Buried (13 page)

Why hadn't I thought of this earlier? If Mom and I had used an organizing tool like this when I was growing up, I wouldn't have scrambled every morning to clean up and make sure she was awake and eating. I would have remembered to check the fridge for beer and dump it out before school instead of later, in the middle of a party when she was already smashed. I would have been able to make the bus on time and been focused in class instead of worrying if Mom had gotten up that day. A Post-it system would have given her a structure to follow every day and one for me, too. A wave of despair overtook me, and I began to sob uncontrollably. I turned my back on the class and forced myself to breathe the dark panic away.

The slapping shut of notebooks and moving of chairs brought me back to the room. I wiped my nose and sat down to pack my books. Mr. Springer handed me some papers.

“Thanks,” I said, glad to have something more to do.

He waited beside my desk.

“Those were the wrong notes, Claudine. You must have meant them for something else.” He handed me the letter I'd written to Mom about stealing things from the MacPhees.

My heart thudded in my chest and my cheeks burned as I ran through my lists.
How'd this even get out of my binder?
“It's personal. I thought I mailed it.”

“Maybe you mailed the biography notes to your mom.” He looked down at me and waited. “It's okay, Claudine. I didn't read it.” The classroom was clearing, and I felt the familiar panic rise in my throat as I tried to remember the notes and passing the letter in to him. He was right—I must have mailed it to Mom. I searched for something to hand him. “Here. No, that's not it.” I dug deeper. “It's buried under here somewhere, I'm sure. Shoot.” I shrugged. “Sorry.”

“You don't have the assignment?”

“It must be in the mail. Someone at Jackson Heights is reading something very interesting.” I smiled like it was some sort of funny mix-up.

“Pass it in by Monday.”

Frantic fists pounded inside my chest. This was my best subject, and I was messing up.

“I'll have it for you. Don't worry.”

“Frankly, I am a little worried, Claudine. You aren't yourself, and I know why.”

I didn't look at him. I kept my eyes on the floor.

“You look exhausted, and I know you must be worried about your mother. A lot of people understand what you're going through. You're not alone.”

Ah, the magic words. Code words.
He's one of us. Oooo
.
Maybe there's a special handshake, too.
The recovery process had seemed the thing to do when I needed to help Mom, but now I wasn't so sure. At least not when it involved me.

He walked out the door and down the hall with me.

My plodding feet and racing heart were out of sync. I breathed through my nose and willed my heart to slow as he walked beside me. Kids poured from classrooms and rushed to get to their lockers.

“Let's go talk to Ms. Frost.”

“No. I'm fine. I have an appointment with her later—about the scholarship.”

“Oh, the scholarship. Congratulations on your nomination.” He smiled and clamped his hand on my shoulder. “She's a good listener, too. Can I write you a hall pass?”

We were standing in front of her closed door.

Watch everyone putting their books away,
I told myself.
See the guys fooling around at their lockers? Keep your eyes on them. Focus. Hear the coach chewing out his quarterback? Focus on this moment and breathe. Go through your list: Did you take out the trash? No. Did you feed Moonpie? Yes.

If I'd thought of the Post-it Plan earlier, this never would have happened. I would've had everything under control.

“Claudine, I care about you and your future. Let me know if you feel overloaded.”

I gave him a quick smile and said, “I have to do some work at the library.”

He nodded. And I left him in the hall.

The school library had a chair in a back corner beside a window that looked out onto the field where girls were practicing field hockey. Sports seemed like such a waste of time when there were so many important things to finish. At the same time, a miniature of myself, one deep inside, wanted to see what it would be like to be one of the normals. I'd be a good runner if I ever tried. I had “legs up to here,” people always said. I brushed that image away as I whipped out my list. Liz was at the top of the list and she was late. I might have to cross her off.

The double doors opened, and I looked up at the sound. Liz, with Jenna close behind, came in, giggling. They went to the librarian and whispered something, and then left, muffling their laughter in the rush.
That was me last week,
I thought. List tight in my fist, I rushed after them, but they were gone when I reached the hall.

 
Mr. MacPhee was on both knees, planting bulbs along his brick path. He waved me over.

“Hey-hey, Claude!” he called.

“Is Liz here?”

“She went to the movies with Jenna Carver, the one they missed last night,” he said, resting an arm on one knee.

My mouth went dry. She didn't tell me that. They left without asking me.

I barely heard Mr. MacPhee talking to me. He took a step forward. “How about taking this one for your mother's garden? I'm beat. I can't do another thing.”

I don't think Mom had ever owned such a huge bulb.

But there it was again, another MacPhee hand-me-down. “No thanks, it's a little early for bulbs,” I said.

“So Liz tells me that your mother is still at Jackson Heights?” He set the bulb down and dug a hole for it.

“Yup, still there,” I said. I started to walk away.

“I'm looking into Jackson Heights, too.”

I turned around. I didn't know where to go with this.

He picked the bulb up and handed it to me. “Your mother's doing the right thing. This could be a coming-home gift.”

I took the lumpy bulb. It was heavy for what it looked like. I smiled and said, “Thank you.”

 
When Liz and Jenna came out of the theater, I was standing where they'd bump into me.

“Hi, how's it going?”

Their mouths opened and they looked at each other.

“What's wrong?” I asked. “Surprised?”

Jenna began, “You missed it again.”

Liz said, “Man, Claude, you didn't show up, so—”

“So you went without me. And now I'm going to see it.”

They said nothing.

“I would've come today, you know.” I squeezed between them and bought my ticket. I didn't look back.

Hunkering down in my seat, I sat in the darkened theater with my hands tucked into my sleeves and shivered. The place was a germ factory. The movie was stupid. A girl and a guy get caught on an island. What will they do until they get rescued? Duh.

I left before they were rescued and drove home with the bulb from Mr. MacPhee on the seat beside me. I reached for an antibacterial wipe from the glove compartment and wiped my hands while I steered with my elbows. Then I wiped down the steering wheel, the bulb, and the seat. Everything was better already.

Moonpie was waiting on the steps, and Linwood was parked in front of the trailer. He hopped out of his truck and came toward the car. His smile turned into a glare when I looked up at him.

“What the hell, girl?”

“What?”

“Your mother know you got her stuff? Her car?”

“Yeah,” I said, fiddling with the keys.

He motioned to the door. “Locking the door now?”

“I lock it when I leave,” I said, turning the key. “That's what normal people do.”

“Serena never locks it,” he said, following me in.

“I rest my case.”

I put my backpack on the counter and frowned when he set a six-pack down beside it.

“She's not here, Linwood.”

He whipped off his sweatshirt, and the odor of baitfish wafted up. I took a step back.

“What's all this?” he asked, motioning to the Post-its with an unopened beer.

“Reminders,” I said. I thought of my new idea and the colorful columns that I'd make.

“Reminders for what?”

“For my life, what do you think?”

His beer hissed open, and it all came rushing back in a nauseating second. How much I hated him, how he had sabotaged Mom's recoveries. How she'd let him come back every time they broke up.

It was pretty simple: when Linwood was around, Mom drank more; when Linwood was gone, Mom drank less.

“Linwood, you could use a few reminders yourself, like: ‘Get a life' or ‘Be nice,'” I said. “Or, ‘Take a shower, you smell like a bait barrel.'” I crossed my arms over my chest.

He chuckled to himself. “You're cold, girl, cold as your mother is, but I like you anyways. And you look good in her clothes.” He jutted his chin out at me. “And her jewelry, too. Looks good.”

“You pig.”

He took a haul off his beer and slammed it on the counter. “I can't believe she didn't say nothin' to me. It ain't like her.”

“Get out, Linwood, and take your nasty-smelling sweatshirt with you.” I moved toward the beer, but he scooped it up.

His lips turned down. “I thought she'd at least call.” He stood up. “Tell me where she's at,” he said. He took a giant step forward. “I'm gonna go see her.”

“No!” The smell of beer was making me sway, bringing nausea with it. The image of Mom white-faced, a drained beer bottle beside her, appeared in my mind. “Get out!” I screamed.

“Jeezus! Okay, okay, I'm outta here.” He grabbed his sweatshirt and six-pack.

I ran for the bathroom and retched in the toilet bowl.

When I stood again and faced myself in the mirror, it was my mother's face I saw. This was her after a rough night—gray, shaky, scraggle-haired. I couldn't shut my eyes to this. I turned on the shower and undressed. I was disgusting again. I let the spray prick my skin with hot beads of water while I kneaded the puff into a lavender-scented lather. It'll be okay in a minute, I thought. I used the nailbrush on my fingertips, but it took more than a few minutes to get off the dirt from the day. It was a day where so much had changed. Liz had changed, and Linwood wouldn't stay away. Even Mr. Springer was different. It would take a long time to make this day clean.

 
I sat in front of the silent television and wrote Mom a letter.

12

LIZ HAD ART CLUB ON FRIDAYS. I sat in the basement rooms where art classes were held, waiting for her perched on a long table covered in splotches of paint and glue. I didn't know what she wanted, but she'd passed me a note in poetry class that said to meet her after school. Maybe it was more help with health. I should have insisted on helping her finish when I had more time.

Liz came into the room holding a mobile with cloth people dangling from strings.

“I wanted to show you this and talk to you about something,” she said, stepping momentarily on a chair to hang it from a pipe.

“Excellent job,” I said, and I meant it.

A family hung from the driftwood mobile, and each person was unique. Liz had sewn clothing and hair for each one. Even the expressions were hand sewn.

“This one is the Scapegoat. Can you tell? He pierced everything and has a tattoo on his butt.” She pulled down his pants and showed a heart with an arrow through it. “He's out to shake things up.”

“This is really good, Liz. I can tell you've learned a lot.”

“Thanks to you,” she said, bumping me. “Check this out.” She held up a girl with blond hair and light pink everything. “She's almost see-through because I want her to be the Adjuster. She doesn't make waves; she'll adjust to whatever happens. Maybe I should have made her out of clay.”