A Map of the Known World by Lisa Ann Sandell Page B

enough to be contrite.
    “Yes, you should have,” she says, her voice short and tight. “Go wash up, dinner is almost ready.”
    Clearly, she isn’t going to broach the subject of our fight last night. That is fine by me. I dash upstairs and wash my hands and face, put away my sketch pad and pencils, and repack my book bag with my schoolbooks. Then I return to the kitchen to sit with my mom in silence and eat a tasteless dinner of microwaved carrots and fish sticks.
    I can hear the television filtering down from the den, and I feel a flash of anger. Without saying a word, I get up from the table and run up the stairs. I open the door and find my father sitting slumped in a chair, his head in his hands.
    “Dad,” I mumble.
    No response.
    “Dad!” I repeat, louder.
    “What is it?” He doesn’t even turn to look at me.
    “Dad, why don’t you come to the kitchen and eat dinner with Mom and me?” I try.
    “I’m fine here,” he states flatly, still not meeting my gaze.
    “Well, we’re not fine out there. Could you please come?” I hate myself for begging, but a sense of urgency, of desperationhas seized me. I feel like if he doesn’t meet my eye, doesn’t take himself downstairs to sit with us, the whole thing will implode—our family will implode and we’ll never be able to put all the pieces back together.
    “Cora, shut the door.”
    “Dad—”
    “Get out,” he says coldly. “Just go.”
    I feel like he slapped me. I jerk my head around and step out of the doorway. I can’t breathe. I pull the door shut hard behind me, but it’s not very satisfying, even when the walls shake around it.
    Why does he get to behave that way when the rest of us have to pull it together and move on? He’s my freaking father!
    I march back to the kitchen, pick up my fork, and finish eating. My mother and I both pretend that nothing happened. She knows, though. She knows our family is falling apart around us.
    I finish eating, put my plate in the sink, and go up to my room. I haven’t done any homework, and now Sunday night is breathing down my neck. The house seems to shudder under the weight of the silence.

Chapter Seven
    M onday stretches on and on. I can barely contain my excitement. I can’t wait to get to Damian’s studio and begin working on my art project. On Nate’s project.
    It’s only lunchtime. I amble into the cafeteria and look for Rachel in our usual spot by the windows. She isn’t there. I must have gotten here first, so I go and sit down. It’s awfully surprising when I do find Rachel; she’s sitting farther back in the cafeteria at a different table, with Josh and the Nasties and the other Nasty satellite, Elizabeth Tillson. What ? I try to catch her eye, thinking Rachel will wave me over to join them. But she studiously avoids looking in my direction. And all the time, my stomach is churning, because even if I’m hoping she’ll invite me to sit with them, I know she didn’t sit at our table—didn’t wait for me to get there—on purpose. She didn’t want to sit with me at all.
    Rachel has totally and completely ditched me. And she’s clearly embarrassed of me. I eat my lunch quickly, barely chewing my sandwich, the peanut butter lodging in my throat,against the crybaby lump that’s grown there. When I’m done, I gather my things and hurry to the library.
    I pull out my history book and pretend to do my homework, but it’s useless. My mind won’t stop spinning over the image of Rachel sitting at the end of the Nasties’ table, not talking to anyone seated near her, and avoiding my eyes. I bet all the other kids from our class, the girls I’ve known my whole life and was even once friendly with, witnessed the whole humiliating debacle, and now, my loserdom is confirmed. It’s probably the lead item in the class gossip broadcast. Not only the girl with the dead brother, but the girl with no friends. This is it.
    I feel like I’m drowning at the bottom of the deepest sea. There is