Dig Too Deep (3 page)

Four

Most grocery stores I've been in look the same—fluorescent lights, bad music, moms with full carts, and screaming kids. You can be totally anonymous in a grocery store anywhere in the world. Except here. People in the mountains have a sixth sense about strangers. They know you don't belong, didn't grow up here, didn't morph out of the dirt and rocks like their ancestors did a billion years ago, so they stare. The employees, the moms, the old men standing in front of the store, even the kids—they all stare. It's rude. And unnerving.

I hurry through the shopping, trying to ignore the stares and wishing I'd taken Granny up on her offer to come along. At least I'd have somebody to talk to. Before I left, she gave me twenty dollars and a SNAP card. SNAP stands for Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, which is a fancy way of saying food stamps. I'm embarrassed that I didn't know Granny was on food stamps. Almost as embarrassed as I am to be using them myself.

When I'm done, the cart seems awfully empty, considering this food has to last us a week. The two cases of bottled water and the twelve pack of Mountain Dew take up most of the cash. I put back the green pepper and fresh broccoli and toss in a bag of rice and a big carton of oatmeal instead. More food, less money. I count up the change from the bottom of my purse and have just enough to buy a package of cough drops for Granny. It feels weird to be scrounging for money. MFM's job might have taken her away from home, but she got a halfway decent paycheck every month. Enough, at least, that I usually had more than sixty-seven cents.

As I'm standing in the checkout line, hiding the SNAP card in my sleeve till the last minute, I overhear a woman in the next lane talking about her daughter.

“Doctor says she might have some trouble with the birth, her being so young,” the woman says. “But so far she's doing good.”

“What d'you reckon will happen after the baby comes?” asks the woman behind her.

“She says she's gonna keep it.” The first woman shakes her head. Her hair is streaked with gray and her eyes are so tired they look like they're sinking down into her cheeks. I feel sorry for her and guilty for eavesdropping, but it's like a train wreck. I can't stop.

“She don't have any idea what it's gonna be like. Thinks she can get a after-school job to pay for day care and still finish school.”

“Pff. That ain't gonna happen.”

“Don't I know it? She don't listen though.”

“They never do.”

I wonder if Granny stood in line here seventeen years ago and had the same conversation with one of her friends about MFM.

The lady sighs. “I reckon we'll end up raising the baby, at least till she graduates.”

“Where's the daddy?”

“You tell me. Worthless piece o' work ran his sorry ass out of town the same night Jess told him the news.”

That sounded familiar too. Granny always said the only thing my father could be depended on for was not being depended on.

It's totally stupid and makes absolutely no sense, but I think I'm kinda jealous of Jess. Not because she's going to have a baby. God no. But because she screwed up, like in a major way, and here her mom is, trying to help her through it. It's hard to imagine MFM doing that for me. Impossible, actually. I'd probably be eight months along before she even noticed.

“Hey! You checking out or what?”

I look up and realize the guy ahead of me is long gone and the checker is waiting. I start unloading the cart, reminding myself for the millionth time …

I don't have a mom.

I put the groceries into Granny's rusted out 1987 El Camino and leave the cart in the middle of the parking lot like everybody else. Driving back up the mountain, I pull off at the overlook and check my messages. Thank God I prepaid my cell bill for the year before closing out MFM's accounts. Everything that was left went to her lawyers. Now I wish I'd prepaid a credit card or two for living expenses, but I had no idea money would be so tight here.

There are two voicemails from MFM that I delete without listening to and forty-three text messages from Iris. I read the latest few.

Dress rehearsal was a disaster.


Newsflash … Chet and Ally broke up!


Miss your face. :(


I reply, telling her about the party tonight. Granny hasn't technically said I could go, but she did call Cole's dad this morning and leave a message. All she wants is to know the who and the where, and I have to admit that makes sense.

In a 1950s sort of way.

Climbing back into the car, I'm thinking about Iris. She'd be all over this party, knowing exactly how to walk in and own the room. Me, I'm hoping I can sneak in the back door. The last thing I want is a repeat of the grocery store staring. I wonder if people here will ever accept me. I really need them to.

I've decided no matter what happens with MFM, I won't go back to DC. Not to live with her. We're just too different to ever get along. Sometimes, I'm certain I got switched at birth, and my real mom is out there somewhere dropping the wrong kid off at volleyball, cooking four-course dinners for the wrong kid, and helping the wrong kid with her lines.

The driveway is still muddy, and I spin out a couple times before making it to the house. Luckily, I'm used to driving in DC slush, so at least I don't get stuck. Granny is waiting for me on the porch, wrapped in an afghan and smoking a cigarette. She doesn't smoke much—just a couple a day—but it can't be helping her cough.

“Hey,” I say, climbing out of the car.

“Hey back atcha.” She flicks the butt out into the yard, joining a hundred others dotting the mud like little white flowers. “D'you get my cookies?”

“Nope.” I walk around to the passenger side to get the bags. “They're like two dollars a bag. Plus, they have no nutritional value at all.”

“I don't care. I need them cookies,” she snaps. “Ever'body's gotta have a vice.”

With my arms full of groceries, I'm too busy navigating the puddles to mention smoking counts as a vice. “Did Cole's dad call?”

“Not yet.” She pushes the door open for me and I head for the kitchen.

“Can you call him again?”

“No I can't, Miss Impatient. I called him once and that's enough.”

Granny has a strict idea of what constitutes good manners. “Fine.” I wave the carton of oatmeal. “Where's this go?”

She snorts. “Outside with the pigs.”

“Don't be stubborn. Oatmeal's good for you.”

“That don't mean I have to like it.”

“I'm sure you won't,” I say. “Just for spite.”

I finish putting the groceries away while she wipes at the furniture with a damp rag. By the time she works her way through the living room, it's yellow from the dust that covers everything.

“Whew.” She drops onto the couch. “I'm tuckered out.”

“You want me to dust the rest of the house?”

“That'd be a blessing.”

I rinse the rag out in the sink, which turns it orange instead of yellow. I'm thinking, no matter what the county said, there's no way orange water can be healthy. Granny starts coughing again, so I drop the rag and take a cough drop out of the bag. By the time I get into the living room, I'm afraid she's going to pass out she's coughing so hard. I rub her back, waiting.

“You need to stop smoking,” I say over her hacking.

She shoots me a nasty look, sideways through her watering eyes.

“I'm just saying.”

When the cough finally passes, she drops her hand from her mouth and wipes it on her sweatpants. It leaves a red streak.

“Whoa. What's that?” I ask, pointing.

“Just a little phlegm.”

“Phlegm my ass,” I say. “That's blood!”

“Naw.”

“Granny, you're coughing up blood. God …” I'm trying to remember from health class what that might mean. Tuberculosis? Pneumonia? “How long has that been going on?”

“Just a little bitty while.”

“How
long
?”

She lies back on the cushions and wipes her eyes. “Lord, Libby, I don't know. It don't happen so often. Just now and then.”

“Blood is blood,” I say. “And when it comes out of your body, it's never a good thing. I'm taking you to the doctor. Right now.”

Granny snorts. “On Saturday? Where you think you are, Worshington, DC?”

I stop on my way to grabbing the car keys. She's right. The nearest doc-in-a-box is probably an hour and a half away. And the car has maybe a quarter tank of gas. “Fine. Monday then.”

“You told me that last night, Bossy.”

“Yeah, well … just don't forget.”

“How can I,” she says, “with you reminding me ever' day?”

She grins, but I'm too worried to smile. I can't stand the thought that there might be something really wrong with her. She's the only family I have now.

The phone rings, jarring me out of my worried thoughts.

“That'll be Darryl,” Granny says. Cole's dad. Then she starts coughing again, so I answer it myself.

“Hello?”

“Liberty?”

“Yeah?”

“Hey. It's Cole.”

“Oh, hi.”

“Kat left a message for my dad,” he says.

“Yeah. About the party.”

“Right.”

“So?” I say. “Where is it? When's it over? Will there be any adults? And all those other questions adults have a deep and burning desire to torture us with.”

Cole laughs. “It's at my buddy Dobber's house, and it probably won't be over till Sunday morning.”

“Okay, well, I'll need to be home before that,” I say.

I can almost hear him smile. “I'll get you home by midnight.”

“And the adults?”

“His daddy'll be there.” Cole kinda snorts.

“Great. I'll tell Granny.” She's still coughing on the couch.

“What? Naw, you can't tell her any of that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, Dobber's daddy … I mean, he's not …” The silence on the other end stretches on a little too long.

“He's not what?”

“Look, just tell her the party's at Jillian Coffey's.”

“But you said—”

“I know, but your granny's not gonna let you go if she knows it's at Dobber's.”

“Why not?”

“Liberty?” Granny calls from the living room. “Is 'at Darryl?”

“I gotta go,” Cole says. “Don't say anything about the Dobbers. I'll pick you up at eight!” The line clicks dead.

“I want to talk to him.” She's just walking into the kitchen when I set the phone back in the stand.

“He had to go,” I say.

“What'd he say?”

I wonder what to tell her. On one hand, I really want to go to that party. Showing up at school on Monday would be a lot easier if I knew a few people. But I'm a little worried about the Dobbers. I mean, what's so bad about them that I can't even mention their name to Granny? Are they murderers? Moonshiners? Does it matter? I can take care of myself. And I'm looking forward to seeing Cole again.

I think all that in the span of one eyeblink. Then I look at Granny and say, “The party's at Jillian Coffey's house.”

Five

I don't have the slightest clue what to wear. Will we be outside? Inside? Is it super casual or do people dress up? What I really want is an invisibility cloak, some way to walk in and not be stared at. But since I know that's impossible, I try to hit something in the middle, wearing jeans tucked into suede boots and a red cashmere sweater. I twist my hair into a bun, slap on my regular makeup plus extra eyeliner, and walk out to the living room to wait with Granny.

“Hoo wee. Ain't you gorgeous!”

“Hardly,” I say, flopping down on the couch.

“Didn't nobody ever teach you how to take a compliment?”

“No.”
Nobody
taught me almost nothing at all.

“Ya just say, ‘Thank you.'”

“Fine. Thank you.”

She hmphs and crosses her arms. “Well, I guess that's some better. You might try a smile next time.”

“I didn't ask you for the compliment,” I say. “Why am I supposed to be grateful for something I didn't ask for?”

She shakes her head at me. “Libby, a whole lotta people in your life are gonna give you stuff you don't want—in my case, it was mostly bad advice. Your best course of action is to say ‘thank you' and throw it away when they ain't lookin'.”

I hear an engine growling up the driveway and jump off the couch to grab my coat. “I'll remember that.”

“When you coming home?” she asks as headlights cut through the darkness outside.

“Midnight, I guess.” I lean down to kiss her cheek. She smells like cough drops.

“Midnight? Well, don't expect me to be waiting up.”

“You better not be,” I say, pulling my scarf out of the collar of my coat. “I want you to get plenty of rest until that cold's gone.” In the back of my mind, a little voice says,
Colds don't make you cough blood
.

“Okay, Bossy. You get on to that party before all the fun gets gone.”

“I'm going.” I pull the door closed behind me just as Cole steps onto the porch. He's wearing faded jeans, cowboy boots, and a PCHS hoodie. His cheeks are pink and his breath clouds up in the cold night air. “Hi.”

“Hey there.” He smiles and stares a little too long at the three-inch heels on my boots. “You look great.”

“Too dressy?” I ask, as he starts down the steps. “I can change.”

He turns back to me and his eyes crinkle at the edges. “I said you look great, Lib. Can't you take a compliment?”

I follow him into the dark yard. “Apparently not.”

It's a cold ride down the mountain. Cole's car is older than my mom. It's kinda cool looking but only about half of it works. Heat is part of the nonworking half, as is the thingy that rolls up the window on my side. It's only open a crack, but Cole drives fast and the air streaming through is icy.

“Is it much farther?”

“Just a couple miles.” He glances over at me. “Shit, you're probably freezing.” He reaches into the backseat and hauls over a blanket crusted with dead leaves. “Put that over you.”

Even without the leaves, the blanket has an ick factor I'm not really comfortable with, but I'm freezing my butt off. Hopefully, whatever germs the blanket has will be too cold to infect me.

Cole seems impervious to the temperature and keeps up a running stream of information on who I'm about to meet and who I should avoid. Oddly, Dobber, who appears to be his best friend, is at the top of the avoid list. So of course, I'm looking forward to meeting him.

Ten minutes later, we turn onto a gravel road. An orange glow shines through the trees, casting long shadows that fade into the night.

“Is that a fire?”

“Bonfire,” Cole says. “You ever been to a bonfire party?”

“No.” I'm thinking about bonfires and how they pretty much have to be outside. Then I'm thinking about how it's mud season. And then I look down at the three-inch heels on my suede boots. “You could have told me it was going to be outside.”

Cole pulls into the parking area. I'm not sure what else to call a bare yard with twenty cars in it. The fire is ahead of us, across a plowed field studded with patches of snow. “You don't have to be outside. They party in the house too.”

“With Dobber's dad?”

He takes the key out of the ignition and turns to me in one fluid movement, pointing it at my nose. “Stay away from Dobber's dad. A'ight?”

I stare at him in the light from the fire. “If the guy is such bad news, why are we even here?”

Cole looks at me like I asked why we breathe air. “What else are we gonna do?”

I have no answer for that, and anyway, he's already getting out of the car. I claw the blanket off and fumble for the door handle—only then realizing that's another part of the car that doesn't work.

Cole comes around to let me out. “Sorry. That's next on the list. Just waiting for my paycheck.”

“You have a job?”

“Not really. I just do some work now and then at the mine—landscaping, running errands, random stuff.” He runs his hand over the hood of the car. “It pays for parts.”

I wrap my scarf up around my mouth. There's a breeze rattling the naked tree branches and the damp crawls right through my clothes and condenses on my skin. “So, you're fixing your car up yourself?”

“Yeah.” We're walking toward the fire. As he turns to me, the shadows catch in his dimples and I wonder what it would be like to run my finger over them. “I've been working on it since I was fifteen. Daddy and I rebuilt the engine first. It didn't even run when I bought it. Cost me six grand.”

“Are you kidding me? Six thousand dollars for a car that didn't run?”

“Well, yeah!” He snorts dramatically and jerks his thumb back at the car. “That's a '65 Mustang!”

“So … it's old.”

“It's a
classic
?” He says it like a question. One I should know the answer to.

“Right.” There's a long silence telling me I'm supposed to say something else. “Well, it looks great. I can't wait to see it when it's done.”

He smiles. “You think you're gonna be here that long?”

A thousand things run through my head—my old school, Iris, Georgetown.

But then … MFM calling from the police station to say she'd been arrested. Withdrawing every cent from my college account to pay the lawyer's retainer. Living with Iris until MFM's plea hearing. Then, packing up the apartment alone, dealing with utilities, movers, and storage companies alone. And finally the bus ride to Granny's.

Where I'm no longer alone.

“Absolutely,” I say. “I live here now.”