The Big Dig Read Online Free Page B

address, so she can continue to attend the school she began as a freshman and loves for the social life instead of the academics. I’m the school mom, mainly because Marta, Paolina’s mother, speaks little English and could care less whether her daughter gets an education in anything beyond mascara application. More often than not, when I get off work, I go over to Rindge, enter a room where my little sister is supposed to be sweating algebra homework or playing drums with the jazz band, and find her gone.
    Often she and two or three boys have stepped out for a stroll. I have talked to her about her reputation, about what guys want and what she’ll get, but she is almost fifteen, and nothing I say penetrates her multiply pierced ears.
    She was studying for a change, but gave it up as soon as she saw me, turning sullen, pouting her lower lip, and announcing that she had no intention of going home. She and Amelia and Juan and maybe some other kids were gonna maybe rent a couple movies, go over to somebody’s house, and watch them.
    â€œRight. Somebody whose parents are home?” My eyebrows slid halfway up my forehead in disbelief. As far as I can tell, Paolina’s buddies have parents who work night and day, and are conspicuous only by their absence.
    â€œWho cares?”
    â€œGuess.”
    She simmered while I signed her out with the supervisor. She’s already broken so many promises, squandered so many opportunities, proved herself so untrustworthy that she’s on probation, a couple steps removed from expulsion. Outside, on the way to the parking slot I’d snared on Broadway, I got an earful about why she absolutely couldn’t go home. Marta treated her worse than a slave and would exit as soon as she entered, leaving her with dishes to wash, a meal to cook, three slobby younger brothers to watch, and it fucking wasn’t fucking fair.
    I almost told her to watch her mouth, but these days I pick my battles, and I’m no language saint. Besides, it’s not what comes out of her mouth that’s got me worried. Her grades have got me worried. She’s smart, but she won’t turn in her homework. Her clothes have got me worried. Today’s chosen outfit was low-slung pants, tied well below the waist, and most of a hot-pink shirt. Her attitude has got me worried, her belief that today is the only day, that now is the only time, that every immediate itch needs to get immediately scratched. Her survival has got me worried. Sometimes I think the only way I’ll pull her through this crappy adolescence without her getting addicted, pregnant, or—considering the kids she hangs with—knifed, is to rent a moated castle, throw her in, and raise the drawbridge. As if I could.
    â€œWhen are you gonna get a cooler car?” She slid into the passenger seat of my aged red Toyota with disdain.
    â€œLet me make a phone call, okay? I need to wrap up something from work.”
    Since I didn’t have the benefit of Happy Eddie’s guidance, I figured I’d better continue to ingratiate myself with Marian. I hadn’t wanted to risk phoning the vet from the trailer, with the constant threat of Liz walking in on me, so Marian had scrawled the number on a yellow Post-it. I took my cell out of my backpack and punched buttons, closing my eyes, raising my voice to a higher register.
    Busy signal again, dammit.
    The constant aggravating beep could mean the phone was malfunctioning. It could mean the practice was overwhelmed with barking and mewling customers, the help incompetent. I could give up, tell Marian I’d drawn a blank, but I didn’t like the idea. I wanted Marian to know I delivered on promises. I wanted her to owe me.
    My stubborn streak runs a mile wide and is probably my best private-eye trait. I’m not the most patient person in the world, God knows, but if I find the faintest trail, I will stick to it to the end. I also have more than my share