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

hair, my brown eyes, even my smile. I stare at myself in the mirror for a long while, watching as all the pieces of my face seem to fall apart and come back together.
    It is still my face, but I look so different somehow. Older, maybe.
    I find Rachel in the changing room and, as I’m getting dressed, Rachel suddenly lets out a piercing shriek.
    “Oh my gosh!” she screams, peering at herself in the mirror, pulling back her bangs from her forehead. “Oh my gosh,” she repeats.
    “What? What happened?” I call, racing over to her.
    “Look what happened!” Rachel moans. She turns to face me, and when I see what has Rachel so upset, I try very unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh.
    Right in the middle of Rachel’s forehead is a big bronze streak. A stain.
    “Did you rub it in?” I ask.
    “Oh…I thought I did,” Rachel says tearfully. “I guess I missed a spot.” She sniffs and turns back to the mirror. “I look ridiculous!”
    “No, it’s fine…your bangs cover it up.” I reach over to try and brush her bangs down across her forehead.
    “No, they don’t!” Rachel argues. “I look so stupid!”
    “You can barely notice it, Rach,” I say, straining to keep the grin from my face.
    We both examine Rachel’s forehead in the mirror. The bangs do cover a little bit of the stain, but a substantial part of the zigzag line still shows. As we stare at Rachel’s reflection, our eyes meet and I can’t hold it in any longer. I burst out laughing and, holding up my hand as I double over, I manage to squeal, “I’m sorry, Rach! I’m sorry…it’s just so—you look like—”
    “Harry Potter!” we both finish at the same time.
    I help her rub at the streak with a wet paper towel, until Rachel’s forehead is red and raw. We’re still giggling when we get on our bikes, with the green dress folded carefully into my backpack. We wave good-bye, and pedal our separate ways home.
    I can’t remember feeling so light in ages. As I ride back to my house, the wind rakes over my face and through my hair, making my eyes water. I pump my legs faster and faster, then stand up on the pedals and coast, and with the trees and fields whizzing past, I feel like I might take flight. I am free, unburdened, and it is the most wondrous sensation. I ride, the sun behind me, and decide it is time to tell my mom about London. If she agreed to let me go to the dance, maybe she is lightening up.
    I pull into the driveway and lean my bike up against thegarage. I burst into the house, calling, “Mom! Hey, Mom, I’m home! Where are you?”
    “Cora? Hi, I’m here, in the kitchen,” my mother answers.
    I run down the hall and find her washing dishes at the sink.
    “Did you get a dress?” she asks.
    “Yup. Want to see?”
    My mom nods, and I pull the bag out of my backpack, carefully releasing it from the plastic. I feel a little bit giddy. I hold it up against me, once again admiring the rich grassy green of the silk and the way the fabric catches the light. I sway, letting the gown fan out at my knees. Happy. Hopeful. That’s what I feel.
    “It’s really beautiful, Cor,” my mom says. “You look so grown up.” She pauses, and I swear she looks a little misty around the eyes. “I can hardly believe it,” she murmurs, then shakes herself. “Anyway, what about shoes?” She wipes her hands on a dish towel and comes closer to rub her fingers against the smooth silky material.
    “Got them, too,” I tell her, marveling at how normal our conversation is. How good it feels to be talking with her like this, peacefully. I reach into the bag and grab the shoe box, sliding it out, and opening it to show my mother the gold slingbacks with the tiny heels and slender straps. I slip them on and suddenly feel very grown-up.
    “You’ll look gorgeous, Cor,” my mom says softly. “So mature.”
    This is it, I decide. Things are going so well; it is time.
    “Hey, uh, Mom, could I ask you something?” I begin as I slide my feet out of the