Going Underground (9 page)

The engine shuts off.

A few seconds later, I hear pinhead tell his sister, “Your phone's off and Mom wants you back home. Now. Dad's coming home early from work.”

Cherie says nothing, and I'm just made of paper, sitting in my supermassive black hole, doing nothing and wondering, really, actually, what did I just do? The right thing? The wrong thing? Is the universe about to pop open and drag me to some kangaroo court where Kaison makes a brand-new list of all my crimes?

Laughing at a kid who was just trying to be nice to you, no matter what her reasons were.

Getting that same kid in serious shit with her brother and her parents.

Hurting her feelings.

Making her know that deep down, maybe the world really does suck, after all.

There's probably no law against those things (though, seriously, you never know), and no set penalties or rules or lists of offenders. If there was a list, I'd climb out of the grave, go over to it, and write down my name in dirt and blood with no argument whatsoever.

Car doors slam, first one, then another.

Somebody peels out bad. Probably Cherie. She burns enough rubber that I see the cloud of dust drift over the open grave like a spirit trying to find its way to its resting place. My mother makes some comment involving the word “reckless,” then the other car cranks and moves out—no rubber burning, but at a good speed.

I wait until I can't hear the engines anymore, then make myself stand and give my parents a wave.

“Thanks,” I call out to them.

Fred yells, “Hey!” because I yelled. Then she makes a bomb-dropping noise and settles down again.

My parents, dressed for their volunteer hours cleaning cages at the Humane Society tonight, wave back. Dad gives me a thumbs-up before he gets in the car, clearly happy with himself for doing his dadly duty. Mom looks happy with herself, too, and Harper's already digging again, and whistling, which means he's way past thrilled.

I still feel like shit.

Fred seems to sense this. As I'm picking my shovel up, she counts to four carefully, making sure to get the
three
in there, nice and loud.

I answer with, “Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,” and she hisses like she's exasperated with the tedious demands I place on such a poor, helpless little parrot.

I don't put my earbuds back in, because I'm really not in the mood for music (alert the media, alert the media), and that's why, about half an hour and almost a foot deeper, I hear the voice when it says, “Your name is Fred, right?”

Harper and I both startle.

Fred never lets anybody sneak up on us, and she rarely talks to strangers up close, but instantly, she says “Fred” brightly, like she's answering Fairy Girl.

When I look up into the sunlight, she seems like a dream, standing beside the cage in a flowing blue shirt and skirt, gauzy and wispy just like any good fairy would wear. She's gazing at Fred and smiling. Then she looks down at me, and I wish the sun's glare didn't keep me from seeing the color of her eyes and the shape of her lips, now that she's finally this close to me.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to meet your bird up close. I've seen her here with you lots of times, but I never knew she could talk. That's … she's … well. I think she's fascinating.”

“Fred,” Fred says again, sounding more than proud. Apparently, she doesn't consider Fairy Girl a stranger at all.

Fairy Girl laughs. “She sounds just like a normal person. I had no idea parrots talked so much like people.”

“African Greys do.” The shovel feels like alien lead in my hand. Was there something I was supposed to do with it? “Some of the other kinds of parrots sound really clear, but not all of them.”

“How many words does she know?”

Her voice. I think I could listen to her talk for hours.

I plant the shovel in the ground and rock forward, using the wooden handle to keep myself upright and get a clearer look at Fairy Girl's face. “No idea. I think a rough estimate would be tons. She learns more whenever she wants to.”

“Can you teach her words on purpose?”

“Yeah, but I'm not that patient or consistent. I kind of let her learn what she wants.”

“You can go on and get out,” Harper says, sounding half-irked, and I almost piss myself because I totally forgot he was there, or that he or anyone else in the world even existed. “I can finish this last bit. You cover the dirt after you finish talking to your … to the … to, uh, her.”

“Livia,” Fairy Girl says as I'm pulling myself out of the grave, and just like that, I finally have her name. “Livia Mason.”

“Livia,” I repeat before I can stop myself. I'm facing her now, right in front of her, and she has dark, dark brown eyes, almost black, the same shade as her hair. She really is beautiful, not in some fake movie-star way, but natural and smooth and soft looking. I can't find the right words. I don't want to think about Dr. Mote and all her emotion cards, or the descriptive cards, or any other cards to do with therapy or the weird, dark parts of my life. Not standing here in the sun with a Fairy Girl with a fairy name and such a pretty fairy smile, who wants to talk about my parrot.

A big shovelful of dirt plops beside me, and a rock bites into my ankle. I manage not to swear or hop around, or better yet, fall into the grave and look like a complete dipshit. I suppose I'm lucky. Harper could have hit me in the head with that load if he'd wanted to. I edge off the stretched tarp to reduce his temptation, way too aware of how filthy I am.

“Livia,” I stammer for a second time, failing at the whole meet-gorgeous-girl-don't-be-an-idiot thing. “Is that—um, short for Olivia?”

“No. Just Livia.” She smiles again, even prettier this time. “I think my parents got it off an old television show. They like names with three syllables, ending with an
a
. My sister's name is—was—Claudia.” Her hand gives a little twitch in the direction of the Oak Section, and her smile fades away.

I remember why she usually comes here, and for the second time in one afternoon, I get to feel like shit. “Oh—yeah. That's—?”

Brilliant. I'm just the master of sharp verbiage. My AP English teacher would be stunned at my repartee.

Livia nods. “Claudia's been dead for almost four months—and she wasn't really there for almost a year before that—but I can't get used to her being gone. Really gone.”

I want to ask Livia more about her sister, what happened to her, why she wasn't really there for a year, and how Livia felt when her sister died. I want to ask her all of that, and a whole bunch more, too, but I know better. I'd never ask another person to tell their story if they didn't want to, given how I feel about my own.

Instead, I go with, “Do you live nearby?”

She shakes her head. “In town. I drive most of the way, but I park about a mile from here and walk the last bit. It helps me relax so I don't start bawling the minute I get here.” She pauses for a moment, then says, “We used to live in Allenby, but we moved to Duke's Ridge a few months ago because my dad took a job at the refrigerator factory. I was glad. It's closer to Claudia, and farther away from the bad memories, too.”

Her gaze shifts to Fred. “Duke's Ridge seems a lot more interesting than Allenby.”

“It's bigger,” I offer, demonstrating yet more of my incomparable brilliance. “I haven't seen you at G. W., though.”

Because I so would have noticed you, and probably hurt myself trying to talk to you, along with most of the rest of the male student population
.

“I'm homeschooled.” She frowns when she says this. It's fast. If I'd blinked, I wouldn't have seen it, but since I did, I know she's not happy about not going to regular school. “Since I turned sixteen—over a year now.”

She's seventeen. My age. That's good. Should I ask for ID to be sure?

“Do you work here every day?”

It takes me a few beats to process that she's asked me a question. “Yes. Well, no. Mostly, I work when people die and need graves—except for the weekends. On Saturdays, even if we don't have funerals or graves to dig, I do stuff like mowing and cleaning up, and whatever else Harper needs.”

“I don't remember seeing you around when we had Claudia's funeral.”

I don't remember being there, so I probably wasn't. “I might have been off, on vacation with my folks or something.”

“Fred would have made me feel better, I think.” Livia gives Fred a very sweet look, and Fred returns it, her yellow eyes bright with enjoyment.

A few seconds later, Livia tears her gaze from Fred to glance around Rock Hill. “This must be an interesting job.”

Interesting?

Most people—even my shrink—come off with creepy, disgusting, scary, morbid, but
interesting
?

Interesting's not bad.

Fred burps, then makes a truly obnoxious Marvin-level fart noise, and I think about burying my head in the mound of grave dirt, but Livia just laughs.

“I can tell she belongs to a guy.”

I smile, and for once it's not because I'd rather be snarling. “I belong to her. At least I think that would be Fred's take on it.”

“Fred,” Fred announces, in a tone that suggests
definitely yes
.

“Well, I better speak to Claudia, then get back to my car.” Livia glances at her watch. “My dad might burst an artery if I'm late.”

“Yeah. Okay.” I rest my hand on Fred's cage. “You can come talk to Fred anytime. She seems to like you, but don't try to pet her. She bites. All parrots do.”

“Okay.” Livia's smile is so perfect I'm hoping it's for me in addition to the parrot, but that's probably hoping for a lot. “Can I … can I have your e-mail address?”

My perfect joy rips straight down the middle. I force my face to stay still, but my insides keep right on sinking.

Here we go with the total loser routine. “I—uh, don't have one. Or a cell phone.”

Sorry, but I don't live on your planet.

She looks disappointed for a second, like maybe she thinks I'm lying and just don't want to give out my contact info. Then her smile comes back, just not as bright. “Strict parents?”

I shrug like I'm in the middle of a tough therapy session. “Something like that.”

“My parents monitor every e-mail I write and every call I make.” Bigger smile now. She's believing me. “I get it.”

I wish I could hand her a card with my name and address. Something. Anything to connect me to her. Since I don't have anything like that, I say, “I'm here a lot. So is Fred.”

Livia eyes me for a few seconds like she's trying to figure me out.

Yeah. Pathetic moron using a parrot to pick up girls. How sick is that?

“I'm glad,” she says. “See you soon.”

Whoa.

Did I hear that right? Did she mean that how it sounded?

“One, two, three, four,” Fred counts as Livia moves away, matching her steps perfectly and making her laugh.

I really do like that sound.

I watch her until she's at her sister's grave, then I make myself give her privacy and space. When I glance into the new grave, I realize Harper's vamoosed and taken the shovels with him. I didn't even hear him leave. If a tanker truck had exploded and sent a fireball to swallow two-thirds of Rock Hill, I might not have noticed that while I was talking to Livia.

Tarp. Yeah. Cover dirt. That's what I'm supposed to do.

It takes me almost a full minute to remember where Harper keeps the tarps.

“Back in a second,” I tell Fred, but I end up wandering around the cemetery for a few minutes so I won't be tempted to go back and stare at Livia.

When I do come back, Livia's not at her sister's grave.

I squint out at the main road, and I see her drifting down the long hill leading back toward town, her skirt and shirt dancing in the light breeze. Her timing's good. It'll be nearly dark when she gets to her car. I need to hit the road, too.

Too bad I'll have to head in the opposite direction.

I manage to control my nonexistent concentration enough to get the dirt covered, secure the tarp, then dust off my hand and pick up Fred's cage.

“Home,” I tell her, and turn to head for the gate, only to find Harper standing there looking in the direction Livia went. He must not be too drunk yet if he's moving like a silent graveyard ninja, scaring the crap out of me every few minutes. That's a good thing, I guess.

Harper turns back to me, shaking his head. “You and her, it's natural and all, and she's a looker, for sure. Still, I'd say you were better off following your friend Marvin's rules. All talk, no hands.” He points at my face, then lower. “Or any damned thing else.”

Fred mumbles a jumbled phrase, like she does when she's trying out new words. It sounds a lot like she's trying to say “Livia.”

Which wouldn't be good, especially with Harper holding a shovel and pointing at my man parts.

“Got it,” I tell him, even though I'm with Fred in my head, saying Fairy Girl's pretty fairy name over and over, and over again one more time, just because I like the sound of it.

So far, even bastards like Kaison haven't figured out how to arrest people for what they're thinking, right? At least I don't think they have.

Fred makes a bomb-dropping noise as I pass by Harper.

“You keep that boy in line,” he says, then heads off toward his house at the back of the graveyard, leaving me to walk home, ignoring Fred as she tries over and over to say Livia's name.

When God Shuffles His Feet, Does He Trip over Angels?

(“All The Time in the World”—the subdudes)

Livia drops her bag and crouches beside Fred's cage as I rip out my earbuds and fumble to punch off my iPod. My shovel topples over, flipping dirt across my shoes, but Livia can't see that since I'm thigh-deep in a grave.

She smiles at Fred, then gives me a nervous smile, too. “Am I bothering you?”

“No. No way.” The words come out fast-forward, almost squeaky. It's the first of October, and Marvin's at work, and Harper's conked out in his shack, and a cool breeze tickles across the sweat on my forehead. I can't believe I just squeaked at Livia.

She sits back on the tarp beside the grave while Fred offers her a series of impressive whistles.

Livia whistles back at her, making Fred do a happy dance on her perch. When she glances back to me, she doesn't look nervous anymore. More like, determined and interested, and … strong, somehow. Maybe she is nervous, but she's refusing to let herself stay that way.

She looks at the tip of my shovel, where it fell on the edge of the squared hole. “Do you like digging graves?”

Now I get to be nervous, first because she's talking to me, and second because I've never really thought of the job as a like-or-not-like situation. “Yes and no. It's like a workout, so it keeps me relaxed—but it gets boring.”

“Is that why you always have your headphones?”

“Yes.” Oh man. She's been watching me, too. I hope I never scratched my butt or anything.

Her smile's coming back, more natural and twice as pretty. “Audiobooks or music?”

“Music. I'm kind of obsessed.” I lean forward on the packed dirt, and when Fred chatters, I slip my finger through her cage bars so she can nibble on my knuckle.

“I used to be obsessed with playing violin,” Livia says, her smile slipping away again, “but since Claudia died—I don't know. I just don't want to pick it up.” She gestures to the bag beside her on the ground. “I've been writing some in a journal my mom bought for me, and reading some, mostly Claudia's old romance novels. I try to draw sometimes, but everything feels flat.”

I don't say anything, but I'm trying to figure out how to tell her I understand when her cheeks go a little red and she says, “Thanks.”

Okay, good, I did something right.

What, for chrissake?

“Thanks for …”

Now the sadness I saw that first day she came to Rock Hill washes across Livia's face. “For not telling me everything will get better with time.”

“I'm—”
I'm like you. I know better.
“I wouldn't do that.”

“I kind of thought you wouldn't be that way.” She eyes me, like she's had instincts about how I am as a person, like she's been evaluating me from a distance, just like I've been evaluating her. “Working here, maybe that gives you a better perspective?”

No idea what to say, so I nod. And I wait.

And Livia scuffs one tennis shoe through some dirt and says, “I still like movies, some of them. Not sappy ones.” She laughs, and I think she's laughing at herself. “I'll take aliens, spies, anything with lots of action and no sobbing and Kleenexes and stuff.”

I keep leaning on the edge of the grave, a few yards away from her, as Fred chatters and sings, filling the silence. I know I should think of something important to say, but talking's hard. I didn't know God made such perfect girls.

Once upon a time I thought Cory was perfect … no. Cut it out. Don't think about that.

Livia seems content to keep going, like it's me instead of Fred holding up the other side of the conversation. “I like cooking, too. A little bit. Sometimes it's hard to eat, but if I fix the food myself, I know I'll like it.”

Cooking. Food. This I know. A little bit. “I make a mean peanut butter sandwich, and I'm not too bad with Reubens, either—but they're harder.”

Was that lame?

She's not acting like it's lame. She's smiling again, and looking relaxed, maybe even a little less sad, and I didn't even kill any dragons. I just talked about stinky sandwiches with sauerkraut on them. Life can be so strange.

“Fred,” Fred announces as if she agrees, with an added, “Hello, bird. Whatcha doing, bird?” My voice, but in a slightly higher pitch, as if she's trying to get in hints of Livia's voice, too.

Livia gives Fred a warm grin. “You're really cute.”

Fred basks, her eyes wide and the centers tinier than ever, meaning she's really, really interested and paying attention.

“Well, I should go and let you work.” Livia stands as she says this, brushing dirt off her jeans.

Don't. Wait. I really can talk about something more interesting than sandwiches. I can say something better, something funnier than “okay.”

Will you come back tomorrow?

But I stand there like I don't have a tongue and she gives me a wave and walks away, and I let myself stare at her until she gets to Oak Section. Then I crank up the music and go back to digging, but I can't stop thinking about her.

Funny
isn't the right word for how I feel when she's nearby.

It isn't wrong or right, or excited or nervous, or good or bad—it's sort of all of that, all wadded up together.

I don't need to do this. I don't need to get wrapped up in some girl. It's nothing but stupid and dangerous.

But how do I not feel what I'm feeling? Music's not working. Digging's not working.

“Del?”

The word slides into my brain under all the loud music, and I startle so hard I almost pull a Marvin and bash my mouth with the shovel.

Livia's back, still grinning, cheeks red again.

My palms go sweaty in two seconds, and I do the whole bud-ripping, shutting down the iPod thing again, doing my best to focus on her and nothing but her. If I can't say anything intelligent, I can at least look interested.

“Why don't I bring us dinner tomorrow night?” Livia asks.

My mouth comes open. I could lift Harper's lawn tractor with my pinky before I could squeeze out a single syllable.

She looks even more embarrassed, but then that other look shifts across her face, the one that tells me she's really strong inside, and not willing to let her emotions and worries boss her around. “Come on, my cooking's not that bad.”

Oh God. I can't say yes to this. I can't let her cook for me and get all nice with me when she doesn't know. Not okay. Not allowed.

My mouth moves. My voice works. And what I say is, “That sounds great.”

Who am I?

Why am I here?

What's the point?

The next day at school, I'm a basket case, and I can't stop going over those questions. You'd think by now, I'd have some solid answers. Every time I think I've got a little piece nailed down, though, something changes.

I'm having dinner in a graveyard with Livia. And after I got home from the little high of actually making—well, accepting—my first sort-of date in three years, I found mail stacked on the table for me. The mail was nothing but generic rejection cards from over half of the community colleges Branson wanted me to try. The other colleges either haven't responded or they're not planning to bother telling me to cram my wannabe applications sideways and rotate in the most painful ways. It's entirely possible that the answer to
Why am I here
? is simply …
Nobody cares, so why do you?

The sort-of date thing and the college crap distract me worse than ever, so once again, I don't notice minor disasters in the making. The halls of G. W. are almost deserted before fifth period when Cherie stalks me down outside the bathroom closest to class. Marvin sees her coming, but he can't help me. The best he can do is slide past her and stand at the corner scoping for Jonas, who should be headed out to the football field for his extra gym credits practice, but you never know.

I shrug my backpack onto my shoulders so my hands are free to block blows, and I'm ticked because my heart's actually beating faster than it should be.

Cherie marches straight up to me, her black jeans and sweater tight against her curves and her black hair pulled back in a teacher's bun. I catch a whiff of some light perfume, and I notice that her lipstick seems almost ruby. Nice shade on her. She looks sophisticated, if you don't count the
screw-off-and-die
gleam in her eyes.

“You're an asshole, Del,” she announces loud enough for most of the people in Duke's Ridge to hear.

“Yeah. No problem. I am.” If that's what she thinks and what she needs to think, I'm all for it. I keep my hands relaxed just like I did the most recent time her brother threatened to kick my ass. What was that, last week? “Total asshole, actually.”

“Your parents? Shit. That's just—wrong on so many levels.” She folds her arms and glares like she's waiting for an explanation.

Sunlight oozes off the yellow-painted walls and the blue-green tile floor, making Cherie way brighter than she should be. I figure if I try to go all high-handed and step around her, she'll slug me, and then I'll have Jonas and teachers and probably the police to deal with, so I agree with her again. “It was wrong. I feel bad about that part, but you won't listen to me. I figured you might hear them.”

Her eyes get so narrow I wonder how she can see anything. The faded blue lockers on either side of us seem too close, and I have to fight an urge to try to knock them with my elbows to make more room.

“Is this where you do the I'm-no-good-for-you thing?” Cherie's really red lips pull back like she's about to show me fangs. “Stop trying to protect me. I don't need protecting from you, Del.”

Ouch. I
am
an asshole, because I'm not trying to protect her at all. I'm covering my own ass by trying to peel her off me. “I'm not deciding what's good for you. I'm standing up for what's good for me, Cherie.”

Marvin's whistling nervously. Kind of quiet. I recognize the tune as the theme song to a really old western—
The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly.
It got played right before people got shot or hung or cut to pieces. I think I'll hit him the next chance I get.

Cherie's eyes stay narrow and her arms pull even tighter against her chest. “How do you know I'm not exactly what you need?”

Ouch again.

God, I don't want to do this, but I need to. I really have to. “You're not what I need.”

The words make
my
guts ache.

Cherie's eyes go wide and get sad, and her lower lip trembles, not like a pout, but like she's really sad and hurt.

Asshole. TOTAL asshole
.

“Why not?” she asks, and her voice is so quiet it doesn't even sound like her.

Oh, jeez.

“I—I don't know. I just don't have those feelings for you.” I lift both my hands, palm up, like I'm begging for her to understand, and maybe I am. I hate hurting her, but I can't pretend I'm interested in her just to keep her from crying, can I?

“I'm just trying to be your friend,” she whispers, and that's a lie, but I'm not totally sure she knows that.

“You're trying to be a lot more than that, and it can't happen. Find some friends who appreciate you, who like the same things you do. I'm not who you need.”

She looks away from me, and now she's pouting on top of being truly sad. My total-asshole meter drops to mid-range, and my muscles relax a little bit.

“Are you going to testify at those hearings about the juvenile sex offender laws?” she asks me without any hint that she's turning left with the conversation, and I actually startle at the question.

“What?” God, does she eavesdrop on everything about my life?

“The hearings this spring,” she says like I'm going more and more stupid the longer she stands in front of me. “The legislative hearings on the law changes—your name's on the schedule. Look it up online. It's public record.”

Love to, but all my time online is supervised, and I don't want to get my parents' hopes up by checking out my name on that schedule.

Out loud, I can't say anything, so Cherie keeps talking. “I was going to go, you know. To be there in the audience on your side—and bring some people. Show of support.”

Back to full asshole now, I think. Maybe asshole times two or three. Is there such a thing as asshole squared?

“Duke's Ridge is wack. It's like—detached from reality or something. Nobody cares. Nobody really tries.” Cherie finally looks at me again, and she's not sad anymore, at least not that I can see. She unfolds her arms and takes a step back like she's about to leave. “You're a pussy if you don't testify—and that'll make you just like everybody else in this waste of a town. But that's just my opinion, which isn't worth anything to you.”

Pussy?

Did she just call me a pussy?

“Don't sic your parents on me again,” she says, then spins around and stalks away, slamming her shoulder into Marvin as she heads around the corner.

“Don't make me have to,” I call after her as Marvin catches himself on the wall and manages not to fall all over the hallway.

He straightens himself up, glances in the direction Cherie just went, and mutters, “We've got a shot at making it to class before we get detention.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“She didn't punch you out.”

“No. Not yet.”

We walk, side by side, and there's maybe three other people in the hallway, and it feels like there's hardly anybody else in the world.

“She called me a pussy,” I admit, still kind of impressed by that, and grossed out, too.