The Deepest Roots Read online

  So instead I turn left toward the baseball diamond, which is abandoned this time of day. I climb into the stadium bleachers, all the way to the very top. This is the home-team side of the stadium, so the benches are wide and padded. I lie down on the top bench and wait for the sun to bake me into a hard, leathery cadaver that can no longer feel human emotion.

  An hour passes. I feel the sun beating down on my eyelids, but I’m comforted by the wall at the back of the bleachers that presses against my arm and keeps me from plunging twenty feet to the ground. Eventually I roll over onto my side and fall asleep.

  When I wake up, it’s two o’clock. I still have another hour before it’s time to go to work. There’s a boys’ gym class playing out on the baseball field. They’re wearing navy-blue caps and gym shorts, half of them shirtless. As if baseball is a sport that needs a shirts-versus-skins differentiation. But I don’t really mind because I spot Jett Rodriguez on the pitcher’s mound, perfecting his coppery tan.

  I unzip my backpack and catch a whiff of bleach from last night. I dig around until I find the lunch that I’d packed myself this morning. It’s the jar of peanut butter and a spoon. I unscrew the lid and dig in. I wince when I encounter a hunk of peanut. I examine the label. Damn it, how many times have I told Mom that I hate chunky peanut butter? Steven loves it, though, and Mom most likely loves Steven more than me. Not that I can blame her. He talks back a lot less than I do.

  I want to find it within myself to be angry with Mom for making me trade the Mach for rent, because it’s easier to be mad at someone else. But truthfully, Mom hadn’t made me do it. I’d done it on my own. And when I think of her walking back to her bedroom with Garrett, I shudder, stabbing my chunky peanut butter with excessive force. I pull one of the books I checked out from the library out of my bag, hoping to distract myself until it’s time to walk to Red’s shop.

  Soon, I hear the scrape of cleats against the bleacher steps. The peanut butter has helped me rally, and I’m ready to sling some pithy remark at an Evanston boy, but it’s not just any boy, it’s the infamous Jett Rodriguez. Okay, he’s not infamous, but I’ve thought about him and the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs more than a couple of times since he gave me a ride last night.

  “Hey,” he says. “Is it snack time?”

  “Lunchtime,” I reply after swallowing a mouthful of peanut butter. I remember the jerky from last night and feel that I should reciprocate in some way. I hold the jar and spoon out to him. “Want some?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he says, and takes the jar from me. He grabs the spoon, and without wiping it off or anything, digs out a scoop and eats it. He slides the spoon out of his mouth and smiles at me. He has a dimple in his left cheek. I hadn’t noticed it in the car last night. But it’s oddly endearing, that one dimple. He offers the jar back, and not wanting to appear squeamish, I take a bite without wiping the spoon, either.

  He looks like he would laugh at my determination if he could unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Finally, he gets out, “This is crunchy.” His face tells me he agrees with my stance on chunky peanut butter.

  “I know,” I commiserate. My eyes drift lower than his face because he’s on the skins team.

  He must notice because he asks, “So did you come to watch me?”

  I hazard a glance past his well-formed, sweaty pectoral muscles up to his face. “No,” I answer honestly. “I was looking for a quiet place to nap.”

  He does snicker this time, his eyes crinkling up just like yesterday. “You could really kill a guy’s ego, you know.”

  “Turns out it’s not that quiet here this time of day. These guys come out and start throwing their balls at each other.” He starts to laugh so hard that his broad shoulders shake, and it spurs me on. “But I’m nice, so I don’t yell at them to stop or anything. I just get out my lame-ass jar of chunky peanut butter and eat lunch.”

  When he stops laughing, he asks, “Don’t you have class now? Or are you joining the boys’ gym class?”

  “I usually have psych. But I’m taking a mental health day.”

  “Oh, I see. I’ve taken a couple of those myself.”

  “They’re highly underrated.” I pass the jar back to him, and he takes another mouthful of peanut butter.

  “So what’s after lunch?” he asks after a few moments.

  “I’ve got a shift at Red’s Auto.”

  “That’s right. The grease smudges.” He passes the jar back to me for another bite.

  “Yes. The grease.” I take a spoonful of peanut butter.

  “Well,” he says, “maybe look over your schedule, and let me know if there’s a time I could take you out for dinner or something.”

  “I like to eat,” I reply, “so I guess that would be okay. Sometime.” I’m deliberately vague, and Jett doesn’t push me, which I appreciate.

  “Or if you prefer, we could get some beef jerky and peanut butter,” Jett says, grinning. “I mean technically, it would be a second date.”

  “How so?” I ask.

  “Well, if a date is an activity and then some kind of food, like a movie and pizza or bowling and tacos, or maybe bungee jumping and sushi, then getting gas and eating beef jerky together last night would technically have been our first date.”

  “That’s a pretty classy first date. Do you take all the Evanston girls out for beef jerky and gas, or is this just something for Cottonwood Hollow girls?”

  “It’s just something for you, Rome.”

  I think I’m blushing, but it could just be the sun shining on my face.

  One of the other boys down on the field yells, “Jett! Quit screwing around and get back here! She doesn’t want you, bro! Give it up!”

  Jett rolls his eyes. “I better go. But I’ll probably see you later.”

  “Yeah, see you later,” I echo, still a little unsettled.

  It takes longer than I planned to walk across town to Red’s Auto. I’m nearly twenty minutes late when I get there, breathless from sprinting the last five blocks in my stupid plaid skirt and school-appropriate black flats.

  Red checks his watch when I burst into the shop, my chest ready to explode and my backpack stuck to my back with sweat. “Get lost, Rome?” he asks pointedly.

  “Sorry, sorry—” I gasp out. “I had to walk from school today. I didn’t know it would take that long. I’ll stay late and make up my time.”

  “Where the hell’s your car?” he asks. The fluorescent lighting glares off his shaved skull while he shifts his posture into listening mode. “It’s not like you couldn’t fix anything on it,” he says with a scowl. He’s never asked me if I’m a Fixer, but he knows I’m from Cottonwood Hollow, and he’s not stupid.

  I swipe at my nose, pretending disinterest. “Traded it for something I wanted.”

  “Traded it. You traded that car?” he looks ready to launch an inquisition. Red understands, probably more than anyone else does. The Mach is a part of my identity. He has the same feelings about his Silverado, which he washes and vacuums out nearly three times a week.

  “What needs to be done?” I ask, peeling my backpack off my sweaty shirt. I can’t look Red in the eye right now. He’s always been kind to me, and I’m afraid if he looks at me with that almost parental concern that something inside of me is going to break into a million tiny pieces. Sharp pieces.

  Red must sense this because he only says, “Serpentine belt on that Taurus over there. Work with Tim. He’s never put a new one on before. I think we’ll have a couple oil changes and maybe a set of spark plugs by five. Lots to do.” He mercifully lets the subject of the Mach drop.

  I hurry to the bathroom and change, grateful for the work and the noise. Maybe if I get all my work done, I can ask one of the guys at the shop to give me a ride home. I could give them some gas money out of the forty-five dollars I have left. Only Tim and Eddie are working tonight, and I’m not a huge fan of either. Tim is fresh out of community college and thinks he knows more than he does. Eddie’s just kin
d of a jerk, but I respect that he at least does his job well.

  I skin my knuckles loosening the tensioner to remove the serpentine belt of the Taurus while Tim is still looking over diagrams. He’s stocky and always sweaty, the kind of guy who drives a jacked-up truck to compensate for his lack of height. I am taller than him by at least four inches. “How’d you loosen that?” he asks when I’ve pulled off the belt.

  “Leverage, Tim,” I grunt out, fishing down for the belt beneath the alternator.

  “Let me do that,” he whines, looking irritated that I’ve already pulled the belt out.

  “Go for it, champ.” I toss him the new belt and leave him to try to fit his fat hands down by the AC compressor.

  I take the dry, cracked belt over to the trash, and when I do, I catch sight of the interior of the Taurus. The radio screen is cracked and a little crooked, like somebody tried to steal it but failed. The back seat has two kids’ car seats littered with Cheerios and broken crayons.

  Somehow, it makes me think of Mom. And the Mach. And of Emmeline, who so desperately wanted her daughter.

  Intrigued, I climb in the driver’s seat and tinker with the radio while Tim is under the hood muttering to himself. It’s not difficult for me to shift the radio back into place, easing the loose wires back into the console. One of the knobs sits in a cup holder. I reattach it, pressing it gently onto the small metal piece where it should be located. And then I rub two fingers over the cracked screen. Gently at first, and the crack seems to fade, like it was really only a scratch. A few more times and it disappears entirely.

  I look up to find Tim standing at the passenger door. “What are you doing?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

  “Nothing,” I answer.

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you? I’ve heard about you Cottonwood Hollow girls. You’re all freaks.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I sling back, my temper flaring. “Did you get that belt on all the way yet?”

  His mouth puckers. I want to punch it.

  “Tim!” Red calls from the office, where he’s drowning in a sea of files and receipts that he doesn’t quite know where to put. “Run down to AutoZone and get a case of 5W-30. I thought we had a couple in the storeroom, but we’re all out.”

  Tim shoots me a suspicious glare before hurrying away to do Red’s bidding.

  I finish the serpentine belt myself, and when I reconnect the battery, I lean in the driver’s side window and check the radio, as if I didn’t already know that it worked now. I spin the dial until I find the same country station that’s playing over the shop speakers, until the Taurus’ radio sounds like a tinny echo, a song within a song. I sing along, letting the gentle ache of Fixing remind me that I can feel something other than emptiness.

  When eight o’clock rolls around, I’m working on the last oil change. Tim and Eddie left before I’d even had a chance to ask for a ride in exchange for gas money.

  I hear a car door near the first bay entrance. Red shuffles out, and I wait for him to give the speech, Sorry, we’re closed, but you can leave the car here overnight or bring it back tomorrow. Every once in a while, it’s a desperate person who needs help with a flat or a headlight that’s out, and Red will stay open a little later.

  I roll out from underneath the car to see if he needs me and realize that he’s talking to a woman in a Ford Focus. My mom. Shit. She’s come to give me a ride.

  Red is grinning goofily at her. If I had my phone right now, I’d snap a picture later to show the other guys in the shop. Mom has gotten out of her yoga pants, clearly dressed for the job hunt in her best and only button-down shirt, a tight black skirt, and heels that are too tall for business, but are the most professional-looking shoes she owns. If she unbuttoned one more button on that top, she could pass for a cocktail waitress. She’s smiling back at Red and gestures at me. I can see her mouth the words my daughter. When she sees I’m watching, she gives a little wave.

  I roll myself back under the car. Let me die here.

  Several minutes pass, and the drip pan is full, so I’m forced to roll back out from my hiding place.

  I finish the car and slam the hood shut, wiping my hands on a rag from my pocket. I hear Mom laughing in the shop office. Red joins in, too. There’s nothing for me to do now but hurry into the bathroom and change back into my school uniform and get Mom out of the shop as soon as possible.

  In the office, Red is standing with his hands in his pockets, still beaming at Mom. She’s leaning over the desk, looking at his books. This gives Red a great view of her cleavage, which she’s amped up with a push-up bra today. Clearly, Mom’s employing all her best skills on this job hunt.

  But if I were to step back and look at this scene like a stranger might see it, Mom is young and pretty, with curly auburn hair and a smile that never fails to get whoever she’s looking at to smile back. It’s hard to say who she might have been if she wasn’t pregnant with me as a teenager. Maybe she would have owned a business. Maybe she would have been a doctor, or a lawyer. I guess we’ll never know.

  “This would be more organized if you used the computer,” Mom says. “I used to do that at my old job. They taught me how to balance the accounts and make deposits. I can even file.”

  I can even file.

  My mom is killing me.

  “Really?” Red says. “I’ve thought about getting a computer in here, but I don’t know a lot about using any of that fancy software. I did fifteen years in the Marines, two tours in the desert. Not a lot of time for college and all that.” He looks a little embarrassed by the confession, and I realize that he’s not even looking at Mom’s cleavage. He’s looking at the files. “I’ve just stuck with the old paper accounting books. I’m not a very organized guy.” He gestures at the piles of papers and receipts stacked on the filing cabinets and peeking out of the drawers of the old, scarred desk.

  “Well, they say the most intelligent minds are the least organized ones,” Mom says, giving him her trademark smile as she stands up. “But let me know if you need any help.”

  Red is just eating it up, like they all do. Mom’s never had a problem getting a boyfriend. It’s the quality of the ones she ends up with that’s problematic. After about three months, she comes to her senses and realizes that Boyfriend X is actually a complete loser, and she gets rid of him.

  “Mom,” I interrupt her. “I’m ready to go.”

  Red looks at me as if he hadn’t noticed I was there. “Oh, Rome. Yeah. You didn’t tell me your mom was picking you up tonight.”

  “I didn’t know she was,” I return, drumming my fingers impatiently on the desk.

  “Of course I am,” Mom says, turning her radiant face on me. “It’s not like I was going to let you walk home.”

  Red beams at her again. “Rome never talks about you. I had no idea you were so . . .”

  “Chatty?” I offer. But I’m really thinking, young. There are always questions when people see my mom. Wait, how old were you when you had Rome?

  Mom actually makes herself blush. She playfully taps Red’s forearm. “Oh, you know Rome. She’s such a good worker that she doesn’t talk about herself on the job. She comes by that naturally, you know. We’re both hard workers.”

  “I bet,” Red says, nodding as if every word out of Mom’s mouth is the gospel. “I mean, yeah, Rome’s a real good worker. She makes the boys from the auto-tech school look like puppies.”

  “See you tomorrow night,” I tell Red.

  “Great,” Red says. “See you tomorrow.” He looks at Mom squarely in the face. “I guess I’ll see you too, Stella.”

  Mom tosses him one of her grins over her shoulder as I drag her away.

  I push Mom into the car with probably more force than necessary and throw myself into the driver’s seat. “What is wrong with you?” I ask. “Red’s my boss. Not your future ex-boyfriend.”

  “Yeah, he’s your boss,” Mom says. “And he obviously needs an office assistant. Why couldn’t i
t be me?”

  I put the car in reverse and back out of the parking spot while Red waves dumbly by the open bay doors. Mom waves back.

  “And what was all that crap about using a computer at your old job? The café had paper books just like Red does.” I pull out onto the road, making for the highway.

  Mom pulls out a book from her purse. The cover reads Everything You Need to Know about Microsoft Office. “I got this from the library in Evanston today. On a break from dropping off more applications.”

  “So you’re going to try getting one of those office jobs?” I ask, trying to hide my surprise.

  She shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know. I sounded pretty good in there with Red, right? Maybe somebody would hire me.”

  “Just don’t lead with I can even file.”

  Eight

  WHEN WE PULL INTO THE front yard in Mom’s car, I leave the space empty under the cottonwood where I always used to park the Mach. The grass there is dead, and it looks like some kind of morbid memorial. Someone must have come with Garrett to pick up his truck, because it’s gone, too. Before I turn off the headlights, I catch sight of Lux and Mercy sitting on the front steps in the dark. Lux is leaning back on her palms, and Mercy sits on the step below her, casually resting her elbow on Lux’s knee. Two tote bags sit in the dirt below the bottom step.

  It hits me how lucky I am to have them. Obstinate, loud, funny, loyal. They’re here, even though I don’t want them to be. They’re here because I need them to be.

  Mercy springs up when we get out of the car. “Hi, Miss Galveston,” she chirps.

  “You should have let yourselves in,” Mom says, putting the car keys in her bag. “You know the key’s under the mat, where it always is.”

  “I would have, but you know Mercy,” Lux replies with a sigh. “She insisted it was rude to bust in and make ourselves at home.”

  Mercy puts her hands on her hips and shoots Lux a glare.

  “You’re always welcome,” Mom says, trying not to wince when she reaches the steps and Mercy crushes her in a hug.