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

to love the challenge of keeping my lines in line. When I leave class, my fingertips smudged black or all different colors, my cheeks streaked with green and blue and yellow, I wear those colors proudly. I might be a weirdo, but I am a weirdo who can make stuff.
    I have brought all of this color home with me and I’ve introduced it into my map drawings. Suddenly, the Frenchcountryside is blanketed with yellow and violet wildflowers, the sage green of olive trees. And the rain forests of the Amazon are ablaze with a lush green vibrance.
    In art class, I sit on my stool next to the window, listening to an angry rain pelt the glass with a thrumming tattoo, as I nibble on the tip of a charcoal pencil. I stare at the basket of jelly jars and fruit posed at the front of the room. There is never much talking in this cavernous studio but for the hushed murmur of Ms. Calico’s voice as she moves from easel to easel, guiding each of us, her flock. Sometimes she lectures or demonstrates a new technique, but mostly the class remains swathed in silence.
    I glance around the classroom. Damian is tucked away behind his easel and a huge drawing tablet at the front of the room. Quickly, I look away, then turn to watch as my nearest neighbor, a sophomore named Helena, who has blonde curly hair that she always keeps clipped in a messy twist, runs broad strokes across her paper with a scarlet pastel stick. The lines grow heavy and thick, livid. I love to watch Helena’s dainty hands gripping the pastel and dragging it so furiously, her plastic bangle bracelets banging and clacking boisterously. What drives this tiny girl into such a fury of motion?
    Helena looks up and catches me studying her. I feel myself blushing, but she shoots me a wide smile and nods her head. “It’s therapeutic,” she says.
    “Really?” I ask. When Helena nods vigorously, I add, “Maybe I should try it.”
    Helena grins and replies, “Maybe you should.” Then she returns her attention to her easel. With green and black, she evokes the shapes of the fruit and jars. I am spellbound. I’ve never seen anything like it. I have seen prints of some of Picasso’s paintings in the Cubist style, and while Helena’s piece looks like some distant cousin of that, it’s a method and a look all its own.
    “I’m sorry to keep spying on you, but that’s really amazing,” I tell Helena.
    “You think so?” Helena takes a step back from her easel and scrutinizes her drawing. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a little too angry?”
    “Why’s that a bad thing?” I ask as Helena returns to her stool.
    Whatever Helena was about to answer in response is drowned out by a very loud buzzing sound. It sounds like someone is fiddling with the school’s PA system, which is only supposed to come on in the morning during homeroom, or in an emergency.
    “Hey, everybody,” a voice filters through. “Here’s a little senior surprise for the semester. Some might call it a prank, call it what you will, but I present to you my bud, DJ Ben Maxwell! Everybody, I want you out in the halls, dancing andputting your hands together for this rhymin’ fiend. Now, Benny-boy, rap!”
    For a second, everyone is frozen. Nobody laughs or speaks or moves. We just stare at one another, then all eyes come to rest on Ms. Calico. A beat starts to pulse through the PA speakers.
    “Well, who am I to stop you? You heard what the man said.” Ms. Calico steps back and opens the studio door.
    I look at Helena, who just shrugs in return and slides off her stool. She peels off her smock and beckons for me to follow her out into the hall. The nearby classrooms are emptying into the hallway and most of the kids are standing around awkwardly, hands shoved in pockets, toes scuffing the linoleum tiles. Then, a brave few begin to dance. Now, the doors to all of the classrooms up and down the corridor are flung open, and more students are writhing and twisting to the rhythm of the PA beat. I can’t believe what