The Deepest Roots Read online

  “They’re fine.”

  “Rome, honey, do you need anything?” Mom calls as she crosses the parking lot in her too-tall heels. “Money or something?”

  I want to laugh inside because I know that Mom has maybe a handful of change to her name. And it’s probably change that she’s scrounged from Red’s office. Red is known to leave it in little bowls and cans here and there from when he uses the soda machine at the gas station across the street.

  “I’m good, Mom,” I answer.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Mom asks when she stops next to me. We’re nearly identical; Mom is me with an added seventeen years. I wait for Jett to state the obvious, that my mom is so young.

  Jett stands a little straighter. “Hi, Mrs. Galveston,” he says to Mom, holding out his big, tan hand.

  Mom reaches out and takes it. “Oh, it’s Miss Galveston,” she purrs. “But you can call me Stella.”

  “Stella,” Jett corrects himself. “I’m Jett Rodriguez.”

  “Jett,” Mom says as if she likes the taste of the word in her mouth. “That’s a nice name. Very unique.”

  “Rome is kind of a unique name, too,” Jett offers.

  “I named her after the city,” Mom says. “I always wanted to visit Rome.”

  She has never told me this. Ever. Suddenly I have this image of Mom as a seventeen-year-old yearning to see the world.

  “It’s a beautiful place,” Jett responds, somehow crushing the air out of my lungs. “You should visit someday. My family went there a few summers ago.”

  He might as well have announced that he’s an alien from outer space. How can I ever go out on a date with a boy who’s been to Rome? I haven’t even crossed state lines. How ironic that my name is made up of two places and I’ve never been anywhere.

  Mom doesn’t miss a beat. “When I go, I’ll ask you about the best places to visit so that Rome and I don’t miss a thing.” She gives me a brilliant smile, one she usually reserves for future ex-boyfriends.

  Jett doesn’t know it, but her smile is a caution to me. A plea. Don’t throw this away. Don’t throw this away because you’re afraid.

  “You need any cash, Rome?” Red asks as he joins us. He’s stuffing his keys in the pocket of his jeans, and I notice that he’s put on The Collared Shirt again and is attempting to look more professional man than mechanic. “Tomorrow’s payday, you know.” His eyes bore into mine as if begging me to take some money from him.

  “I’m fine, Red. Thanks,” I reply, agitated that he’s offering as much as I’m honored by it. He’s a good guy. A really good guy. I wish somehow that Mom wasn’t working here, and I wasn’t working here, and he was just some guy that she’d met on the street. Because Red is probably one of the kindest human beings I know beneath the cranky, oil-stained, and tattooed exterior.

  Red’s gaze is fixed on Jett now. “You be good to Rome, you hear?” he says. “Or I know some guys who can cut your brakes and make it look like an accident. Fuck, I am that guy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jett replies, taking it in stride.

  “Jesus Christ, Red,” I swear, rolling my eyes. “I think we’re ready to go.” I grab Jett by the elbow and lead him back toward his car.

  “Have fun, honey!” Mom yells after us. “Live your best life!”

  I swear, I’m going to die right here in the Red’s Auto parking lot.

  In the car on the way to a restaurant, Jett finally manages to speak. “So your mom seems nice.”

  “She’s kind of crazy. And so is Red. Sorry about that. He’s my boss, but sometimes he thinks he’s got to watch out for me.”

  “It’s fine. I mean, that says a lot about you that so many people want to look out for you. It means they really like you, you know? Even if Red is a little intense.”

  “Yeah, he can be scary. But thanks. For saying that,” I add. “And for not responding with any sudden movements that could’ve gotten you shot or something.”

  Jett laughs, and I do too.

  “I’m just kidding about the shooting part. I mean, I think I am. Red could be packing heat at any time. It’s usually hard to tell in his mechanic’s coveralls.”

  Jett manages to suppress a grin. “Speaking of,” he begins, “you look great. Not that you didn’t look nice in your coveralls the other night.”

  “Well, I make most things look good. It’s just who I am.” I don’t add that I’m flattered, or that I borrowed the shirt from Mercy who borrowed it from Lux, who borrowed it from Morgan because it’s a brand none of us could ever afford. The jeans are from Walmart, and the only reason they look so good is that I inherited my ass from my mom.

  “So are tacos okay?” he asks. “Or would you rather do pizza? Or Chinese? I think Chen’s is open.”

  “I did pizza last night, actually, and I’m not exactly a chopsticks aficionado, so I’m going to say tacos.”

  “Puerto Blanco it is, then.”

  We pull into the parking lot of a little Mexican place on the west side of town. It’s pretty busy for a Thursday night, and we wait a few moments at the entryway before the hostess sees us and takes Jett’s name. After that, it’s fifteen minutes of standing around and commenting on the wallpaper and the other patrons and ignoring the small twitch in my hand because the hostess’s podium is leaning and needs just a tiny shim to set it back to rights. Finally, Jett’s name is called.

  “Fancy,” I remark nervously as they seat us at a tiny table in the back. There’s a candle in the middle of the table, flickering in a red glass bowl.

  “If you don’t like this, we can see if they can seat us somewhere else,” Jett says hesitantly.

  “Nope. I don’t mean it like that. I mean that the candle is nice.” My cheeks heat a little when he stares at me. Damn.

  “Oh,” Jett falters. “Good. Let’s sit.” He pulls out the chair for me. I make a mental note to tell this all to Mercy, who will die from the many acts of chivalry Jett has displayed since I met him on the side of the road earlier this week.

  “Thanks,” I say when I sit down. Jett sits down on the other seat, and we both pick up the menus that the hostess left.

  “So do you work tomorrow?” Jett asks.

  “No,” I reply. “I’m actually off tomorrow. Although it’s payday, so I’ll be stopping by there. It’s like I can’t stay away.”

  “Payday is good,” Jett replies.

  “Do you have a job?” I ask, even though I expect the answer will be no.

  “Not during the school year. In the spring, baseball takes up most of my free time. I worked painting houses last summer. Got on with the same crew to do it again this summer.”

  I’m a little surprised that he works at all, given that his previous address was in the Heights neighborhood, and I nod because I don’t know what to say. Whoa, dude, that’s adorable. But I don’t want to think less of him because his life is different from mine, even if it’s an automatic tic that I have to force myself to shut off. It’s no better than when people do that to me for being a girl from Cottonwood Hollow.

  “I worked in Haiti building houses the summer before that,” Jett adds to the conversation, filling the hole I’d left gaping.

  “Haiti?” I ask. “Why Haiti?”

  “Well, technically, it was a missionary trip. When I was a freshman, I got arrested for theft, so my parents shipped me off for a summer to set me straight.”

  “You got arrested for stealing something?” I ask, my interest immediately piqued. Finally, Jett Rodriguez is not 100 percent perfect. And it explains the way he’d reacted when I asked if he had stolen the diary from my backpack.

  “Don’t laugh,” Jett says, though he looks like he’s about to do it himself. “But I got arrested for stealing baseball cards.”

  I can’t help it. A small snicker leaks out of my carefully glossed lips.

  Jett rolls his eyes. “Okay, it’s a little funny. But remember that I was fourteen, and sometimes guys at that age make stupid decisions.”

&n
bsp; “Guys at any age make stupid decisions,” I reply before I can stop myself.

  He laughs, his eyes crinkling up as the waitress returns to take our orders and drop off chips and salsa. She’s young and cute and her eyes spend far too long roving over Jett’s broad shoulders.

  “What about you?” Jett asks. “I know you like all the hard awkward questions. So what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

  There are a million answers, and none of them are appropriate for a first date, especially not a first date with an Evanston boy. But I don’t want to lie to him, even if it would be easy for me. So I pick the most recent, if not the worst, of my transgressions. “I put bleach in somebody’s gas tank,” I offer.

  Jett grins, even as he looks surprised. “You’re even more of a badass than I had imagined.”

  “Well, you know us Cottonwood Hollow girls,” I reply before I can stop myself. I’d wanted to keep Cottonwood Hollow out of our date if I could help it.

  “You’re all kind of a mystery, really. I’ve only heard rumors.”

  “Well, most of it is probably true. So I won’t bother to tell you not to believe it.”

  “Can you cast spells over unsuspecting men?”

  I remember Lux and the algebra teacher. “No,” I say. “I can’t, anyway. That’s not a talent that I have.”

  “But there are some Cottonwood Hollow girls who can.”

  “Some can. Most don’t want to. A lot of people don’t realize that just because you have a talent doesn’t mean you can always use it well. It’s no different from you striking out in one inning when you’d hit a home run the inning before.”

  “You and Mercy and Lux seem pretty tight.”

  “We are.”

  “Have you guys been friends a long time?”

  “Basically since we were born. Cottonwood Hollow girls tend to stick together.”

  “Are you ever going to tell me what your talent is?”

  “No.”

  “Can I guess?

  “You can guess.”

  “Your talent is knitting. You are a knitter.”

  I nearly spit out my soda. “No.”

  “You can juggle. No, wait. You can make papier-mâché masks that resemble Hollywood stars. You can read people’s minds. You can read people’s auras.”

  “None of those are right. Keep guessing. But plan on ordering dessert later, because at this rate we’ll be here all night.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to guess,” Jett says, serious now. “Maybe I just want to wait until you’re ready to tell me.”

  I’m a little taken aback by this, because everyone who knows a Cottonwood Hollow girl wants to know what her talent is. Jett is still watching me thoughtfully with his dark eyes.

  “All right,” I reply. “I’ll tell you my talent when I’m ready. When I think you deserve to know.”

  “Sounds good,” he replies, digging for another chip.

  The rest of the date is too easy. He’s funny, he reads books, and he has an embarrassing collection of baseball cards and action figures still in their boxes from his childhood. He’s the perfect combination of funny, awkward, and handsome.

  I also notice when he gets up to use the bathroom that his jeans are almost as flattering as his tight baseball pants.

  When the waitress brings the check, I make a move to get cash out of my wallet.

  Jett holds up a hand. “When I ask a girl out on a date, I pay for it.”

  “Do you ask a lot of girls out?” I ask, realizing it’s rude right after the words fall out of my mouth.

  Jett grins, as if he finds my response refreshing rather than insulting. “Not a lot,” he says. “But if you want, I can start keeping a tally. Rome Galveston, one. Maybe I can make notches on my bat or something.” He picks up the black folder with the bill and slips in a card. I can’t tell if it’s a bank card or a credit card. Not that it matters. But I’ve never had a bank account because my experience with Mom’s is that it gets overdrawn a lot and you get charged a lot of money for bounced checks.

  “I’m sorry,” I reply. “As you can see, I haven’t been out on a ton of dates. At least not nice dates. More like the let-me-drive-you-around-in-my-pickup-truck kind.” I pause for a beat. “And I have a habit of being too blunt. Mercy says I lack a filter.”

  “I kind of like the lack of filter.”

  “Well, then you’re in for a treat. Half of what comes out of my mouth is completely undiluted.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Jett says as the waitress picks up his tab. “So it’s almost ten. Do you have a curfew?”

  “Yeah, it’s whenever I get home.”

  “I’ve got to be in by eleven on a school night. So I guess after this I’ll take you back to the shop? Where’s your car parked?”

  If I could, I would light the restaurant on fire using eye lasers. Just to distract him so that I don’t have to answer his question. Also, eye lasers would have been a much cooler talent than being a Fixer. “I don’t have the Mach anymore,” I reply as the words slice me into ribbons. I realize that in my haste of sending Mom home and giving her little information about this date, I also screwed myself out of a ride back to Cottonwood Hollow.

  “What do you mean?” Jett asks. “Did you sell your car?”

  “Yes,” I reply because it’s easier than explaining that technically I traded it.

  “Going to get something else?” he asks. “Maybe something that won’t blow up if you’re rear-ended?” he jokes. The waitress returns with his card and receipt.

  “I’ll have you know that the Mach was a tank. A beautiful, fast tank.”

  “I’ll drive you home.”

  “I can call my mom and she can pick me up at the shop.”

  “It’s no trouble.” He smiles affably. “I’ll take you home. And if you ever need a ride to school or home or wherever, just let me know. We can get food and do an activity and call it a date,” he adds with a teasing note.

  There’s no way I can refuse now without seeming like a jerk, so I just nod. We leave the restaurant and walk to his car.

  I get in, taking in the smell of leather seats and the cologne he put on for our date.

  Jett gets in the driver’s seat, and we head toward Cottonwood Hollow.

  “So how are the goats?” I ask Jett as we speed down the highway. I wipe my hands on my jeans. I wish I’d told Mom to meet me at the shop. I wish I hadn’t agreed to let Jett drive me home.

  “The goats are good. So are the chickens.”

  “Does your mom plan on purchasing any more farm animals anytime soon? Or maybe some kind of guard dog. Maybe an alligator.”

  Jett grins. “No alligators, I think. She only likes them if they make up a purse. But now she’s into painting. Lots of painting. She took over my dad’s office because she swears that it is the only room with light.”

  “What’s your dad do?” I ask, even though I’m fairly sure he mentioned it the last time I was in his car.

  “He’s a lawyer. Partner in a big firm. Lots of suits. Ties. Stuff like that.”

  “So you’re set if you commit a murder.” I think about the trailer, and how it’s going to look to this son of a lawyer. Small, old, sad. Pitiable, even.

  “Yeah, having a lawyer in the family is pretty convenient,” Jett agrees placidly. A few moments pass, filled with the soft crooning of the radio. “I thought for a minute when we met your mom that you had an older sister.”

  I nearly laugh, and it’s enough to distract me from our destination for a minute. “Do not ever say that to her. She will die from happiness.” I shake my head. “Actually, just try not to talk to her ever, if you can help it.”

  We pass the Welcome to Cottonwood Hollow sign.

  As we drive down the main drag, I try to see Cottonwood Hollow as Jett must see it. Fading facades of old buildings, a bar that seems to be doing pretty good business. Raised, cracked sidewalks torn asunder by the roots of massive cottonwoods that grow all over the town. A crowd of boys
wearing cowboy boots or worn-out sneakers and dusty jeans hanging around the gas station.

  “Which way?” he asks.

  I have a brief fantasy of telling him to turn toward the wide, shady streets where Mercy is probably reading a smuggled romance novel right now, and pretending that I live in her pretty house with its flowers and white picket fence. That’s the kind of house that a boy like Jett should drop a girl off at. The kind where he’d walk her to her door and kiss her good night while both parents slept soundly upstairs and the scent of petunias wafted on the air around them.

  But that is not my life, and to pretend that it was would be cowardly, and weak.

  I’m not weak.

  So instead, I swallow my pride, wipe my hands on my jeans again. “Take a right.” We cruise down Elm and I direct him toward the dirt road that leads toward our trailer.

  I tell myself that I want to do this. I want him to see where I live. I want him to look at the trailer and the weedy yard and the plywood skirting and the front stoop that I’m always shimming up to make it steady. I want him to see all of that and still want me.

  We get to the head of the dirt road that leads to the row of trailers. This is my last chance. I could tell him to stop here, but I won’t.

  The Challenger crawls slowly down the dirt road, passing two trailers until we get to ours.

  “That’s it,” I say, pointing toward the small, narrow, single-wide trailer. It’s got faded cream siding, with a toffee-colored stripe around the middle. The front stoop is illuminated by the porch light that Mom has left on for me.

  Jett doesn’t say anything; there’s no condescension or disdain. He just unbuckles and gets out of the car. He walks around to my door, and I try to think of something witty to say.

  He opens the door and I get out.

  I pause for some comment about the trailer, hugging my arms across my chest, waiting to see what it will be.

  Jett offers me his hand. I take it. His hand is big and just a little rough. Radiating heat like all the rest of him.