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

a baby for a while longer.”
    “Suit yourself,” Rachel snorts.
    “Well, what about you?” I ask her.
    “If Josh wanted to hook up with me, I’d do it,” she says enthusiastically. My insides are melting. I cringe and feel like I might throw up.
    “Seriously?”
    “Of course,” Rachel says matter-of-factly. “I mean, Macie said that guys only hook up with girls they think are cool. So, you know, it’d mean he was really into me.”
    “Ew,” I say again. Her explanation hardly even makes sense. One would hope that if a guy wanted to hook up with a girl, he’d be into her, right? Isn’t that how it works? “Rach, don’t do it if you don’t feel totally ready. I mean, don’t let them pressure you into anything. They are the Nasties,” I remind her.
    “Yeah, well, it’s just that the guys worship them like they’re goddesses, and Josh is always hanging around them, and I just…I’m sick of being a loser, you know?” Rachel says, avoiding my eyes.
    Oh, Rach. “You were never a loser,” I say softly.
    “You know what I mean, though, don’t you? I’m tired of being the girl the guys never see, never notice, never talk to. I want this year to be different.” Rachel speaks quietly but with force. “High school should be fun and about boys and parties.”
    “Yeah, but it’s about other stuff, too. Like figuring out what you like to do and what you want to do, and what you’re good at and who your friends are.”
    “I know you’re my friend,” Rachel replies.
    “Well, duh.” I grab a black halter dress off the rack and walk over to her, holding it up. “What do you think of this?” I wait for Rachel to nod her approval, then continue, “I just don’t want you to get hurt, is all. Because they’re still the Nasties.”
    “I know,” Rachel answers shortly. “It’s fine. Let’s just concentrate on the shopping, okay?”
    “Okay,” I say, and turn back to the racks. I can’t seem to say anything right. When did it become so hard to be a friend to Rachel?
    When our arms are piled high with dresses in all kinds of colors—my one stipulation was that I will not wear red—we move into the dressing room. Rachel stands outside the booth issuing orders like a drill sergeant, directing me from one dress to the next.
    “I don’t think you should go the mermaid route,” Rachel tells me after I come out in a blue dress that is weirdly wide atthe waist and tapered as it falls to my ankles. “Also, no one will be wearing a long dress!”
    “Rach, I don’t know if I can hold out much longer. This is torture,” I whine through the dressing room door.
    “Well, you need a dress, Cor. Come on, suck it up!”
    Finally, finally, I try on an emerald green silk gown that hugs my body in just the right places and falls to my knees in a sweeping skirt. It even looks nice against my pasty skin. Rachel utters her approval: “Oh, Cor, it’s beautiful. It’s like it was made for you.”
    It’s pretty. I twirl and watch with satisfaction as the skirt spins out. Every Christmas I used to watch the Nutcracker on TV and covet Clara’s dress. When she would spin into a pirouette and her skirt would bloom around her in a perfect circle, I didn’t think anything could look more elegant. I sigh with relief as I peel off the dress and carefully replace it on its hanger. I really, really like this dress.
    The hunt for shoes is, thankfully, much easier and quicker, and I find a pair of strappy gold heels. Soon we’re on our way to the spa.
    A woman wearing what looks like a pink nurse’s uniform ushers us into a changing room, where we don fluffy white terry robes. Then we are led into separate areas that look like showers. There is a heavy, cloying stink in the air, and I feel like I could maybe faint. But I step into the showeranyway and let the noxious spray fall over my body. When I step out again, I can’t help but marvel at the golden tan I’m now sporting.
    Everything looks brighter—my dull brown