Part 23 (1/2)

My mom and dad greet Rachel, then wander off to look at the rest of the art.

”This is really great, Cor,” Rachel says. ”I'm so happy for you.”

”Thanks,” I return. ”I am just so happy it all worked out okay.”

Another voice interrupts. ”It really did.”

Julie Castor, Nate's ex-girlfriend, has come up beside me. Her green eyes are thickly lined and her blonde hair hangs limply around her face. ”Hey,” she says. ”I just -- I just wanted to thank you for doing this. I knew about Nate, his art. And one of the things that I just couldn't deal with was how he hid it. How he acted like such a total --” she stops.

”Jerk?” I fill in.

”Yes,” Julie looks at me gratefully. ”And all the time he had this amazing talent and wouldn't do anything about it. It drove me crazy.”

”I can imagine,” I tell her.

263.

”Well,” she says, ”I'm glad you finally got his stuff out in the open. It should be.”

”Yeah,” I say. How strange and wonderful this evening has been.

Once more, I try to find Damian, and as the crowd thins, and people begin filing out of the room, I realize that he's gone. He left without saying good-bye.

I reach my parents and tell them that I want to go home. Ms. Calico stops us on the way out, and says to my parents, ”You must be so proud. Cora has so much potential. I'm so pleased you're allowing her to explore it in London this summer.”

My mouth goes dry and I look at my mother. She smiles cryptically, and says, ”Well, we're very grateful to you for encouraging her. And for allowing her to include Nate's artwork in the show. Thank you.” They shake hands all around, and as we walk through the school building, I hope Damian will materialize. He doesn't, and my parents shepherd me to the car.

Once we're all seat-belted in and on our way home, I speak up from the backseat, ”So, what happened?”

”When I found the envelope,” my mother begins, ”I realized that we were on the verge of losing you, too. Or, that somehow, somewhere along the way, I already had lost you. Then your father and I had a very long and frank talk. It wasn't easy, and 264.

the discussion we're going to have won't be easy, either. But if this family is going to stay together, it is necessary.”

I sink back in my seat and mull over my mother's words. I don't expect our family and all our problems will be fixed by tomorrow, but I expect things will be better.

265.

Chapter Eighteen.

The stink of greasy pizza fills the house. There was a long night of talking and explaining and crying and pizza. My parents and I got to know each other again, and we reached a point of understanding, I think. They lifted the 4:00 p.m. curfew, they told me I could see Damian, and they said they would discuss whether I could go to London and decide before March 15, when the permission form is due. It's not like before Nate died, it never will be; there will always be a hole in our family. But now, it feels like all three of us have come inside, together, from the cold.

I am in bed and my face feels tight from dried tears. I take out my cell phone and dial Damian's number. I can't wait to tell him what happened. How everything changed in one night, and that I'm allowed to see him, and we don't have to hide or sneak anymore.

The phone doesn't ring; it goes straight to voice mail. I try again. Same result. I dial a third time and receive the voice mail once again. What is going on? I start to feel nervous.

I turn out my light and try willing myself to sleep. It doesn't 266.

work. Why did he leave the art show early? Did something happen to him? Is he upset? Did he decide that the whole thing was a mistake? He called me his girlfriend this morning, though. Could he regret that? I toss around in my sheets. I won't know anything until I see him in school tomorrow.

When I arrive at school, I immediately spy his blue El Camino in the parking lot. He's here, so he must be okay, I think with relief. After I chain up my bike, I run into the building, fighting through the slow-moving crowd of students toward Damian's locker. No sign of him. I duck my head into his homeroom and spy him crumpled into a desk in the corner of the cla.s.sroom, his ever-present black trench coat wrapped around him. Like a shroud, I think.

”Damian!” I cry.

Dully, he looks up at me. I wave my hand, hoping he'll smile and leap to his feet, run to the cla.s.sroom door, and swallow me in a hug. He doesn't stir from his seat. I feel unsteady, uncertain. I'm not sure how I fit now. I start to enter the cla.s.sroom. All I know is that I have to understand why Damian won't speak to me. I have to know why he left the show early last night and why he will barely even look at me. What happened.

Yet, two steps in, a booming voice rings out, ”Miss, I don't know what you're doing in here, but you'd better have a note from the princ.i.p.al saying you've been promoted to the junior cla.s.s and you're supposed to be in my cla.s.sroom now.” The very 267.

tall, very infamously mean Mr. Cross has risen from his desk at the front of the room and is glaring at me crossly. How appropriate. I dart a pleading look in Damian's direction, then bow my head, and mumble an apology and back out of the room.

I hear the footsteps behind me before Mr. Cross's thunderous voice calls, ”Mr. Archer, I suggest you return to your seat,”

”What is it, Cora?” Damian is standing before me, his eyes dull and wary.

”Damian,” I say, and I raise my hand to touch his cheek, but Damian takes a step back.

”What is it?” he repeats.

”I -- you left early last night. Without saying good-bye. What happened?”

”Nothing happened. I just didn't feel like hanging around any longer.”

”But why? I was looking for you. And you didn't even say good-bye.” I sound pathetic. I know I do. Plaintive and wimpy and lame. I can't help it. I am so confused. ”Did I do something?” I ask.

”You didn't do anything,” he says. ”Nothing happened. I just didn't -- I don't --” Damian stops and stares at a point above my head.

”What?” I press.

”Cora, I don't think we should be together.”

It's as though someone has released all the fury of a raging 268.

sea on me. I am knocked down and battered. ”Why not?” I can barely whisper.

He takes a deep breath and lets out a loud sigh, as if he is about to explain. Then he seems to think better of it and says, ”Look, I've got to go. See you around.”

And before I can say a word, Damian has spun around on the heel of his boot and marched back into the cla.s.sroom. I stand still as a statue. Frozen like petrified wood. I don't understand, tears p.r.i.c.king at my eyes. None of this makes any sense.

The bell rings. Now, not only have I been summarily dumped in the hallway outside of Mr. Cross's cla.s.sroom, but I'm late. I begin to jog toward my homeroom and all the while trying to puzzle out the reasoning behind Damian's behavior.

At lunch I sit with Helena and Cam and describe our exchange in the hallway.

”What do you think?” I ask.

Helena says, ”Maybe he was upset that his parents didn't come to see his artwork.”