Going Underground

by Susan Vaught

  Contents

  I’ve Always Wanted to See a Fairy

  I Really Don’t Think about Shooting People

  Three Years Ago: Dreams in Dreamland

  Nothing’s Wrong with Me

  I Hate Peeing in Cups

  Three Years Ago: In My Dreams

  Always Never Lasts Forever

  Three Years Ago: Party in the USA

  “Hallelujah” and Burrito Farts, Not Necessarily Related

  Three Years Ago: Freaky Creep Show

  My Life, the “Supermassive Black Hole”

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

  If God Trips Over Angels, Does It Piss Them Off?

  I’m Pretty Sure Angels Laugh at Rooster Whisperers

  Three Years Ago: Vanishing

  If I Ever Tried to Pull a Bank Job, There Would Be Nuns

  If It Rains Down , It Will Rain on Me

  Three Years Ago: Broken Boy Soldier

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now, Also Known as the Day I Pull My Head Out of My Ass

  Chapter One

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Susan Vaught

  Where am I to go, now that I’ve gone too far?

  “Twilight Zone” by Golden Earring

  For anybody who doesn’t know what they want to be when they grow up.

  For anybody who doesn’t know—or care—what growing up is supposed to mean.

  For Livia, who wanted to see her name in a book.

  And for Fred, even though her name is really Frank.

  I’ve Always Wanted to See a Fairy

  (Read to the tune of “Twilight Zone”—Golden Earring.)

  Dead zones.

  Dead zones are places without life, without feeling, without air. I’ve seen them in pictures of polluted oceans and read about them in descriptions of the cold void of space. Sometimes I think parts of my body have turned silent and dark like those pictures and descriptions. Sometimes I think I’ve become a dead zone.

  I mop sweat off my forehead with a dirty handkerchief, reposition my earbuds and adjust the iPod in my pocket, then pick up my shovel. It’s hot, and it’s late afternoon, and this is a graveyard. It’s a quiet place, down a long country road and sort of in the middle of nowhere, like graveyards people write about in horror stories—only this cemetery isn’t creepy, at least not to me. The graveyard is not huge, but it’s big enough and full of headstones and plots. My job is to dig the graves, then close them up again, and it’s time to move dirt from one spot to another to bury a body that really, truly has become a dead zone. I’m glad for the pine box that hides the sewn eyes and the blank face. Some things just don’t need to see the light of day again.

  Before I can turn the earth and start filling in the grave, I catch the whisper and flow of movement in the distance and glance up to check what it is.

  Oh.

  Not much of a thought, but it’s hard to be coherent when a sight clubs you square in the eyes and leaves you standing on a pile of dirt, clinging to a shovel like it’s some kind of anchor to life and reality and graves that you shouldn’t fall into and bust your face. And my second thought is, She looks like a fairy. All she needs are gossamer wings.

  The music in my ears blasts so loud it seems like it lives in my brain. Something catchy. Something fast. It’s all wrong for the girl. She deserves something slow and classical and thoughtful. There’s nothing jangly about her. She’s my height, or close to it—and my age, or pretty close on that point, too. She has dark hair.

  Is she real?

  Because she seems like a dream—something out of another world. She walks like she’s barely touching the ground, flowing toward a clutch of trees and newer graves, and she’s wearing a yellow dress. The fabric makes her skin look tanned and smooth.

  For a second, I can see the girl’s face. Her dark eyes have a darker glimmer at the center, like she knows, like she really understands how the world works, in all the ways people like us aren’t supposed to be old enough to grasp. Her expression seems distant, and it’s sad in a way that clubs me all over again, this time in the heart. She’s tired. She’s worn down. I can see the hopelessness and resignation sketched across her features. It makes my chest ache for her even though I don’t know her.

  This Fairy Girl, she’s sad like me.

  I don’t think she sees me. Guys who dig graves tend to be invisible to sane, normal people.

  My heart’s beating too fast and I’m not breathing right.

  Stop looking before she sees you. Stop. You just need to stop.

  I shiver even though I’m burning up, and I step back, jerk my shovel out of the dirt, and ram it down to pick up a good load. Yeah, that’s better. Go back to the digging, get back to the music, and pay attention to the hard, loud beat. It blots away the hot wind and the plink and crumble of my digging. If I play it loud enough, music shuts out everything, even dreamy girls who float through lonely, boring graveyards. Ignoring her is definitely the right thing to do, because dreams and Fairy Girls, they aren’t for me.

  Soft, pretty things don’t belong in a dead zone.

  I Really Don’t Think about Shooting People

  (“Mad World”—Tears for Fears or Adam Lambert from Idol. I like Lambert best, but that’s me.)

  No cell phones.

  No text messages.

  The room I’m sitting in, it’s way too quiet.

  I wonder—if I’d never been popular enough to get an e-mail or a text or a buzzing call in my pocket, would I have felt so lonely when every electronic thing I owned went as silent as gravestones, then got taken away from me?

  And when I’m not in this too-quiet room, when I’m at Rock Hill, digging in the ground until I can’t breathe, when I’m noticing the way my shovel cracks across the caked silence like a bat beating tin, would I be thinking, Who am I?

  Or, Why am I here?

  Or, What’s the point?

  Who am I—that’s a good place to start. Before I became that guy who did that awful stuff, I was just a person. I’m still just a person in my own head, at least. I’m not anybody special. I’m not fat. I’m not thin. I’m not tall or short or famous. I’ve made mostly As and Bs since my freshman year, no matter what kind of mess was happening in my life. I’m nobody’s brother, and lots of times, I don’t feel like anybody’s son. My parents exist, but they work and go on dates and take trips and make sure “you’ve got plenty to eat while we’re gone, right?” I’m not sure I was really supposed to happen, but I happened, so my folks do their duty, even with all the trouble I’ve caused them. I always have enough to eat, so that counts for something.

  My mother smells like raspberries. My dad’s always smelled like the same aftershave. I think he’s used it since he was my age. Somebody should tell him he’s got way more options now, but maybe he knows that. Maybe my dad remembers the world before life went wireless, and he holds on to that old-smelling stuff just to keep it all clear in his head.

  We have a lot of animals—or my parents do. I mostly have Fred. She’s a parrot, and she can talk. Her name is Fred because nobody knew she was a girl parrot until she laid an egg, and her name had been Fred for a long time already. She calls herself Fred, and she talks about herself all the time, so I couldn’t exactly get her to switch to Frederica or Freddie May just because of the egg.

  Fred is only ten years old, and she might live longer than me. Parrots can live a long, long time, which is why “teenagers should never have them.” Because “parrots are a lifetime commitment.” And everybody knows teenagers can’t commit, right? We can’t be responsible for anything, we can’t understand how b
ig and huge the future is—but we can be held accountable for our actions no matter what we really knew or what we really meant. Forever. All across that big long future we don’t understand, and maybe don’t even have.

  Anyway, Fred is gray and red.

  I am not.

  Fred has feathers.

  I do not.

  I own four pairs of jeans, and two have holes in them.

  I wear the same pair of sneakers every day. They have holes in them, too. I could buy more sneakers because I have a job, but I like the pair I have because they’re worn and comfortable and don’t make blisters, so maybe I’m not much better than Dad with his aftershave.

  I don’t know why my mother smells—or used to smell—like raspberries. Maybe I should ask her, but she probably doesn’t know, either.

  Why am I here?

  Now, that question’s harder, and I don’t have any answers. I used to have lots of plans and dreams, but those are trash now. The best I can come up with is maybe I’m here because I have to take care of Fred. Or maybe I’m here because Marvin considers me his friend, and Marvin’s a good guy, and he needs friends, because, well, his name is Marvin, and he’s never managed to earn a wicked nickname. His middle name is Harold, so all in all, I think he’s better sticking with Marvin. Don’t get me wrong—Marvin and Harold are good names, and I’ve got zero room to say anything about nut-ball names thanks to the family traditions my parents plastered on my birth certificate, but right now, Marvin and Harold, they’re … I don’t know. Out of style, or something.

  Do you ever get sick of reading novels about teenagers who drink, get high all the time, lie, beat people up, save the world, have dark secrets, tell dark secrets, blow up the neighborhood, shoot themselves, or shoot other people?

  God, I asked that out loud, didn’t I?

  “Do you think about shooting people, Del?”

  The voice splits into my skull, and even though I’m alone inside, I remember I’m not alone outside, and that I’m supposed to be paying attention.

  Obviously, I suck at that. I have for the last three years.

  Dr. Mote sounds totally not upset, but I can hear tense floating around in her question somewhere. Maybe wary. And worried.

  I see the words in my head in bold black italic, because Dr. Mote has “emotion cards” we work with, about two hundred of them, and these three come up a lot.

  I think my fingers have lost all blood flow.

  Was the room this cold when I spaced out?

  “No, I don’t think about shooting people.” Tense.

  “Not ever?” One of Dr. Mote’s eyebrows twitches when she asks this, like she believes I’ve got a long hit list etched deep across my heart, but I’m still thinking about the emotion cards, and now, I’m thinking a little bit about eyebrows, too.

  “What?” Wary.

  She doesn’t sigh, but I can tell she wants to. “Shooting people …”

  Worried.

  “Oh yeah. Not ever.” I’m wearing one of the pairs of jeans with holes in them. I play with the frayed spot on my left knee, and the threads feel soft. “Before Columbine, nobody asked questions like that. Columbine sucked.”

  “It did suck, and this is after Columbine, and do you ever think about shooting yourself?” Dr. Mote’s voice seems to bounce off the pine paneling and pictures of mountains and trees and beaches. It slides between beanbags and two recliners, and the barrel chair where she usually sits, about five feet away from me. Her sandal presses against a green area rug on the hardwood, mashing down the carpet pile.

  What’s the point?

  That’s the question I never have any answer for at all, but it pops up in my head over and over again, and it takes a lot of energy not to ask it out loud every time I think it. This, however, would not be the time or place to get morbid or philosophical. “No, I don’t think about shooting myself.”

  “Don’t roll your eyes, Del. You know I have to ask every now and then. It’s a doctor thing.”

  “The doctors on HBO don’t ask shit like that. And some of them screw their patients.”

 

 

 

  Maybe I should bring Fred to session with me. She’s been invited more than once, and I take her everywhere else that allows birds.

  “Doctors who sleep with patients are scum,” Dr. Mote says.

  Dr. Mote is definitely not scum.

  I’m glad for that, since I’m required by law to see her at least every two weeks. We’ve racked up some hours together in the last three years.

  Dr. Mote doesn’t have wire-rimmed glasses or a beard like just about every therapist ever in shows and movies. She doesn’t look old or pinched and plasticked-out. She’s got boobs, and I think they’re real, and that’s kind of nice, because to me, fake boobs look wrongly perky, and it’s hard not to wonder if they’ll pop if somebody touches them. Dr. Mote doesn’t wear jeans and try to be young, and she doesn’t wear suits and try to be stuffy. She just … is. She’s just … there. Like her office, which is in an old historic house with an old historic couch with dents where my ass goes.

  My therapist scores on the Dad-aftershave and me-sneakers scale. Maybe we all like familiar things.

  “I’m still not certain I like you working at a graveyard.” She settles back into her barrel chair, which is greener than the area rug, and adjusts the pillow where she rests her elbow.

  “You got other ideas? Even Mickey D’s does a background check.” I glance away from her, because this kind of stuff isn’t as fun as talking about whacked-out shrinks on HBO.

  Dr. Mote keeps looking relaxed, but she says, “I know it’s not fair.”

  The shrug’s automatic. I couldn’t not shrug unless I sliced my shrug muscle in half. “That depends on your perspective.”

  “You’re allowed to be angry about your situation, Del. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to let it out. I wish you’d sketch something about your feelings, or blog them privately. Write a poem or an essay or a novel about your life. Something?”

  My sigh reflex activates and I don’t try to hold back. We’ve so been here before, and too many times. I don’t answer.

  Dr. Mote stays quiet for a count of five, then hits me with, “Mr. Branson still wants you to testify this spring at the hearings about changing the juvenile laws. He left your name on the legislative list in case you change your mind, and I hope you do.”

  Panic doesn’t quite cover the blast in my gut. No words for the feeling, unless I call it scared-embarrassed-hopeless-horror-no-way, all crammed together, screaming so loud against my ribs I’m wondering if I’ll crack loose and let it all blow right out of my mouth. Sweat beads on my lip, my neck and shoulders, but I’m not yelling, not yet at least, and after a few more seconds, I think I can talk.

  “Talking at a bunch of hearings about stupid, bad laws won’t do me any good. Being pissed doesn’t do me any good, and I don’t want to turn my life into some kind of artsy picture or novel or essay or whatever.”

  I’m breathing way too hard, but Dr. Mote lets me wheeze along and doesn’t slow down. “I’m not sure testifying at those hearings would be about helping you—more about helping other people so that nobody has to go through what you’ve been through.”

  She pauses, but only for a second. “As for you, what will help? What do you want to do with your life to move on from all this, to reclaim some of what you’ve lost?”

  “I don’t know! You’re the doctor, aren’t you?”

  Okay, that was too loud and beyond stupid and a way major cop-out.

  Back off, blow off, settle down.

  “I’m writing the letters to all the colleges on Branson’s list,” I start back, glad Dr. Mote’s expression never changes. “I might make his deadline.”

  “Get a life and future by your eighteenth birthday,” she says, reconnecting, and I like her for doi
ng that.

  “If I want his good recommendation to the court about ending my probation.” Force the smile. Be polite.

  “That’s several months away.” She smiles back, not forced. “Several months to get a life and a future. No pressure there. What are you doing to relax?”

  That takes some thinking. I start with, “Digging graves helps a little. It burns energy and it pays good with all the other stuff I do for Harper. Harper never judges me for anything. He’s almost as good as Marvin, if you leave off the cheap-ass beer.”

  Now Dr. Mote’s expression does change. She kind of looks like she’s got to go to the bathroom, or maybe something’s hurting her brain. “You don’t have to … you know. Handle the dead people, do you?”

  “Um, no. They’re sealed up by the time we get them.”

  “Good, because even though you’re very mature for seventeen, with everything you’ve been through, that would just cross a line for me—wait a second.” She studies my face like she’s pinpointing the exact spot where she can see the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, which she always manages to do. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Did anything happen with that Goth girl who won’t leave you alone—Cherie Blankenship, right?”

  “Right, but no.” I swallow, hunting the exact right words, coming up with zilch. Crap. I knew this would happen.

  Dr. Mote stares at me even harder. “Something new. Someone new?”

  And here we go.

  “Yeah, well. Kind of.”

  She waits.

  I wait, but not to be a dick.

  It’s hard to wrap my mouth around the words, because I haven’t said them since the summer between eighth grade and my freshman year, and figured I’d never say them again, and I know even letting them out in this safe, familiar room could cause a lot of trouble.

  “There’s this girl.”

  Dr. Mote’s fingers clench in her lap, then relax quick, like she didn’t want me to see.

  “I know, I know,” I jump in before she comes back at me with any questions or warnings. “And no, she’s not from here, I don’t think. She’s coming to a new plot we put in last month, a woman’s grave. The woman died young, about twenty-four years old.”