Dead zones.

Dead zones are places without life, without feeling,

without air. I’ve seen them in pictures of polluted oceans and

read about them in descriptions of the cold void of space.

Sometimes I think parts of my body have turned silent and

dark like those pictures and descriptions. Sometimes I think

I’ve become a dead zone.

I mop sweat off my forehead with a dirty handkerchief,

reposition my earbuds and adjust the iPod in my pocket,

then pick up my shovel. It’s hot, and it’s late afternoon,

and this is a graveyard. It’s a quiet place, down a long country

road and sort of in the middle of nowhere, like graveyards

people write about in horror stories— only this cemetery

I’ve Always Wanted to See a Fairy(Read to the tune of “Twilight Zone”— Golden Earring.)

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2 susan vaught

isn’t creepy, at least not to me. The graveyard is not huge,

but it’s big enough and full of headstones and plots. My job

is to dig the graves, then close them up again, and it’s time

to move dirt from one spot to another to bury a body that

really, truly has become a dead zone. I’m glad for the pine

box that hides the sewn eyes and the blank face. Some things

just don’t need to see the light of day again.

Before I can turn the earth and start fi lling in the grave,

I catch the whisper and fl ow of movement in the distance

and glance up to check what it is.

Oh.

Not much of a thought, but it’s hard to be coherent when

a sight clubs you square in the eyes and leaves you standing

on a pile of dirt, clinging to a shovel like it’s some kind of

anchor to life and reality and graves that you shouldn’t fall

into and bust your face. And my second thought is, She looks

like a fairy. All she needs are gossamer wings.

The music in my ears blasts so loud it seems like it lives

in my brain. Something catchy. Something fast. It’s all wrong

for the girl. She deserves something slow and classical and

thoughtful. There’s nothing jangly about her. She’s my

height, or close to it— and my age, or pretty close on that

point, too. She has dark hair.

Is she real?

Because she seems like a dream— something out of

another world. She walks like she’s barely touching the

ground, fl owing toward a clutch of trees and newer graves,

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Going Underground 3

and she’s wearing a yellow dress. The fabric makes her skin

look tanned and smooth.

For a second, I can see the girl’s face. Her dark eyes have

a darker glimmer at the center, like she knows, like she really

understands how the world works, in all the ways people like

us aren’t supposed to be old enough to grasp. Her expression

seems distant, and it’s sad in a way that clubs me all over

again, this time in the heart. She’s tired. She’s worn down. I

can see the hopelessness and resignation sketched across her

features. It makes my chest ache for her even though I don’t

know her.

This Fairy Girl, she’s sad like me.

I don’t think she sees me. Guys who dig graves tend to

be invisible to sane, normal people.

My heart’s beating too fast and I’m not breathing right.

Stop looking before she sees you. Stop. You just need to stop.

I shiver even though I’m burning up, and I step back,

jerk my shovel out of the dirt, and ram it down to pick up a

good load. Yeah, that’s better. Go back to the digging, get

back to the music, and pay attention to the hard, loud beat. It

blots away the hot wind and the plink and crumble of my

digging. If I play it loud enough, music shuts out everything,

even dreamy girls who fl oat through lonely, boring grave-

yards. Ignoring her is defi nitely the right thing to do, because

dreams and Fairy Girls, they aren’t for me.

Soft, pretty things don’t belong in a dead zone.

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