Underneath (16 page)

“But what if she only said that because Uncle Randall was listening in?” I put in, stretching my legs out in front of me. My parents look at me, startled, as if they've forgotten I'm here. I'm surprised my mom's feminist training isn't rearing its head, that she isn't going on the warpath with
Ms.
magazines in hand to rescue Auntie Mina from oppression. I guess things are more complicated when it's happening in your own family.

“Oh, Sunny,” my mom says, and sighs. “I hope you're wrong. I have faith in your Auntie Mina, that she's strong enough to tell us if and when she needs us. In the meantime, let's keep an extra close eye on her, okay? All of us.”

I can't help wondering if that's true—or if she'll just suffer in silence. Like Shiri, who didn't even feel like she could talk to me, who took it all out on herself.

And then I wonder: What if I'd been able to listen in on Auntie Mina's house somehow? What if I'd been able to stop Uncle Randall
before
he hurt her?

My mouth goes dry. If Shiri had been able to underhear, if she'd known her dad was like that … why didn't
she
make it stop? Then I realize: in her own awful way, she did.

fifteen

I pull the blankets up to my chin; then I break into a sweat, my skin crawling with heat, and kick the covers off again. Five minutes later, I'm cold. A lone annoying bird wakes up early and starts squawking in the tree outside.

It's four a.m.

I haven't been able to sleep, despite tea, despite Pixie snoozing at my feet, despite soothing music and candles and exhaustion. My thoughts keep bubbling up, making me toss and turn. When I do start to fall asleep, I doze fitfully, dreaming about being smothered in voluminous Wiccan robes, half-waking when I think I hear Shiri or Auntie Mina calling out for me, waking fully just long enough to realize it's only a dream.

At breakfast, I force down half a bowl of granola cereal. The rest of it turns to soggy mush as I sit there trying to avoid my parents' eyes. In our silence, we all know what isn't being said. On top of that, there's everything else that happened to me last night, before I got home. After Mom's one outburst about me not calling when I left the solstice party, she didn't ask about it again. And I can't help feeling sorry for myself, not that I want to talk about it.

It's like Shiri's absence tore a hole in our family; but that hole, instead of gradually going away, is like a black hole, expanding to take up more and more space.

I can't bear to sit here anymore, watching my mother sigh over her coffee while my dad stubbornly reads the same page of
Backstage
magazine over and over, so I dump the rest of my cereal in the garbage disposal.

“I'm going to make a phone call,” I mumble, heading for the stairs.

Closing the door of my room, I pick up my phone from where it's lying on my desk. If I don't talk to someone about
something …
I feel a throbbing start in my temples, and I dial a number I haven't dialed in a long time.

It rings three times, then he answers.

Singing.

“Here comes the SUN, do-do-do-do, here comes the SUN, and I say, ooh yeah, it's all right,
ner ner ner ner ner nerrr
—”

“STOP. Now.” I interrupt Spike's painful ruination of the Beatles song he always used to tease me with, only to hear his mom's faint Georgia twang in the background.

“Spencer, is that Miss Sunny you're torturing with your yowling? Sweet girl. Say hello to her for me. It's been ages.” Hearing her voice makes me a little sad.

“So, the elusive Little Miss Sunshine herself,” Spike says, sounding muffled like he's chewing on something. “My mom says hi. As you probably heard.”

“Yeah,” I say, cautiously. “Look, do you have a few minutes? Are you eating or something?”

“Yeah, sure,” he says. “I mean, sure, I have a few minutes. I just grabbed an extra piece of bacon. I'm done eating.”

“You're never done eating,” I scoff, before I can stop myself.

But Spike laughs, and I hope that means things are still okay between us, more or less. “Like you'd know,” he says. “You've missed at least three barbecues. For all you know, my eating habits have undergone a complete transformation.”

I grimace. “Sorry. I should have called sooner.” I look out the window at the leaves fluttering against the grayish-blue sky.

“Yeah. Well, I could have called, too. You know I don't call people, though.” His tone is light, but sort of brittle. “Plus I figured you were busy with your new friends,” he adds pointedly.

“Oh, God, Spike, I—” My voice breaks, and I clear my throat. “Listen, everything is crazy right now. I don't know what to do. I had a huge fight with Mikaela after this party, and then I found out that Cody—she and Cody—I don't know. Why does everything have to be so complicated?”

He's silent for a minute and I squeeze my eyes shut, wondering if anything I just said made sense.

“I thought things would be simpler if I just started fresh,” I add. “But they're not.”

“Sunny … you know I'm not good with this kind of thing.” Spike's voice sounds pained. “I mean, why are you telling
me
all this?”

Almost in a whisper, I say, “Because maybe you were right. About them.”

Silence.

“And I'm … sorry I was such a bitch about it. That wasn't fair.” Saying those words feels like I'm forcing out broken glass, but I can't help thinking about what Spike said, that he didn't trust Cody or his friends. I feel my chest constricting, like I'm about to cry.

“
Oh
,” he says. “Well, yeah, I heard some rumor about Cody getting arrested last year. But I don't even know if it's true. And I don't really know the rest of those people. I recognize one or two, I guess.” He pauses. “You seem pretty buddy-buddy with that one girl, the short one with the braids. Is that who you're talking about?”

“Yeah. She told Cody something that should have been a secret. She shouldn't have said anything.
I
shouldn't have said anything. I'm so stupid.”

“So what's this big secret?”

It sounds ridiculous, trying to tell him what happened without telling him about underhearing. It makes the whole thing seem insignificant. But I'm not ready to tell him everything yet, so I decide to lie.

Not a huge lie. Just a little one. A rearrangement of the truth.

“It's just … there's been a lot going on in my family since Shiri died. Her mom—my Auntie Mina—has been having some marital problems. Her husband is kind of … ” I swallow, and then I say the word I've been avoiding. “Abusive.”

“Uh huh,” Spike says, sounding uncomfortable.

I cross my fingers. “Anyway, I was telling Mikaela about some private stuff, and she told Cody, and … I found out last night at a party that she told him. Then we had a big argument about it and I'm pretty sure she never wants to talk to me again.”

“Sunny.”

“Yes.”

“I'm going to have to be honest here.”

“Okay.” I sit forward, hunched, hugging my knees.

“Listen, and think about it. How many times did Cassie blab something you or Elisa or I told her to the rest of the group without even blinking?”

“Uh … ” I don't want to think about Cassie. Is he
trying
to upset me?

“Remember the time she told everybody in our bio class about that pool party at James's house, when Mike sneaked in on Elisa in the bathroom while she was changing into her bathing suit and ran off with her bikini top? And then Cassie couldn't stop laughing about it?”

“Yeah,” I say, sullenly.

“Do you really think Elisa
wanted
her to talk about that? And the time Cassie told Jenny Alvarez that my voice didn't finish changing until the end of freshman year?” Spike continues. “I was in love with Jenny Alvarez. That was a completely cold thing to do. But that's just Cassie. You can't tell her anything. She has boundary issues.”

“Yeah, she doesn't
have
any boundaries,” I say, and we both laugh a little, awkwardly. “But what does that have to do with this?”

“I'm just saying, Cassie told your ‘secrets' to everyone on a regular basis, and you guys were still friends. I don't see why it's such a big drama just because what's-her-name's doing it.”

“But—” I stop. This secret—it isn't like other secrets. But I can't tell him. Not yet. Now that we're finally talking again, like we used to, I don't want to make things weird.

“Fine,” I force out. “I guess I'm being melodramatic. Thanks.”

“Just call me Dr. Phil.”

“Whatever.” I sigh. “Dr. I-Have-No-Sympathy.”

“Oh yeah—I'm still having my New Year's Eve party this year. My mom said to tell you. You should totally come. Oh, and
brriiing beeer,
” he adds in a stage whisper.

“Uh huh.” We both know the likelihood of me showing up is pretty low, but I'm touched. “Well … thanks,” I tell him. “If I don't make it, tell everyone I said hi.”

“Sure thang, sweet thang,” he says, sounding like the old Spike again.

I hang up and put my head in my hands.

When I tried to explain my fight with Mikaela to him, it seemed so petty because I couldn't tell him the real reason for it. And telling him about Mikaela liking Cody would only have made it sound worse, like I was a jealous third wheel, like it was just a fight over a guy.

On top of that, he made me sound like a pushover be-cause I always used to go along with whatever Cassie said. And he's right. I did used to go along with it, used to laugh even if I didn't think it was funny. Am I being a hypocrite? Why do I expect so much out of Mikaela, when I always forgave Cassie? I'm not sure I understand it myself. I guess I'm not the same person anymore.

A while later—I'm not sure how long—I'm awakened from a doze by the doorbell. I look at the clock next to my bed: 4:15. The afternoon sun is already low, shining the last of the weak winter light through my window. I wonder who's here. I yawn and stretch my neck, stiff from falling asleep half-sitting up, and head downstairs.

I'm halfway down when I see my mom and dad open the door. Framed against the bare branches of the oak tree in our front yard is Auntie Mina, her face pinched but set with determination. Nobody says anything. Then the silence is broken with a loud thud, and I jump. It's a black suitcase, heavy and overbalanced, tipping over onto the front porch. Auntie Mina's suitcase.

From Shiri Langford's journal, May 20th

I had a fight with Brendan. We've never fought before. I forgot to call him to tell him tennis practice was going late and I wouldn't be able to meet him at the falafel place. I forgot. I honestly did. I was just playing so hard and knew I had the practice set in the bag and I forgot.

I tried to tell him. I got falafels and brought them by his apartment and he wouldn't even talk to me. He just sat there silently. I pleaded with him, begged him to talk to me. He finally said he waited an hour before he decided I'd blown him off. Was I with someone else?

I can't believe he would think that.

I fell apart. Then he apologized. His last girlfriend cheated on him. When I heard his thoughts the first time, all those months ago, he was feeling so betrayed and so vulnerable, and now I realize it was about her. I should have realized. I should have known. It's my fault.

sixteen

Mom and Dad lunge for Auntie Mina, all three of them talking at the same time. Mom hugs her, gently, and my dad holds her at arms' length, looking her up and down as if he's examining her for injuries. Maybe he is. I creep down the last few stairs and stare at her hard, as if I can figure out what happened just by reading it in the lines of her face, the wrinkles of her disheveled blouse.

Auntie Mina looks up at me briefly. Her gaze is steely, and I feel a surge of hope.

She says to my parents, “I don't want to impose, but … ”

“Don't be silly,” my mom says. “Here—come sit and have a cup of tea. Of course we'll help. Of course you can stay.” She slides an arm around Auntie Mina's shoulders and steers her into the kitchen. My dad grabs the handle of the enormous suitcase.

“Sunny,” he says, sighing. He lugs the suitcase inside and sets it in the front hallway. Frown lines crease the middle of his forehead as he glances at me distractedly. “Could you please check the guest room? And put out another towel.”

Resentfully, I rush through prepping the guest room and go back downstairs to the kitchen. Dad glances at me as I pull up a chair. Auntie Mina is sitting next to him, her head resting on his shoulder, tears running down her face. My mom hands her a clean dishtowel and she wipes her face absently. I desperately want to ask what's going on, but my mom shoots me a quelling look. I bite the inside of my lip.

There's a long silence.

“We'll do everything we can,” my dad finally says. “We can get you a new cell phone if you're worried about him harassing you.”

“I don't think that's necessary,” Auntie Mina says, straightening a little. “He just needs time to cool off. He didn't hurt me.” My dad looks at her hard. An unspoken
this time
hangs in the air. “It was just an argument. But I've had enough.”

“Mina, the guest room is yours for as long as you need it,” my mom says. “We can talk more about the trial separation tomorrow. Just relax now.”

“Thank you,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. I'm not sure what to do, so I push the mug of tea closer to her. She grabs my hand, grips it almost desperately.

“Sunny, I should thank you, too. I know this must be disruptive for you. And so close to Christmas.”

“I—no, it's okay.” I'm taken aback, tongue-tied.

“You've always been such a treasure,” she says, out of nowhere. “We'll get to spend some time together. I'm looking forward to that. I've missed you. You're growing up so fast.” She sniffles a little. I want to pull away, but I don't. My body is tense, though. How long is she going to be here?

All I want to do is get past everything that's happened. Now I'm going to be reminded of it every day.

That night, upstairs in my room, I close the door and take Shiri's journal out of my desk drawer. I run a hand over the battered faux-leather cover, but I don't open it. I could show it to Auntie Mina. Would Shiri have wanted that? I don't know. It wouldn't make things normal again. It wouldn't make Auntie Mina happy again, and it wouldn't bring Shiri back. And I feel just as powerless. I can't go back in time and do things differently. I can't go back and be a better cousin, a better friend. And so what if I'd sent her more emails, called her more often? Would it even have mattered?

I clench my jaw against unshed tears. I can't answer those questions. She stopped really confiding in me once she left for college; I think she started to change even before that. But I didn't notice. I don't think any of us did.

“Oh, I'm writing a paper about the existentialists for my philosophy class,” Shiri said. It was a couple of weeks after she started college. She sounded excited about her classes, upbeat and energetic.

“Yeah?” I moved the phone to my other ear and absentmindedly clicked the computer mouse, scrolling through the photos she'd emailed me from Blackwell Cliffs: her new dorm friends, scenes of the campus, an odd one of Shiri looking pensively out a café window at the autumn leaves, her eyes shaded by a floppy knit hat. “What's that all about?”

“You'll read about it in English next year … Existentialists believed we live in an indifferent, uncaring universe. That life is basically meaningless and we're all essentially alone,” she went on. I wasn't sure how something that sounded so depressing could get her so charged up. “So I'm going to try to refute that—that we're not essentially alone, that it IS possible to truly know other human beings. That the universe DOES
care—and sometimes it's even out to get us.”

I can't prove it, but I'm convinced now that she was talking about underhearing. By then, she'd been living with “that” for nine years.

If I'd been Shiri … if I had Uncle Randall for a father and I'd been underhearing his thoughts for years, totally unable to control it … maybe she had good reason to feel like the universe was out to get her.

On Christmas Day, my mom cooks up her usual huge brunch, complete with pancakes and a mystery-meat casserole. We light up the interfaith tree and open our small presents, and Mom laughs out loud at the bright-pink beaded curtain. In the evening, my dad sips at a beer and falls asleep in the armchair, while Auntie Mina and I cuddle up under a blanket and watch
A Christmas Story
, drinking hot chocolate and eating popcorn. Shiri loved that movie. It's almost like she's there with us, giggling next to us on the couch. It's almost like old times. Almost.

Auntie Mina's phone rings late that night, when we're cleaning up the popcorn mess and rinsing the hot chocolate mugs in the kitchen sink. It's Uncle Randall. She insists on talking to him and goes into Dad's study, closing the door on him when he tries to follow. She emerges a few minutes later, her face tear-streaked but set. Dad asks her what happened, but she refuses to talk about it. Exasperated, he goes into the kitchen and bangs dishes around, cleaning up the pots and pans from dinner.

The tension builds over the next few days.

Uncle Randall calls her phone, every day. One morning at breakfast, my dad sets his coffee mug down and asks bluntly, “Why do you keep talking to the man?” He fixes her in a steady gaze, a muscle working in his jaw.

Auntie Mina shifts a little, not quite meeting Dad's eyes. “He's just trying to help me get my resignation paperwork done. I have some unused sick days that they owe me. I should be able to use that money to help out here until I find a teaching job.”

“You know that's not necessary,” my dad says.

“But we're very glad you're following your bliss,” my mom puts in. “And that you won't be working at the same place as Randall. That was never good for you two.”

“Understatement of the year,” I mumble into my plate. It wasn't just “not good,” it was stifling. But Uncle Randall saw her quitting as evidence that she'd had this long-term grand plan to leave him. She can't seem to see how suspicious and vindictive he is.

She claims, even now, that he isn't still harassing her.

He hasn't called our home phone or dared to show up in person yet; at least, not that I know of. But he knows Auntie Mina's here. It's only a matter of time.

The chocolate-chip cookies are fragrant, golden-brown, and perfect. At least they were when I threw them onto a paper plate and covered them with foil. I'm walking fast, but I know they're going to be stuck together by the time I get to the Dohertys' place.

I won't need to worry about it, though. I'm not staying for the party, no matter what Spike says. I refuse to hang around and make nice with Cassie. Or any of the others—it's not like they've tried to call me. Elisa just gives me this apologetic little look every time we see each other at school, and when I try to say hi, she finds an excuse to run off. Fine.

I walk faster.

Spike, at least, has been more or less his old self. So I'll make a brief pre-party appearance. I need a break from my house, anyway. Mom and Auntie Mina have been in the living room all day filling out job applications. My dad has been in his office with the door closed, preparing his classes for the spring semester. Mom keeps trying to get him to come out and “be sociable,” but all he says is, “Ah, you guys don't need
me
.”

I don't blame him for feeling useless. Mom's been a force of nature. She made Auntie Mina an appointment with the counselor; she's helping with the job applications, the trial separation. And Auntie Mina keeps looking at me with these sad eyes, as if there's anything I can do other than remind her of what she's missing.

It's nice to get some air, even if it's chilly winter air. It's almost dusk, and the streetlights are starting to come on. As I hurry past the empty neighborhood park and cross the street to Spike's house, my phone buzzes.

It's a text, from Mikaela. Mikaela, who I haven't seen in the week and a half since our big fight. She did send me a text on Christmas Eve: SORRY I WENT NUCLEAR. HAPPY CORPORATE GIFT-BUYING HOLIDAY. I wasn't sure how to react. She was so livid at the solstice party, I assumed she didn't want to talk to me anymore. I sent back a one-word reply—THX—but still, I haven't been quite ready to forgive and forget.

And now she wants to invite me to a New Year's Eve party at Cody's house as if everything's just fine. Maybe she's over it, but I'm not sure if I am.

For now, I push her to the back of my mind and knock on Spike's front door. Mrs. Doherty opens it and almost bowls me over with a big, floral-scented hug.

“Sunny, it's marvelous to see you. Do I smell cookies? You really didn't have to bring anything.”

“I'm just sorry I can't stay,” I say. I even mean it, a little. I wouldn't mind hanging out if it was just Spike and his parents.

“Did you walk? You sweet girl. Let me get you something to drink.” Mrs. Doherty ushers me into their spacious living area and puts my cookies on the kitchen counter with the other food. The counter, which separates the kitchen from the living room, is covered with dishes of nuts, bowls of chips, vats of dip and salsa, trays of vegetables and cheeses. A huge cooler of sodas is open on the tiled floor next to the counter.

Spike walks in from the backyard, where I can see another cooler of sodas and a scattering of folding chairs set up next to the patio furniture.

“Dude, Mom. It's like a Costco exploded in here.” He grins at his mother and then wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Hey. You brought
more
food?”

“Oh, you're going to complain about that? I can take these yummy, fresh, delicious chocolate-chip cookies back home with me if you don't want them.” I press my lips together, trying not to smile.

“I never said
that
.” He heads straight for the plate of cookies and grabs three. “Wanna check out the setup in the back?”

I accept a glass of Coke from Mrs. Doherty and follow Spike out the sliding glass door and into their spacious backyard.

“Welcome to my palace of decadence.” He gestures extravagantly at the hanging strings of white lights illuminating the back patio, the little metal lanterns decorating the raised wooden deck where Mr. Doherty installed a hot tub last year.

I try to look suitably impressed. Inside, though, I'm feeling sad. Not quite nostalgic, but I've had some good times here.

I wonder if Spike told his mom why I haven't been around lately. Maybe she's talked to
my
mom. Probably not, though. They used to be on the PTA together when we were kids, but I'm positive they don't talk much anymore.

Sometimes it seems like the world is full of dead friendships.

I'm not going to let this bother me. I stuff my feelings down, deliberately relax my tense shoulders. Spike's quiet for once, fixing one of the strings of lights back into place. The backyard is empty except for us, and peaceful. A breeze whirs lightly past my ears, I shiver, and then—faintly—I hear voices:

—
going to be SO fun, Spike's best party yet, can't wait
to see everyone—

—first party with Elisa and me as a couple—
will she—will we—

—hope this color doesn't make me look pale—

Elisa. James. Cassie. I shake my head back and forth a little. My breath catches at their excitement, their happiness. The corners of my mouth turn up involuntarily. Then the elation dissipates like water running down a drain, leaving me feeling insignificant and small. My hands clench at my sides. Their happiness—it's got nothing to do with me.

Obviously they've moved on with their lives.

And now it's my turn.

Spike says something about James's brother's band playing during the party, and then he whispers something to me about the “special punch” that Cassie is bringing, but it doesn't matter. I hear the doorbell ring inside. It's time for me to go.

I hug Spike on my way out the side gate, surprising him.

“Sure you don't want to stay?” He cocks his head like a little puppy. “I have it on good authority that the punch contains only the finest generic vodka. And you don't have to talk to Cassie.”

I shake my head. “I'm supposed to be home.”

I don't belong here. I know that. Even though, when I look at Spike, I think about all the times I spent here before we met Cassie, and I feel like I'm already home.

It's the Monday after Winter Break. I drive to school feeling relieved to get out of the house, but I'm also apprehensive because today's the day I'm determined to talk everything out with Mikaela. We need to settle this. I know I want to. I know she wants to; she sent me enough emails over the break, though all I did in response was text her to say Happy New Year.