Six Feet Over It by Jennifer Longo

Algebra!”
    “Español solamente.”
    Spanish only. Oh jeez. “Um … ¿Creo que … no pasó una prueba de algebra ? ”
    “Agradable. ¿Te incluso estudiaste?”
    “Okay, wait— Lo siento. Slowly.”
    He calls up loudly and way slower than he needs to, “¿Estudiaste?”
    Did I study? What the hell—
    “¡Sí! ¡Por supuesto estudio! ¡No es mi culpa que la prueba era estupido!” I yell down into the grave. A shovelful of soil sails dangerously near my head.
    “La prueba no era tonto, simplemente no quisiste poner el esfuerzo.”
    Okay, first of all, he wasn’t there; the test was stupid! And, “Esfuerzo?”
    “ Effort. Tú eres inteligente, un poco perezoso es todo.”
    Perezoso? Wade calling me lazy is one thing, but what does Dario know? “¿Usted va a juzgar mis hábitos de estudio desde abajo en una tumba?” The words come without thought, which is pretty awesome because who knew I could say You’re going to judge my study habits from down in a grave? in Spanish till right then, but also, what is his problem? He doesn’t know me or my homework ethics! What does he think I’m doing hour after hour in that stupid office? (Well, when I’m not spying on people or reading novels for fun. But other than that.)
    He reaches up to lay the shovel on the grass, pulls himself up and out of the grave, and brushes off his knees, still smiling.
    “¿Cuándo aprendiste hablar español tan bien?” he asks.
    I consider his muddy jeans, the pile of velvety soil, his perfect grave. “I don’t speak it well. I’m faking it.”
    “Well, not bad for fake.” I hover at the edge, peer down into the black. Once a casket in a liner is in there, people lie just inches below our feet. Emily beneath the grass. She was so small. Is she in a child-size coffin?
    The wind chimes sing. She is eleven rows away.
    “There are about a billion butterflies in my town right now. In Mexico.” English. “Well, not in my town—mine is Pátzcuaro. But near—Michoacán. You know about the butterflies? The migration?”
    “Not really. But I bet it’s magical and symbolizes something significant.”
    He makes sure I know he’s ignoring me.
    “Monarch butterflies. They leave Canada and fly three thousand miles to the forests in Michoacán. Oyamel forests. Balsam firs. Really tall, old pine trees and oaks. They come in autumn right around Días de los Muertos and you can’t see the branches, even the trunks, just wings. It’s crazy, they’re all moving and fluttering, but slowly, and you stand there and look up into the branches and the sunlight and they fly, they settle in the pine needles and fly again. The air is full of them, the sky. … You would love it.”
    He collects his shovel and moves wide, flat plywood pieces to cover the empty hole until the funeral. He unfolds the traditional big blue tarp—protection against the threatening clouds gathering low beneath the winter white sky so close, barely above our heads. Why are these tarps not green? Knowing Wade, it’s all about the blue ones being cheaper. It looks so tacky, the hills dotted with bright blue plastic tents on rainy multiple-burial weekends.
    “Do you miss it? Miss your family?” I ask.
    He leans on his shovel, wipes the back of his gloved head across his forehead. “I do. But I love it here.”
    I hover beside the grave. Step onto the plywood. Bounce a little.
    “See?” he says. “Just a grave.”
    Cloying fallen-tree wood-chip sweetness from a mountain of fresh flowers two rows over.
    He tosses the shovel on the back of the tractor, pulls his gloves off, and reaches under the seat. Hands me a flat plastic bag: fun-size York Peppermint Patties.
    “I was going to leave these on your desk. I snuck a few.”
    “That’s okay.”
    “They really help,” he says. And then he hugs me.
    I stand stiff, arms at my sides. Blood thunders in my ears.
    His clothes smell like soil. Soil and soap.
    I close my eyes. Clench my toes tight inside my shoes.
    “Las