Going Underground

by Susan Vaught

  She holds up the battered piece of paper.

  When I stare at it, not comprehending, she opens the paper along its worn creases and reads, “Dear Ms. Johnston.” At this, she gives me a look over the top of the paper. “That would be me.”

  I’m turning red now, and losing my natural high over hearing about the law passing, and feeling like I can get in trouble with Branson even though I’m over eighteen and off probation.

  His expression’s not any lighter than Ms. Johnston’s as she continues quoting the smart-ass letter I wrote what seems like a thousand years ago. “My name is Del Hartwick and I have a felony conviction. In the eyes of the law, I am a criminal. I can’t tell you I didn’t do it, because I did. I can’t tell you it was right, but I’m not sure it was wrong.”

  She looks at me again. “Yes, ma’am” I say, because, Sorry I was kind of sarcastic seems lame, and oh, shit might get me slapped. Man, it’s hot in the graveyard (even though fall’s here) as she reads through the next part, and goes on to the next.

  “I’m not what those charges say about me. I’m not anything like that. I’m Del. I’m seventeen. I have a parrot and a best friend and a girlfriend and a job digging graves. I have good grades and I want to be an avian vet, and maybe help my folks with the Humane Society and all their animal rescue operations.

  “My life got stolen from me, and I want it back. This application means a lot to me. I’m lost in space and I want to find a way home. Nobody else can get me back to the planet, so I have to do it myself.”

  She pauses again.

  I can’t quite believe I wrote any of that. I could have been more respectful. Polite, maybe?

  Ms. Johnston glances toward the tree holding Fred’s cage. “This would be the parrot?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Her name is Fred. Nobody knew she was a girl until she laid an egg, and it was too late to change her name.”

  “Fred,” Fred says, tentatively, like she’s testing the waters.

  “I see,” Ms. Johnston says, then she goes straight back to the letter. “That’s why I’m writing to you, to ask permission to apply, and to ask your help in getting a fair chance at going to college. My name is Cain Delano Hartwick, and I want a future. Let me apply, judge me on what I can do, and give me a chance. Please.”

  Still looking at me, she finishes by saying my name emphatically, just like I wrote it.

  DEL.

  “Fred,” Fred says from her cage, with almost the same emphasis.

  Ms. Johnston gives Fred a look, and I’m thinking I see the parrot smile, but I’m probably crazy.

  “And all this time,” Branson says, “Dr. Mote and I were worried you didn’t know who you were and what you wanted.”

  I don’t know if I’m supposed to apologize or run. Both seem like viable options, but I go for what comes to my mind instead. “I know what I want. I just don’t know how I’m ever going to get it.”

  Branson nods at this and looks back at Ms. Johnston.

  “I’ve been following your progress since I got this letter,” she says. “First with Mr. Branson, then later on my own. I’ve checked your grades. I’ve talked to the teachers who wrote recommendations for you. A little while ago, I even spoke to your parents.”

  Fred whistles, then drops a bomb, and I start hoping she doesn’t start with the fart and burp noises. I fidget with my fingers, but make myself meet Ms. Johnston’s gaze. “Why?”

  Fred farts, and it’s really, really, really loud.

  Ms. Johnston shuts her eyes, but otherwise, she doesn’t react to the fart noise. “Because I’ve gone out on a limb so far I can hear people sawing the branch behind me. I wanted to be sure I wasn’t as crazy as everyone thinks I am.”

  “That sounds like something I’d say,” I tell her as Fred follows the fart with a winning burp, an excuse me, and some witchy-sounding laughter.

  Ms. Johnston’s mouth twitches as she looks at the parrot. Fred goes quiet and poofs out her feathers, one dominant female recognizing another—and maybe surrendering. For now.

  When Ms. Johnston turns back to me, she says, “We’re too late for this semester, because I had some board members still fence-sitting and putting up objections. With the passage of the law, that’ll end. A little arm-twisting—how does January sound?”

  “January,” I repeat, beginning to understand, but like before when Branson told me about the law passing, not quite able to believe it’s true.

  “To start classes.” She nods. “We’re solid in the sciences and I assure you, if you’re aiming for premed or preveterinary, your scores from Community will get respect at any four-year that takes you.”

  She waits, like I’m supposed to say something, but my brain is a total blank.

  Ms. Johnston fills in the silence. “Mr. Branson tells me your future might ultimately lie in broadcasting or the music industry, and Community also has a good communications program to give you a start in those areas. Does that interest you?”

  I turn to Branson because I know him better and I trust him more. “Is she serious?”

  He gives it straight back to me just like he’s always done. “Are you?”

  That’s when I know it’s true.

  My head buzzes so loud it’s hard to hear Ms. Johnston when she’s handing me the full application to Community, along with a letter giving me permission to apply, and explaining that I need to fill in every single blank. It’s hard to hear Branson, too, when he says he’ll help me if I run into any problems on the application questions.

  I stand there holding the application, thinking I should make twenty copies of it in case Fred eats a few or I get dirty fingerprints on the pages or something. I don’t have a computer in Harper’s old house, where I’m living now. A computer would probably fry his decrepit fuse box and burn the place to the ground—plus, it just felt weird to even consider. I don’t have a cell yet, either, but that’s because I can’t afford one on my own and I don’t want my parents paying for it. I think I’ll start small with the cell. It’s less intimidating.

  Ms. Johnston steps over to admire some of the flowers on Mrs. Ammonson’s grave, obviously giving Branson a moment alone with me.

  “How are you, really?” he asks me, the familiar worry lines returning to his forehead. “Holding your own?”

  “I’m doing okay so far.” I gesture to the graveyard. “It’s a lot of responsibility, but I like being busy. I just—I miss Harper. A lot.”

  “Whatever happened with your girl, with Livia?” Branson glances down at his watch, and I know he’s checking the date.

  My wild excitement about the law and Community College fizzles down to a quiet sort of background joy, and what comes to the front is that sadness again. That deep-down ache that doesn’t have an antidote even if I know its name.

  Livia.

  “Today’s her birthday, but she’s not here,” I tell Branson. “That’s all I know, and I guess that kind of says it all.”

  He grumbles agreement and looks unhappy on my behalf. Then he makes it a little worse. “How’s Marvin?”

  “Gone. But he did send me a postcard from a cookie shop near Notre Dame.” I point in the general direction of Indiana, or at least I think it’s the right direction.

  “What happened to Lee Ann?”

  That makes me laugh. “He ended up with a harem those last few months. He was just waiting to turn eighteen, and all the girls he’s dating have to prove they’re eighteen. He said some of them think he’s a dork for being so careful, but he doesn’t care.”

  “Good for him. I know that whole mess took a toll on all of you. I’m glad you’re moving past it.” Branson’s smile is back, and he glances toward Ms. Johnston, who’s sniffing roses.

  “His postcard said he’ll pick me up for a visit, but I don’t want him to.” I turn back to the grave I was working on so I’m not looking right at Branson. “I don’t know how Notre Dame will feel about having me on campus.”

  “We’ll get the rest of this mess strai
ghtened out,” Branson says. “Give it time, Del.”

  “Time’s all I’ve got. Time and a graveyard.” Jeez. Am I sounding like Harper? “And a lot of graves to dig. This place really is huge, and it serves a ton of counties.”

  Branson laughs. “Well, good luck to you. I’m not helping you dig.”

  “I will,” says somebody from behind Branson, and I jump from the shock-tingle of hearing that voice, her voice, again after all these months.

  From her cage in the tree, Fred cranks up with whistles and bombs and then a delighted chorus of, “Four, four, four, four, one, two, THREE, four!”

  Branson and I turn around, and there she is, standing there just like a vision in her jeans and a blue shirt that hangs loose around her waist and stirs in the breeze. Her dark brown eyes look wide and hopeful, but also scared, and she’s wearing her hair loose around her shoulders. It looks so soft my fingers flex because I want to touch it.

  “Well,” Branson says, gesturing toward Ms. Johnston, who has stopped sniffing roses and started making her way toward Fred’s cage for a closer look. “I should go get her before your bird chews off her nose.”

  “Good idea,” I tell him, and manage a “Thanks” before he moves off and leaves me alone in the sunshine, staring at Livia. The sun makes golden patterns in her hair, and her skin’s turning pink from the heat and whatever’s scaring her. I realize she’s got a single suitcase, a black one, and it’s sitting on the ground beside her.

  She looks down at the suitcase, then back up at me. “Hi.” Her lips work like she’s running through a lot of things she could say. She settles on, “I’ve been waiting a long time for my birthday.”

  “Me, too.”

  She smiles, and I smile—the real kind of smile—and for right now, we don’t have to say any of the rest of it, about why she waited, and how I know why she waited, and how we missed each other.

  “I …,” she whispers. I wait, ready for anything, not even caring what she says as long as it has to do with her seeing me whenever she wants now, whenever we both want. I’m hearing five different songs in my head at once, but the loudest one is probably the corniest, “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison.

  “I need a job,” Livia says, and the fear’s back on her face again.

  I blink.

  Not what I expected.

  But the suitcase …

  And I think I’m starting to get it. She didn’t just come here to see me today. She left home to do it. Maybe she would have left home anyway the day she turned eighteen, to get away from her father and the cloud over her family after what her sister did—but she packed her suitcase and she came here.

  “This is a dead-end place, in case you haven’t noticed.” I keep my eyes on hers and try to do the right thing. “You want out of Duke’s Ridge and you want to go to college.”

  “Someday. But for now, I need a job. And I need a place to live.” She’s talking fast and she barely slows down for a breath. “I hope you say yes, but if you say no, I have some other options—an aunt in Reno and my cousin in New Jersey.”

  I eye her suitcase. “It’s a long way to those places. You on foot?”

  “The car was in Dad’s name. So was almost everything else I owned.” She lifts the suitcase. “This is it. I’m starting light. We’ll call it Zen for now, if you don’t mind.”

  Wow.

  Now I’m happy and scared all at the same time.

  “My car sucks.” I jerk my thumb toward the ancient Ford truck I inherited from Harper. I parked it under the tree next to Fred’s cage when I drove out to this spot to start digging. “Definitely not eco-friendly. Neither is the house. I’m still finding beer cans, and Gertrude came with me. She’s drooling everywhere because I can’t afford tuna.”

  “Fred,” Fred shouts, and she drops some more bombs, and she farts for good measure, then laughs about it.

  “I can take it,” Livia says. I’m pretty sure she means the truck and the house and Gertrude’s drool, even though Fred immediately launches through fresh burps and some Spanish swear words.

  “If you keep hanging around here, you’ll be lost in space just like me.” I reach out and touch Livia’s face with my fingers. She’s close, and she’s warm, and she’s real even though I’m sure I’m dreaming. “It’ll take a lot more than eighteen inches of dirt to cover up the history you’ll be making if you’re with me—and everybody will treat you like you’re made of paper or invisible.”

  “You won’t treat me like that, or your folks, or Marvin and his mother whenever he’s in town. Fred doesn’t think I’m made of paper and Gertrude doesn’t care.” She glances toward Oak Section, where her sister’s buried. “And my mom can see me whenever she visits Claudia. As for the eighteen inches of dirt”—she shrugs—“I don’t think I’ll be needing to cover anything up or hide anything at all. Not here. Not with you.”

  I trace her cheekbone, needing to know she’s still right there and not about to vanish in a puff of smoke and broken sunlight the first second a cloud passes across the sky.

  She frowns for a second, then smiles—almost a parrot smile, but a little better. “I’m not asking you to marry me, Del.”

  “If you did, I might say yes.” I slip my fingers into her hair and pull her toward me.

  Her kiss feels … like being on Earth, like being right here, right now, right where I’m supposed to be.

  “Well,” she murmurs in my ear, “maybe I’ll ask you in three or four years.”

  “Deal. I need to finish school, anyway, and so do you.”

  “Nag, nag.” She pulls away from me and picks up her suitcase before I can do it, and she heads toward Harper’s house, which is my house now. And Fred’s. And Livia’s. It’s our house until we figure out what’s up, what’s down, and what we’re going to do on Earth now that we’ve all found our way back to the planet.

  As I watch her go, Fred says “Livia” in my voice, or it might have been Dad’s. I can’t really tell.

  “Livia,” I agree in my voice, thinking Mom and Dad will probably show up any minute with burgers and cupcakes and balloons to celebrate the law passing.

  A few minutes later, Livia comes back from Harper’s in older jeans and a darker shirt, with her fairy hair pulled back.

  She’s smiling … and she’s carrying a shovel.

  ALSO BY SUSAN VAUGHT

  Stormwitch

  Trigger

  My Big Fat Manifesto

  Exposed

  The Oathbreaker saga

  with J B Redmond

  Part One: Assassin’s Apprentice

  Part Two: A Prince Among Killers

  Acknowledgments

  Everyone I’ve ever known is braver than me. No, seriously. It’s hard to tell the truth, just let it spill out, and there are lots of people who tell the truth better than I do. My daughter, Gynni, is one of them, and Gisele, and my son, JB, and my friend and agent, Erin, and my friend Judy. I have to thank them for being so brave.

  Everyone I’ve ever known is gentler than I am, in so many ways. My editor is so very gentle, and her kindness and unassuming intelligence make me wish I could be her if it’s even possible for me to grow up. Thank you, Victoria. On this piece, because Victoria was busy adding to the beauty of the world, I worked with Margaret Miller, who proved to be gentle, too, and waded right in with courage and determination, even when I was being stubborn. Thank you, Margaret.

  Everyone I know is more loyal and better at sticking it out than I am. My friend Debbie, my friend Susan, my dogs Alfred and Katie, the guy who sold us our wonderful house, Ralph—these people face real adversity and keep on going, and they inspire me. Thanks, all of you.

  And just as important, I thank every reader who has ever written me or e-mailed me with thoughts about my books. You’re why I tick and why I type.

  Copyright © 2011 by Susan Vaught

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanica
l, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  First published in the United States of America in September 2011 by

  Bloomsbury Books for Young Readers

  Electronic edition published in October 2011

  www.bloomsburyteens.com

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to,

  Permissions, Bloomsbury BFYR

  175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Vaught, Susan

  Going underground/by Susan Vaught. — 1st U.S. ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Interest in a new girl and pressure from his parole officer cause seventeen-year-old Del, a gravedigger, to recall and face the “sexting” incident three years earlier that transformed him from a straight-A student-athlete into a social outcast and felon.

  [1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Gravediggers—Fiction. 3. Probation—Fiction. 4. Text messages (Telephone systems)—Fiction. 5. Sex crimes—Fiction.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.F3133Goi 2011 [Fic]—dc22 2010051028

  ISBN 978-1-5999-0714-7 (e-book)