cool, actually. The four of us finish moving the furniture just as the bell rings, then walk down the art hallway together.

”It's going to be awesome,” Cam says.

Damian and I look at each other, and he winks. I think my stomach has sprouted a whole garden of insects, I'm so nervous all of a sudden.

”Just six hours to go,” Helena sings sweetly. ”See you guys at lunchtime!”

”See you at lunch,” we all echo, then scatter, each of us heading in a different direction.

Mercifully, my cla.s.ses pa.s.s uneventfully. It feels good to smile at Rachel and say hi as we pa.s.s on our way out of homeroom. And I don't believe any of my teachers or cla.s.smates are 251.

aware of the significance of the date today. No one mentions Nate to me, and for this, I am grateful.

At lunchtime, as Helena, Cam, Damian, and I help Ms. Calico rearrange the room and hide extraneous pieces of furniture in the storage closet, Helena corners me and says, ”I wasn't sure how to ask you this earlier, but I wanted you to know that I am here for you if you want to talk. You know, since it's the anniversary and everything.” She looks at me intently then pulls me into a loose embrace.

”Thank you,” I tell her. ”Really, it means a lot. I'm fine, though.” Helena shoots me a questioning glance. ”I mean, I feel kind of weird about my family, you know, not talking to them, not bringing them to this, but I'm really okay with it.” I add.

For the first time I am conscious of the fact that I do feel strange about not marking this day with my parents, and sad that they won't be here this afternoon to see Nate's art, to see my map, to share this with me. I wish things could be different.

Helena squeezes my arm and heads over to help Cam with a long table, which they place in the middle of the room, flanked by several easels.

”What are you guys doing?” I ask, coming to where they are sliding the table, trying to center it just so. ”I thought we were leaving the center clear.”

”Well, we thought Nate's pieces could go here, in the 252.

middle,” Helena explains. ”Only if it's okay with you, though. If you don't want us to --”

”No, no, it's fine,” I say. ”It's really nice, actually. Thanks.”

”I think we're done.” Damian comes up behind me and slings an arm around my shoulders.

”So, I guess this is it. See you guys here right after school?” I ask as we walk out of the cla.s.sroom.

There's nothing to do but wait now. Just two and a half more hours. I wonder what the show will be like, what it will bring.

253.

Chapter Seventeen.

ms. Calico brought in bottles of soda and bowls of pretzels and platters of brownies and cookies. She strung up vines of twinkling white Christmas lights around the perimeter of the room. It looks so festive and beautiful. All of the pieces of art that more than thirty of us students of Lincoln Grove High created look terrific. It feels like a real gallery in here.

People have started to file into the room; everyone who has artwork on exhibit is here. We are standing around nervously, twitchy and awkward, trying not to look at our own pieces, complimenting one another. Ms. Calico leans her hip against the table where Nate's sculptures are balanced. Easels holding his watercolor paintings and pencil drawings flank either side of the table. She beckons to me to join her, and when I do, she says, without looking at me, ”Your brother was extremely talented. He had such an exciting and original sensibility. It's rare, you know, to have two such talented siblings in one family. Your parents must be very proud.”

If she only knew. ”Sure,” I reply. ”Thanks.”

254.

Ms. Calico raises an eyebrow then walks over to the corner where my map stands. ”And this is just spectacular,” she declares. ”I'm proud of you. And I'm so glad you're going to London. You should be receiving more formal training than I can provide.”

I wince as I think about what I've done, forging the signature on the form, I am fairly certain I have messed up everything. But I can't think about that now. I let my eyes run over the map, across the warm greens and cool browns, the blues and yellows and grays -- the palette I once found so stifling. Now, standing on the metal-and-stone base Nate had constructed, the board has become a three-dimensional, topographical, touchable, living thing.

”It looks amazing,” Damian's voice is in my ear. ”The whole thing, but your map is ... it came out perfectly. Congratulations.” I turn to smile up at him, and his gaze is so full of warmth. ”I think Nate would love it,” he tells me. ”I think Nate does love it.”

”Do you believe he knows what's going on?” I ask.

”I guess I do,” Damian answers thoughtfully. ”And I think he'd be happy about it.”

”I hope so,” I reply. As I turn to look at the table of Nate's pieces, I notice that the room has filled even more. I see Helena in the far corner of the room; she is standing with an older couple. I recognize her mom. Helena is chattering brightly, and Cam is standing at her side, his arm around her waist. However 255.

unhappy her parents may be, at least they can come here together and stand in the same vicinity as Cam and be here for Helena and look normal -- and proud. A flash of self-pity grips me, but I shake it off. There's no room here for that tonight.

”Cora?” Damian sounds uncertain.

”What is it?”

”You'd better turn around,” he says, his voice tight. ”Your parents just walked in the door.”

”What?” I gasp and whirl around to see that, indeed, my parents have just entered the cla.s.sroom and are craning their necks, searching for me, I guess. ”What do I do?” I ask Damian frantically.

”You'd better go to them,” he responds. Then the warm pressure of his arm withdraws, and I am alone.

Slowly, I trudge over to the entrance of the cla.s.sroom and reluctantly lift my eyes to meet those of my mom and dad. Where I expected to find glowering pits of fire, though, I find something wholly different and unexpected. My mother's eyes are filled with tears, and the lines around her brow are creased, but not in an angry way, in a softer, sadder kind of way. And my father, too.

”Did you think we wouldn't come?” she asks me quietly.

My tongue is stuck, robbed of language. I grope for an answer but only nod my head.

My mom's chin trembles, as though she is fighting to keep 256.

herself from crying. ”Mrs. Brown called to ask me if I knew about this. Imagine my surprise,” she says with a rueful grin. ”Well, we're here now. Would you show us around?”