Buried by Robin Merrow MacCready Read Free Book Online Page B

that I realized I could hurry off to the bus or I could take Mom’s car. The car, of course. I took my mug and cereal, walked through the September flowers—asters, purple coneflowers, and cosmos—and up the stairs to the deck. From there I could see the ocean between the cottages. I sat with my feet on the railing and listened to birds in the trees and to the distant waves at low tide. A flash of yellow meant the bus had gone by, so I took a last gulp of coffee, but not before I noticed the mess the garden had become overnight. From the rooftop deck it looked as though something or someone had thrashed through it, leaving holes in the beds, bent stems, and crushed flowers.
    Damn cat.
    Â 
In English, after the quiz on poets of New England, I kept getting ideas for Liz’s report. It was a flash of insight here, a memory from a book, or something I’d heard somewhere. The ideas kept coming. I wrote two pages of notes, and when class was over, I tore them out and handed them to Liz. It took her a second to figure out what it was, but when she did, she threw her arms around me.
    â€œI love you, Claude. You saved me again.” She hugged me tightly, and I didn’t mind. I loved helping her because it helped me. I got a rush every time she learned something from me.
    â€œI got another idea, too,” I said as we walked down the hall. “I thought you could make a booklet of affirmations and what they mean and how they help you and—”
    â€œGotta go to class. Write that one down.” She shuffled her books and tucked in a stray paper before she was gone around the corner.
    I stopped and jotted the idea down in my notebook. I also decided I’d get her organized so that she could feel a little more pride in her work. All through my next class, I planned how I’d make the binder. I had an old one, and I’d put in paper, pocket folders, and dividers. I’d label her classes, and in the front pocket I’d tuck a Post-it pad. I’d surprise her.
    Ms. Frost nabbed me on the way to lunch. “We need to set up a meeting to go over that scholarship.”
    We were in front of the Staff Lounge, where teachers and aides were eating lunch and hanging out. The odor of coffee and sweet muffins wafted out, and saliva pooled in my mouth. I swallowed. I hadn’t brought a lunch.
    â€œSure, anytime,” I said.
    â€œRight now? We can have lunch in my office,” she said. She looked at my armload of books. “Do you have a lunch?” When I shook my head, she said, “My treat.”
    We went down to the basement office and sat at a long rectangle table strewn with papers and a stapler. She handed me a yogurt and a banana, and she had the same. I couldn’t take my eyes off the messy piles in the center of the table. Books were stacked in piles around the room, and psychology and education magazines littered the floor.
    I couldn’t believe a guidance counselor would work this way.
    â€œOh, let me move this stuff.” She got up and began pushing it to one end of the table.
    â€œI’ll help,” I said, separating the piles and neatening them up.
    â€œThank you, Claudine. I should be neater, but . . .” She shrugged. “It’s not in me to care much about that sort of thing.”
    We ate our yogurts in silence for a minute. Her office smelled of sandalwood or musk or something. Whatever it was, I liked it. When I scanned the room, I saw a small brass bowl with an ash cone on her desk.
    â€œYou like that?” She left the spoon in her mouth and went to her desk and brought it back. “Take it with you. I have another.”
    I set it in front of me and turned it, studying the tiny lettering. “Thanks, I like it.”
    â€œI like the scent. Calms me down. It says, PEACE BE WITH YOU . ” She scraped the inside of her yogurt carton. “Now, let’s talk about your mom.”
    I looked at the tiny incense bowl,