Getting Somewhere by Beth Neff

people at all, but guesses they are just like the counselors at the Center or the people from the shelters who tried to round up the kids at night, promising food and a bed when they were just going to turn you in in the morning.
    The salad bags are supposed to read .53 on the scale, half a pound for the contents, .03 for the bag. Tare weight, Grace said. Sarah likes that. Tare. She likes the precision of it, aiming for the exact total, sometimes having to push in another handful, sometimes removing a few leaves until the digital numbers blink the right combination, like a ship loading ballast in the hold, a special word for the balance. She is becoming part of a new vocabulary. Mesclun, arugula, mizuna, CSA, humus, sycamore, pullet—a raft of girls floating on a new sea, a garden wind blows to set them free.
    Grace is looking at her, must have said something that Sarah didn’t hear. Sarah tries to look attentive, smiles.
    Grace nods toward Sarah’s bag, asks, “Are you tired of that? Would you rather do something else?”
    Sarah looks down at her hands, wonders if she’s been completely distracted, lost her focus, if she’s held this same bag long enough to attract Grace’s attention.
    â€œNo,” Sarah answers, “I like it, unless, you know, you
want
me to do something else or I’m not doing it right or something.”
    Grace chuckles. “No, you’re fine. Just checking. If you’re okay, we’re going to head out.”
    Sarah looks toward the door, sees Lauren standing there, her back to Sarah and her hands on her hips, face raised to the sun. Grace says, “And you remember about the onions when you’re done with that?”
    Sarah nods. “Oh yeah, no problem. I’m almost done here.”
    Sarah doesn’t want to admit how disappointed she is about not getting to pick the watercress. Grace had shown them that first day on their garden tour where it grows, a spring-fed pool a few yards up from where the creek water joins the river. She’d shown them the path where you have to wade in, keeping your feet on the sandy spots where the current makes firmer footing, and then how you reach into the mound of green and use scissors to cut off the branching, leafy tops. Grace had even picked a couple of leaves, had them taste it, the radishy bite sharp on Sarah’s tongue. The spot was shady, idyllic, as if the scene belonged in some book about the English countryside. Sarah could see herself sitting there, dangling her legs off the bank.
    However much Sarah wanted to help, she didn’t think she should ask, expects that they frown on that sort of thing. When Grace told Lauren earlier that she’d be the one going along today, Sarah had to almost laugh trying to imagine Lauren wading in the creek water, getting her hands muddy. The girl can’t even play a simple game of Wiffle ball without getting hurt. Sarah still can’t figure out what that was all about. Maybe Lauren has some issues with physical contact, the way she’d yelled, “Don’t touch me!” when all Grace was trying to do was help.
    And Lauren sure didn’t seem too happy about going with Grace either. It kind of makes Sarah mad the way Lauren gets the best job by being the worst worker and doesn’t even seem to realize it. But that’s the way it always is, the squeaky wheel thing, girls like Lauren just assuming that privilege belongs to them. What the hell is she even doing here?
    Sarah starts back to the cooler to get the onions. Maybe she’s being too hard on Lauren. Maybe it’s just taking her a while to adjust. She’s probably unhappy, and maybe Sarah hasn’t tried hard enough to be friendly, though she has to admit that any gestures she’s made in Lauren’s direction so far have been rebuffed.
    Standing at the wash basin scrubbing the dirt out of the hairs of the funny little onion people, Sarah’s hands are so cold