“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.
“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.”
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.
“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 space for people to walk through the exhibit and stop in front of each of the pieces.”
I’m shifting some easels to stand against the wall by the door, when I sense that someone is waiting to enter the classroom. 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 scraped the floor. Quickly, I close my mouth and try to not act like a total idiot. “Oh, wow. That’s 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 amassed 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 mâché 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 classes pass uneventfully. It feels good to smile at Rachel and say hi as we pass on our way out of homeroom. And I don’t believe any of my teachers or classmates are 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 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 classroom.
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.
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.”
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 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 classroom 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 classroom 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 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?”
I can tell that there’s a pretty good chance that I’ll burst into tears, too. I take a deep breath and make a concerted effort to keep it together. I look around for Damian. He’s standing in the far corner alone, the only one of the artists who isn’t accompanied by parents or a crowd of friends. A dark, brooding look shadows his face. My stomach gives a nervous twitch, but I turn back to my parents and tell them to follow me. I lead them into the center of the room, so they can stand in front of the collection of Nate’s sculptures and paintings.
The room is really crowded now, bustling with students and parents and some teachers clustered in small groups around each of the pieces. No one notices the three of us as we gather before Nate’s work. Both of my parents are gaping in surprise.
They had no idea.
My mother crumples up like a paper doll, chest collapsing in on itself, her shoulders shaking, hand over her mouth. “My beautiful boy,” she cries. “He could have been—”
“Mom,” I murmur, not sure what to do.
My father steps in front of me and puts his arm around her, drawing her in to his chest. “Shh, Marie.” Tears glisten in the corners of his eyes, too, and for the first time in a year, I catch a glimpse of the man he used to be through the gray pall that painted and stained and changed him, that kept him so far apart from us all these months.
I stand there, just looking at them, an outsider. They fit together. And I am locked out, only a watcher. How I long to be a part of them again, for the three of us to fit together once more.
“Daddy,” I whimper. And he reaches out his hand to me, and I step in and huddle with my mother in the safe embrace of my father’s arms.
“He was a good boy,” my father whispers, then lifts his head from the cloud of my mother’s and my hair. “Marie, look, look at this.” My father disentangles himself and moves closer to one of Nate’s easels. It is the drawing of the mother and son. “It’s you and Nate.”
My mother wipes her eyes and moves over to my dad. She bends to look at the painting. “Yes, it is,” she says softly. A small smile crosses her lips. She reaches out a hand as if to caress the painting, then thinks better of it and pulls her hand back. Instead, her fingertips fall onto my hair, and she begins to stroke my head. “Thank you for doing this, Cora. Thank you for giving this gift to us, even if we didn’t know we needed it.”
“I’m so glad you guys came,” I reply, brushing the tears from my own face.
“Come, Cora, what else is there to see? Do you have anything on display here?” my father asks.
“I do,” I say, pressing my hands to my cheeks, which I can feel are flushed. “I’ll show you.” My mother takes my hand and they both follow me over to where my map stands atop the base Nate built.
“Oh my goodness,” my mom murmurs. “This is incredible.”
“Cora, you did this?” my father asks disbelievingly.
“Yes,” I answer. “Well, Nate built the base. I made the map. What do you think?”
“It’s amazing, it’s just…It’s our town,” my father says, and turns to me, using his nickname for me for the first time since The Accident. “Rabbit, I’m so proud of you.”
Then, the memory of what I did comes rushing back, and I think I’m going to throw up.
“Oh, no,” I moan.
“What? What is it?” my mother asks.
“I did something,” I begin. “Something awful.”
“Whatever it is, we can talk about it,” she says calmly.
“No, I did something terrible. I’m so sorry,” I bawl. “Mom, I forged your signature on the permission form for the London art program. I’m so, so sorry!”
“Cora, I know,” my mom answers.
The thickness in the back of my throat starts to rise, and I really begin to worry I might be sick.
“What? What do you mean? How do you know?”
“You didn’t put enough postage on the envelope. It came back last week. I found it, and I saw that you’d forged my signature.”
“Augghh,” comes a strangled sound from my throat. “I’m so sorry.” The floor, the ceiling, the whole world is spinning, lurching madly. I have messed up so profoundly, I don’t know how I’ll ever fix it.
My mother continues, “I’ve been hard on you, Cor. I know it. But I was so scared that if I let you have too much—any—freedom, I would lose you like I lost Nate. I was so frightened, because, I…I failed as a mother. I failed Nate, and I was so scared that I would—” She doesn’t finish. If only I could somehow staunch the flow of those terrible words and thoughts, and replace all of the fear and blame and guilt with the knowledge of how much I love and need her and my dad.
Then my mom straightens and glances at my father, who nods. “I’m really glad you told us about the form before I had to bring it up. It helps me feel like we can trust you again.”
I start to open my mouth, as a spark of hope ignites in me. She waves me to be quiet. “I am not saying you can or cannot go. We will discuss this at home.”
“We have much to talk about,” my father says, “including what you’ve been doing with Damian Archer. But this isn’t the place.” The nausea returns slightly.
“Damian is here,” I tell them.
“We know,” my father replies. “We’d like to talk to him.” The nausea abates slightly. What a roller coaster of a day. I turn to look for Damian, but can’t spot him anywhere. He wouldn’t leave, would he? I wonder.
“I don’t see him. Maybe he stepped outside.” “Cora,”
Helena’s voice interrupts, steering me away from my search for Damian. “You should make a speech,” she says, “before it’s too late and people start to go home. Ms. Calico will introduce you.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised. “I didn’t p
repare anything.”
“You should. You should explain about Nate and everything.”
My heart starts to beat faster. I wish I could find Damian. “Okay,” I agree shakily. Helena darts off to find our teacher, not waiting for me to ready myself.
“Good evening, everybody,” Ms. Calico calls out. Gradually, the room begins to settle, as everyone turns to look at her. “As you know, each year Lincoln Grove High has held an art show, open to all of its student artists. This year’s show is special, however. We’ve made this a gala opening night to honor the life and work of Nathaniel Bradley, who was a student at Lincoln Grove High. This wouldn’t have happened without one person, an exceptional artist in her own right, whose map of Lincoln Grove is also on display tonight. Please give a hand for Cora Bradley!”
I can’t catch my breath. Everybody is clapping and staring at me expectantly, and there are a lot of eyes out there. I glance at my parents, who are both smiling at me encouragingly.
“Thanks, everyone,” I begin. “Thanks for coming and thank you to all the artists who have pieces on display here. Each and every one is phenomenal.” I survey the room and am amazed by how full it is, by how filled it is with different people from every walk of life. “This is an important date for me. It’s the first anniversary of my brother Nate’s death. Some of you may have known Nate. He passed away one year ago today in a car accident.” The room is silent. “And in the months since he died, I learned that he was an artist. I never knew this while he was alive. He kept his art hidden, a secret from almost everyone.” I look around for Damian again, but there is no sign of him. “Damian Archer, Nate’s best friend—my friend—helped me find some of his artwork. We thought the best way to remember him and to celebrate him would be to include his work in the show. It makes me really happy to see his artwork here alongside everyone else’s, and it makes me even happier that there are so many of you here tonight who I don’t ordinarily see hanging around the art room.” I smile as some of the kids start to chuckle. “Congratulations, everybody. And thank you.” I take a step back, and the room erupts into applause. People who are my friends and who aren’t, people I’ve never spoken to once, are looking at me with shining eyes and clapping as hard as they can.