julia's shovel

8/14/2019 Julia's Shovel

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"Julia's Shovel"By Christine Stoddard

"Julie, ya best not be writin', girl," a thicksouthwestern Virginian accent punched the smokyair with accusation. "I told ya to put those burritosin the microwave half a' hour ago." The gruff mansnorted and pounded on the door again. "Julie?" Hewaited a second, adjusting his straw cowboy hat sothat it shaded his wild eyes a hair more. Then heshoved his cigarette back between his shriveledlips.

When absolute silence met his voice, Mr. Carneyrammed open the little, white door. Its hingescreaked like springs in an old sofa. He revealed aroom cramped not due to its actual size but due to

its abundant contents. The bed bent under theweight of three heavy, Mexican blankets inmagenta, orange, and yellow wool. The stench ofold soda and spoiled milk pervaded the space,absorbed by the numerous books piled in and ontop of the shelves that covered every inch of wallspace. A steel typewriter rested in the dead center

of the room. Bottles of every make were strewnacross the floor. Not a breathing soul was there,however. The room was so disorderly that apassive observer could not tell whether someonecurrently lived there or had abandoned the closet-


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sized room decades ago.

Mr. Carney stomped his foot and muttered an

obscenity before trudging downstairs to his favoritearmchair. A dusting of cigarette ashes marked thetrail of his huffy descent. Virginia Tech was upagainst UVA.

Meanwhile, lavender swayed eerily in the breeze asthe sun's rays stretched to embrace a humblegarden. Like displaced eels, the pale plants pushedup from the earth and pulsated with a mysteriousenergy. They bumped into clumps of roses andlilies, but somehow managed to remain untangledfrom their neighbors. Julia stood several yardsaway, observing her urban bounty. The sweetscent of her efforts swirled around the air likebutterflies engaged in a fervent mating dance. A

mound of grayish dirt occupied the middle of theperfect square plot of land. On top of the mound, araven flapped its wings and shrieked at the wormsand snails lurking below its ebony talons. Hescratched the soil until, either tired or bored, hetook off to the skies. Had he continued digging, hewould have discovered an opus.

The mound was not especially sprawling, but itdefinitely seemed amiss in the super green park. Itsmelled like life's forgotten discards: pomegranateseeds, watermelon rinds, avocado peels. The


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texture resembled that of lint, soft and fluffy withthe occasional stiff grain woven into the earthenfabric. Not that the urge to throw their hands onto

the mound possessed many passers-by. Most ofthe park's visitors took the mound for anothergarden-to-be. They seemed to think that gardensonly grew flowers and plants, and that onlyvegetation had the ability (or right) to blossom.

Underneath the mound, ideas burgeoned in theirsubterranean lair, pushing out their roots to imbuethe dirt with an aura, with history, with purpose. Ora breed of adolescent anxiety strangely unaffectedby cheerleading try-outs and Homecoming Courtelections.

Just as some people plant strawberries or petunias,either for pleasure or sustenance, Julia Carney

planted poems. Ever since she was the size of ahalf-grown sunflower, she woke up with versestomping around her head and words spurting outof her mouth. The stuff of lullabies and nurseryrhymes soon evolved into more mature musings,though the occasional Emo angst twelve-liner wasinevitable. Whatever she wrote, Julia saw her

obsession as a gift from Demeter, not a time-outslip from the normal realities of youth.

One particularly illustrative morning, Julia boltedout of bed and punched out sixty pages of poetry


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on her typewriter, not once stopping to eat or evenuse the bathroom. Grime from the previous daystill stuck to her arms, begging to be removed by a

shower head. Her throat cried for water and herstomach shuddered in recognition of itshollowness. Yet Julia continued typing, countingsyllables, mumbling aloud various forms ofalliteration, and occasionally snapping her fingersin frustration. Nonetheless, despite hunger, despiteher father's shrill voice coming from the bottom ofthe stairs, despite annoyance at her momentaryinability to conjure an image, she glowed. Sheglowed the way some girls her age would glowupon first hearing "I love you," or at the sight ofthemselves in the perfect prom gown in adepartment store mirror. Writing was her ownversion of a teenage fantasy--and it costsignificantly less than a Lamborghini.

Three hours later, as the sun hovered above thewillow tree she had watched grow from seed tomammoth, Julia typed her final words: "To Sophie."At last, the manuscript breathed. The creaturesmentioned in the various poems released theirspirits into the air, urging themselves upon the

ears of men in need of saving. Julia finally exhaledafter what seemed like a day's worth of torturingher lungs. Memories of swim meets briefly sweptover her before she tightly rolled up themanuscript. Then she stuffed it in a big juice jug,


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and gently placed the jug atop the growing pile ofbottles in the corner of her room. She smiled at thepile's ever-expanding size, thrilled at the challenge

at which the pile hinted. She sighed a little.

"What have ya been doin' in there for so long,girl?" Her father asked, only because he'd noticedthat his breakfast wasn't set out on the kitchencounter. "Answer me, or else I'll barge right on in,Julie."

"Nothing, Dad. I'm just dealing with my eye. It's allred."

"Better not be bringin' pink eye into this house. Becareful who ya get with, ya hear? There's a reason Iwanna to meet every boy ya even thinkin' ofneckin' with."

Julia coughed. "Yes, Dad. I'll be down soon. I justhave to put some more drops in." She coughedagain. "Ouch."

"Don't poke yar eye out, child. Ya know I ain't gothealth insurance no more."

Julia began her planting process by selecting theperfect bottle. Considering all of the bottles shecame across during the week--from tripping overthe ones strewn across the public park to spotting


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litter in the school cafeteria--Julia could afford to letbottle snobbery prevail. Every Monday night, theevening before the garbage collector came, Julia

rummaged through her neighbors' bins. The stenchof rotting banana peels and house paint seered hernostrils. Coffee grounds caked to her hands andwrists. Egg yolk crept underneath her nails. Yet sheforged on, through shredded envelopes and thecontents of cats' litter boxes. Julia even pantedfrom excitement during the stinky process. Thedirtier the neighbor, the more precious the bottles,she had come to learn.

"They're so busy drowning in filth that they forgethow to recognize beauty," Julia reasoned as sherubbed her hands in delight. Visions of her fatherdecaying to the sounds of referee whistles andrevving engines as he chugged light beer flashed

through Julia's mind. Empty milk cartons andcrumpled newspapers nearly engulfed his seatedfigure. Julia shook her head and then dove into hertreasure chest, where the visions vanished.

The majority of Julia's goods were plastic sodabottles, but occasionally she wound up with pretty

glass vessels. What was most important was thatshe could completely erase all traces of the bottle'sbrand. If the label wasn't easily removable or thebrand was engraved into the bottle, Juliaimmediately rejected it and searched for others.


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She cringed at the thought of a soda companywhose advertisements featured bikini-clad womenand drooling basketball players speaking for her

work.

"That's not my version of poetry," she said.

Once Julia finished her scavenging, she had such abig sack trailing behind her that she resembled ayoung, female Santa Claus. The bottles clinked andclanked with her every step on the way home.When wearing sandals, clogs, or other low-cutshoes, Julia often returned with raw ankles. Nomatter what, the sack always banged at her heelsfrom point to point during her journey back. Whenshe was especially tired, Julia tripped over thesmelly sack, mumbled a Shakespearean curse,checked that none of her bottles were broken, and

continued walking beneath the fluttering streetlamps. It didn't matter if sirens sounded or straydogs trotted behind her. She dragged on, notabandoning her bottles for any city distraction.

Eventually, Julia returned to her room and storedher new treasures under her bed. There, the

bottles slumbered with the centipedes, dustbunnies, and less loved books. Julia, in turn, sleptpeacefully without the anxiety of being short onbottles pounding at the back of her head. Shedreamt of familiar sensations, of romance, of


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personal events, of foreign lands, of various typesof humiliation, of distant historical periods, and ofthings she could only explain in poetry.

When Julia woke up the next morning, she wasoften too giddy to start the day with breakfast. Hereyes shone, her shoulders shuddered, and hermouth curled into a "U." Then she sprung out fromunder her covers and called upon the muses in amock Soprano, waving her sheet around like acape:

"O Calliope, O Erato, O Euterpe! Grant me thepower and passion to pen my poetry!" Her armsflung out with the intensity of a Broadway actors'.

She twirled around and flicked up her bountifulhair. "I know I'm absurd," she cried, "But I can't

help it." She smiled goofily until the point whereher father often knocked on the wall anddemanded that she "stop makin' a darn ruckus,Julie" while he still lied half-asleep in his room.

"I told ya not to wake me up 'til the game started!It's only ten now! Tell those boys to stop callin' ya

or I'll stop payin' the phone bill."

Julia's giggles faded, but she continued smiling onthe inside. She tied her hair back in a single sweep.Then she pulled her bottles from under her bed


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and raced to the bathroom. A whole box full ofcleaning tools awaited her, from warpedtoothbrushes to shredded sponges. They felt worn

and comfortable between her fingers. The soapsmelled faintly of lavender. She scrubbed thebottles long and hard until they sparkled. Foamgrew all over the sink, sometimes plopping ontothe floor tiles, with the fervency of multiplyingcells. When Mr. Carney eventually got out of bed,he usually complained about his daughter's"sinfully long showers."

"Well, the water just takes so long to warm up,Dad."

"Ya tell that to the utilities company, girl. Ya justlucky yar mama ain't alive to see that bill or she'dwhip yar Yankee behind."

After breakfast (typically buttered toast with friedbaloney and bug juice because nothing decent wasever lying around the kitchen), Julia whipped outher stationary and fanciest pen. The pen was blackwith gold engraving, something in Italian she hadnever bothered translating. She tended to press

down too hard as she wrote, so exchanging the nibwas a common occurence. On more aggressivedays, Julia pounced on her typewriter instead ofresorting to old-fashioned pen and paper. Thetexture of the letters beneath her fingers felt


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theraputic. Whether Julia lunged for the pen or thetypewriter, she began writing her poems,everything from couplets and sonnets to haiku and

tanka. If she was particularly happy, her poemswere all about the beautiful things in the world, likea round stone smoothed by the sea's gentle lulling.If she was sad, she wrote about all the terriblethings in the world, like homelessness, cod liver oil,incurable diseases, her father's perpetual Athlete'sFoot, and the classmates who made fun of her.What is good and comely, and what is bad and uglyis all relative.

Writing, of course, was the easy part. Collectingwas slighter harder. But the most difficult partabout planting poems was the actual gardening. Ittasked her mind and her body, straining her backin particular as she lugged around a shovel that

weighed half as much as she did. Julia usuallycarried a sack of stuffed bottles and the shovel allat once, but, when lucky, she managed to sneakaway in her father's beaten truck, the one full ofmore rust than forest green metal.

Mr. Carney bought his pickup the same year Julia

was born. The 1978 Chevy Silverado had tanleather seats, if they could be called that anymore.The seats were so worn that whoever sat on thepassenger side nearly rubbed his back pocketsagainst the road underneath him. At least that's


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how Mr. Carney liked to tell the story, in order todiscourage others from asking for rides. To add tothe dilapidation, cigarette holes dappled the

cushions like Dalmatien spots. Dust completelyfilled the cup-holder. Gum and other anonymoussticky substances wedged their way into variouscrevices throughout the truck, waiting for anunknowing hand to slip into their gluey territory.The seat belts no longer even buckled. But Juliawasn't aiming for an elegant ride. She simplyneeded a large bed for her bottles.

"I don't ever want to see ya drivin' my truck, Julia,"her father muttered over cold beers as he ran hisfat fingers through his greasy hair. It was histrademark refrain. "That's my truck. Nobody drivesthat truck but me. Nobody in the whole wide world.Or else."

But with a drunken man obsessed with televisedtruck shows and football games presenting heronly barrier, Julia just had to snatch the keys andgo. A jingle and a jangle later, she was out the doorwith as many bottles as a hobo carries to therecycling center for some spare change. Once she

unloaded her arms and covered the pile of bottleswith a tarp, she started the engine. It grumbled likea disturbed old man dreading a dentist's visitbecause he knew his toothache was real this time.The bottles bounced up and down to the truck's


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natural rhythm as Julia drove to her haven.Sometimes Julia didn't even turn on the radio andinstead relished the bottles' plastic and glass

symphony.

Where Julia went after stealing her father's truckconsisted of two options: the park or anywhereelse. Besides maintaining a garden in the city'slargest park, Julia scattered her poems around theselected neighborhood of the week. One week shechose Church Hill; the next, it was ShockoeBottom; afterwards, came Downtown; then JacksonWard; then Ginter Park; and so on. Her eventualgoal was to cover the whole city, but she figuredthe best approach was to saturate one block at atime with the beauties of verse.

"I want someone to find a whole anthology's worth

in one afternoon," Julia told herself again andagain. "Maybe that will prompt them to look formore after that." She had even penciled in 'ProjectAfternoon Anthology' on the back of her city map,signaling her brave intentions. She always carriedthe map in her jean pocket so she could plot hernext burial location at any moment.

The city featured a smorgasborg of Victoriantownhouses, beaten-up single family homes,hipster cafes, impressive skyscrapers, gas stations,big box retailers, Mom and Pop restaurants, and


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university buildings. Nestled between the strangemixture of late 1800s and 1970s architecture lied anetwork of gravel-filled allies, parks, and empty

lots. These in-between spaces proved to beveritable bottle graves. So, when wary eyes andwagging tongues disappeared, Julia took her shoveland dug.

The metal shovel rang against whatever it hit andvibrated in Julia's skinny arms. She stepped on itwith both feet, pressing her full weight into thestubborn tool, before it refused to budge. Eventhen, it might have only moved a centimeter andflicked a pebble or two away from her intendedburial ground. Broken glass, tar, shredded coffeecans, and unmentionable rubbish usually hardencity dirt to the innocent penetrations of a poeticgirl's frivolous projects.

During one of her late-night digging excursions,Julia remembered a time when her father picked upa storybook from her at the grocery store. Her four-year-old self shot straight to the door, shouting,"Daddy, you're home!" Mr. Carney patted her headand then walked over to the kitchen to set down

the grocery bags teeming with Little Debbie'scakes, white bread, beer, corn on the cob, andhamburger meat. Julia followed her father. Hepacked the food either in the cabinets orrefrigerator, one by one, not in any hurry, and yet


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still not especially organized. Julia watched himinquisitively as she flicked her pigtails.

"Could I have a Nutty Bar, Daddy?"

"Not yet. I got somethin' even better, Julie." Mr.Carney paused for suspense. Then, bit by bit, hewithdrew a glittery book from one of the brownpaper bags.

Julia gasped, throwing her hands to her chubbycheeks. "What a pretty book!"

"I thought ya'd like it. The pony's winkin' at ya,see?" Mr. Carney danced the book around so that itjigged with as much animation as any doll.

"Read it to me, Daddy. Please!"

Mr. Carney winced. Julia grabbed the book, glanceddown at the book, and then back at her father untilhe said, "Ask yar mamma to read it to ya."

"But Mommy doesn't get back until 6 o'clock andthe little hand isn't on the--"

"I said yar mamma will read it to ya, girl. Don't defyme." He slammed a jar of peanut butter againstthe counter. After sighing, he pushed the jar intoone of the cabinets to reside beside grape jelly and


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a bag of marshmallows.

"Why can't you read it to me, Daddy?"

Mr. Carney snorted. "Of course I can read it toyou."

"Then, Daddy--"

"Fine. Quit your belly-achin', child, and sit down inthe family room. I'll read it to ya there."

A couple minutes later, Julia's father lumbered intothe family room. Julia's small frame took up abouta tenth of the sofa's cushion space. Mr. Carneyplopped down beside her, causing the little girl'scushion to push up and jolt her. Julia, beaming,cuddled up against her father's broad chest. Her

face pushed against the plush that jiggled beneathhis white T-shirt.

"As soon as I saw this book," the man began, "Iknew my Julie would love it. With all the glitter andpink stuff and the pretty pony, I guess it was agood choice."

"Yes, Daddy. A very good choice." Julia nodded herhead earnestly. "Please read it to me, Daddy."

"I'll get there," he said and cleared his throat. He


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scratched his cheek and then opened to the book'stitle page. Though the book was called, TheMighty, Magical Mare, Mr. Carney pronounced it

"The Mighty, Magical, Ma-R." The butchered wordhung uncertainly in the air.

"What's a ma-r, Daddy?" Julia asked, clapping herhands. They smelled like the wax from cheapcrayons.

"Your mama probably knows."

"Oh, okay. It must be one of those girl things, right,Daddy?"

"Uh-huh. Now," he cleared his throat again, "'Onceupon a time,' golly gee, all the stories start out thatway, don't they?" Julia smiled back at him. "Um,

'Once upon atime...there...was...a...mighty...magical...ma-r.She...was...pink...and...very...pretty...with...a...curly...fluffy...tail...like...a..."

Julia cut off her father, "You don't read like agrown-up, Daddy."

The man glared at the little girl. "What ya mean?"

"You read real slow, like a not-grown-up person.Like me and cousin David."


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Mr. Carney cleared his throat and stroked the brimof his cowboy hat. "Hasn't yar mama told ya by

now?" He closed the book as soon as the questionemerged from his mouth.

Julia shook her teeny head.

Mr. Carney squeezed the book so hard that hisfingers reddened. Then he cleared his throat againbefore saying, "See, Daddy had to drop outtaschool to take care of Uncle Billy and AuntCharlotte so Grandma and Grandpa could workwithout worryin' 'bout lil' kids runnin' 'roundunattended. And then once Uncle Billy and AuntCharlotte were ol' enough to take care ofthemselves, Grandpa lost his job and...Daddy hadto work in the coalmines. So, Daddy never went

back to school. That's how come I can't read toogood." Mr. Carney poked the inside of his cheekwith his tongue and rose. "So, like I said, yar mamacan read it to ya--"

Julia leapt up and hugged her father's knees. Hervoice implored in the way only a four-year-old's

can. "Let me read it to you, Daddy. I won't know allthe words, but I can try."

The father shook his daughter off. She fell to thefloor, horror streaking her face. Mr. Carney had


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resorted to shouting, "Why ya so eager to read,girl? Ain't nothin' special in it. Readin's for themegghead types who like nothin' better than to sit

'round all day in their fancy tweed jackets, smokin'big money tobacco in their pipes. They like to talkand write all these hocus-pocus books and essaylike they so smart, like they understand the wholeuniverse. But what do they really accomplish in theend? Huh? At least at the end of the day, I can tellya what I done. I don't just pretend I changed theworld by thinkin' all these big thoughts. I'm toopractical for that, Julie. And, Christ, if I teach yaanythin' in life, I hope I teach ya that: be practical.Do real work. Find a way to survive and mind yarown business, not goin' and tellin' other peoplehow to run their lives 'cause you read someenlightened book that had all the answers so yathink ya know better than the Pope."

Julia stared at her father, eyes as empty as saucersafter supper. She now sat on the sofa again, herarms no longer wrapped around her father's sharpknees. Her bottom lip trembled.

"Never mind," Mr. Carney murmured, as he took off

his hat, "I'm sorry, honey. Yar not ol' enough tounderstand what I'm babblin' 'bout." He placed hishat back on his head, and shifted it back and forth.Then he wandered back to the kitchen to put awaythe rest of the groceries.


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Julia remained on the sofa, kicking her petite feetto and fro. Then, convinced that her father would

not pop into the room again anytime soon, Julia hidThe Mighty and Magical Mare. She kissed it beforetucking it under one of the pale blue cushions. Itwas the beginning to her constant search forcrevices.

Seeking out new nooks and crannies in the cityproved more and more tasking as the days andweeks and months passed. There were only somany places she had not already touched, or onlyso many places she could bury the bottles withoutarousing suspicion. Street lamps are not kind toanyone with a penchant for clandestine activities.So Julia resorted to her bountiful garden more andmore. Whether sunshine pounded or snow crept,

the girl fled to her verse nursery with bottles uponbottles in her arms or in the stolen truck.

"Christ, Julie," Mr. Carney often grumbled duringcommercial breaks on the rare occasion heintercepted his daughter, "Where ya goin' all thetime? You got a secret boyfriend or somethin'?"

Julia flushed. "I'm just busy, that's all."

"Better not be gettin' too busy with that boy, girl."A sly smile always accompanied this statement.


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Then he turned his head back to the screen and hiseyes glazed over.

Julia quickly said, "Yes, sir," and escaped beforeher father could prod any further into her love life.

The park brimmed with children's laughter, dogs'incessant barking, and birds' little melodies. Yet,despite its noises, Julia could not imagine a morepeaceful place in the whole city. After sliding intothe parking lot, she found a spot, and tip-toed tothe back of the truck. She took a requisite secondto gaze at all of her bottles and reflect upon thepoem that each one harbored. Each poemrepresented at least five minutes of her life; otherpoems, five hours. Maybe one day, someone wouldgather all of Julia's bottles and use them tocalculate her lifespan. After experiencing such a

thought, Julia heaved up the sack. If additionalbottles, ones that could not fit in the sack,remained, she would simply return for them later.

Walking to her garden involved passing a ketchupred playground, a duck pond, and a soccer field. Awildflower or a charming bird might distract Julia,

even leading her on a detour if it impressed herenough. She set down the sack to chase afterchipmunks or talk to the children who asked her togive them a push on the swing. But Julia neverforgot her purpose and heaved up her sack once


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again to continue her journey. An aching back orsore limbs never deterred her.

Upon arriving at her garden, Julia immediatelyconsulted her diagram so she knew exactly whereto bury her next bottles. She had drawn it on theopposite side of the city map she always carriedwith her. The paper, yellow with age, felt likebuttery leather and smelled of rich ink. Her precisecoordinates filled the page, showing just how soonJulia would need a new space to garden.

Anyone who studied the map would soon realizethat Julia divided her garden into beds. Each bedcontained a different type of poem, according tosubject matter. A couple dozen of the bedsstretched out. One was for humorous poems. Onewas for nature poems. One was for political poems.

One was for love poems. In fact, probably seventy-five percent of all of the love poems she had everwritten were entirely devoted to a girl namedSophie.The girls' first encounter--perhaps bettertermed 'Julia's sighting'--naturally occurred in thelibrary.

Julia was hunched over an anthology of Russianliterature, poking at the Table of Contents becauseshe couldn't decide between Gogol and Puskin,when she casually glanced up to rest her eyes fromthe page. Then she pressed her finger so hard into


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the paper that her nail broke. Not a second hadpassed when she spotted a thin girl, one so paleshe appeared wrought by consumption. Her mousy

hair hung in stringy clumps by the sides of herface, framing flittering gray eyes. A black, baggy,knee-length garment engulfed her skeletal frame.Then the tiniest shoes Julia had ever seen anyoneher age ever wear encased the girl's bony feet. Ared-and-white name tag stretched across the leftside of her chest. It read 'Sophie' in timid script.

Julia gulped and stood up, nursing the broken nailin her mouth. She glided over to the bookshelfwhere the girl perused dusty film history books.The girl picked up a large red book that seemed toweigh as much as she did. Julia pretended not tonotice when she nearly toppled over. Instead, shegrabbed a book on Les Enfants du Paradis. The first

page it opened to Garance and Baptiste embracingeach other. Julia stared at the photograph for a fewseconds before blushing at the constellationslighting the actors' dark eyes. Their mutual love foreach other illuminated the edges of their ever-expanding pupils. She slammed the book shut,wedged it back onto the shelves and marched back

to her desk. Sophie remained where she was,barely able to hold up the red book.

Julia ripped out a sheet of notebook paper from herbinder. A couple of students whipped around to


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glare at her, but not Sophie. Sophie continuedbrowsing through books, braiding her legs witheach hesitant step she took.Julia's hands zipped in

and out of her pockets and backpack in search ofpen. Finally she seized one and began scribblingwith the intensity of supernova exploding. Thestardust sprinkled across her page.

Julia hardly knew what she had written by the timeshe put her pen down and read it. In writing sofervently, she had poked periodic holes in thenotebook paper, so that the sheet could've beenmistaken for Braille. Her lips smacked together asshe muttered the lines to herself:

She isEyes are always on the moon

ones that covetKings of Deception always swoonsongs that slice the heartMelancholy maidens spend their hours at the loomtheir opuses bleeding with loneliness

She is the moon

She is the kingShe is the maiden

Owls only pray in the ripe of darkwhere they are hidden from heretic birds


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On the tree, lovers leave their markthe sap runs with their balladGabriel whispered a tender Hark!

calming the startled Virgin

She is the owlShe is the treeShe is the messenger

Julia stared at the words a little longer beforeturning around to glimpse Sophie once more.Sophie twitched her little nose as her eyes ate upthe page before her. Julia tucked the sheet ofpaper into her backpack, careful not to make toomuch noise. Then she slunk off to skip her nextclass. Her wagon and shovel awaited her.

For the next four semesters, Julia spied on Sophie,but never once spoke to her. She hid behindbookshelves, sat near her in the library, and evenfollowed her to the girls' restroom on a fewoccasions. Yet all interactions between the twogirls transpired only in Julia's mind and, byextension, in her poetry.

One afternoon, two years later, Julia was enteringthe city library during one of her habitual visits.Suddenly a librarian in a turquoise sweater calledher.


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"Good afternoon, Julia," the librarian whispered.She was an older, red-headed woman with smile

wrinkles that extended beneath her eyes,competing with her light purple bags.

Julia lit up. "Hello, Ms. Connors. I wanted to--"

"Have you seen the display window?"

Julia set her big pile of books on the circulationcounter, annoyed when a couple slid to the floor."No. Did the Friends of the Library finally get thatAfrican painter they wanted?"

"No, not yet," Ms. Connors tittered, causing hereyeglasses to slip. "Why don't you...take a peek? Ithink you'll be pleased by what's in there instead."

She winked and pushed up her burgundy glassesso that they sat on the bridge of her nose again.Her nostrils flared in excitement.

Sensing a pleasant urgency in Ms. Connors' voice,Julia left the books there. She scampered towardthe case in the main lobby but halted once she got

about six feet in front of it. Julia squinted her eyesat the glass's glare, trying to discern lied behindthe reflections. At first she thought she had caughtherself in another daydream. She pinched herselfand gasped. Someone had not only unearthed a


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dozen of her bottles. Not only that, but they hadconvinced the library to put them up for all patronsto see. The bottles were lined up at the bottom of

the display case, with her printed poems pasted tothe back wall. Julia's heart began to hammer in herchest. Her whole body seemed to tingle.

All of the poems talked about love or her beloved,though none explicitly mentioned Sophie. Thewords "dove," "eternity," "beautiful," "soul," and"passion" floated everywhere. The very poem thatJulia wrote when she first saw Sophie in the schoollibrary hung up in the middle of the twelve postedthere.

Julia glanced around when suddenly she spottedSophie. She was scanning the flyers stapled to thecommunity board. Julia grew even more nervous.

Her palms squirted out more sweat than shethought possible. Her skin grew clammy all over.Julia stood there, petrified as she focused on herwords: "Give me a less than tragic love." Then hereyes shifted to the phrase, "Winter was not madefor love." Silently, she counted two-hundred,hoping that Sophie would be gone by the time she

turned around. Just as she whipped around to dartout of the building, Julia bumped into Sophie. Thebird of a girl fell over and dropped all of her booksand DVDs. She issued a yelp and crumpled into amoldy Latin text with the words "Amor vincit


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omnia" repeating all around the border. Sophiepulled herself to a sitting position. Then, lookingmildly alarmed, she blinked at Julia.

"Oh, my God, I'm--are you okay?" Julia bent overand picked up the books as speedily as if she werean octopus. But the laws of gravity and her ownclumsiness defied her every effort to stack thebooks into a neat pile.

Sophie barely uttered, "Yeah, thanks."

"I'm so sorry. I was in a hurry. I didn't see you."

"Really, it's no big deal."

"If any of the books are damaged--"

"They're fine. Thanks."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

Sophie loaded the books into her arms and shuffled

to the circulation desk. Julia watched Sophie chatwith Ms. Connors, both of them mirroring eachother's gestures. When Ms. Connors touched herchin, Sophie followed a few beats later. When Juliascratched her ear, so did Ms. Connors. It was


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almost an unofficial game of 'Simon Says.'Whatever they were discussing, an intimacyburned between them. Eventually Julia grew aware

of how long she had been observing them.Annoyed with herself, she left.

Julia arrived home about an hour later, afterindulging in some aimless wandering. When hefather heard the porch door creak, he shut off thetelevision. Without getting out of his armchair oreven facing Julia, Mr. Carney greeted her.

"Hello," Julia echoed. Tension crept into herexpression.

"Why so..." Mr. Carney paused to pick up the miniWord-A-Day calendar Julia had bought him off ofthe coffee table, "'Sullen'?"

"I...I'm not sullen."

"Hey, don't mind me. I'm just tryin' to be a goodparent. Speakin' of which, I'm tired of all thesedarn phone calls about you missin' school. Who'sthe boy this time?"

"There is no boy, Dad."

"Look here, missy," Mr. Carney spat as he toweredabove his armchair, now locking eyes with his


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daughter. "I know why you sound so sullen. Youcan't fool me. Now I wanna know who broke mybaby's heart."

Julia froze on the staircase. "Nobody broke myheart, Dad. And if someone did, it wouldn't be a'he,' besides." With that being said, Julia made herway up the stairs and slumped into bed.

Two weeks later, Julia's English teacher, Ms.Bierschbach, held Julia after class. It was a quietFriday afternoon, right before Julia's lunch period.All of the other students had charged out of theroom, whereas Julia slowly packed her bag andstarted to drag herself out when Ms. Bierschbachstopped her. The last few lockers slammed shutand the custodian began mopping the hallway sothat every opened room soon absorbed the sting of

bleach.

Julia stood in front of Ms. Bierschbach's desk like aPersian statue. Her hair had lost its usual gloss andher skin appeared sallow. From head to toe, shewas disheveled.

"Julia," she said, "I saw your poems in the library."Her fingernails rapped against the desk built fromplywood.

"Oh. They've put some up in the Carver


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Community Center, too."

"And at two galleries on Broad Street, yes. There

was an article in Style Weekly, even."

"Ah, I didn't know that," Julia said dully. She shovedher hands in the pockets of her dirty jeans andtugged at the elastic in her underwear. Snap. Snap.Snap. The action stung her thighs.

"Now, I admire this project of yours, Julia. It's awonderful idea, but you can't let it interfere withyour schoolwork."

Julia shifted from foot to foot, eager to proceed todisappear. She stopped snapping her underwearelastic when she noticed a funny look come overMs. Bierschbach's broad, Midwestern face.

"I've been lenient in allowing you to write poemsinstead of essays and book reports," Ms.Bierschbach continued, "but I can't allow thatanymore. You have to learn how to write seriously.Now here, take this book." Ms. Bierschbach handedher a dog-eared novel with a photograph of a

mountain on its cover. "Why don't you read thisand bring me a short composition by the end ofnext week?"

Julia cleared her throat and placed the novel back


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on Ms. Bierschbach's desk. It clapped against thefake wood. "I've already read this." She cleared herthroat again and asked,"Now, are you saying that

poetry isn't serious writing? Is it all just fluff, Ms.Bierschbach?"

Ms. Bierschbach blinked. "I--"

"Have you read Pushkin's Eugene Onegin?"

"Don't question me."

"I'm only questioning why you're discounting awhole history of writing and some of the greatestliterature that exists."

The teacher began rapping her nails against thedesk almost as if she were playing the piano. "I'm

not. I'm saying--"

"Then why--"

Ms. Bierschbach flushed. "You will listen to me,Julia. And you will write that paper. Or you will failmy class. You are dismissed."

"I'll write that paper," Julia hissed, "And it will be inverse. Iambic pentameter even."

"That would not follow the assignment


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requirements." Her lips stretched into a line nothicker than a dash.

"I don't care about the requirements," Julia blurted.Her mouth stayed open a second afterwards,prepared to speak again.

Ms. Bierschbach paused before saying, "Julia, Iknow it might be hard to grasp at your age. You'reat a passionate time now, a time full of exploration.I was young once, too. I had dreams. I wanted to--Imean, if you live long enough, you'll eventuallywitness the death of one of your dreams, too. But Iwant to ease the pain for you by warning youbefore...well, before that first blow comes." Shewrung her hands and murmured,"You should knownow that the life of a poet is unrealistic."

The fan in the beige classroom groaned like adying mosquito. It stirred the scent of rubbercement and old textbooks and the hallway'sinescapable bleach through the otherwiseunmoving air. A few sneakers screeched in thehallway just beyond the room's door.

Julia broke the lapse in their conversation bywhispering, "How can it be unrealistic when I'mliving it?"

Ms. Bierschbach gaped at the mawkish girl, the one


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buried in her dead grandmother's sweater andfather's clunky wristwatch. She was so small andfrail yet something so big blazed in her gaze.

Julia pivoted on her left foot like a frame out of adance company's documentary, leaving Ms.Bierschbach with her lips still parted.

Music should have played. Julia's humble streetclothes should have been exchanged for a blackleotard. The lights should have dimmed and thenfaded completely. But this wasn't theatre. It waslife and life for Julia meant going back to plantingpoems.

She ran out of the school and darted straight to herbike. As soon as she fumbled open the lock, Juliaplopped on, taking off into the labyrinth of brick

and pavement. For thirty minutes, she wentvirtually deaf. All the humans, cars and othermachines fell completely silent upon her ears untilshe reached her coveted destination.

Six miles later, she was at the park in all its springglory. Julia chained up her bike, still insulting Ms.

Bierschbach under her breath, and sprinted to hergarden. Her legs, however, felt unusually heavy, asif warning her to slow down. Out of the corner ofher eye, Julia spotted a head of familiar limp hair.Julia glanced to her right and saw Sophie swinging


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silently, with a novel in hand. Just when Juliathought her heart could not pound any harder afterher furious bike ride, it dashed at Olympic speed.

Julia skidded to a stop and bent over, clutching herknees. She breathed in and out as hard as shecould.

Then something remarkable happened. Sophienoticed her. She had moved her owl eyes from herbook for a mere instant, yet that was time enoughto see Julia panting like a pig escaping from hisfarmer on slaughter day. Sophie slipped off of theswing and walked over to Julia.

"Hello, are you alright?" Sophie asked in a voicebarely louder than a whisper.

Julia gasped. "Oh, yes. I'm--I'm fine, thanks. I just

need to...breathe." She suddenly swept in a much-too-big gulp of air.

"Oh. Okay." Sophie fumbled with her novel.

Both remained quiet for a couple of seconds, untilJulia bent up and looked directly at Sophie.

"You, uh, you go to Willard High, too, don't you?"

"Um, yes, I do."


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to Julia's. "I've seen you working at your gardenbefore. That's why I came here today. I thought itwould be best to tell you in person, on site." Sophie

took Julia's hand and clasped it. "They're bull-dozing the public garden space next month."

"No, how--where did you read that?"

"It was in a tiny article in the city newspaper. Andnow there are signs all around the park."

"Why are they doing that, though? Whathappened? I don't--How could I not have noticedthe signs?"

"The city's building a water park here."

"A water park? Just like that? And nobody's

protesting?" Julia started wilting as she regrettedevery minute she had spent planting poemselsewhere in the city throughout April.

"Well, how many people do you ever see workingin the gardens here?"

"Besides me and that old lady who wears thepeacock feather hat and maybe sometimes hergrandkids?"

"Nobody, right?"


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"Not regularly," Julia muttered, as if toembarrassed to openly admit to the fact. "There's a

middle-age couple who comes a few times a year.But most of these plots are...abandoned."

"That's why the city's going rid of them. Who but afew people will even miss them?"

"Shouldn't those few people matter?"

"Not as far as the city's concerned."

"That isn't...show me."

"The signs?"

"Yeah, I have to see them. Maybe there's a contact

number printed on them. I can call in, I can stopthis--"

"It's too late, Julia."

Julia raised her eyebrows. "How did you know myname?"

"I...I've seen you bury your poems here before."

Julia's gaze persisted as Sophie spoke.


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"At first I didn't understand, but as I observed youmore and more, I finally..." Sophie blushed. "Oneday I dug up your stuff. Not all of it, of course.

There's too much for that. But I--"

"It was you."

"Me, what?"

"Wait. You're the reason my poems were on displayon the library."

"Oh, um, ha, yeah."

"Thank you."

"No problem. I figured you deserved therecognition."

"It's not about me. It's about the poetry."

Sophie's face cracked into a smile. "That rhymed."

Julia smiled back, hoping that Sophie would notnotice her ears turning crimson.

"I should show you the sign. Like I said, it's too lateto do anything, but--"

"It's never too late." Conviction dappled each


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syllable.

"What are you going to do--block the bulldozer?"

"Maybe," Julia replied nonchalantly as she followedSophie's hesitant steps toward the signs.

Sophie looked startled, unbeknownest to Julia, whosaw nothing but her delicate shoulder bladespoking through her sweater. The two girls walkedin silence, occasionally bumping into each other.Neither one excused herself. As they continuedwalking, in fact, they seemed to "accidentally"bump into each other increasingly more often.

A couple of minutes later, Sophie halted before thesign. Julia, who was standing behind Sophie, nearlyfell into her. Julia saved herself from knocking over

Sophie by digging her heels into the ground andforcing her body straight. Sophie didn't see any ofthe near mishap.

"So...that's it," Sophie said and pointed at the sign.The sign seemed to glare at the girls with its formalfont and serious legal language.

"I hate that shade of red." Julia spat at the foot ofthe sign. "It's almost as bad as construction paperblue." Now she stood directly next to Sophie.


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"You can always plant your poems somewhereelse."

"What?" Julia practically shouted. "Do you have anyidea how many are buried there now?" She wasnow so close to Sophie that she could see thepeach fuzz spreading across her cheeks and chin.The sunshine illuminated it to a heavenly white-gold.

Sophie stared blankly at Julia. Her lashes fluttered,like butterflies on the verge of death. "100?" sheasked innocently.

"1,577," Julia said and let the sheer madness of thenumber convulse in the air for a moment. "I'm noteven sure how I fit them all. How I even know howand where to bury them all. How--Christ, I should

have the arms of Paul Bunyon by now." Shegrinned half-heartedly.

Sophie bent down to pick at a dry leaf that hadattached itself to her stocking. "That's...that'sincredible, Julia." She tossed the leaf on the groundto wither away with the others.

"Well, I don't do anything else. I mean, besidesread. So...maybe it's not that incredible after all."

"Don't say that. You could have a 1,001 other


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hobbies but instead you chose a single one thatyou really love--"

"But you're the one who told me it's too late."

"It is too late, but that doesn't make youraccomplishment any less valuable." Sophiefurrowed her brow into a canvas of crinkles and bither lower lip. "You must have something toremember it by."

"No, nothing."

"Not a single photo?" Sophie's voice cracked at thebirth of the question.

Julia shook her head. "It was enough that it wasthere."

"Then let's dig them up." Sophie said it with suchzeal that she dropped her novel. She scurried topick it up. She wiped off the soil that had so quicklystuck to the book's cheap cover. The imageshowed a mountain covered in blue fog.

"That's impossible. You said they were bulldozingeverything tomorrow. How could we...?I'm...confused."

"We might not be able to stop them from


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"You were holding the screenplay to Les Enfants duParadis upside-down. And I could tell by the way

your eyes stayed fixed on one place that youweren't actually reading." She bore her teeth in ahorse-like grin. Then she tucked her novel underher left arm, still fixated upon Julia.

Julia bit her bottom lip and dropped her head like adrenched lower, suddenly modest. "I...I didn't thinkyou even noticed me. You seemed so absorbed inyour big, red book."

"Well, I'm discreet."

"Apparently."

Sophie took Julia's hand and laced their fingers

together. An indescribable heat surged throughJulia's arm and then shot through the rest of herbody as she looked onto Sophie's lightly freckledface. The object of her affections' eyes lit up withthe happiness of a bird returning to its nest afterits first flight. Julia completely forgot thecircumstance that led to their first conversation,

and the fact that they were standing in front of thesign that symbolized the destruction of her art.Despite imminent death or perhaps because of it,Julia squeezed Sophie's hand. They both sighed. Itwas a moment Julia had previously thought only


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julia's shovel

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