Cheap Potting Soil

Pete kicked the iron gate. It did not open.

He kicked it again. His sneaker left a gray smudge on the black metal. The metal was hot. The sun was a giant yellow eyeball glaring down at them. It was spring. Spring was supposed to be nice. Spring was supposed to be cool breezes and little birds. This spring was aggressive. The heat pressed on Pete's neck like a hot towel.

"We are barred from entry," Tess said.

She stood behind him. She was holding a plastic cup of iced coffee. The cup was mostly water now. The ice was melted. The coffee looked like muddy milk. She was vibrating. She had not slept. Pete had not slept. They were a mess.

"The lock is rusted," Pete said.

"The garden rejects us," Tess said. She raised her free hand to the sky. She looked like an actor in a play. "It knows our hearts are not pure. It knows we do not want to be here."

"It is a padlock, Tess. It does not know anything."

Pete grabbed the silver lock. It was huge. It felt like a block of ice in his hand, except it was burning hot. He shoved the small brass key into the bottom. He twisted. The key bent. He gritted his teeth. He twisted harder. Something inside the lock clicked. It sounded like a breaking bone.

He pulled the heavy metal loop down. The gate swung open. It screamed. The hinges were dry.

"We are in," Pete said.

They walked inside. The community garden was a giant grid of dirt rectangles. There were fences made of chicken wire. There were stakes made of broken broom handles. There were floppy green plants and sharp yellow weeds.

Everything smelled like wet dirt and old leaves. It was a thick smell. It filled Pete's nose. He sneezed.

"Bless you," Tess said. "I am perishing."

"You have a latte."

"It is mostly water. I need real sustenance. I need a diner breakfast. I need a dark room."

"Grandma said we have to plant the bulbs today. She said the frost is gone. She said if we do not plant them, the plot goes back to the city."

They stopped in front of Plot 18. It was a disaster.

The other plots were neat. The other plots had little white signs. The other plots had straight rows of green sprouts. Plot 18 looked like a jungle. The weeds were up to Pete's knees. They were spiky. They were covered in fuzz. There was a rusted metal bucket in the center. It was full of brown rainwater and dead bugs.

"This is a disaster," Tess said.

"It is just dirt."

"It is a biohazard. Look at that weed. It has thorns. It is hostile."

Pete set a plastic grocery bag on the ground. The bag rustled. Inside were the bulbs. Grandma had bought them in February. They were supposed to be tulips. Right now, they looked like sad, dry onions. They had flaky brown skin. They smelled like dust.

"We just dig holes. We put the onions in. We cover them up. We go home," Pete said.

"They are bulbs, Pete. Not onions."

"They look like onions."

Pete walked to the wooden shed at the edge of the plot. The door was hanging off its hinges. He pulled it open. A spider ran across the wood. Pete ignored it. He grabbed two metal trowels. They were old. The handles were cracked plastic. The metal was dull and covered in dried mud. He grabbed a ripped bag of cheap potting soil. The bag felt like it weighed fifty pounds. He dragged it out. It left a trail of dark crumbs on the grass.

He threw a trowel at Tess. She caught it awkwardly against her chest. Her coffee sloshed.

"Watch the beverage!" she yelled.

"Start digging," Pete said.

He dropped to his knees. The ground was hard. It felt like concrete. He stabbed the trowel into the dirt. It bounced off. A sharp pain shot up his wrist.

"Ow."

"The earth fights back," Tess said.

She knelt beside him. She was wearing white sneakers. They were already turning brown. She stabbed her trowel into the ground. It went in about half an inch. She leaned her weight on it. The metal bent slightly.

"This is impossible," she said. "We need heavy machinery. We need an excavator."

"Just scrape the top off," Pete said.

They scraped. It was terrible work. The sun beat down on their backs. Pete's shirt stuck to his skin. His hands got dirty immediately. Dirt got under his fingernails. It felt gritty. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. He left a streak of mud above his eyebrow.

"I am sweating," Tess announced. "I do not sweat. I glow. Right now, I am sweating. This is unnatural."

"Keep digging."

They dug for twenty minutes. They managed to make a small, shallow trench. It was crooked. It looked like a dog had dug it. Pete's hands were covered in blisters. One on his thumb was red and shiny. It throbbed with his heartbeat.

"We have to clear the weeds first," Tess said. She pointed to a massive green plant on the edge of the plot. "That one is stealing all the water. Look at it. It is greedy."

"Leave it alone."

"No. I am taking charge. I am a farmer now."

Tess crawled over to the edge of the plot. The boundary was marked by a rotting piece of wood. On the other side of the wood was Plot 42. Plot 42 was perfect. The dirt was smooth. The plants were arranged in tiny, perfect circles. There was a little sign that said 'Mrs. Wilson's Garden'.

Right on the border, straddling the rotting wood, was a massive burst of green leaves.

"I will destroy you," Tess whispered to the plant.

She grabbed the thick green stems. She pulled.

The plant did not move.

She grunted. She planted her white sneakers in the dirt. She leaned back. Her face turned red. The cords in her neck stood out.

"Tess, just leave it," Pete said. He was trying to peel the flaky skin off a bulb.

"I am committed!" she yelled.

She gave one massive, violent heave.

There was a loud, wet shhh-pop sound.

Tess flew backward. She landed flat on her back in the mud. Her plastic coffee cup tipped over. The watery milk spilled into the dirt.

Pete looked up.

Tess was sitting up. She was holding the plant.

It was not a weed.

Attached to the thick green leaves was a carrot. But it was not a normal carrot. It was the size of a baseball bat. It was neon orange. It was perfectly straight. It looked heavy. It was a monster.

There was total silence in the garden. The single, aggressive bee that had been buzzing around them stopped. The highway noise seemed to fade.

Pete stared at the carrot. He looked at the giant, gaping crater it had left in the dirt. The crater was mostly on the other side of the rotting wood.

It was in Plot 42.

"Tess," Pete said slowly.

"I pulled it," she said. Her voice was thin. She was in shock.

"You pulled Mrs. Wilson's carrot."

"It looked like a weed."

"It is orange. Weeds are not orange."

"The top was green!"

Tess scrambled to her knees. She held the giant orange root in her hands. She looked terrified. She looked like she was holding a stolen baby.

"This is a prize winner," Tess said. Her eyes were huge. "Look at it, Pete. It is perfectly symmetrical. She was going to take this to the county fair. She was going to win a blue ribbon. I have ruined her life."

"Put it back."

"You cannot un-pull a carrot!" Tess screamed. "The root system is severed! The taproot is exposed! It is dying!"

"Just shove it in the hole!"

Pete dropped his trowel. He crawled over. The crater in Plot 42 was deep. It looked like a meteor strike.

"Give it to me," Pete said.

He grabbed the carrot. It was heavy. It felt like a solid block of wood. He shoved it point-first back into the crater. It did not go all the way down. The tip hit a rock. About four inches of bright orange carrot stuck up above the dirt line.

"It is sticking out!" Tess panicked. "She will know! She will see the orange!"

"Dirt. Get the dirt."

Pete pointed to the ripped bag of cheap potting soil. Tess grabbed it. She dragged it over. The plastic tore more. Dark, wet dirt spilled out. It smelled like wet dog and sour milk.

She scooped handfuls of the dark dirt. She dumped it over the exposed carrot.

"Pack it down," Pete ordered.

They hit the dirt with their flat hands. They slapped the ground. Smack. Smack. Smack.

They built a little mound of dark dirt over the carrot. It looked incredibly obvious. The rest of Mrs. Wilson's plot was light brown, dry dirt. This was a dark, wet, black lump right on the border.

"It looks like a grave," Tess whispered.

"We are criminals, Pete. We belong in jail. We have committed agricultural sabotage."

"Stop yelling. Nobody saw."

Pete wiped his hands on his jeans. He left two dark handprints on his thighs. He was breathing hard. His heart was hammering. He felt ridiculous. They were panicking over a vegetable. But the panic was real. The world felt extremely small right now. The only thing that mattered was the dark lump of dirt.

"Okay," Pete said. "We ignore it. We go back to our side. We plant the onions."

"Bulbs."

"Whatever."

They moved back to the center of Plot 18. The sun was even hotter now. The plastic coffee cup was completely empty. Tess looked at it sadly.

"I am dehydrated. I am going to faint. My body is shutting down."

"Dig," Pete said.

They went back to the trench. They scraped. They hit rocks. Every time Pete's trowel hit a rock, a vibration went up his arm and made his teeth hurt.

Tess stopped. She was staring at a dandelion.

It was a big one. The yellow flower was bright and loud. The leaves were jagged.

"I hate you," Tess said to the dandelion.

She grabbed the base of the weed. She pulled.

It did not budge.

"Pete," she said. "Help me."

"Just dig around it."

"No. It must be eradicated. It is mocking me."

Pete sighed. He crawled over. He grabbed the weed with her.

"On three," he said. "One. Two. Three."

They pulled. The stem stretched. It felt like a rubber band. Then, it snapped.

Tess fell backward again. Pete fell forward onto his hands.

The yellow flower was in Tess's hand. But sticking out of the ground was a thick, pale white root. It looked like a severed finger.

"We failed," Tess said. "We did not get the root. It will grow back. It always grows back."

She stared at the white root. Her face crumpled.

Suddenly, she was crying.

It was not a small cry. It was a loud, ugly cry. Her shoulders shook. Tears ran down her face. They mixed with the dirt and the sunscreen on her cheeks. They made muddy rivers down to her chin.

"Tess," Pete said. "It is just a weed."

"It is not a weed!" she sobbed. "It is a metaphor!"

"A metaphor for what?"

"For my life!"

She dropped the yellow flower. She covered her face with her dirty hands. Now there was mud in her hair.

"I quit," she wailed.

"We cannot quit. Grandma will lose the plot."

"Not the garden, you idiot. School. I quit my master's program."

Pete stopped moving. He sat back on his heels. The wind blew. It felt hot and dry.

"What?"

"I dropped out," she cried. She wiped her nose with her arm. "Yesterday. I sent the email. I am done. I am a dropout."

"You have been in that program for two years."

"I know!"

"You were going to graduate in May."

"I know!"

"Why did you quit?"

Tess looked at him. Her eyes were red. Her nose was running. She looked miserable. She looked like a little kid who had dropped an ice cream cone in the dirt.

"Because it is too hard," she said. "Because I do not know what I am doing. Because every time I try to pull the root up, the stem snaps. I am just breaking off the tops of things. I am not getting deep enough. I am a fraud."

Pete looked at her. He looked at the pale white root sticking out of the dirt.

He wanted to laugh. It was a bleak, weird laugh bubbling in his chest. She was having a quarter-life crisis over a dandelion in a municipal dirt box. Humans were ridiculous.

He swallowed the laugh.

He looked at his own hands. They were wrecked. The blister on his thumb had popped. It stung. His back ached. He was tired.

"You are an idiot," Pete said.

"Thank you," Tess sobbed.

"No, I mean it. You are an idiot. You quit a master's program because it was hard? Everything is hard. Digging this hole is hard."

"It is not the same thing."

"Yes, it is." Pete grabbed his trowel. He pointed it at her. "You are sitting in the mud, crying over a weed, and burying stolen carrots. Your life is a mess right now."

"I am aware!"

"But you are here," Pete said.

He turned back to the pale white root. He dug his trowel into the dirt beside it. He did not scrape the top. He pushed the metal straight down. He leaned his whole body weight on it. The metal bent, but it went deep.

He dug around the root. He made a wide circle. He scooped out chunks of hard brown dirt. He dug until the hole was six inches deep.

Then, he reached in with his fingers. He pinched the very bottom of the white root.

He pulled gently.

The whole root slid out of the earth. It was long and crooked. It looked like a pale snake.

He held it up.

"You have to dig wider," Pete said. "If you just pull the top, it snaps. You have to get your hands dirty. You have to go deep."

He threw the root into the plastic grocery bag.

Tess watched him. She sniffled. She wiped her eyes.

"That was surprisingly profound," she said. Her voice was thick and congested.

"I am a profound guy," Pete said. "Now get over here."

She crawled over. She picked up her bent trowel.

"We are not fixing your life today," Pete said. "We cannot fix the master's program. We cannot un-quit. But we can plant these stupid onions."

"Bulbs."

"Bulbs. We are going to dig a proper hole. We are going to put the cheap soil in. We are going to plant them. And we are going to leave."

Tess nodded slowly. "Okay."

They worked. They did not talk. The silence was not heavy anymore. It was just quiet. The only sounds were the scrape of metal against rock and their own heavy breathing.

Pete's hands hurt. Tess's knees were covered in wet mud. But they kept digging. They made a straight trench. It was deep.

Pete ripped the bag of cheap potting soil all the way open. They scooped the dark, smelly dirt into the trench with their bare hands. It felt cool. It felt rich.

Pete grabbed the grocery bag. He dumped the bulbs onto the ground.

"Pointy side up," Tess said softly.

"What?"

"The bulbs. Pointy side goes up. Flat side goes down. That is where the roots come from."

Pete looked at a bulb. It did have a pointy top. He placed it in the dark soil. He pressed it down.

Tess took one. She placed it next to his. She left three inches of space between them.

They went down the line. Pointy side up. Press it down. Pointy side up. Press it down.

It was a simple rhythm. It was a physical task. The world shrank down to the trench, the dark soil, and the dry bulbs. The anxiety in Pete's chest started to loosen. The tight knot in his stomach untied.

He looked at Tess. She was focused. Her face was a mess of dirt and tears, but she was not crying anymore. Her hands were black with mud. She was literally touching grass. She was in the dirt.

They finished the row.

"Cover them," Pete said.

They pushed the hard, dry dirt back over the trench. They patted it down. They smoothed it out.

It looked like a real garden bed.

Pete stood up. His knees popped. His back screamed. He stretched his arms over his head. The sun was lower in the sky now. The blinding yellow light had turned into a soft, golden glow. The air felt a little cooler.

Tess stood up beside him. She put her hands on her hips. She looked at the row of planted dirt.

"We did it," she said.

"We did it."

"Do you think they will grow?" she asked.

"I do not know," Pete said. "But they are in the ground. That is all we can do."

He picked up the empty coffee cup and the ripped plastic bags. He threw the trowels back into the wooden shed. He closed the broken door.

They walked back to the iron gate. Pete grabbed the heavy metal lock. He pulled the gate shut. It screamed again. He snapped the lock closed. It clicked with a solid, satisfying sound.

They stood on the sidewalk. The street was quiet.

"Are you going to tell Grandma about the master's program?" Pete asked.

"Eventually," Tess said. "Not today. Today, I am just a farmer."

She looked back through the iron bars. She looked at Plot 18. It still looked a little messy, but the trench was neat.

Then, she looked slightly to the left. She looked at Plot 42.

The dark mound of cheap potting soil sat there, aggressively obvious against the pale dirt.

Suddenly, the mound moved.

The dark dirt shifted. A tiny crack formed in the center of the mound.

"Pete," Tess whispered. Her voice was pure panic again.

"What?"

"The grave. It is moving."

Pete grabbed the iron bars. He stared at the dark lump in Mrs. Wilson's garden.

The dirt cracked wider.

Something bright neon orange poked through the black soil.