Underneath (25 page)

twenty-seven

Later that evening, I pull out Shiri's journal. I haven't looked at it in a couple of weeks but I've been thinking about what she said, about Auntie Mina being more sensitive to other people's emotions. I've been wondering, again, where it fits in with my underhearing. With
our
underhearing—mine and Shiri's. I know I won't be able to figure out anything I haven't already, but I still feel like looking at it.

As I'm taking the journal out of the desk drawer where it's been lying incognito, it slips out of my hands and falls to the floor, splayed open face-down. I pick it up and smooth out a few creased pages, and that's when I notice a folded page, almost at the back of the book. The top half is torn off—it's just the bottom half of the page—and it's been folded so the outside edge doesn't show, which was why I didn't see it before. I might never have seen it if I hadn't dropped the book, unless I'd gone through every single page one by one. And I guess I didn't.

My fingers tremble a little as I unfold it, though I tell myself there probably isn't anything there. But there is. The small half-page is full, cramped with writing.

Something looks familiar about it, and on instinct I flip to the front of the book where I'd stashed her note to me. I pull it out. It's on a half-sheet of paper. I flip back to the folded page and set the note above it, torn edges together.

It's a perfect fit.

Dear Sunny: I don't expect you to understand any of this yet, but we'll always have yesterday … and today, and tomorrow. Maybe one day you'll figure it out. I never could.

I said in my last entry that I couldn't explain it even if I wanted to. By now—if I'm right about what's been happening to me—I think you'll know what I mean. I know that's a cop-out, but I'm too weak and scared to try anymore, and all I can think is that if I tell anyone else, I'll lose them, too. I don't want to lose you. I've already lost Brendan; I've lost Mom. When I tried to tell her about Dad, she didn't want to listen. And I couldn't prove anything. It's a curse, being able to do something nobody else can. If it ever happens to you, you have to promise me you'll be strong. Be stronger than I was.

I love you, Sunny. And tell Mom I love her, too.

I sit on my bed for a while after that, staring at nothing.

Then I pick up the journal again and go downstairs.

Auntie Mina is in the living room with her laptop, the TV on quietly in the background. I can hear Mom in the kitchen, and I don't know where Dad is. That's fine, because I have something I need to say to Auntie Mina in private.

She looks up when I walk in and immediately sets her laptop on the coffee table. Silently, I sit down next to her. I think about my words for a moment more, and although she eyes the book in my lap, she doesn't press me.

“The day Shiri died,” I begin, then stop. I have to swallow past a lump in my throat. “Before I even found out what happened, I got this in the mail.” I pick up the journal, the plain navy-blue book that literally fell at my feet so many months ago, and place it gently into her hands.

With trembling fingers, she opens the cover; flips through page after page, reading some, skimming others. I stay quiet. I don't point out anything, I don't ask questions. I don't even watch her reading—I pretend to look at the television screen, though if you asked me what I was watching, I would have no clue.

After several minutes, I hear her close the cover with a quiet rustle of paper.

Auntie Mina puts her hand on mine.

“Thank you, Sunny.”

I wipe my wet cheeks. “It's yours. I think you should have it. I've already read it.”

“Well,” she says, and then pauses, seems to rethink whatever she was about to say.

What she says is, “Shiri … she was always different.” Her voice is sad, but she doesn't seem devastated like I was afraid she might be. Like she would have been even a few months ago.

Shiri
was
different. That was what made her who she was, that was why she was special and why she was so much more than a cousin to me. Why I wanted to
be
so much like her.

Past tense: wanted.

I realize something more, and I say it to Auntie Mina.

“I'm different, too,” I say, but what I mean is, I'm different from Shiri, not just from everyone else.

“Yes, you are,” she says, and hugs me tightly. Somehow, without explaining it, I'm certain she understands.

The next day, when I see that neither Mikaela nor Cody is at the picnic table behind the art building, I sit down gingerly. I don't know what's going to happen. I'm a little afraid that Becca and David and Andy are all going to turn and glare at me, tell me to leave, but they don't.

David says hi, shyly, looking up briefly from his sketchbook. Andy nods and continues snarfing down a meatball sandwich, talking with his mouth full about a concert he wants to go to in Hollywood somewhere. Twelve o'clock and all's well.

Becca says, “Hey, is Mikaela okay?”

“I don't know,” I say cautiously. “I haven't talked to her since two days ago. Is she sick?” I worry again that I should have called her after I left Cody's, but then, I didn't have a chance.

“I think she's hung over.” Becca smirks. “She called me around eight last night and gave me a mini-lecture about how Siouxsie and the Banshees are historically underappreciated as the root of modern underground music.”

“Oh.” I hesitate, then tell a white lie. “All I know is, Mon-
day after school I dropped her and Cody off at his place. Maybe they were partying last night, too.”

“Without us? Bitches,” Becca says cheerfully. “Cody never has parties at his place.”

David nods in agreement. “Mostly we go out to Soto Park,” he says quietly. “Not lately, though. Too muddy.”

“And now they're missing the most
awesomest lunch in the world
.” Becca pulls a crinkle-cut pickle slice and a piece of wilted, paper-thin lettuce out of her veggie burger and throws them at the nearest tree. “Well, maybe she got a little hot goth-boy action.”

I stiffen, feeling a reflexive stab of jealousy. Then I push the feeling away. I have nothing to feel jealous about. I shouldn't want Cody. And I don't
.

I
really
don't.

Then I wonder: what if Mikaela, drunk, decided to do something stupid? Would she sleep with Cody, even knowing all the things he's done? Does she even care about the fact that he's an asshole? I'm furious with her, but I can't just let things lie, even if she was in on the whole blog debacle. When I get home, despite the lurch in my stomach, I pull out my cell phone and dial her number.

I'm not sure why I care so much, but like my mom says, sometimes you just have to give people a chance to talk.

It rings four times, but nobody picks up.

I try again an hour later, and I try her house, too, but there's still no answer. I leave a message on her cell telling her to call me, but she doesn't. It could be that she's not feeling well, but she doesn't even answer my text message.

I don't know if something else happened, something bad. I don't know if she's angry at me or not.

I don't even know if we're still friends.

twenty-eight

The next day I'm still on edge. All I can think about is whe-ther Mikaela is going to be at school; whether Cody's going to be there; whether I can bear to face them without completely blowing up; whether they're both going to hate me now. During French class, Marc from the Zombie Squad gives me a sneer. It's probably because of that stupid blog, but I honestly don't care what he thinks anymore.

At lunch, I buy a slice of pizza from the cart. As I'm wai-
ting in line, I glance at the table where I used to sit with Cassie and everyone. It seems like a long time ago now. They're all eating, laughing together. I see Elisa put her arm around James, see him kiss her on the cheek. I'm glad she's okay now; glad both of them are happy.

Mikaela, though—I'm not sure I'm ready to talk to her, even though I've been worried about her. Deep down, I'm terrified that our friendship is done. That maybe it was always all about Cody for her; not so much about me. I decide I need some alone time before I brave that conversation, so I go straight to my car instead of chancing the picnic table. I'm so lost in thought as I slink past the volleyball courts that I don't see Spike until he's jumped right in front of me.

“Dude! Space girl. I waved at you, like, twenty-eight times.” His hair is standing up in little tufts and he wipes the sweat off his forehead with the bottom of his T-shirt. “You gotta lay off the crack pipe.”

Despite what happened between us on the beach, when I see Spike the tension inside me relaxes a little. “You've been playing volleyball a lot lately,” I say.

He grins goofily. “Sometimes I get tired of the Bitchy Bunch.”

I snort a laugh. I can't help it. “I call them the Zombie Squad,” I admit.

“Nice.” Spike glances at my pizza slice. “Where you headed?”

“I was going out to my car to get something.” I duck my head.

“I'll go with you,” Spike says. He jogs over to where the guys are hanging out under the net, taking a break, and talks to them for a second. I consider just leaving. I'm not sure I want company. But by the time the thought runs through my head, he's back and we're walking toward my car.

It still gives me a little twinge to hang out with Spike. I'm still not sure how I feel about him. And I don't know if I want to change things between us.

I open the trunk of the station wagon and we hop up to sit partway in, our legs dangling down over the bumper. Spike leans back on his elbows while I nibble at my rapidly congealing pizza.

“For the record,” Spike says suddenly, “I know you didn't have anything to do with that blog. Cassie keeps saying you must have been spreading dirt around, but she's just looking for someone to blame.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Cassie,” I say, a little glumly.

“Anyway, we all know the very idea of you blogging is ridiculous.”

“Oh
really
?” I raise my eyebrows at him.

“Dude,” he says. “Come on.
You
writing a blog? You barely go online. You don't even answer email. Even when you're
not
mad at people.” He flicks me on the arm. “Plus, I know you're not the vengeful type.”

“I'm not mad at you. I just—things have been weird lately. At home.”

“Why, did your parents kick it up a notch? What is it now? Hot yoga? Bollywood music videos in your living room?”

I almost laugh.

“No. Not that.” I swallow hard. “I think my aunt is going to divorce my uncle.”

“Your aunt Mina? Isn't that a good thing? It sounded like your uncle was kind of a … um, douchebag,” he says apologetically.

“Well, yeah. For a while I was afraid she was going to go back to him. But now that it seems like she's ready to leave him for good, I'm just … ” My eyes sting for a moment and I hold my breath until I'm calm again. “It's weird, that's all. She's living with us right now. My uncle's not taking it well. Things are really tense.”

Spike reaches a hand up as if he's going to touch my shoulder, then pulls back. I feel a little hurt, but it's my own fault. I try to smile reassuringly at him.

“It's okay,” I tell him. “It's just been kind of crazy. I—”

“I thought I'd find you here in your hidey-hole.”

I whip my head around. Mikaela is standing in front of me, smiling slightly, one hand on her hip and one booted foot tapping.

Several different emotions start warring inside me: outrage, relief, anxiety. I put down my pizza, trying to look casual.

“I didn't know you were here today,” I say neutrally.

“Yeah, well, I'm here on the good graces of Madam Ibuprofen,” she says. “And I'm not going anywhere near the lunch line.”

“Yeah? Must have been a wild night. All forty-eight hours of it,” I can't resist saying.

“Yeah, ha ha. Look, no offense,” Mikaela says, turning toward Spike, “but we need a girly moment here.”

“Don't listen to her. She orders everyone around all the time.” I don't want Spike to leave. I'm not ready for this conversation.

“It's fine.” Spike swings himself off the trunk, grinning at both of us. “I should get back to my game anyway. But I get it. I'm too much man for you all, I know. Say no more.” He rubs a hand back and forth over his hair until it stands on end, then saunters back toward the volleyball courts. I watch him walk off, feeling helpless.

“For Christ's sake,” Mikaela mutters, leaning on the back bumper of the Volvo and picking at a hole in her purple tights. “He's so …
sweaty
.”

I don't answer. I know she didn't come here to talk about Spike.

“Sunny—” Mikaela looks up at the sky, then down at her tights again. “Look. Sorry I didn't call you back. Everything went a little nuts.”

“I'll say.” I look at her as steadily as I can. “When you didn't answer your phone last night, I figured you were irrevocably pissed at me, but you know what? I was pissed, too. You and Cody ganged up on me
again
, Mikaela.” My voice rises a little. “What was I supposed to think?”

I don't even bother to tell her how worried I was, how afraid I was that she might have done something stupid with Cody, because right now, it's all I can do to keep my anger from overwhelming me.

“I
didn't
—” Mikaela lets out a frustrated noise. “Okay. I'll tell you the whole story. But you have to know I had nothing to do with that stupid blog! Couldn't your underhearing tell you that much?” She looks at me briefly. There are tears brimming in the corners of her eyes, but they don't spill.

I don't say anything.

“Fine,” she says. “I know, I know. You're Miss Perfect. You'd never use your underhearing for anything other than to help other people. Oh, except for
Cody
,” she concludes bitterly.

“That's not fair,” I say quietly. But it still stings.

The silence stretches out between us like a minefield. And she still hasn't told me what happened.

“Well,” she says, finally breaking the silence, “That's how I felt. After you left his house, I was really pissed at you. It seemed like you just walked off, like you didn't even want to help. I mean, shit, it's
Cody
. But a couple of hours later, his parents get home, and I'm scrambling my ass out of there as fast as I can, and I hear his dad yelling something about how Cody was supposed to be at work an hour ago, and what the hell kind of crap did he think he was trying to pull, not showing up for the job he'd helped him get, and how did he expect to ever pay for the repairs on the car.”

“So … okay, so then what?” I gaze at Mikaela levelly, knowing there has to be more.

“So then, nothing. So then I hightail it to the nearest bus stop hoping his parents didn't notice I was there and drinking their booze. That's when I was most pissed at you. You were
supposed
to be my ride, and then on top of that I left my phone on the bus.”

“Well, I figured you didn't need a ride. I figured you wanted some alone time with Cody,” I say sarcastically. “Since you guys are so tight these days. And I'm apparently totally useless, since I'm not going to use my underhearing at everyone's beck and call.”

“Oh, come
on
,” Mikaela says. Her voice is frustrated. “I don't think that at all.”

“Okay, but you were going along with him and pressuring me to do something I
really can't
do. I wouldn't lie about that. And even if I could do it … I wouldn't. You know that.”

“I know!” She sounds miserable, cowed.

“So, what? You were drunk? Lust-crazed? You can't resist his eyebrow ring?”

She lets out a loud, aggravated groan. “Okay, so maybe I made out with him a little. I shouldn't have. It was dumb.”

I think about that for a long minute, but I'm surprised to find I don't care much one way or the other. “Whatever.”

Her voice is bleak. “I just kept trying to convince myself that he—that we had a chance. That if we got together, then somehow everything would just fall into place. And … I guess I already knew that was wrong. But I felt so desperate. And on top of that I was scared you were still mad at me about the stupid solstice party. I started acting crazy. I kind of went on a bender.”

She shifts a little, turning to face me more directly. Her brown eyes are intense and her hands are knotted tensely in her lap.

“Listen. I'm done with him, Sunny. He's not important. He wasn't worth it.”

I inhale, slowly. Exhale, slowly. Hear:

—and you are.—

For a moment, all I can feel is her urgency, her loneliness and regret. I shake myself.

“Look,” she says, sliding off the bumper and standing in front of me. “I suck at saying sorry.”

Before I can respond, she throws a small object into the back of the car, next to where I'm sitting, and briskly walks off, platform boots beating a fast rhythm against the pavement of the parking lot.

I look down to my left, at whatever it was she threw at me. It's long and narrow and wrapped in newspaper—the news briefs section, with one readable headline: “Morbidly Obese Man Found Comatose in Bathtub.” I rip the paper. Inside is a black fountain pen, the simple kind that stationery stores always have. But all over it are Mikaela's signature decorative swirls and thorny vines, in shiny silver paint. It's beautiful.

There's a note wrapped around it. The note reads, in Mikaela's precise looping handwriting, “To match the blank book I gave you. It occurs to me that there are less invasive ways to get people to read your thoughts than, well, you know. Here's to writing them down, the old-fashioned way.”

At lunch the following day, I head over to the picnic bench behind the art building, where Mikaela is sitting with David, Becca, and Andy.

I stop about ten feet away, take a deep breath, and walk right up to Mikaela.

“You don't suck at apologizing,” I tell her quietly. I sit down on the side of the bench next to her and, very deliberately, loop my hair up into a bun and fasten it in place with the pen she gave me.

She gives me a tentative smile. I return it, just as tentatively. But I feel better, like there's been an invisible wall between us and now it's gone.

“So,” I say conversationally, “you never told me what happened to Cody. I can't help noticing his conspicuous absence.”

“Funny you should ask,” she replies. “I was just telling these guys that Cody's probably not coming back. He emailed me this morning—his parents pulled him out of school and everything. I think they're looking for a private school. He's staying with his aunt and uncle right now in Malibu.”

“Malibu? Poor him,” Andy says. “What a horrible, horrible punishment.”

“No, seriously, his aunt is some kind of cop and his uncle is a bodyguard for rich people. I bet they're paying his uncle to keep an eye on him.” Mikaela reaches over and steals a chocolate-chip cookie out of Andy's lunch. He tries to smack her hand away and misses.

David smiles faintly. “Remember how he used to drive us around all the time? Before he crashed the car, I mean. Even all the way out to Melrose. Good times.”

“Ah, he'll still be an asshole even at private school,” Becca says, winking at me. “He'll just be a rich private school asshole.”

“But he was
our
asshole,” Mikaela says with a forlorn sigh. We all stare at her. The corner of my mouth twitches, and then I dissolve into helpless laughter. Even the super-serious Andy looks like he's trying to fight a case of the giggles.

“Okay,” I say, finally getting myself under control. “Now, wait, he emailed you? What else did he say? So help me, I'm curious.”

“Well, not much. He claims he's going to ‘work his connection' with that Wiccan coven thing he's always going on about, but I think it's just that he has a crush on that chick with the cloak. The one from the solstice party. I'm pretty sure she isn't interested in a high school junior, unless she has a thing for little boys.”

“Ew.”

“No kidding. Hmm,” Mikaela says musingly, “I wonder if they've ever had hot and horny witch sex in the woods?”

“Oh, gross, you
have
to shut up,” Becca says, throwing a handful of corn chips at Mikaela.