Free A Map of the Known World by Lisa Ann Sandell

two conditions, though,” I caution.
    “What?” Rachel looks unfazed.
    “I’m not going to the game,” I say.
    “But—” Rachel begins.
    “No. I’m sorry.”
    “Okay,” she answers. “What’s the second condition?”
    “ You have to get my mom to agree. She is all about keeping me locked up in the house at night. Like I’m Rapunzel or something. So, that’s the condition. If you can get her to say okay, I’m all yours.”
    “No problem!” Rachel crows. “I have a way with your mother. It’ll be easy.”
    And true to her word, Rachel calls my house that night to convince my mother to let me go to the dance.
    “I promise, ” Rachel swears, “my mom will drive us both ways.” She’s so excited, her voice pours through the receiver with all the subtlety of a locomotive.
    “Will there be adults at the dance?” my mother asks.
    “Oh, yes,” Rachel answers. “The dance is in the school, so there’ll be tons of teachers there. And the principal.”
    “No funny business,” my mom warns.
    “ Of course not! ” Rachel promises.
    And that’s that. I tell Rachel that I’ll meet her at the mall on Saturday to go shopping, as Rachel has assumed responsibility for finding an appropriate dress and shoes for me to wear.
    Now, as I walk through the halls at school and sit in class, where I can’t get away from the chatter about dresses and corsages, hairstyles and shoe styles, I feel I am a part of it. For the first time since school began, I feel like a piece of the whole.
    The rest of the week flies by, and I am buoyed by Ms. Calico’s praise and encouragement and by Rachel’s cheerful banter. The spectre of Damian and the studio seems to have faded. I put both from my mind. Maybe life, maybe high school isn’t doomed to suck after all. There is only one dark spot in my week: when I open my locker and spy the application to the London art program just sitting there at the bottom, peeping out from beneath a stack of papers, a daily reminder that I’m too chicken to show it to my mom. Maybe this weekend. I have to make a move soon; the application is due in a couple of weeks. With a sigh, I excavate it from the mess on the floor of my locker and stuff the packet into my backpack.
    The mall is buzzing with families and pairs of teenagers. I am trailing behind Rachel, letting her sweep me from one store to the next as we search for the “perfect dress.” I have some money saved up from my last birthday, and my mom gave me a bit more, so I should be able to get a nice dress and a pair of shoes. I’ve also agreed to go with Rachel to the tanning salon, where we’re going to get spray-on tans—a test run for the dance, Rachel says.
    We finally end up in the department store at the far end of the mall, where Rachel is tearing through the racks with a ferocity and intensity I don’t think I’ve seen in her before. This is good, right? Girl bonding? We’re supposed to chat and gossip and talk about life in this sort of situation, right?
    “So,” I oh-so-casually attempt, “um, what’s up with you and the Nasties?”
    “What do you mean?” Rachel asks blandly.
    “I mean, you hang around with them a lot now, and, well, I just wondered…” No, I don’t think this is going well at all. My face is growing warm.
    “You know, they’re not so bad,” Rachel says coolly.
    Uh-huh. I shoot her a look, cross my eyes, and waggle my eyebrows. Rachel chuckles.
    “Well, I think Macie is supercool. I mean, she’s so mature,” Rachel tells me. Her face is screwed up in a look of serious concentration as she pushes aside several hangers.
    “How so?” I ask halfheartedly.
    “She hooked up with Matt James over the summer. She said it was amazing.” A look of wistfulness has replaced the bossy squint of her eyes and crinkle in her nose.
    “Ew,” I say, hardly able to believe that Rachel thinks this is a good thing.
    “Oh, Cora, you’re such a baby.”
    “Yeah? Well, in that case, I guess I’ll stay