Buried (7 page)

Damn cat.

 
In English, after the quiz on poets of New England, I kept getting ideas for Liz's report. It was a flash of insight here, a memory from a book, or something I'd heard somewhere. The ideas kept coming. I wrote two pages of notes, and when class was over, I tore them out and handed them to Liz. It took her a second to figure out what it was, but when she did, she threw her arms around me.

“I love you, Claude. You saved me again.” She hugged me tightly, and I didn't mind. I loved helping her because it helped me. I got a rush every time she learned something from me.

“I got another idea, too,” I said as we walked down the hall. “I thought you could make a booklet of affirmations and what they mean and how they help you and—”

“Gotta go to class. Write that one down.” She shuffled her books and tucked in a stray paper before she was gone around the corner.

I stopped and jotted the idea down in my notebook. I also decided I'd get her organized so that she could feel a little more pride in her work. All through my next class, I planned how I'd make the binder. I had an old one, and I'd put in paper, pocket folders, and dividers. I'd label her classes, and in the front pocket I'd tuck a Post-it pad. I'd surprise her.

Ms. Frost nabbed me on the way to lunch. “We need to set up a meeting to go over that scholarship.”

We were in front of the Staff Lounge, where teachers and aides were eating lunch and hanging out. The odor of coffee and sweet muffins wafted out, and saliva pooled in my mouth. I swallowed. I hadn't brought a lunch.

“Sure, anytime,” I said.

“Right now? We can have lunch in my office,” she said. She looked at my armload of books. “Do you have a lunch?” When I shook my head, she said, “My treat.”

We went down to the basement office and sat at a long rectangle table strewn with papers and a stapler. She handed me a yogurt and a banana, and she had the same. I couldn't take my eyes off the messy piles in the center of the table. Books were stacked in piles around the room, and psychology and education magazines littered the floor.

I couldn't believe a guidance counselor would work this way.

“Oh, let me move this stuff.” She got up and began pushing it to one end of the table.

“I'll help,” I said, separating the piles and neatening them up.

“Thank you, Claudine. I should be neater, but . . .” She shrugged. “It's not in me to care much about that sort of thing.”

We ate our yogurts in silence for a minute. Her office smelled of sandalwood or musk or something. Whatever it was, I liked it. When I scanned the room, I saw a small brass bowl with an ash cone on her desk.

“You like that?” She left the spoon in her mouth and went to her desk and brought it back. “Take it with you. I have another.”

I set it in front of me and turned it, studying the tiny lettering. “Thanks, I like it.”

“I like the scent. Calms me down. It says, PEACE BE WITH YOU
.
” She scraped the inside of her yogurt carton. “Now, let's talk about your mom.”

I looked at the tiny incense bowl, imagining where I'd put it. Maybe I'd set it on the windowsill over the sink.

“You're still taking advantage of the group that meets at the Community Center? People with alcoholic family members need others they can talk to, people who understand what they're going through. So you know you're not alone.”

“Oh, definitely, and now Liz goes with me.” I could feel her eyes on me, but still I turned the bowl.
Peace Be With You, Peace Be With You, Peace Be With You, Peace Be With You, Peace Be With You.

“Is there anything else going on that I can help you with?”

“What do you think I should write for an essay?” I said. She laughed and said, “Right. The scholarship. I think you should answer the question and say what's in your heart. If you don't show that you're serious, I guarantee they'll find someone else.”

I nodded, but I actually didn't know what I'd say.

 
When Liz arrived after school, I had the notebook all ready for her on the coffee table. She plopped on the couch, and I sat on floor.

“Oh, Claude, that's sweet. You try and try, but I don't think you'll ever fix me.” She laughed and flipped through the sections, fingering the Post-it flags.

“Just give it a try. Everything's easier if you have a system, Liz.”

“Believe me, I've tried. My mom's tried, too. I'm just like Dad.” She gave me a panicked look and then laughed.

“Don't worry, you're not your dad, Liz.”

She flipped it open. “Let's label this section GREG LARA-MEE, and this one MATT.”

I leaned back against the couch and took out the notes for the test.

“That was a joke, Claude. Loosen up.” She nudged my elbow with her toe.

“Okay, it was funny. As long as you try to get organized.”

She winked and gave a thumbs-up. “Gotcha.”

“Keep looking. There's something else there.”

She looked randomly until she came to the health section. “Oh my god, Claude.”

“I only meant to do a little bit—notes and ideas, but I got going and I couldn't stop.” I'd pretty much done the history of alcohol report for her. I'd covered the medicinal uses and abuses, even the expansion of twelve-step programs.

“You're an amazing friend.” She read the first page, her finger tracing each line like she was in grade school again. I felt a tenderness toward her, like I was taking care of the little sister I'd never had.

“Claude,” she said, slouching into the couch pillows, “I can't believe this. You do so much for me.”

“It's okay, Liz, I don't mind.”

She skimmed the next two pages. “Why do you . . . ? Nothing.”

“What?” Did she want me to do more? I would if she needed the help. “I didn't add any of the drunk driving stuff, sorry.”

“No, it's not that.” She fanned through the sections.

“Let's study,” I said. I shuffled the notes in the air. “Here's one he'll ask us: Define
metaphor
.”

“I get it mixed up with the other one that uses
like
or
as
.” She pushed the coffee table out and sat down on the floor next to me.

I flattened the notes to my chest. “You want the answer?”

She nodded.

“It's figurative language that uses one thing to describe another. For instance, to describe your dad, you might say, ‘Dad's a ship on a stormy sea.'”

She pursed her lips. “Hmm. Nice, Claude.” She took a long swig of soda and rubbed her hands together. “My turn now.” She took the notes out of my hand. “What's a simile?”

“Definition: figurative language that describes something using
like
or
as
. Example: ‘Mom is as brave as a soldier for going to rehab.'”

She nodded.

“Here's a metaphor,” I said. “‘Rehab is war on alcoholism. '”

“Very good.” She wove her fingers together the way Mr. Springer did when he was talking about something serious. “Claudine, are you ready for when your mother comes back from Jackson Heights?”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “What?”

“Do you think you can pull back and not be so codependent? I mean, you practically did everything for her. From cleaning to driving to cooking to hiding her beer. Her recovery is personal.”

My mouth opened to say something, but I couldn't find the words.

“Oh my god, Claude, you look like you're going to faint. I'm sorry. I've gotten so into this group and I read some of those books you gave me and I started thinking of how you've been your mother's keeper for so long and now she's going to be so different.”

She leaned toward me with her arms out to hug me, knocking over her soda.

I was on my feet in a flash. “Shit, Liz! That's grape soda! I'll never get that out!” I ran to the cupboard under the sink. I was back with a sponge and some spray in seconds.

She apologized over and over, but I barely heard her. The soda was deep purple and would stain the sand-colored carpeting. It was old and didn't have a stain guard. No protection at all. I sprayed and wiped and sprayed and wiped until most of it was out. I left a film of cleaner on the spot to sink in overnight and put the bottle back.

“There,” I said, sitting down again. “I'll let it sit for a while and go at it again later.”

Liz, who was still holding the empty glass, stood over me and shook her head. “Hey, Claude, relax. It's just a spill.” Her eyes had an expression she'd never shown me. It was a kind of pity, and it made me feel uneven, like I was rough around the edges.

I picked at my fingertips. “Right, Liz. No problem. Let's study now,” I said, motioning her to sit. “Come on, sit down and I promise I'll forget about it.”

Liz sat and shuffled her notes, but I had to be the one to get us going again. “How about personification? What's that?”

“I don't know. We've got time to get ready for this. Let's go out or something.”

I snuck a peek at the stain. “I think I'll stay in and watch a movie or something.”

“That sounds good.” She bobbed her head in agreement. “Hey, Claudine, this is off topic, but do you think Matt's kind of cute?”

Matt. I thought of his slouch first. Then his curls, then his defiance. “Yeah, I do.”

 
Later, in bed, I was thinking about the stain, not Matt. Then I was I remembering Liz's eyes. Her words came back and echoed in my head.
Relax. It's just a spill
, she'd said. Something burned under my skin, and I turned on my light. I held out my shaky hands. They were thin and scaly and red.

I found some lotion in the bathroom and rubbed it in, but it only burned like salt water in a cut. Cooling my hands under running water, I caught a glimpse of my white face in the mirror. Dark circles rimmed my red eyes. I threw water on my face and rubbed it until I had color. Then I scrubbed my hands for the umpteenth time that day.

In the living room I checked the stain. Liz didn't understand. I was responsible for this place. It was grape soda; of course I'd want to clean it up. I tucked my fists in my sleeves and closed my eyes, but all I could see was Liz's face, her eyes a blend of confusion and pity.

I had seen that look before, when Liz and I were in third grade. Our teacher, Miss Hart, announced that we'd be writing a play. A real play! Liz and I were so excited that we jumped up and down and hugged each other. For making too much noise, the teacher made us stay in and write it at recess time. I was fine with that, but Liz cried at the injustice and didn't do a thing to help. I secretly liked that she wouldn't be helping. The play was supposed to borrow from all the fairy tales we'd read: Cinderella, Hansel and Gretel, and all the others. Some kids wanted scary monsters; others wanted magic spells and witches. I knew exactly what to do. I'd write a princess story.

I sat at my desk, and Liz sat behind me with her head buried in her arms.

“You know what to do,” Miss Hart said.

I smiled at her. My mind's screen was filled with ideas. My pink and yellow snow-globe princess appeared with a very big sword. I began to write. I called her Princess Courageous. She wore suitable clothes for the slaying of bad guys and whatever horrible things might come her way. Her family had disappeared, and she was in charge of the kingdom. Instead of telling the villagers that her parents were gone, she ran the kingdom by sending messages through her hawk, Nelson. She kept every monster, every criminal, and any other bad guys away with her sword. Of course, sometimes she had to kill, which she did with all the blood and gore necessary for such a job.

Miss Hart gasped and shook her head when she read it. “You'll have to write it over, Claudine.”

“No,” I said, stunned at my own bravery.

“There will be no violence in my classroom. Write it over for homework.”

I took a corner of my paper and curled it around my pencil. “No,” I said more quietly.

She bent close enough to me that I could smell her lipstick and coffee breath. “You should know better than anyone that the world needs nice stories.”

Why?
I wondered. And how would I know better than other kids? It was my turn to cry, and I wanted Mom.

When I got home, I took my story into her room, where she was curled up in bed. The room was dark except for a bedside light. I got under the covers with her and checked out the gardening magazine she was reading. Dried flowers. Boring. I explained what had happened.

“Mom, I don't get what she meant by, ‘You should know better than anyone.'”

“I don't get it either, Angel. Just do it over,” she said. She put her arm around me and blew a smoke ring. I put my finger through it.

“It's about Princess Courageous.”

“Make her put out a fire and be done with it.” She smoothed my hair from my eyes.

“I make up stories with my snow globe every night so I can get to sleep.” I put her free hand back on my head so she'd stroke my hair.

“Really, now.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette, the kind where you can watch the ash grow longer and the white paper get shorter.

“When you were a kid, did you make up stories, too?” Her hand froze on my head. “I don't remember much about when I was a kid.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. “You ought to get rid of that thing. That's a baby toy. Nobody does stuff like that in third grade anyways.”

I left her smoking in bed and marched off to my room and shut the door. The snow globe sat on the bedside table. I tipped it over and back and watched while the white flakes swirled around Princess Courageous and settled at her feet. She didn't look so magical anymore; she was a yellow and pink plastic girl with eyes too blue, standing on a green hill. That night I wrote a nice play where the princess was saved by a handsome prince and everyone was good and happy. Liz was relieved, and the teacher looked relieved, too.