Underneath (12 page)

“I will.” I back out of the room and flee up the stairs, Mikaela at my heels.

“So, did you
hear
all that?” I say, once we're safely behind closed doors. “I knew something happened to Auntie Mina. I
heard
it. I just didn't know what.” My voice gets a little shaky and I try to stuff the fear back down, try to keep myself calm.

“Yeah, but … don't take this the wrong way, but are you sure it wasn't just a good guess?” Mikaela picks at a loose thread on her black blazer, not meeting my eyes. “Or maybe your subconscious was noticing the signs at dinner on Sunday, and then manifested them in the form of, like, your mom's voice?”

“Mikaela, believe me!” My voice takes on a pleading note. It seems like the more evidence is in front of her, the more skeptical she gets. “I've thought exactly what you're thinking now—until it kept happening.”

“That doesn't necessarily mean—”

“Mikaela, do you remember the first day you came over to my house, after we went shopping?” She nods warily, her dark eyebrows drawn down into a hard line. “You came in and met my parents, and I wasn't sure if you maybe would hate my house and think we were these rich snobs or McYuppies or something. But you were so cool. And then … ” I take a deep breath. “I heard you. You wished you and your mom could have a new house and a new life to replace what your dad took away, and I just was so—I really admire you, Mikaela. You're a lot stronger than I am.” It takes an effort, but I meet her eyes.

She just stares at me, her expression blank. My heart races. Maybe she's going to say she doesn't recall ever thinking that. Maybe she's going to finally admit she doesn't believe me and thinks I'm making it up.

“I remember that,” she says slowly, tugging on one of her many tiny silver earrings. “I thought you must have the perfect life.” She gets a wry little smile on her face and shakes her head, making all the tiny braids bounce around.

“I know you
don't
,” she says after a minute, in a bleak voice. “Nobody does. But at least you have your underhearing—something that gives you a clue about what's going on and what things mean. I don't have anything like that.” She sits on the bed, a dejected look passing across her face for second. Then her expression slides back to normal and she's tough, cynical Mikaela again. We clean up our nail polish mess and our American Lit homework, and I drive her home.

She doesn't mention underhearing again, or talk about her situation with her mom. In fact, she's quiet the whole drive back to her apartment. Distant. Almost like she's scared by what happened.

Or like she doesn't want me to know what she's thinking.

eleven

“So last night I helped my parents decorate the ‘interfaith tree,'” I tell Mikaela as we pull away from her apartment complex the following Sunday.

Slurping on her coffee, she almost does a spit-take. So I explain: golden Stars-of-David hang next to crucifixes; a fat Buddha dangles above a small ceramic tile with intricate Islamic calligraphy. Mom's idea. All the yoga geezers love it. The tree's even made from recycled materials.

By now, we're already downtown. Citrus Canyon's fake-old-timey Main Street slides past through the window, complete with wreath-festooned lampposts and windows sprayed with artificial snow.

“You're just full of surprises,” she says. “Can you imagine having one of those in the Orangewood Mall? That
would be
great.
”

“It would not,” I say. The interfaith tree is our one concession to the holiday season. My dad doesn't put up lights; my mom doesn't bake cookies. It disappoints Grandma and Grandpa Pryce, who always send us wreaths and garlands we never use. Meanwhile, my dad's family tries to wheedle my parents into celebrating Eid and observing Ramadan. My parents just don't do religious holidays.

In contrast, Uncle Randall and Auntie Mina hire a decorator every year to encrust their house with twinkling lights. Once, when Shiri and I were little kids, they even set up fake snow in the front yard with light-up plastic reindeer. We were climbing on the reindeer's backs and Shiri kept telling them to giddy-up. I laughed so hard I fell off. Uncle Randall got mad at Shiri for not watching me more closely, and his yelling made us both cry. Of course, it was Number Two who was supposed to be watching both of us.

“Ever wish we could just skip Christmas?” I sigh, glancing at Mikaela.

“What? No,” Mikaela says, surprising me. “But I would skip certain things, I guess. Visiting my dad. Today's mall trip.” I nod in agreement, even though Christmas shopping is easy in our house. I get my parents a couple of token presents and they usually give me a goofy gag gift and a check.

When we get there, the mall is swarming with moms and kids. Mikaela and I forge our way along like salmon swimming upstream. There's an ear-blistering cacophony of screaming kids waiting in line to visit Santa, and we go past the midpoint of the mall almost at a run. Just on the other side of the big central atrium is a store called Fresh, one of those places that sells an assortment of weird crap—T-shirts, posters, gag gifts.

I wander toward the back wall and start browsing through a selection of plastic and wooden beaded curtains in boxes, looking for one my mom might like. She could hang it up during yoga classes, add some authentic hippie atmosphere. Mikaela is checking out the T-shirts for something to send to her brother, who lives with her dad. I'm just stuffing the end of a horrible pink plastic beaded monstrosity back into its box when I sense a presence standing over me.

“Hey,” someone growls, practically in my ear, making me jump. Someone male, who smells faintly of clove cigarettes and soap. I turn around. It's Cody. My stomach lurches, and I can't control the smile that spreads across my face.

He looks good. He's wearing black, as usual—a long coat, a ratty old Pixies T-shirt, and black jeans—and he flashes me a quick grin as he leans back against the shelf of Magic 8 Balls behind him.

“So what's up?” He just stands there, one corner of his mouth quirked up as if he's trying not to laugh.

“Not much. Just shopping for my mom,” I say, grimacing.
“I mean, for a Christmas present.”

“Yeah?” He cocks an eyebrow.

“Well, we don't really do the Christmas thing at our house. Just family stuff. My parents aren't religious or anything. You should see their so-called interfaith tree. It's
so
lame.” I'm blathering. My cheeks get hot, and I turn around for a second under the guise of deciding on a beaded curtain. In a fit of nervousness I grab the first box I see in front of me and turn back around.

“Interfaith tree? I'm scared to even ask,” Cody says, laughing.

“Yeah, they've got some weird hippie habits. They used to live in Santa Cruz,” I say, as if that explains everything. Embarrassed, I change the subject. “So, what'll you be doing over the break?”

“Haven't decided yet. Trying to figure out how I can get out of the family thing. I probably haven't told you yet, but my parents are … ” He makes a cuckoo gesture next to his ear. “The holidays just make it worse. My mom is a total Martha Stewart.” He lounges against the shelf, one hand unconsciously ruffling his hair back into its usual messy black spikes, which are tipped with blond today.

“I like your hair,” I tell him. He looks at me and smiles a little, not saying anything. I'm conscious of how close together we're standing, and it's almost like I can feel an aura of warmth filling the aisle between us. There's definitely something here … I think. But he's always giving me mixed signals.

“Let's see what's in store for my winter vacation,” he says, picking up a Magic 8 Ball from the shelf behind him and giving it a brisk shake, still staring at me. I can't read his expression at all. And I haven't once underheard anything from him. Not yet.

One more reason to try to gain control over my ability, learn to use it somehow.

He looks at the little triangle in the 8 Ball window and swears.

“What?” I finally ask, nervously. He has a strange, almost wild look in his eyes. Reflexively, I clutch the beaded curtain box a little tighter.

“Oh, just … ‘It doesn't look promising.'” His voice is scornful. “These things are such garbage.”

“Well, what did you ask it?”

There's a long pause. A kid pushes past, wearing a pirate hat from the display at the front of the store, and disappears around the corner of the aisle.

“You know, I bet Mikaela would love one of these things.” He glances over his shoulder and, at the same time, I see him casually slip the Magic 8 Ball into the large inner pocket of his coat. I inhale sharply. Cody must be crazy. I mean, security cameras? Guards? Even Cassie nicking makeup from the drugstore used to make me super paranoid, and that was tiny stuff—lipstick or nail polish.

I peer around the aisle. It's nearly empty except for one really stoned-looking guy at the other end who looks mesmerized by a glow-in-the-dark Led Zeppelin poster.

“Shh,” Cody says with a secret smile. “It's fine.” He steps closer and brushes a sweaty lock of hair out of my face. “Want one? I have another pocket.” I shiver a little at his touch, but I shake my head mutely. My thoughts are racing, and most of them involve us being ushered to a mall-basement holding cell and interrogated by security goons. What if they blame me for something? What if they call my parents?

My breath is coming in quick pants. Is it panic, or is it because Cody's standing so close? I stand there, the beaded curtain box almost crumpling in my clenched hands, and try to slow my breathing down to a reasonable pace. Finally I succeed, and the panic begins to dissipate.

Then I feel the hush inside me, and I know what's coming. I look up at Cody. I can feel the goose bumps rise on my arms. And then I hear—

I don't know what I hear. Maybe it's because the mall is so loud, or because there are so many other people around, but his thoughts are a turbulent murmur that I can't quite catch, like voices underwater. I try to listen hard, but I can't make out any words.

But I do
feel
something. A flash of intensity—anger and determination followed by a rush of exhilaration—and then suddenly there's no more emotion,
at all
, and I see Cody do his little smile thing again. It's over. All that's left is a faint smell of cloves in my nostrils and that feeling of exhilaration, lingering, surging through my veins.

I just about pee my pants when Mikaela comes up behind me.

“Gotcha,” she says, and then she sees Cody. “Oh
hey
, Cody, can't believe you're at the
mall
,” she scoffs, giving him a mock glare and a burgundy-lipped pout.

“Come on, let's get going,” I say, hustling toward the front counter so I can pay for my mom's present. I'm a nervous wreck, convinced that the clerk is going to notice the giant lump in Cody's coat pocket. What would happen if he got caught stealing a Magic 8 Ball?
You could ask the 8 Ball
, I think, a little crazily, as I pay the cashier. Grabbing the bright green Fresh bag, I walk as nonchalantly as possible toward the front of the store.

“Time to go, guys,” I say breezily, but inside my stomach is Jell-O. I can't help feeling oddly guilty about our encounter, like we were conspiring together. And it feels … exciting. Like he trusts me to keep this secret for him. Like we shared something that nobody else knows about. Not even Mikaela.

The three of us walk as far as the atrium with the screaming kids and exhausted-looking Santa. Cody says, “Well, I'm off like your prom dress,” and splits for the nearest exit.

“Yeah, nice talking to you for five seconds.” Mikaela rolls her eyes and stomps toward the Bath and Body store. Before following her I glance back at Cody, strolling right past a security guard like he's wearing a halo. He looks back at me for a second and winks.

By the time we've bought bath stuff for Mikaela's mom and a desk set for my dad, my head is pounding.

“Christmas shopping sucks, huh.” Mikaela gives my shoulders a sympathetic squeeze as we flee the mall and walk back through the packed parking lot to my car.

Despite my headache, I smile a little to myself.

The next morning, I don't feel quite so much like a happy little co-conspirator anymore. The more I think about it, the more I don't like what Cody did. It's not so much the stealing, but the fact that he's put me in an awkward position where I'm expected to keep his secret for him.

Even more than that, I feel unexpectedly jealous. I keep thinking about how, when he swiped the 8 Ball, Cody thought of Mikaela first. It's an awful feeling, because I know it's completely unfair.

I'm supposed to give Mikaela a ride to school, and, when I pick her up, it's hard to even meet her eyes. After she slides into the car, I clench my hands around the wheel and gun it out of the apartment parking lot, almost peeling out as I turn onto Main Street.

“Jeez Louise, what the hell is the matter with you?” Mikaela clutches at the oh-god handle, staring at me like I've gone completely nuts.

“Sorry.” I ease my foot on the gas pedal. If Cody's asking me to keep this a secret, that means he trusts me. Sees me as a friend; maybe more. But Mikaela's my friend, too, and I'm being pretty harsh about something she doesn't even know about.

“If you keep driving like that … ” Mikaela finally lets go and rests her hands in her lap. She gazes steadily at me. “Oh, I get it. Did something happen?”

“No,” I say, but I don't sound very convincing.

“Is it your aunt?”

“No!” I lower my voice. “No, it's not that.”

“Yeesh, okay. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want. It's cool.” She turns her head and stares out the window.

After a few minutes of tense silence, I relent. “You'll probably think I'm just being stupid. Did you know Cody stole something from Fresh?”

“God, not again,” Mikaela says. She looks back over at me and smiles a little. “And it's bugging you, isn't it? You're so cute.”

“Well, yeah, it's bugging me a little.” I remember the casual way he did it, how he didn't even look at what he was doing, just hid the 8 Ball away in his pocket in one smooth gesture. It should have been obvious that he'd done it before. “Cassie used to steal stuff, but never anything big. Nail polish, eyebrow pencils. That kind of thing. I just hate being put in that position. I kept worrying he'd get caught.”

“Ah, he's an old pro,” she says sarcastically. “I wouldn't worry about it. Just think of it as part of his mystique.” Mikaela looks at me intently for a moment. “Did
you
ever steal anything?”

My ears get hot under her stare, and I focus on the road. “I—no. I guess I was too much of a chicken to ever try it. Cassie always wanted me to steal makeup with her, but I couldn't do it.”

“Yeah, I really can't picture you doing that,” Mikaela says. “Anyway, I probably wouldn't have as much respect for you if you were the shoplifting type.”

I can't help wondering if that means she has less respect for Cody because he steals stuff. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't care if the shoe were on the other foot. He's actually pretty tolerant of people's weird little habits, like Becca's tendency to be hyper or David's constant drawing in his sketchbook. It's conformity he can't seem to deal with.

“Like I was telling Cody the other day,” she continues, tapping her dark-red fingernails on the dashboard to the beat of the radio, “you're just a totally sincere person. I don't think you could be dishonest even if you wanted to. The only illicit thrill you get is driving us around unsupervised.”

“And there's still two more weeks until I'm law-abiding,” I put in. “My birthday's on the 20th.”

“Ooh, you're such a rule-breaker.” She smiles. “Come on; it's a good thing. You being nice is a good thing.”

“Huh.” I'm not sure how I feel about that assessment. “I guess.”

“Seriously, you're not like most of the other people we hang out with at school. It's one of the reasons I like you.”