like your dad.â She looked up to the ceiling, like she couldnât believe she was having this conversation. Then she started folding clothes again, pressing each fold carefully, like I had never said anything at all.
I never mentioned being a geologist again.
But being a geologist was the only thing I could think about as I weeded Dadâs garden. How fantastic is it that Iowa used to be the bottom of a shallow sea, like the Gulf of Mexico, and that our hills, rolling and swelling like the ocean, used to be actual waves? The dirt that my hands scoop up used to be brachiopods, echinoderms, and corals. They used to be living and swimming, and now theyâre dirt. And everything thatâs living now will someday be dirt, too.
Dirt is everything.
Iâm not sure how weeding will help me become a teacher.
âNeed any help?â
I jumped and twisted my head up toward Johnâs voice. His jean shorts and T-shirt looked incredibly clean next to my grubby, dirt-covered clothes. âHowâd you know I live here?â I said. I was more alarmed that Iâd get in trouble for having someone over than the fact that, again, John had found me. Mom would say a guest would distract me from my chores.
John tried to hide a smile. âLooks like thereâs a lot of weeds to be pulled.â
I sighed. âIâm learning how to be a teacher.â
Johnâs eyebrows raised briefly. He knelt down next to me and started pulling up weeds and tossing them into my pile. âNot a geologist? They pick rocks, not weeds.â
âThey pick weeds when their mothers tell them to,â I said, ripping out a fistful of deep dandelion roots. Sweat already prickled my forehead. âDonât say too much about geology around here,â I said. âMom doesnât like it.â
We worked side by side under the lifting June sun, weeding our way through Dadâs garden. It was nice to have someone help me.
âWhat are these plants?â John asked, pointing at Dadâs tiny sprouts of coconut and soursop and breadfruit.
âTheyâre Jamaican tree saplings,â I said. âDad thinks theyâll grow here. He wants a grove.â
John gave me a look. âIn Iowa?â
âI know. Wrong soil.â
âWrong everything.â John grunted as he dug up some thick roots.
I yanked another weed. âBut he keeps telling me that maybe theyâll get used to it.â
John paused. âThat tropical trees will get used to Iowa?â he asked slowly.
I nodded. I knew how stupid it sounded. Dad can be kind of optimistic like that.
âHuh.â John sat back on his heels and looked at the contrails in the sky. âYour dadâs something else, you know.â He studied the planes overhead.
âThe cerasee is doing better than the trees,â I said, pointing to one corner of the garden. âI keep telling him to give up on the saplings, but he says those trees are good for the duppies.â
That got his attention. âThe what?â
âDuppies,â I said. John was looking at me strangely, so I continued. âYou have a soul and a spirit, and when you die, the soul goes to heaven and the spirit stays on earth for a couple more days with the body. If someoneâs tears fall on the body during the funeral, or if something else like that happens, then the spirit is stuck on earth and haunts people. Makes trouble.â
Johnâs eyes were pretty big by now.
âDuppies donât like some kinds of trees and plants,â I continued, âand if you plant them around your house, it helps keep them away.â
âReally.â
âItâs a Jamaican thing.â
We weeded for a while in silence, and then he said, âWhat kind of trouble do duppies make?â
âI donât know,â I said, even though every fiber in me was screaming, Bird . I lowered my face between my shoulders so he couldnât see my