Mr. Crane’s research paper assignment on Washington State history slapped a scowl on my face. Although we could choose almost any theme, he gave us a list of sample topics like the Whitman missionary massacre, the building of Grand Coulee Dam, and the discovery of Puget Sound. When I saw that piece of paper, I just knew the whole ordeal was going to be a real grind. Nothing grabbed my imagination. Although I never had a problem getting good grades, history wasn’t one of my favorite subjects

          When I walked through the front door after school with my shoulders sagging, my mom asked, “What’s wrong, Nathan?” She read body language like a detective.

          "A history research paper." I showed her his list of example topics. “These are about as dull as yesterday's newspaper.”

          She poured me a glass of orange juice. “That’s what you always say about history assignments. You never complain about math, English, or even science. What’s wrong with history?”

          “I just don’t see why it's so important to study about dates and dead people.”

          Mom read the sample topics. “I bet some of these would be fascinating once you scratched the surface with a little research. Behind history, I always found real people with interesting stories.”

          I rolled my eyes. She always acted so darned positive.

          “Can you choose your own topic?” As I nodded in response, she stood in the kitchen, staring out the window. Then she turned with a broad smile lighting up her face. “That's the solution! Since we just moved here, how about doing a research paper on Carbonado?”

          “Mom!” I whined, determined not to like anything about this boring place. “I’ll bet nothing interesting ever happened here, and the report has to be at least five pages long.”

          “Well, you never know about something until you started digging for answers,” she said with that mom-knows-best kind of tone. “Can you even tell me how it got its name?”

          I gave her a blank stare. She had me on that question, but I still wasn't convinced.

*    *    *    *    *

          After school the next afternoon, Charlie, Jason, and I sauntered up Pershing Street toward Kelley’s Store. I’d always noticed that great, white mountain in the distance with all those foothills surrounding the town. Mostly tree-covered mounds, they looked like clones of each other – except for one. On the east edge of town rose a pointed hill that reminded me of a funnel sitting topside down on a flat surface. Only specks of vegetation grew on its coffee-colored, mostly barren slopes.

          “How come not many trees grow on that one hill?” I raised my finger in its direction.

          “Oh, you mean Heap Hill?” Charlie answered.

          “Heap Hill, huh. Why did they name it that?” It sounded like a funny name to me.

          “That’s the old slag heap from the coal mine. They dumped all the rocks and dirt they couldn’t use there when the coal mine was still operating. Took all the waste to the top on a giant conveyor belt.” Jason’s casual voice made it sound like everyone in Carbonado knew about Heap Hill.

          “That’s a manmade hill?” The whole idea seemed pretty far-fetched. “It’s so . . . so big!”

          “Well, new boy, they hauled an awful lot of coal out of Carbon Hill Mine and left even more waste behind. How do you think the town got its name anyway? Carbon . . . Carbonado.” Charlie threw me a know-it-all smile. “Fact is, my grandfather worked in the mine all his life.”

          “Really!” That’s when the light bulb in my brain switched on, and I decided upon the topic for my research paper. My mom was right. It’s amazing what you find out when you ask the right questions.

*    *    *    *    *

          That Saturday I visited the public library. With a brand new library card in my hand, I started looking for four books to check out – two for my research and two for me – four was the limit then. I managed to snag a copy of Jim Bouton’s Ball Four, a “tell-all” account of the New York Yankees during the fifties and sixties. Any good Giant fan, like me, hated the Yankees. I also found a tattered paperback copy of Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot they were getting ready to toss into the dumpster. I gathered what I needed for research in the local history section, a book named The Life and Times of Carbonado and a thin, worn book entitled Carbonado: Stories and Folk Tales.

          When I returned home, Mom was swooping around the house in the middle of her once-a-month thorough house cleaning. She had just put away the vacuum cleaner and was starting to soak up all the dust she raised with her fine-fiber dust cloth. Like a moth, she hovered here and there, flitting about in constant motion.

          When I did research, I needed to spread out, and my room served better as a dungeon than a study area. Besides, I wanted to stay out of Mom’s way. Dropping my books on our big kitchen table, I set about reading and jotting down notes in a green spiral notebook. Although my friends told me a few things about Carbonado, my investigation still surprised me.

          I knew there used to be coal mining in the area, but I didn’t understand how much. It turned out the whole town was built on coal – literally. Way back in the 1860s, surveyors discovered seams of coal in the Cascade foothills near The Notch and Carbon Hill that ran underground to the outskirts of Carbonado.

          Finished with dusting, Mom stepped into the kitchen, washed her hands, and started slicing vegetables for dinner.

          “Hey, Mom, did you know Carbonado was built because of all the coal they discovered here?”

          “Well, I always assumed that coal had something to do with it because of the names like Carbon Hill and The Carbon River, but nobody told me that.” With her back turned to me, her knife make clacking sounds against the cutting board.

          “The coal company advertised in European newspapers, especially in Poland, for miners and built a company town for them to live in.”

          She turned to me like a switch had flipped in her mind. “So that explains the Eastern European names like Obradovich and Stokowski and all those cracker-box houses along Pershing Street.”

          “Yep, the grandparents of some of the kids I go to school with worked in the mines. Can I read you something?”

          “Go ahead. I can cut celery and carrots and listen at the same time. Mothers are built to do that, you know.”

          I smiled and then read out loud: "Coal miners faced a dreary, dangerous life. They descended into the darkness of the mine shafts just as the sun streaked its first beams over the horizon.  By 6:00 p.m. the steam whistle blew, ending another day of backbreaking work. All through the winter months, miners worked such long hours that they never glimpsed the light of day." I couldn't resist a bad comparison. "Gee, that's kind of like going to school at seven in the morning, staying there all day with the blinds closed, and then going home at six in the evening. Torture!"

          “Wow! Even that sounds easy in comparison.” My mom chuckled and then got serious again. “It’s hard to believe coal was bigger than gold back in those days. When did they finally shut down the coal mines?”

          “Well, it says here that they dynamited the entrance to Carbon Hill Coal Mine back in 1952, so they must have blocked off miles and miles of tunnels underground.”

          “That’s been almost thirty years,” my mom figured out loud. “There’s certainly not much left in this town besides the lumber mill, Kelley’s Store, beauty salon, and the gas station. Seems like almost everybody in Carbonado works somewhere else.”

          I picked up my stuff from the table. “I read that the town’s population has flattened out to around 600 people for the last ten years. No wonder it’s Deadsville around here.”

          “Hey, young man, it’s not all that bad. To me, it’s just restful. Everything in San Jose was so . . . so busy.” My mom always tried to put a smiley face on things.

          I filled most of my report with historical information about Carbonado. Then I added a personal touch by interviewing Charlie and Irma Demko about their grandfathers who used to work in the mines. I was surprised when a big, red “A” highlighted the top margin when Mr. Crane handed it back with the comment: “Nice job. You ferreted out information only a few of us know about.” I never got “A’s” in history. Brimming with excitement, I rolled up the paper, carried it home, and unrolled it on the kitchen table so Mom would happen across it. I was proud, but I didn’t want to brag about it.

*  *  *  *  *

          The next day after school, Charlie grabbed my sleeve and pulled me down on the front step beside her. “Here, Nathan,” she said, slapping the concrete with the palm of her hand. “Keep me company for a while. I’ve got chores to do, and I’m in no hurry to get home.”

          I didn’t resist and plopped down next to her. I’d never met a girl like Charlie. She was fascinating because she was just so . . . different. Outgoing and confident, she pushed boundaries. She wouldn’t take any guff from kids like Reno Clark, and she refused to fit her mother’s mold of how girls should act. All the kids respected her, but she was picky about her friends. I was flattered by her attention.

          “Nathan, I never got a chance to talk with you after school yesterday.” She shot me a searching look like she was testing me. “What grade did you get on your history paper?”

          “An A.” I tried to keep from grinning.

          “And your topic was Carbonado?”

          I nodded.

          “You’re the only person here who could get away with that. But I guess it’s fair. Congratulations on the A.” She leaned her shoulder against my arm and a little tingle swept over me.

          “You bet it’s fair,” I managed. “I didn’t know anything about this place. In fact, I’ve still got questions about one thing I stumbled across in my research.”

          “Maybe I can help.” She leaned back on her step, her green sweater showing through her open jacket. “After all, I am the native around here and the resident expert.” She gave me an impish smirk.

          I tried to ignore it and continued. “Did your grandfather ever talk to you about the mine disaster of 1889?”

          “What?” she shrieked with surprise. “How old do you think my grandpa is?” She shook her head, cocked it to the side, and gave me a long, squinty stare like I was crazy. “Sure, he worked till the mines closed in the 1950’s, but he didn’t start working there till about 1920.”

          “Oh, I know he wasn’t born way back then, but I thought he might have heard some stories about the big cave-in that killed all those miners. The book I read for my report didn’t give much information.”

          “Yeah, that’s the problem with some books. Too many skimpy facts and not enough details and stories. The stories make history real.” Then she stared off into the distance toward a clouded-over Mount Rainier. “When I was seven or eight, I did hear Grandpa talking to my dad about the mine explosion. I guess he'd been talking to some old miners who worked way back then.”

          “Did he ever mention the cause of the accident or how many people died?”

          “Well, the cause of the blast was pretty much cut and dried. In those times, the miners used gas lamps to see their way in the dark. The open flame from one of the lamps ignited a pocket of methane gas and – BOOM!” She hesitated for a moment as if she was trying to remember something else. “But . . . he talked about some odd stuff, too. That's why I remember the conversation.”

          She had my attention, and I gripped the edge of the step where I sat. “Like what?”

          “He said that some things just didn’t add up. Like – eight miners were working in that tunnel, but the rescue crew only brought out four corpses.”

          “The rest could’ve been buried,” I suggested.

          “Maybe, but coalminers are practically brothers. They try not to leave anyone behind – not even their bodies. They would dig and dig until there wasn’t any more hope.” Once again she paused and her steely eyes and wrinkled forehead showed her concentration. “Something else. Some of the dead miners were missing things like helmets, boots, and even pocket watches.”

          “Wow, that’s weird.”

          “Oh, and one more thing. The rescuers reported the explosion opened up a whole new section of natural caves.”

          “Did they ever explore them?” I wondered.

          “I don''t think they were much into exploring. That seam of coal was pretty well played out by then. They just started mining in a different tunnel.”

          “Sounds pretty mysterious.”

          “Yeah, but I don’t suppose we’ll find out any more information since they blew up Carbon Hill Mine and sealed it.” Her gaze shifted from me to the street where a white van braked to a stop in front of the school. "Uh, oh. Busted. That's my mom. She's pissed or she wouldn't come looking for me. I guess my chores have caught up with me." She shrugged and stood up. “Gotta go. See ya, Nathan.”

          “See ya, Charlie.” I watched her long, graceful strides take her across the grassy playground until she disappeared inside her mom's car.

          I sat there for a while imagining working in a dark coal mine, the tight quarters, and being buried alive. I also thought about the weird tingle when Charlie touched my shoulder . . . and shivered.