Going Underground

by Susan Vaught

  “You okay?” Dad asks. I’m not sure who he means. The house has gone so still and quiet he might have been talking to the rooster out back.

  Mom sighs and I hear the faint beep of her punching off the receiver. “I’m good. Del?”

  I stay on the landing and can’t say anything. I’m cold inside, and empty and numb. Fred’s gone. Livia’s gone.

  Livia’s gone.

  Livia …

  Nothing, absolutely nothing seems real, except it all seems too real at the same time. That eighteen inches of dirt I piled on my past, it’s all swept away, and there’s nothing inside me but coffins and sewn-shut eyes and things that shouldn’t see the light again. The dead zone is back. It’s probably going to stay forever this time.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, Del,” Mom says from the kitchen, though she doesn’t sound totally convinced. Then, “I’m so sorry about Fred, honey.”

  “And the girl,” Dad says.

  His voice echoes in my head.

  Livia.

  My parents don’t have to tell me I can’t see her again. They don’t have to fight with me or argue with me or watch me vow to love her forever or storm out of the house or any other stupid shit. Livia and I aren’t eighteen, and I’m totally clear who’s in charge—and that Mr. Mason is too much of a risk to me and my family and even Livia, depending on what kind of person he is.

  Dead zone. Everything inside me, it’s going underground. The air feels chilled as I climb the rest of the steps like a badly oiled robot, jerking at the joints.

  I imagine Fred out in the dark woods, huddled in some tree, scared and alone with no hope of getting home. I’d give anything to hear her little birdie hello.

  “Del?” Mom’s calling after me from downstairs, but I can’t answer. I just don’t want to talk anymore, at all.

  Now

  “Not a lot of use in this.” Harper’s bloodshot eyes look like red puddles in the gray light. His chapped, stubbly cheeks are even darker red as he switches off his flashlight near the edge of the woods. “It’s going on three days. That bird’s frozen solid or long gone. She’s probably winging it back to Mexico.”

  “She’s an African parrot, but she was probably born in captivity in the States.” I search all the low-hanging branches I can see for the third time this morning, and I think about how Fred blew into that man’s garage. Was this how it happened? Did somebody who adored her look away for five minutes and just let her get lost forever?

  “Your—uh—that girl, she didn’t come by this weekend,” Harper says, casually, but fishing.

  The words gig me worse than any hook.

  I clamp my jaw shut for a second and keep looking at the trees, trying not to think about Livia’s face or her eyes or the way it felt to hold her hand—but, of course, I do. When I finally unlock my mouth, I manage, “Her dad got pissed because she stayed out late looking for Fred. Looking for Fred with me, I mean.”

  “He knows about the trouble?”

  “Everybody knows.” Why did he have to bring up Livia? It’s not like I’m not already thinking about her myself, every five seconds in between worrying about Fred.

  “Haven’t seen Marvin much, either,” Harper says.

  I shut off my flashlight, too, because there’s too much light to use it now. “He’s busy with his job and this girl named Lee Ann, and getting ready for Notre Dame.”

  “He backed off when you had that girl here all the time,” Harper mutters. “I think it made him nervous.”

  I don’t answer him.

  He keeps quiet as we cover the last of the path back to Rock Hill, until we get right to the edge of the woods. That’s when he comes up with, “You don’t act like a shit head and start blowing everything off and kicking doors and punching holes in walls like lots of kids in your situation. One day that’s gonna mean a lot.”

  “Yeah?” I turn back to the woods and call Fred one more time, looking at each tree, straining my ears for any hint of a word or a whistle or a fire-alarm screech. “When?”

  All I hear is the wind and Harper’s wheezy breathing.

  “Sooner or later, hard work pays off, kid,” he says. He coughs, and the wet noise makes my skin crawl. “And you work hard.”

  I shrug, feeling another flicker of the anger Dr. Mote and Branson stay on my ass about expressing. “I’ve always worked hard, and it got me arrested and kicked off planet Earth.”

  “It’s getting you good grades and you’re keeping your job here.” Harper coughs again, and this time he spits off to the side. Yellow with red flecks. I try not to look.

  So, I’m keeping my grades and my job. But not my parrot. Not my girlfriend. Not my best friend. What about my sanity? Guess the jury’s still out on that one, because I really want to beat up the nearest pine tree.

  And, of course, that pine tree is just as empty as the rest of the trees. It’s bird free, and I wish it wasn’t with my entire being. I pray to see a splash of gray or red or to hear some swearing in Spanish in Fred’s tight little bird voice.

  As for the rest of what Harper’s trying to tell me, I don’t think I want to hear that, either. He’s trying to make stuff better, but he’s not very good at it.

  It’s all gone, Harper. Everything in my life got blown up again, and you’re what’s left. You and the graveyard. Congratulations. You win the prize, and too bad for you.

  When we get back to the section near Harper’s house, I hang Fred’s cage in the spot where it was when Cherie let her out. “I’m going to keep food and water in here, okay?”

  Harper laughs. “Why? To feed every squirrel and raccoon and rat in Rock Hill?”

  “Just in case.” I touch the cage. Seeing it hanging there all stocked and ready for Fred makes me feel better enough to think about facing G. W. on a Monday morning, even when I’m sure I won’t see Livia tonight, or tomorrow night, or any other night.

  When she left the house, she seemed mad at me, or maybe disappointed. Can’t blame her for that. She thought she’d found out the worst about me, but now she knows the rest and so do I.

  I’m a coward.

  Harper shakes his head like I’m being totally stupid about the cage in the tree, but as I’m walking toward the road to meet Dad and get to school, he shouts, “I’ll look a little bit longer. What should I do if I find her?”

  I turn long enough to tell him, “If she’s on the ground or a low branch, throw a blanket or a towel over her, wrap her up, and get her in her cage. Or just call Dad, okay?”

  He waves once and heads back into the woods.

  “You really need to stay clear of trouble.” Marvin’s being that new version of himself again. The one who’s started to wear classy khakis instead of jeans. The one who frowns. The one who’s probably leaving Duke’s Ridge as soon as he can and maybe doesn’t care anymore. “Livia’s dad could have busted out your teeth. I knew it would end badly.”

  Today of all days, I wish Marvin could just be old Marvin, smiling and laid-back and happy and not in my face. If Harper hadn’t said something about me not knocking holes in walls—and if the walls at G. W. weren’t made out of concrete—I’d be tempted. “I lost my frigging bird. Livia was just helping me look, and neither one of us took time out to look at a stupid clock.”

  “Curfew’s curfew. Branson could be harsh.” Marvin’s expression gets even more grim as we elbow toward Advanced Math. “You’re lucky Mr. Mason didn’t kick your ass. Del, it’s like five minutes until you’re eighteen and your probation ends. Keep your shit together until then, and stuff will get a whole lot safer.”

  “Yeah.” Short. Cop-out. But the best I can do. I grip my pack as cold air whips through the hall and about a zillion more people cram into the space, trying to get to class.

  Marvin has to lift his right arm to let two freshmen get past him. “If Livia does show up, you be sure to tell her to stay away until her dad can’t make trouble.”

  “I got it, okay? Can we just let this—oh, great.” I stop walking
and Marvin does, too, because Jonas Blankenship is standing outside the door to Advanced Math.

  Jonas doesn’t take Advanced Math.

  He doesn’t have his gigantic shadows with him. It’s just him in his jeans and long-sleeved jersey, and he looks stressed. When he sees me, his mouth straightens into a line. Now he looks like a guy on a mission. I can smell his overdone cologne from where I’m standing, and the stuff makes my eyes water.

  “Hartwick,” he yells over the crowd and movement and noise. “Back door, now. I need to talk to you.”

  Marvin and I get a little closer. I use the few seconds to think, but I keep winding down to, Whatever. It’s not like it matters.

  When Marvin sees I’m not going to try to bolt around the pinhead and get into the classroom, he wheels on me, his brown eyes big. “Are you frigging nuts? You’re not going with him.”

  I don’t feel anything at all as I stare back at Marvin. I should, but I don’t. Maybe I’m finally starting to crack. “It’ll be okay,” I say, even though I know he hates it, or maybe because he hates it. “Just go on to class.”

  A crowd of girls jostles Marvin as they scoot past him, but he doesn’t give an inch. “Del, you’re being stupid.”

  What’s new?

  Out loud I tell him, “Probably. But at least I’m not being a coward for once.”

  He shakes his head so hard I wonder if he’s giving himself a headache, and for about one second, he looks like old Marvin, nervous and worried and like he really gives a damn what I do one way or the other. “I’m not going to just stand here playing lookout while you get your ass whipped or do something that’ll get you more charges.”

  I glance at Jonas, who’s stepped away from the door. “I’m not asking you to. Get to math before you’re late.”

  Marvin’s face goes still. He studies me, then shakes his head again—not hard this time, and only once. A second or two later, he lugs his pack into class and I shoulder mine, following Jonas through the hall. At least Jonas is big enough to clear a path.

  When we get outside, he motions me into the greenhouse the school keeps to grow flowers to sell at holiday fund-raisers. Nobody’s supposed to be in the greenhouse except during assigned class or volunteer periods, but apparently that rule doesn’t apply to Jonas and the football crowd, because he’s got a key.

  He opens the door, and when I go in behind him and close it, it’s hot and it smells like the graveyard. I see that the wooden benches usually full of plants are empty, dotted with pots and dirt. I guess there’s no holiday flower to take over after Christmas poinsettias, but I wish there were. There’s something sad and devastated about a greenhouse with no plants.

  Great. I’m finally having an emotion, and it’s feeling sorry for an empty greenhouse. “What can I do for you, Jonas?”

  Jonas positions himself in the middle of the greenhouse, between the two biggest benches. I move to the same aisle so I’m facing him. He’s already sweating, and so am I.

  “You don’t have brothers and sisters, do you, Hartwick?” Jonas asks me his question with a weird look on his face, not one I’ve seen before. It reminds me of Gertrude the cat stuck between two cans of tuna and confused about which one to pounce on—only without all the drooling.

  “No siblings.” My dad has a one-eyed rooster, but I don’t think that counts. “I’m an only.”

  He scratches his wet blond hair with one big hand. “Yeah, see, I know you don’t get this, but I’m a brother and Cherie’s my little sister.”

  This again. For God’s sake. “I haven’t had anything to do with Cherie. She showed up at the graveyard Friday night, and—”

  “And whatever happened, she came home hysterical, and she cried all weekend.” Jonas’s hand moves away from his head, and he’s making a fist, and suddenly I’m not liking where this is going at all. “She didn’t even come to school today.”

  My eyes dart to the greenhouse windows, which are covered with steam from the heat and moisture inside. We’re invisible to the world outside.

  “I didn’t do anything to Cherie, Jonas. Never have, never do, never will.” This needs to be over, this whole Cherie-Jonas-me crap. I’ve done everything I can to end it. What’s it going to take?

  “Then why won’t she tell me what’s wrong?” Jonas stares at me like he’s actually waiting for an answer, but he’s also walking toward me, and he pushes one of the dirty benches farther out of the way as he comes.

  I hitch my pack and make myself not back away from him. “She accidentally let my parrot go. That’s probably what she’s upset about, that or seeing me with my girlfriend.”

  Ouch. That made me think of Livia, so now I’m frowning as bad as Jonas.

  Stay loose. Don’t let him get to you with this junk. Just don’t make any sudden moves. My heart’s starting to beat fast and I’m beginning to think Marvin was right, that I was totally stupid to do this.

  “I’d like to believe you.” He’s close now and he still looks confused, but he also still has his fists clenched. “It’s just—she’s my baby sister, Hartwick.”

  What the hell? Is he pissed or just nuts? I can’t figure out what he wants.

  He moves so fast I barely see it coming. The punch catches me just under the left eye. A crack. Agony blasts through my head and I’m seeing stars from one eye and misty windowpanes with the other eye, not matching up, not together, like two separate bizarre worlds as I fall backward and hit the concrete floor, saved from a total smash by my backpack. The corners of my books stab into my back as I bounce. Then I shrug out of the pack and come up on my knees.

  My whole face hurts like hell, and I’m sucking for air. When I touch my skin under my eye, it feels numb and slick. Blood. Not a lot, but enough to keep me focused on Jonas and his fists.

  “Get up,” he tells me, and I get up, but I keep my arms at my sides. My heart’s beating so hard I can hear it, rush-rush-rush in my ears, and my throat’s too tight to swallow.

  Jonas comes toward me again and I don’t move. He raises his fist slower this time, and I still don’t move. My teeth grind as I wait for the blow, hoping it won’t be my eye this time.

  Jonas keeps standing there with his fist up.

  I keep waiting, getting a headache from his first punch and from how hard I’m clenching my jaw.

  “Why aren’t you fighting back?” Jonas’s gaze moves from the blood on my face to my hands, which aren’t moving.

  “Because I’m on probation.” God, talking hurts. “I don’t want to go back to jail. As long as I’m not the one hitting you, I think I’m okay.”

  Jonas still has his fist in the air, but it sinks a little lower. “That’s … not right.”

  I laugh. I actually laugh in Jonas’s face with him standing there waiting to bash my lights out completely. “That’s my life. It sucks.”

  “Is that why my sister makes you nuts?” His fist goes down. “You afraid she’ll do something or say something to get you locked up again?”

  “Part of it, yeah.” I risk rubbing my face. Pain stabs into my skull with every touch. I can’t even see Jonas through the bad eye, because it’s swelling shut. “And part of it—well, she just does.”

  He smiles, which looks almost scary through the blurry eye. “I guess she makes you nuts because she’s a nut.”

  I edge away from him. “Will you hit me if I agree with that?”

  “Nah. I don’t hit people who can’t hit back.” He’s looking relaxed now, and I think he’s relieved.

  “Okay. Well.” I try to lean down to pick up my pack. “If you’re through beating me up, I need to go see my probation officer and explain why I got marked absent for Advanced Math.”

  Now Jonas looks guilty, and I have a gut-kicking memory of Cherie’s face as she held Fred’s empty cage and tried to explain what happened.

  “Guess even missing a class would be serious for you,” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  Jonas glances at the greenhouse door. “Last perio
d’s a freebie for me. Need a ride?”

  Jonas’s year-old pickup has an iPod plug-in, and we listen to Citizen Cope’s “Appetite (For Lightin’ Dynamite)” all the way to Branson’s office. We talk about Fred and a little about parrots in general, and how I used to play baseball and how I didn’t say crap-all to Mr. Mason when he barged into my house and made Livia walk away from me.

  “I wouldn’t have opened my mouth,” Jonas admits as he parks the truck at the curb. “Not with what’s hanging over your head. I would have wanted to, though.” He bobs his head to the music. “What album does that come from?”

  “Citizen Cope.” I’m watching Jonas, surprised that he said he wouldn’t have done anything to Mr. Mason. His sister would have called me a—well, we all know what word goes in that blank.

  “I’m looking this guy up.” Jonas lets the song finish, then pulls the plug and hands my iPod back to me. “You should be a deejay or something, you know that?”

  Deejay. Does that require a college degree or a background check? It’s the first moment of genuine hopefulness I’ve felt in a while.

  Then Jonas is driving away and I’m standing alone out on the sidewalk in front of my probation officer’s building during school hours, with a brand-new swollen-shut eye and blood smeared down the side of my face and neck.

  Darren got an appetite for lightin’ dynamite and letting it blow up in his hands …

  The song echoes through my brain, and the building looks like it’s frowning at me. I quit staring at it, get my ass inside, and get up the stairs, wondering if school’s already sent Branson an e-mail about the missed class.

  Branson’s door has his name and credentials stenciled on the frosted glass windowpane like some old-style private investigator. I knock on the first letter of his last name, and he answers the door before I finish banging.

  He’s got on slacks and a white shirt, but his tie is off and his collar’s open, and for a second, so is his mouth. Then it’s, “You’re supposed to be in school,” and, “Get in here right now.”

  An ice bag and a few explanations later, Branson says, “I’m calling the police to report this.”