A Map of the Known World Read Online Free PDF Page A

again and study the vastness of Siberia. I know the Russians used to exile criminals—revolutionaries—at various points in the country’s history to Siberia. I imagine an empty ice field, barren and cheerless, inhabited by a solitary woman in a sable fur cap and coat, a countess, marching by herself to a looming, frozen doom. How dreadful. Lines meet and capture the bent shape of a cold and lonely woman as my pencil flies over the paper, tracing this scene inside the boundaries of Siberian tundra.
    I move back down the map again, pausing at Sumatra, which I think is a part of Indonesia now. I picture lush green jungles, dense with shiny leaves and vines, rich black soil, and eyes of varying colors peering out from among the trees. My pencils scratch across the page, the paper wrinkling finely. I don’t mind when the paper looks crumpled—it gives the drawing an old map quality. I love watching the supple gray line chase the point of the pencil. Strokes and strokes giving shape to a great, wild, jungle life, monkeys and frogs peeping from between leaves.
    The sudden grumbling of the garage door opening pulls meback, back to Lincoln Grove and my bedroom and the sound of tire wheels squeaking on the smooth concrete of the garage floor. My dad is home. I feel my whole body tense up as I wait for him to enter the kitchen, as I wait for the greeting I know won’t come, and as I wait for the inevitable clink of ice cubes.
    The door slams, footsteps. Then I hear the cupboard bang shut, a glass slams onto the countertop, the refrigerator opens and closes, the freezer door swings open…pause, clink, clink, clink, and close. Then footsteps into the den, and silence. My fingernails have been digging into my palms.
    When I was in middle school, B.T.A., my dad would come home, race up the stairs—the thudding of his footsteps like a happy waltz—and he’d knock, saying, “Shave and a haircut,” to which I’d answer with a shouted “Two bits!”
    “Hey, Rabbit, how’s the homework coming? I know I’m old, but need any help?” he would ask. It was like a dance that we’d performed over and over, so many times for all thirteen years of my life. Till now.
    I leave the pencils and paper and map behind, pull my textbooks and notebooks from my backpack and, sliding onto the bed, begin to do my homework.
    Geometry, with its postulates and proofs, theorems and corollaries, will be hard. American history might not be too bad, but biology will surely be. For English class, I’m going to have to read a ton, but honestly, I’m kind of looking forward to reading some of the books, like The Odyssey, Wuthering Heights, Romeo and Juliet, and Invisible Man. And then there is art class. Ms. Calico explained that we will start with sketching still lifes, then painting them, and then we’ll each have to find an independent project to focus on. I wonder if I could make something of my map drawings. How much freedom to explore will Ms. Calico allow us? Just thinking about it starts a tingle of excitement in my stomach. Or my gut. Even if I have to face Damian Archer, there is a glimmer of promise yet.
    The door to the garage suddenly crashes shut, and my mother’s voice rings out. “Daniel, Cora, I’m home! Cora, are you here?” she calls shrilly.
    I run down the stairs and meet her in the kitchen. “Here, let me help,” I say, bending to assist her in hauling in and putting away the bags of groceries that now cover every inch of floor space between the stove and dishwasher.
    “How was school, Cor?” my mother asks, eyeing me keenly and ignoring the fact that my dad still has not answered her call.
    “Fine,” I reply.
    “Fine? Just fine? How were your classes? Are you in many with Rachel?” she peppers me with questions. I’m not in the mood to be grilled, but it looks like it will be unavoidable.
    “My classes were fine. I only have homeroom with Rachel, and we had lunch together today.”
    “I see,” Mom says, sighing,