Buried (10 page)

7

I WAS ONE BIG ACHE when I woke up. I could have sworn
I
was the football player, not Jenna's brother. My body was curled up, and I was on my side. When I remembered it was Sunday, I went back to sleep.

I woke for real when light slanted onto my bedroom floor. That meant it was afternoon. Moonpie was at the front door, waiting patiently for me to let him out.

It was when I reached for the door handle that I noticed my fingernails. They were dirty red stubs. Most of the polish was chipped off. Didn't I just paint these? What had happened? In the shower I dug into what was left of my nails until it hurt too much to clean them. Later I could use a nailbrush on them, and then all I'd need is a little more polish.

The phone rang while I was drying off. I let the machine pick up. It was Liz and Jenna telling me everything I'd missed, and did I want to meet at the beach to play Frisbee with the football team? I walked to the machine and clicked it off. It sounded like a nightmare.

I spread the application out on the kitchen table again and looked over the first five pages. The sun glared at me through the kitchen window. I pulled the shade. The first page was done. The second page wanted my school history and my grades. That was easy: straight As. I reread the first page:

 
I sat down and put the papers in order. I left the space for FATHER empty. I finished Mom's information the best I could.

 
MOTHER'S NAME: SERENA MARIE CARBONNEAU

 
A space for Mom's birthplace was next. It was someplace in Wisconsin or something. That doesn't mean it was her home. She and Grandma moved around a lot.

I set the five pages back in their folder and lifted the kitchen shade. The sun pierced my eyes, and I turned away. I pulled every shade in the trailer and made it dark, like when I was young—shades drawn, and only fingers of light touching the rooms. If there'd been blue, hazy cigarette smoke hanging in the air and Mom at the kitchen table, I'd be twelve years old again.

I needed to do the essay, but instead I wrote to Mom.

8

AT SCHOOL I COULDN'T PAY ATTENTION to Mr. Springer, and Liz kept poking me.

“You look sick, Claude. What's wrong with you?”

I pushed my hair back from my face and looked at the board. Springer had made a graphic organizer of a poem. It was in the shape of a tree.

“Claudine, you're good with these things. What's your input?”

Wisps of hair floated down again. They weren't really wisps, but greasy strands. With a shock I realized that I hadn't showered that morning. Had I taken one yesterday? I couldn't remember. Yesterday I'd shut the shades and stayed inside. My face flamed red.

“I don't know, Mr. Springer,” I said.

“Were you listening?”

I nodded. While he went on about how each word balances on the next, I wondered where I'd been. I knew I'd worked on my application and written to Mom. Did I go to bed? Of course, here I was. I looked at my shirt. I'd worn it yesterday.

Mr. Springer's voice reached into my thoughts. “There's nothing wasted, not one word. Each one is as important as the rest,” he said. “Now, what about the other poets? Do you feel the same way?”

I tried to pay attention, but all I could see were the greasy strands that dangled before my eyes. I wouldn't have been surprised if the group called out names like when I was little
. Hey, Stinky!

I squeezed my hands tighter. My knuckles turned white, a contrast to the dirt in the creases. A shot of adrenaline spiked through my body. My hands were dirty. I curled them into fists and stood up. “Excuse me,” I said, weaving in and out of the tables toward the door.

The halls were empty, so I ran to the girls' room. Mirrors don't lie. What happened to me? My hair was my best feature, and now it was skanky. I finger-combed my long hair and twisted it into a neat knot. Under hot water, I scrubbed my hands and dug the dirt from under my nails. My skin grew redder under the hot water and the school soap stung, but the pain meant it was cleaning out the germs. I held my cupped palms under the powerful stream and planned the shower I'd have when I got home. I'd run it steaming hot and get out all the puffs and scrubs and every kind of body wash we had. I'd breathe deeply and cleanse my lungs, too.

How could I forget to take a shower?
It wouldn't happen again. Never again. I'd put a Post-it in every room if I had to.

The girls' room door swung open, and Liz came in. “You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, fine,” I said, adding more soap. “I must've overslept.”

She scrunched up her face—her confused look.

“I didn't get a shower. Just wanted to wash up a bit.” I splashed my face and blew out a long breath. I wiped the steamed-up mirror with my hand. Better. My reflection was more alive.

Liz turned off the hot water. “Jesus, Claude, you're gonna burn yourself.”

She looked at me like I was crazy.

“I'm better now,” I said, taking a paper towel and patting my hands and face.

She followed me out. “You're being weird. Weird!”

As we came in, Mr. Springer said, “Tomorrow's the test. Be ready.”

I opened my notebook with a smack. Test taking was a snap. Ace in the hole.

“You'll answer a few questions in essay form, do some matching, fill in the blanks, and I'll have some extra-credit opportunities,” he said.

I arranged my notes across my desk and sat waiting.

Liz stood up and hoisted her backpack over her shoulder. “What are you doing? The test is tomorrow. Time for group.”

 
Lydia sat forward in her chair. Her auburn hair splayed out over her shoulders, reminding me of the seaweed that washed up on the shore of Deep Cove.

“I was thinking about Liz's term, the Pleasure Zone. I like the way it describes her dad's misconception about his alcoholism. And I want to tell Liz and Claudine how I admire that they're talking about it in their homes. That's an opportunity not everyone feels they have.”

I felt myself flush deep red, and I wished I was home in my shower cleaning off the crud that showed. My hair was pulled back, but it was greasy.

“You know, I have my own Pleasure Zone,” Matt said.

“Ooo, and don't I know it,” Deb said. She cracked herself up and had to turn away to get it together. I took the opportunity to force a deep breath and breathe it out slowly. I picked at my nails and focused on the shiver it gave me as I peeled away the ends of my thumbnails.

Matt stuck out his long legs and crossed them. “You wish, Deb. But if you play your cards right . . . maybe.” He winked at her. “But I really do have a Pleasure Zone, and it's not what you think. It's when Dad's doing his thing—drinking—and I'm doing mine—ignoring it. It's fine. We accept it all without making it a big deal, but it's not real. In the back of my mind, I know it can't last. I know it's coming. It's building, and pretty soon, BAM!” He smacked his hands together, and I jumped in my seat. “Sorry, Claude. I guess you know what I mean.”

“No,” I said, too fast and too defensively. Everyone turned and looked. I was red in the face again.

Blake said, “So the Pleasure Zone is a perceived control.”

Chris laughed. “Man, you're such a geek.”

“He's right,” Deb said, “exactly right. It's like after a big fight and you've made up. Things are balanced just so, but you haven't really talked it out. You think it's all fine again because it looks good on the outside, but things can only last so long that way before, BAM! You have to deal with it all again.”

Feet shuffled, positions changed, and throats cleared. Silence grew until Lydia asked, “So why doesn't the Pleasure Zone work?”

“It's what Matt said,” I said. “You know something worse is coming.”

“Did you know your mother's relapse was coming?” Blake asked.

I looked up in shock. “It wasn't really a relapse. Not like the others.”

That was a lie. It was exactly like the others.

Liz turned to me, and I felt her gaze on me.

“It was worse because I thought she was recovered.” A lump rose in my throat.

Matt nodded to me and looked away.

 
Steam rose from the bottom of the shower stall, and I was wrapped in a blanket of clean, warm clouds. My face flushed, but it wasn't from shame, it was from the purge, the filth oozing from my pores. The water pounded me clean, and I watched all of the grease from the day whirl down the drain.

There had been a commercial when I young that sang about the squeaky clean sound you get from clean hair. I washed my hair over and over until I got that sound and then I washed it again and again. I washed it five times and then conditioned it. I held my palms out to see if I was done. My skin was pink and my fingers were tender prunes. A new beginning.

As I dried off, Matt's voice echoed in my ears. Even though I hadn't wanted to listen today, something replayed, uninvited.
Does everyone have a Pleasure Zone?
What about Mom and me? Ours was always the summer.

I wiped the steam from the mirror. I combed my hair out and didn't like what I saw. The hair that had hung in my eyes today had to be cut. Without giving it another thought, I took the scissors from the shelf and snipped straight across. There. Now I had bangs. The frizz at the ends? I lopped off a couple of inches, and it was gone. I set the scissors down on the shelf and went to find Post-its.

I had a large supply for school, and I was proud of the system I used for studying. Everything had a color. Blue was for history, red for English, green for science, yellow for math, and so on. Within those subjects, I had another system. I'd flag the pages that were important, then stick a Post-it on the page, making the notes that I needed right there.

I opened the heavy notebook and unzipped the nylon pocket that held the Post-its. The dividers were empty. Every Post-it flag had been ripped off. A thumping began in my chest. An image of the colored flags popped into my mind. I saw myself lining them up on the edge of the library table while I talked to Liz.
What an idiot
. I couldn't have another day like today; I had to get organized. I needed a new system. I needed more than one kind of Post-it.