Buried

Table of Contents

 

“My mom's gone.”

Liz grabbed my arm. “Gone? What are you talking about?”

I didn't know.
Why had I said that?
I didn't want to go over all the details of Mom and her screwups. Everyone knew her story, that she'd taken off before, but she'd been sober since spring. The longest time ever. I'd believed it was over.

“Did she take off with that guy again? What's his name, Dubwood or something?” Deb said.

The group laughed.

“That's what you call him, don't you, Claude?” she said.

“Oh, man, Claude. I can't believe she fell off the wagon again,” Cindy said.

“Oh, no,” Liz said. “I'm so sorry.”

“That's how it goes. You knew it would happen,” Matt said.

The floor blurred before me. I saw the broken bottles and I saw the crumbs. The silverware was in piles on the rug, and the spills, the stains, all of it, would be there forever. It was Mom's M.O. Make a mess and leave it—and leave me, for a while, at least. And when she came back, I'd have it all cleaned up for her, and then we'd act like nothing had ever happened.

Not this time. This time was different. I hadn't seen this one coming, and now I had a feeling of dread about it. There was a blackness to this that I couldn't identify.

So I lied.

OTHER BOOKS YOU MAY ENJOY

SPEAK
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First published in the United States of America by Dutton Books,
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2006
This Sleuth edition published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2008

Copyright © Robin Merrow MacCready, 2006

All rights reserved

CIP Data is available

eISBN : 978-0-142-41141-4

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

TO MUM AND DAD
Thanks for giving me spaces and places to dream. Rob

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My sister Kate, who was there the night I began
Buried
. Sitting in Bookland of Brunswick, she said, “Oh my god!” That was all the encouragement I needed. My critique group members: Patty Murray, Sandra Dutton, and Karen Allen. Also, Amanda Russell, who came and went but asked the hard questions. This group never lies and always works for the story. Thanks, friends!

My friend Debbi Michiko Florence, for listening to me grumble and being my e-mail buddy when the dream came true. Oceans won't keep us apart!

The Edgecomb Eddy School kids and teachers for encouraging me. And special thanks to Tanya Thibault, Terry Mulligan, and Joanne Krawic, who rescued me on more than one occasion. Your patience is endless . . . right?

Authors Alicia Erian, Lea Wait, Maria Testa, Elizabeth Searle, Carol Brightman, Jackie Manning, and Van Reid, who saw something in my words. I believed what you said.

Julia Burns Riley, Ph.D., M.S.W., who gave me the nod of approval that I needed. Thank you.

My editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel, who helped me to dig deeper than I thought possible. You are amazing!

Associate editor Sarah Shumway, who answered all my questions—some more than once. Thanks for holding my hand at the end.

Wendy Schmalz, special agent and guide, who steered me through the sometimes murky waters of the publishing world. You never laughed at my questions. My husband, Pete, who supplied endless cups of tea and coffee, and put on the brakes when my fingers began to grow into the keyboard. You had faith in me when I needed it most.

My son Daniel, who kept my iTunes well stocked, and let me know when my memories of high school needed updating. You rock.

My son Forrest, who asked a lot of questions, the kind that helped me get unstuck. You could give Julie a run for her money in the future. You also make a mean sandwich.

I float on angel wings over Mom's garden. I 
dip down to deadhead the flowers and toss them behind the workshop. A sound penetrates the mist, but I ignore it. I glide and dip and toss the flowers onto the mound. The pile grows until it's a small mountain of purples and golds. I have many more to add before I am done.

Though I'm not finished, I rest on an air current and look toward the beach. The moon has sunk behind the trees, and the sky over the sea is pink and purple, a hint that it is morning in Deep Cove. It's time to be done.

I reach out for the last bit of wind, tipping my wing like the birds do, and go back to work. With a blossom in each hand, I glide through the morning garden, but a sound pulls me down. Now I'm not floating, I'm falling, and I don't want to touch the ground. It's going to hurt. I tuck my feet under me and brace myself for a crash.

1

I JERKED AWAKE AND RAN TO THE PHONE in the kitchen, grabbing it before the machine could pick up. The sniffles on the other end gave away the caller immediately.

“What's wrong, Liz?” I asked, leaning on the counter. Relief washed over me. I could deal with Liz's problems.

“I—I can't do it,” she said. “I just don't get it—I'll never get it.” She let out a shaky breath and then sniffed. “Can you meet me at early study hall? Please, Claudine, please?”

“What time is it?” I asked, kicking aside an empty pizza box.

“Almost seven-fifteen.”
Sniff
.

I looked around the room. Broken beer bottles, overturned ashtrays, and snack foods littered the trailer from end to end. “I might be a little late. I haven't changed yet.”

“Thank you, thank you. I love you, Claude!”

Shutting my eyes to the mess, I stepped carefully over a half-filled garbage bag. This was typical. Typical of Mom before she stopped drinking. She'd have a party and trash the place, then take off for a while. Last time it was South Carolina with Candy.
Later, I'll get to it later,
I thought.

I went to my bedroom, put on clean jeans, clipped up my long brown hair with a barrette, and slipped on my clogs. I made my bed and started a wash. At least my room was neat and organized.

 
Liz and I weren't the only ones at early study hall, but we found a table alone and sat side by side, the Algebra II book between us.

“Dad's going to kill me if I don't pass,” she said. She swallowed a sob and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.

“Liz, you've got to get ahold of yourself. You can't do anything if you give in to every emotion. Especially this,” I said, tapping her paper. “They're just numbers.” I patted her back. “You do fine in everything else. You're even in a senior English elective with me this year, and you don't have trouble with that.”

She shrugged. “This is math.”

“You can do this.”

She twirled her pencil between her fingers like she was bored with my pep talk.

“Take a cold, hard look at the problems and forget about your dad. Don't feel anything; just think.”

“I hate this.” She took a breath and looked at the page. “I don't even know what this means,” she said. “Why are there letters
and
numbers? It doesn't make sense.”

I explained the quadratic formula and made her a simple problem. She did it without a hitch. I gave her a harder one. She did that. Soon she had three more done, and they were all correct. “Now try the one on the paper.”

“Too hard, Claude.”

“Just try it,” I said.

She bit her bottom lip. “Like the ones I just did, right?”

“Right.”

She did it and then slapped her pencil down. “Done.”

I leaned over her paper and nodded. “You did it.”

“You're my guardian angel, Claude.”

I thought of my dream. In it I was a falling angel, a crashing angel.

Could I pass as a guardian angel? Maybe.

 
Seniors were allowed one English elective a semester, and Semester One at Deep Cove High was poetry. Liz leaned toward me across the table we shared.

“Claudine,” she said in a low voice.