"What a prosaic interpretation, Miss Harmon, particularly given this poem's powerful lyricism."
Stuff your alliteration, you windbag.
He lifts the book of poetry over his head, holding it like some holy sacrifice.
"What Miss Rossetti is saying is an admonishment—Ask! And she says it shall be given. Seek! And you shall find. Knock! And the door will be opened—"
I walk toward my desk. Sandbag keeps crying out, giving one of his all-time hysterical performances. Everyone is scribbling, committing his words to their notebooks because the best grade goes to whoever can repeat exactly what Sandbag says. Not what Rossetti wrote.
"Seize the opportunity—"
I sit down and open my own notebook, scribbling down one line:
That's what I said.
***
When the final bell finally rings, I head straight for the bathroom, slide into a stall and wriggle out of my uniform. Changing into jeans and a t-shirt, I dance around to avoid all the toilet paper on the floor.
As I open the stall door, I see that somebody's left another giant lipstick kiss on the mirror. Once again, it feels like some kind of personal jab, a joke about kissing my life goodbye. Then again, maybe I really am paranoid.
I don't find Teddy in the Earth Sciences lab. But judging by the crystallized white foam on the counters, he just finished teaching middle schoolers about erosion rates for calcium carbonates. I sweep up the gritty aftermath produced by dripping vinegar and lemon juice on marble and limestone, and empty the dustbin in the trashcan. I bang the bin on the can's side, over and over again.
It feels so good to hit something.
Then I twist my hair into a ponytail, rip off a sheet of butcher paper, and lay it on the counter. I am digging through my backpack for the film canister that holds the soil from Drew's shoe when Teddy rolls into the room.
"Okey dokey." His red hair lifts off his forehead, unfurling like a stiff flag. "You know what to do, right?"
"I'm not sure."
"Then I did too much last time."
"Bullcrap."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Well I'll be a horse at the races—Raleigh Harmon speaks an unvarnished word."
"I've had it."
"Good!"
"Stop it—you know something's wrong. You knew we needed to get this soil from her shoe. So stop teasing me and start helping."
"Anybody ever tell you deduction suits you?"
"I mean it." I snap open the film canister, grab the tweezers, pour the soil on the paper.
"Let's consider your hypothesis," Teddy says, rolling closer. "In fact, let's consider your scatoma."
"My . . . what?"
"Blind spot. Drew's got every reason to run away. You heard her mom. They're moving. The woman isn't changing her mind."
"The woman's a drunk."
"More unvarnished words. It's good. Just don't get biggidy with 'em."
Biggidy. That's Hillbilly for "prideful."
I scrap the canister with the tweezers. Less than an ounce of soil, and the grain sizes all over the place.
Teddy leans over. "Sieves," he says.
I crawl into the bottom cupboard. Unlike the Physics teacher, Mr. Straithern, Teddy doesn't have one compulsive bone in his wounded body. So order isn't his priority. The cabinets with geology equipment are as chaotic as the back of his van. I have to shove aside boxes and boxes of donated film canisters—everyone going digital—and more boxes of thin sections for the microscopes. Some sample minerals. Then old microscopes, the ones we used before he won the scopes with polarized light.
"Bumfuzzled, are ya?" he says.
"No!" I yell from inside the cabinet. "I'm not confused! The problem is you're—" I yank my head out, holding the sieves I've been searching for, and stand up. "—you're a mess!"
But then, suddenly I am confused.
DeMott Fielding stands in the doorway, like he's waiting for permission to enter. My mouth is still hanging open when Tinsley appears beside him, wearing an expression that says if I don't keep my promise, there will be consequences. Serious consequences.
"I have this same speechless effect on the ladies," Teddy says. "It's amazing."
Just for that, I recover. "What're you doing here?"
"I was wondering if you heard anything about your friend."
He steps into the room, followed by Tinsley, who's also ditched her school uniform but isn't wearing baggy jeans and an old t-shirt like me. Tinsley wears skin-tight brown jeans with a fluffy white sweater. A marshmallow roasting on a stick.
"Bless her heart," she begins, putting me on notice, "Drew has really pulled off a good trick this time. Like they say, practice makes perfect."
I have a sudden fantasy about a fire and marshmallows turning black from the flames.
DeMott is standing near enough to see the counter. “Is that . . . ?" He points to the soil. "From the . . . ?"
"Yes."
"And you plan to . . . "
"Yes."
Just like yesterday with my mom, he's quick with the clues. Not only will Tinsley have a horseshoe if she finds out he drove me in his truck, but she'll blab all over school about Drew's shoe being found in the quarry.
"Y'all done gibber-jabbing?" Teddy says. "Because we got work to do."
But DeMott doesn't seem to hear him. He's reached out and picked up the tweezers, using them to spread the soil out across the paper. I glance once at Tinsley.
She mouths words at me:
You promised.
"I've seen this stuff before," DeMott says.
"Yes," I say with emphasis. "We know." Trying to send him another clue, namely,
shut up
.
"I mean, from before that."
Tinsley takes a deep breath and heaves a steaming sigh. "Isn't somebody supposed to be at cross country practice?"
"No," Teddy says. "They don't allow wheelchairs."
She gives him a quizzical look.
DeMott, still holding the tweezers, pinches one of the grains. He lifts it up. "I'd know these things anywhere. They're totally evil."
"Evil-Stone," Teddy says, rolling his eyes. "Only in the South."
I look at the grain. It's one of those red icicles. The color of dried blood.
"I'm serious," DeMott says. "They stick in your socks. You have to pick them out one by one." He turns to Tinsley. "Remember, when you walked on the diamond and got some on your—-"
"Ohh," she says. "I hate those things, they—"
Teddy lifts his hand, cutting her off. "Son, start over. You've seen 'em before?"
"Yes, on the field."
"What field?"
"The baseball diamond. At St. Christopher’s. "
My wrists tingle. "Baseball?"
Drew.
"I just despise that dirt," Tinsley whines. "If DeMott wasn't playing varsity, I'd never go near that field. But he made varsity even as a freshman. And varsity cross country, which might change if he—"
"Darlin'," Teddy says, "close your mouth. DeMott, where's this field?"
DeMott sets down the tweezers. But he says nothing.
"Son, spit it out!"
He looks at me for a long moment. He almost looks like he's going to apologize.
"It's just down the road," he says. "Right near the . . . "
He doesn't need to finish.
I know what he's going to say.
Right near the quarry.
I watch Tinsley picking her way over the baseball field's grass. She looks like a pampered cat being forced to touch water.
Suddenly DeMott grabs my arm and yanks me to the ground.
“Duck!" he yells.
The baseball whizzes overhead, slamming the chain link fence. The metal shivers after the impact.
"Oh! My! Gawd!" Tinsley screams. "Oh my God! Oh my God! I almost
died!
"
Of course, she was nowhere close to the line of fire, but she continues to cry out to God. Since we're made in his image, I imagine God is rolling his eyes, like me.
"DeMott!" she screams. "What if that baseball hit me?!"
Oh, the fantasy of it.
But DeMott ignores her question, lifting me from the turf. "You okay?" he asks.
I nod.
He lifts his hand and calls out to the players on the field. "Hold fire!"
The catcher who threw that wild ball missed first base by a good ten feet. He's a scrawny kid, the facemask making his head look out of proportion with his narrow body. His maroon-and-white uniform—for St. Christopher's—bags around his knobby knees.
DeMott picks up the ball, waiting for the catcher to hold up his big mitt. When he throws the ball back, it sinks into the leather mitt with a
thwack
.
The kid winces. Then checks the mitt. He sees the ball. A smile breaks across his face.
"There's different dirt on every turf," DeMott is saying, not realizing he's just made that kid's day. "At least, they look really different to me. You're the geologist. You tell me."
"What do you think is different?"
"Well, over in the dugout, for instance, there's gravel. It's like the rocks we use at Weyanoke to fill in old wells. Or if we need really serious drainage."
I glance over at the dugouts. Tinsley stands near it, leaning into the chain link. She lifts her cell phone and calls out. "Why don't I call your coach and
tell him you'll be late for practice?"
"And this stuff," DeMott reaches down, scooping the soil along the first-base foul line. "There's no gravel in it. It's just . . . dirt, I guess."
He opens his palm, showing me the soil.
It's dark brown, nearly red, and so fine and soft it must be mixed with silt, which is even finer than sand. I also see those red icicles. I pinch one from his palm and hold it up to the afternoon sun. Those ragged edges, they make me wonder what's in this stuff.
I look back at DeMott, but he's watching one of the coaches barreling toward us.
"Hey, you mind?" the coach barks. "We're about to start a game here."
"Hi there, Coach."
"DeMott? Is that you?"
The coach wears a St. Christopher's uniform, the same maroon-and-white as the catcher, but as he shakes DeMott's hand, he lifts the baseball cap from his head, giving me a lightning-fast once-over. I realize now why DeMott picks up clues so quickly—baseball. He reads signals. And he reads the coach's here.
"Coach, this is Raleigh Harmon. From St. Catherine's. She needs to look at the turf." "
Now
?"
"It'll only take a couple minutes," he says, turning to me. "Right?"
I nod.
"We've got a game," the coach protests.
"Yeah, I see your catcher," DeMott says, nodding toward the scrawny kid. "How about a trade. My time for your time?"
The coach pivots to look at the catcher, who has just missed an easy pitch over the home plate. Scrambling for the loose ball, the catcher trips over home plate, landing on his glove.
"He needs more than five minutes," mutters the coach.
"Twenty," DeMott says. "And you give Raleigh ten around the diamond."
"Done. But step on it. Game starts in forty."
The coach walks away, whistling for his players to meet in the outfield.
"Thank you," I say.
"Thank me later." DeMott points to the parking lot. Dozens of boys in kelly green uniforms stream from a yellow school bus. "I don't have any pull with the coach from St. Benedict's."
I jog over to home plate, swing my pack forward, and kneel in the dirt. DeMott waits beside me, which feels sort of awkward. I feel obligated to make small talk. "How long have you played baseball?"
"Third grade."
“You must be good.”
He seems about to answer, but Tinsley appears again. This time her fingers are laced into the chain link above the backboard. All I can see are the shoulders of her white sweater and her face. It reminds me of those empty plastic shopping bags that the wind blows into fences.
"DeMott," she says in a baby voice, "I'm sure Raleigh would like to do whatever she's doing by herself. You need to get to practice."
He's got his back to her when he says softly. "Baseball is my best sport. I've made all-state for three years."
I look up, startled to hear him boast. Not only does he not seem the type, but it's very non-Virginian to brag. He kneels down beside me.
"But I'm not very good at cross country," he continues. "I don't like running. That's how life works, isn't it? We're good at the stuff we like, so we do even better—because we like it. But we only get worse at the things we don't like."
I take one of Teddy's canisters from my pack and skim it over the soil, filling the container. "If you don't like to run, why are you doing cross country?"