Authors: Amy Allgeyer
Dig Too Deep (22 page)
“Nope,” Ashleigh replies. “I want that city water extended right away.” She holds up the lock of hair. “We'll have DNA results from Donna's baby in two weeks. If construction hasn't started by then, I'm taking them straight to Aunt Karin.”
Peabody explodes. “Projects like that can't get started that fast.”
“You've got all those diggers and employees sitting up on Tanner's Peak that can't do anything now.”
“We need permits and county approvals. It takes time!”
“I'm sure you'll work out something.” She smiles. “Checks, please.”
There's silence in the room for a minute. Then, to my surprise, Mr. Peabody pulls out his checkbook and writes three identical checks with a freaking astronomical amount of zeros, tears them out, and hands one each to Ashleigh, Mr. Dobber, and me.
“Thanks, Unc. See you at Easter dinner?”
Peabody glares at her. Ashleigh folds the check, shoves it into her pocket, and walks out.
We gather the equipment and head for the door. Dobber stops next to Peabody.
“You can get up now.”
The man stands, straightening his coat.
Dobber sets the mic on the table. “Just one more thing,” he says.
Peabody's head snaps back before I realize Dobber punched him. Blood pours from the man's nose, dripping on the front of his white button-down shirt. He's gasping in pain, his hands held over his face.
“That's for my daddy,” Dobber says.
Outside, we toss our stuff into the trunk of Ashleigh's car and climb in. Dobber's bent nearly double in the backseat with me. Everyone's high-fiving and congratulating each other. Considering our plan worked, I should be celebrating too. But I can't stop thinking about Granny.
“It was a good plan.”
I look up to see Ashleigh staring at me in the rearview mirror.
“Thanks,” I say. “You did great.”
“Ever'body did,” Mr. Dobber adds.
We drive under the shadow of the billboard.
Coal Keeps the Lights On.
It's funny that a company that keeps the lights on also keeps so many people in the dark.
Funny but not.
Ashleigh drops us off at Granny's drive. As Mr. Dobber heads for the springhouse to pack up their stuff, Dobber walks up the driveway with me.
“Where will you go?” I ask.
“Straight to the bank,” he says, grinning. “Then to the hotel. Cousin Burnett'll put us up for a couple weeks till the check clears.”
I think of how much his life has changed in the last thirty minutes. “I'm happy for you.”
“Thanks. You okay?” he asks.
“I guess?” I'm not sure how okay is supposed to feel right now. If it's empty and sad and tired, then yes, I'm okay.
He puts his arm around my shoulders. “Your granny was a heck of a lady. I'ma miss her a lot.”
The weight of his arm feels nice. Protective, even. But what helps the most is that he knew Granny. He understands what she meant to me. Knowing we'll miss her together makes me feel less alone.
“Thanks.” I reach up and hold his hand resting on my shoulder.
“Think Peabody will actually do it?” he asks. “Extend the water?”
“If he doesn't, it'll cost him a lot more than money.” My favorite part about today was finally seeing Peabody without a smug look on his face. “Sorry you didn't get to blow anything up.”
He gives me that dangerously charming smile. “Maybe next time.”
Something tiltsâthe ground or the sky or something inside meâand I lean into him.
“At least I got to punch him,” he says as he joins his hands behind my neck.
In this light, his gray eyes are nearly clear, like a shadow of water. “That was a nice punch.”
“Yeah.” He's staring at my lips. “Felt good.”
I'm conscious of how close we are, hips touching. “Good thing you didn't tuck your thumb,” I say.
He smiles again. “Most girls do.”
I've completely fallen under his spell. Or maybe it's the other way around. “I'm not most girls.”
“Don't I know it.”
And then we kiss.
Forty-Six
I watch the rocks rolling by as MFM navigates the windy road down the mountain. The tree buds are golden, and the spider webs sparkle with dew in the morning light. I know we'll be backâwe have to get the house ready to sellâbut this drive has a finality to it. The lingering traces of Granny will all be gone the next time we're here.
But we will be back. MFM agreed that, even after the house is sold, I can come back to visit Dobber and Ashleigh. It's sort of mind-bending to be thinking of Ashleigh as a friend, but I do. A close one. I guess war is like that.
MFM's helping Dobber apply to colleges and said she'd talk to her friend in admissions at the University of Virginia about scholarships. I think she sees him as a new cause. I'm not sure what I see Dobber as. Our kiss was ⦠well ⦠I think about it all the time. But we're both at such big turning points right now. And I keep thinking about Granny's moth-and-flame analogy. Neither of us should singe our wings; who knows how far we might be able to fly? So as much as I'd love a second kiss, we're taking things slow. Still, I'm keeping my fingers crossed for him about UVA. It's just two and a half hours from Georgetown, and wings or not, I know I want to keep him in my life.
MFM also talked to the dean at Westfield, and he agreed I can repeat some classes this summer and go back as a senior in the fall, still on scholarship. I missed early admission to Georgetown, but if I keep my grades up next semester, I should still have a possibility at getting in. And anyway, I promised Granny I'd try.
God, I miss her.
I stare out the window, at the hills Peabody still controls and the creeks I know are still poisoned. Sometimes, it all seems pointless. Everything we did, and the valley is still ruined. It feels like all the grief and anguish of the past months is carved into my bones and the rest of my life will be rooted in grief and anguish.
“How do you do it?” I ask. “All those causes you support. How do you keep going when what you do doesn't make a difference?”
“It does make a difference,” she says. “Maybe not the difference I wanted, but it makes a difference nonetheless.”
“Pf.”
She reaches over and touches my arm. “Hey. What you did here? It mattered. It mattered a lot.”
“Doesn't seem like it,” I say. “Granny's gone. Mr. Dobber's still sick. Ashleigh's grandpa's dying. The creeks and wells are still ruined.”
We drive in silence for a while then Mom says, “Remember the starfish story?”
“Of course.” I hear Granny's voice in my mind, as clear as if she's sitting behind me. “It made a difference to that one.”
“Exactly. It made a difference. To somebody.”
The road flattens out and the rocks and trees turn into fields, fuzzy with corn and soybeans and tobacco. Soon, the honeysuckle will bloom and the scent will fill the creek bottoms. I so wish Granny could have smelled that one last time.
“Is it enough for you?” I ask. “Making a difference to one starfish.”
“That depends on the starfish.”
I tumble that around in my mind for a while. “The starfish I cared about died.”
“We don't always get to pick the ones that make it.”
“Well, it sucks.”
She takes a deep breath, and I'm sure she's about to launch into a wise ramble about the vagaries of life, but instead, she says, “I'm so proud of you.”
“Really?” I can't remember the last time she's said that to me.
“More than I can say.”
She's trying to make things up to me. And while telling me she's proud of me doesn't seem like much compared to seventeen years of marginal parenting, at least she's trying.
“Thanks, MFM.”
She glances sideways at me. “Still with the âformer mother,' huh?”
“I don't know.
F
stands for a lot of things. Fussy. Frowning.” I decide against “felon.”
“I see.” She smiles. “And how about fetching? Or fascinating?”
I counter with, “Faulty.”
She pauses, then asks quietly, “What about forgiven?”
It's a full minute before I answer. “Maybe.” I roll the window down so I can smell the moss and the trees and the damp rocks one more time.
Acknowledgments
To Danielle Chiotti, the hardest-working, best-communicating, sweetest, funniest, most perfect agent in the world. If it weren't for you, this page wouldn't even be. From the bottom of my soul, I thank you ⦠with sprinkles! Here's hoping my next book will have to be sold only once.
To Wendy McClure, my wonderful editor, who was the first person to believe in this book enough to pay real live money for it! Thank you for that and for the wonderful, careful suggestions you provided that made the book so much better. You're awesome!
I've dedicated this book to a group of women who've been with me forever, or so it seems: Hazel Mitchell, Julie Dillard, Kristen Crowley Held, and Sarah McGuire. Thanks for being my crit group, my life coaches, my cheerleaders, and ass-kickers. I love you all. With pants.
A huge thank-you to the Nevada SCBWI Mentor Program, and in particular my incredible mentor, Susan Hart Lindquist. Being a part of that program completely changed my writing life, filled my email box with invisible pink hearts, and made me part of a writing community I'm truly blessed to have.
It's really crazy how many people it takes to create a book. There are so many more people I want to thank ⦠my very first crit group in Boise who didn't ask me to leave, the WAD from Chautauqua, my writer lunch ladies, the Criterati, the Turbo Monkeys, Andrea Cascardi, Steph Blake (someday I'll meet you!), the SCBWI community, The Sweet Sixteens, all the people who read this manuscript along the way, the grocery store folks who sold me the tea and cupcakes that fueled the fifty-eleven drafts of
Dig Too Deep
, my mom and dad, for dragging me all over the Blue Ridge and showing me what a deeply special place it is, whoever invented IPA, and David Schwartz (ILYI.)
Special thanks to my sonâan amazing writer in his own right. I know you've eaten more than your fair share of Totino's Frozen Pizza because I was revising this book. Again. Thanks for your patience. I love you immensely and promise in the futureâless pizza, more Chiang Mai.
Lastly, and seriously, I want to thank the people living in MTR communities. Thank you for your bravery. Thank you for speaking up when no one listened. Thank you for battling for that beautiful pocket of heaven-on-earth where you live. Keep up the good fight and don't tuck your thumbs. Your efforts matter so very much, to a whole lot of starfish.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Amy Allgeyer
Cover and design by Jordan Kost
978-1-5040-3154-7
Albert Whitman & Company
250 South Northwest Highway, Suite 320
Park Ridge, Illinois 60068
Distributed by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
