Buried (11 page)

The first Post-it I wrote was:
fix your notebook
. Then I wrote:
set the alarm
. I stuck it on the bathroom mirror. Then I wrote:
you took a shower today
. I stuck it right under the other note. In every room, I left a reminder for myself to take a shower. Later, when I cleaned Mom's car and I noticed the gas gauge on E, I left a Post-it on the dashboard:
get gas
.

With each Post-it, the tension eased a bit, the clamp loosened. I was creating a calmness around me. I was in control. I could sleep now.

First I wrote to Mom. It was getting to be a ritual. Or a confessional.

9

I WAS JOLTED OUT OF MY SLEEP by Mrs. MacPhee's voice on the answering machine. “Don't forget the baskets, Claudine. Even though your mother doesn't attend the Boosters Club meetings, she can still contribute to our cause. We're raising money for band uniforms. And I think it's great that your mom is doing what she's doing. Come on over and visit us again sometime.”

Did she really think Mom was so stupid? The last thing Mom would ever support was the school band. She never even graduated. I lifted Moonpie off my chest and stared at the muddy paw prints he'd left on my T-shirt. A cold breeze blew through the trailer, and the storm door slammed open and closed. I wrote a Post-it to drop off a few of Mom's baskets at the MacPhees.

In the kitchen, the fridge hummed and the baseboard ticked. I still had time for breakfast. A pink Post-it was stuck to the coffeemaker. It said:
check the vacuum
. The Post-its were saving me from a lot of potential problems. I went to the broom closet and listened. The buzz was gone. But another Post-it said it was time to empty the vacuum. I unlatched the canister, took the bag out to the garden, and ripped it open. I stood back as the dust clouded up. I tore a tall flower from the ground and used the stem to stir around the contents. Fly carcasses dotted the dust balls and bits of glass. Tangled in the mess was a silver chain that made my stomach turn over. It was Mom's anklet, the one she always wore. I lifted it with the stem and carried it inside. After I rinsed it off, I stretched it out on the counter and looked at the letters of her name: S-E-R-E-N-A.

Downing a bowl of cereal, I tried to ignore the glinting silver on the counter. I laid a napkin over it, poured some more coffee, and studied the lump while I ate.

Even through the napkin I could feel the heat of the silver anklet and see the outline of the nameplate. I should get rid of it, but it was Mom's favorite piece of jewelry. She wore it every day. With the napkin still over it, I grabbed it and stuck it in an outside pocket in my backpack. I'd send it to her when she finally let me know where she was.

I took a few baskets from the pile by the shop and loaded them into the back of the car. I filled up the gas tank at the convenience store and bought two coffees—one for me and one for Liz—and drove to the MacPhees' house.

In the kitchen, Marty was sneaking an apple into Liz's backpack. “Your hair is adorable!” Mrs. MacPhee said. “By the way, I've been meaning to ask you if you need a blow-dryer. I happen to have one too many!” She pointed behind her, toward her bathroom.

“All set, but thank you. The baskets are in the back of the car.”

Marty flew by me. “Oh, thank your mother for me. She has such a creative knack. A gift. She should do something with it.” She looked back. “I mean something more—go big, I mean. It's a crime—”

I'd stopped listening and went to Liz's room.

“What did you do to yourself!” Liz said. She shivered and said, “Let's go. We can fix it in the car.” She pointed me down the hall.

“I like it,” I said, opening the front door. “It's the new me.”

“No, it's not. It's your mother,” she said, walking down the path. “And I can't believe you're driving her car around. Won't she be pissed?” Liz said.

“She won't even know.”

Marty came toward us with a basket of dried flowers on either arm. “Bye, hun,” she said.

“Bye, Mom,” Liz said, kissing the lavender-scented air.

I got in and buckled my seat belt.

“Here,” she said, handing me two hair clips.

I looked in the rearview mirror. “What?”

“Let me do it,” she said, turning my chin toward her. She pinned my new bangs back and nodded satisfactorily.

I didn't bother to look, just handed her the coffee.

“Thanks, Claude.”

“You want to go to the mall after school?” I asked, sipping as I drove. I'd been trying to plan something fun and spontaneous since I'd skipped the big party at Jenna's house.

“I can't today, but maybe tomorrow after we get our tests back,” Liz said. “Quiz me, okay?”

“What test?”

“You're joking. Poetry, Claude—we only have one class together. This is the test. Today. We had the quiz the other day.”

“Oh, yeah. Just haven't had my coffee yet.” I went through my mental list of lists and didn't see the one that said
Test Tuesday
. But then I remembered what Mr. Springer had said at the end of class. Of course, the test. It would be okay—I loved tests.

Liz and I batted definitions back and forth on the way, practicing until they became automatic. Then we quizzed each other on the bios of the poets we had studied.

 
The bios I wrote came quickly, and the definitions were a snap. It felt good to have the right answers in the right spaces. There was no other feeling like it. It was something I could count on. If I studied hard and put down the right answers, I got an A+.

I put my pencil down with a satisfying slap and began a doodle on the back of the paper while the rest of the class finished up.

Someone's eyes were on me. I looked up, and Mr. Springer gave me a smile and a nod. He took a pencil from the pottery jar on his desk and wrote something down. I bit the inside of my cheek. The bell rang, and everyone pushed their way out, dropping their tests on his desk in a sloppy pile. When I got there, I straightened it out, holding up the line in the process. Voices urged me on, reminding me that it was the end of school, telling me to get a life. When I turned, I could see that Mr. Springer and Liz were sharing a look.

“What?” I said. I laughed a little. “It's a mess.”

Mr. Springer turned back to Liz and said something, smiling. I stepped aside and let the line out the door as Ms. Frost popped in with her gray braids and yellow pencils.

“Claudine?” she said. “Are you going down to see your mom this weekend?”

“This weekend?” I looked for nothing in particular in my backpack. “Maybe next weekend.”

“This would be the only Family Weekend. Did you call to make a reservation?” She came over to me.

When I only shrugged, she said, “Claudine, I'm worried about you being alone. Twenty-eight days is a long time to be without your mom. It's only been a little over a week, and I have a feeling you miss her already.”

I swallowed, and my eyes filled while I rearranged some folders and books in my backpack like something was missing. I put my hand into a small zipper pocket and felt the familiar silver chain and put it into the pocket of my jeans.

“I'm right, aren't I?” she said. I felt her arm around me. “Stop by my office and we can talk about it, okay?”

I hoisted my backpack on my shoulder. “I'm fine, really. Liz and”—I motioned at the door—“the MacPhees are there for me.”

Ms. Frost nodded. “So you'll check in with them?” she said.

“Yup,” I said, moving closer to the door.

Liz appeared at my side. “Ready to go?” she said.

When we were out the double doors, she stopped me. “I heard that. Claude, are you sure you're okay without your mom home?”

“I'm fine. I love it, Liz.” I punched the air.

“Whoa,” she said, ducking.

“I can eat when I want, watch what I want on TV, play music as loud as I want. I don't have to worry about anyone calling to tell me Mom's been in an accident or passed out in someone's house.” I could feel the heat in my cheeks and knew they were red because everyone knew what I said was true. That Mom had done all those things.

10

ON THE WAY TO POETRY, I walked by the Staff Lounge and saw Ms. Frost and Mr. Springer going over some papers at a table near the coffee station. Mr. Springer pushed his glasses up on his nose and nodded gravely. Ms. Frost shook her head. I stood in the doorway and craned my neck to see the paper. No name, but I could tell it was one of Mr. Springer's tests.

They looked up.

“Claudine,” Ms. Frost said. She motioned for me to wait, but I was gone before she was out the door.

I waited until the class was filled, then I took my seat just as Mr. Springer flipped the test over on my desk. “Let's talk,” he said.

I lifted the edge enough to see some red writing, and a question mark.

Jenna stood and yelled from across the room. “Claude, my first A ever!”

I smiled and slid my test into my backpack.

Mr. Springer flipped off the lights and started a video documentary called
Walking in a Writer's World
. We were supposed to take notes about how place has meaning in each writer's work. I couldn't make sense of it. The sea, the mountains, whatever. I slid my notebook from my backpack and worked on my list by the light of the TV screen. The flashes of light played over the string of ideas for ordering my life. I had school; I had my friends; I had home. Home had the biggest list. From bathroom to outside work, there were at least twenty-five items. As I arranged them, a shadow darkened the page and I saw that Mr. Springer was at my side. I shut my notebook and looked up, but his eyes were on the screen. A woman was walking along the beach. The wind blew her hair and skirt, so that it looked like work just to walk. “The way I work is I wait until the poem writes itself. It stays inside me and I work on it when I walk, when I cook, whenever, and then one day it just has to be written. It's born. See?”

No, I didn't see. I could tell by the snorts that a few others didn't either, but they were the regular slackers. With a flash I remembered that I loved the poet in the film; I used to read her. Last year I would have been all over this assignment. What was happening to me?