Underneath (22 page)

twenty-three

The early February air is crisp and dry. A breeze cuts under the open zipper of my jacket as I rush out of my last-period class and into the bathroom along with about eight million other girls.

I retie my ponytail, craning my neck to see around a girl who's hogging the mirror as she applies lipstick. Then I duck into a stall. The swirl of noise and voices echoes around the room for a minute, and then dwindles as the restroom empties out.

I flush the toilet, unlatch the door, and as I'm washing my hands at the sink I hear the clop-clop of high-heeled boots. And who walks in but Cassie, tottering a little on her fancy designer shoes, and Elisa.

Great.

I knew I should have avoided the bathrooms in the social science block.

I don't meet their eyes. I just nod noncommittally and try to dry my hands as quickly as possible.

The electric dryer seems to be operating excruciatingly slowly. I'm about to wipe my hands on my cargo pants and leave when I notice that Elisa is crying.

Against my better judgment, I go up to the two of them where they're standing over in the far corner. I mean, Elisa
was
my friend. And it's not like she did anything to me directly. She just kind of followed along. Like I used to. When I see her crying it's like we're all struggling through freshman year again, and I can't just leave.

“Lise, are you okay?” My voice is tentative. “What's wrong?” Cassie is murmuring comfortingly in Elisa's ear, but when she hears my voice, her head whips up and she glares at me.

“It's none of
your
business,” Cassie says. “Like you care about us anymore anyway. Go back to your new friends.”

“I'm fine,” Elisa says, her voice hoarse. “It's—don't worry about it.” She turns away from me, toward Cassie.

“Okay,” I say, hurt. “I'm not going to pretend I have any idea what's going on, but here.” I fish a tissue out of my purse and hold it out to her.

“Oh,
come on
,” Cassie says. She rips the tissue out of my hand almost violently and throws it in the trash can. “You have to know. Everyone does. You're on there, too.” She stares at me challengingly, but I have no idea what she's talking about.

“On what?” I sneak a sideways glance at the defaced bathroom wall, half-expecting to see our names and phone numbers listed along with “for a good time, call.”

“On the
blog
, stupid.”

“I'm not on any blog,” I protest. “I haven't even been on- line in a week.”

“I'm talking about that
Voice of the Underground
thing. It got emailed to everyone on the school list. You seriously don't know?” Cassie rolls her eyes and flips her hair over one shoulder. She's looking at me like I'm beyond idiotic.

“I seriously don't know,” I tell her, bewildered. I shift my gaze to Elisa, but she's not looking at me. She's still dabbing at tears with her sleeve.

“Yeah, right,” Cassie says. “Just check your email.”

I stand there for a minute, wondering what the hell is going on, wondering if I should offer Elisa another tissue, but they ignore me. The atmosphere feels brittle, like a dead leaf. So I go. Obviously they don't want me around. I should never have stopped to talk to them in the first place. I shove aside my worry about Elisa and leave.

I have better things to do. I have better friends to see.

First, though, I call home, slowly walking across campus as I hit the speed-dial button and wait for our old answering machine to pick up.

“Auntie Mina? Are you home? This is Sunny.” I wait a minute, and she answers.

“Yes, Sunny? How are you? How was school?” She sounds tired.

“Fine,” I say. “I wanted to let you know, I was invited to my friend Cody's house after school. I should still be home before Mom and Dad. Will you be okay until I get there?” It's like I'm the adult and Auntie Mina is the child. But I'm worried. Uncle Randall hasn't come over since that last time, but he's been calling a lot ever since they started talking again. Sometimes two or three times a day. That's why we told her not to pick up until whoever it was talked into the machine. She doesn't have to talk to him all the time.

There's been a lot of hang-up messages. Click, and then a dial tone.

“Oh, sweetie, I'll be fine,” she says, but her voice sounds artificially cheerful. “You deserve some time with your friends.”

I feel a stab of guilt. “Well, call me if you need me.”

“Pshht. Go enjoy yourself,” she says, and hangs up. But I don't feel any better. Especially since there's absolutely nothing I can do.

Mikaela and Cody are already waiting for me by the gate to the back parking lot, and they fall into step on either side of me as I head for my car. As we walk, I can't help feeling extra-conscious of Cody on my right, of the warmth of his skin as his bare arm brushes mine for a second.

“So why
do
girls take so long in the bathroom?” Cody asks, with fake earnestness.

“It wasn't me,” I start to explain; but Mikaela pats me on the head.

“It's okay; we won't tell anyone about your secret girly makeup obsession. Your hidden collection of Cover Girl stuff. The perfume bottles stashed in your locker. The eyebrow pencils in your pencil case.”

I start laughing, letting myself be distracted. “Okay, seriously, who carries a pencil case? Name one person.”

“Billy Dorf,” she says solemnly. Her dark eyes twinkle.

“Fine. Okay. Name
two
.”

“I'm sorry to have to tell you this,” Cody says, “but …
here.” He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a battered black plastic pencil case with a Transformers logo on the front and an “Anarchy in the UK” sticker plastered on the back. We all crack up. During the car ride, Cody plugs his iPod into the adapter and cranks the volume and we speed along with the windows open, an old Rob Zombie album streaming out into the breeze. By the time we pull into Cody's neighborhood I'm a little happier.

I'm nervous, though, stepping into Cody's house.

“Are you sure your parents aren't going to be pissed? You're supposed to start work later tonight.” I look down at the marble-tiled entryway as I walk in. It's spotless and mirror-shiny, as if it's been recently buffed. A planter box full of fake flowers lines one side of the foyer, which extends out into an open-plan living room and kitchen. Everything looks clean, modern, and strangely empty.

“They're not even going to know,” he says. “They won't be home for a few hours. By the time they get back, I'll already be at the theater.” He smiles enigmatically. “Want anything from the kitchen? I can fix a mean whiskey and Coke.”

“Uh, that's okay,” I say. “It's a little early.”

“I'll take one,” Mikaela says, grinning at me mischievously. “Sunny can be a party pooper, but
somebody's
gotta have some fun around here.”

“Fine, whatever,” I say, but I'm not really in the mood. I feel like his parents could show up any second. I take a doctored Coke, though, and help carry enough chips and snacks to feed a small army. It's supposed to be an “anti-retirement” party, just the three of us, before he leaves for his first evening on the job.

I've tried—and failed—repeatedly to imagine him in that stupid red vest they make all the movie concessions workers wear. I don't think I've seen him wear anything but black or gray.

So much for that Thumbscrew job he kept talking about.

We plop down in the sunken living room and spread everything out on the glass coffee table. The hardwood floor is almost completely covered in a fancy white shag rug. I make sure my drink is on a coaster and far away from the edge of the table before I grab a handful of cheese puffs and start crunching away.

Mikaela rips open a bag of pretzels. Cody turns on the entertainment center and switches to a music video channel. We sit there for a few minutes, yelling and laughing over the music and cramming our faces with junk food. It's nice, not having to think.

After a while, Cody clicks a button on the remote and mutes the sound. The silence is almost painful after the crunching and wailing of guitars.

He pulls a fancy laptop from the bottom shelf of the coffee table.

“I have to show you guys something,” he says with barely suppressed glee.

“Is it that band you were telling me about? The one with the girl drummer? You better not
like
her,” Mikaela says teasingly. I flinch inwardly.

“Nope.” Cody is fidgety, waiting for the computer to boot up. “You'll see.”

“C'mon, tell us,” she says, scooting a little closer to him on the couch. I'm sitting on his other side, and I lean toward him for a better view as he opens up the web browser.

This close to him, I can't help thinking about what happened the last time we sat so close to each other. It's been over two weeks, but I can't get it out of my head.

“You can call this the last gasp of freedom before my corporate enslavement,” Cody says.

“When are you going to learn? We're all already slaves to The Man.” Mikaela pokes him in the arm.

“I'm going to have to agree with Mikaela on this one,” I say.

“Fine,” Cody says, “but The Man had nothing to do with this.” He quickly enters a URL into the browser, too fast for me to read it before the page pops up.

When I see what the graphic at the top of the page says, I feel like I'm going to spew cheese balls all over the table.

“
Voice of the Underground
,” Cody says. “AKA me.”

“Oh, hilarious.” Mikaela reaches out to scroll down the page, stroking one black-painted fingernail along the touch screen.

“Hang on a sec—let me see that,” I say, finally finding my voice. I'm thinking of Elisa crying in the bathroom earlier and what Cassie said, and I have a nasty feeling of dread. I lean closer and read the top blog post.

DESPERATE FUTURE HOUSEWIVES AT C.V.H.S.!
screams the headline.
Who's in bed with who? It's not who you think it is. Did C.P. get with D.W. at a secret party? Is E.N.'s boy toy going to be suicidally depressed when he finds out she's been snogging somebody else? Or is he going to kick some ass?

GOTHS GONE WILD. C.J.D. last seen at Palmwood Park with his shirt off, blinding thousands of innocent bystanders.
It goes on for a while, making fun of some kids I barely know who apparently did something to get on Cody's bad side, but I'm hung up on the first paragraph.

C.P. Cassie Parker. E.N. Elisa Nguyen.

This is horrible. It's really, really mean and petty.

And there's only one way Cody could have been able to write this stuff. He wouldn't even have
known
any of it if it hadn't been for me. Me and my stupid underhearing.

I'm a terrible person.

So much for trying to use underhearing to do good. Instead, I've just ruined people's lives.

Correction:
Cody
has ruined people's lives.

But I helped.

twenty-four

Cody is sitting there beaming like he's a little kid who just drew a picture for his mommy. My stomach churns, and it's not from the whiskey and Coke I barely touched.

“Cody … ” I swallow, hard. “This is kind of mean.”

“This is need-to-know information,” Cody says, still grinning. “Anyway, I thought you hated them. Why do you care?”

“Elisa was
crying
,” I tell him. I lean away from him, my back rigid. “That's why I took so long in the bathroom earlier.”

“So? It's just payback for all those times they were bitchy to you.”

“You know, you're allowed to be angry at them,” Mikaela says. “You can't just hold it in forever. Let it out.
Let it go.
” She sweeps one arm out, a little drunkenly. I glare at both of them.

“I thought you'd be grateful.” Cody isn't smiling anymore. He's starting to look annoyed.

“Grateful? You are really … ”
Clueless? Missing the point?
Nothing seems adequate to describe what I'm feeling right now. I remember what Cassie said and I start wondering if I'm on the blog somewhere, revealed as some kind of magical psychic know-it-all. My face gets hot and I dig my fingers into my palms.

And
he
has the nerve to look pissed.

I force myself to calm down enough to talk.

“I don't need revenge, okay? I just don't want to talk to them anymore.” Actually, if I'm honest with myself, the only person I don't want to see anymore is Cassie. Nobody else did anything all that bad. That's what makes this so wrong. That, and the fact that Cody went behind my back again, used my underhearing for his own personal gain.

“Not only that, it was a private conversation. I told you what I'd heard
in confidence
. It wasn't supposed to be public knowledge.” My voice trembles, but I'm too upset to care. “I don't care if they're not my friends. It's a matter of ethics.”

Mikaela snorts. “Ethics? It's a blog. And what about free speech? Plus, it's just people's initials. It could be anyone.”

“Come on, like people can't guess,” I tell her. “And the URL was sent out to the whole school.”

Cody looks surprised for a second, then starts laughing. “I didn't do that. But hey, I guess somebody thinks it's of interest to the general public.”

Mikaela looks a little worried. “So the whole school knows now?” She smacks Cody on the top of the head.

“Ow! Fuck, what was that for?”

“
Dumb
ass
,” Mikaela says. “For putting me on there, that's what it's for. I don't need two thousand people calling me ‘a valued member of the Psychic Friends Network.'” But she's smiling a little, too. It's hard to know whether she's really even mad.

“You didn't talk about
me
, did you?” I look at him coldly.

“I didn't mention you by name, if that's what you're worried about,” he says. “Not even by initials. I said … let's see … ‘Former JV swim hottie seen cavorting with men in black.' And I didn't say a thing about your power. I told you I wouldn't tell anyone. I think it's awesome, what you can do.”

Cody gives me a crooked smile. For a second, I almost believe him.

Then I come crashing down to earth again. He's still trying to flatter me, still trying to convince me that he cares. Trying to downplay the fact that he's using me.

But he doesn't understand what it's like to be able to do this. He doesn't understand how much just the smallest amount of knowledge can hurt people.

“I mean it,” Cody says, still looking right at me. “You're one of the most amazing people I've ever met.”

I look down, running one hand over the velvety, cream-colored surface of the couch cushion. I want to believe him. But his words make me feel sick.

“Sunny, just take a compliment, why don't you?” Mikaela throws a pretzel at me.

“You know, you could really help people,” Cody says.

I remember the first time I ever told Mikaela about my underhearing, how she said it could be a real gift.

“I know,” I whisper. And I do. But.

“You could help me again.” His voice is low and urgent, his eyes intense. For a moment, it's like Mikaela's not even in the room, like it's just the two of us.

There's a twinge in my chest.

“It's my parents, of course,” he says, answering a question I didn't ask. “After what you found out, I asked them what was up. They said if I don't do everything right this time … ” He trails off, picks up the remote control and turns it over and over in his hands. His face is set and angry. Suddenly, he draws his arm back and flings the remote across the room. It ricochets off the immaculate beige wall, chipping the paint, and falls to the floor. My whole body tenses up.

Mikaela just leans her head back against the couch and stares at the ceiling. “I can't believe them,” she says. “They cannot send you to boarding school. That's freakin' ridiculous. What is this, the nineteenth century?”

Cody slumps back on the couch. Despite everything, I feel sorry for him.

“I hate asking this,” he says. “But you—I think you can do this.”

“Do what?” I look up at him from under my hair, suddenly nervous.

He pauses, glances at Mikaela, then looks back at me. “I was thinking that if your—uh, power—if it goes in one direction, maybe it goes in the other direction, right?”

I frown. “Like … what? Other people reading
my
thoughts?” I'm not sure what Cody is getting at. “They're already reading my thoughts. You just published them on a web page for all the world to see.”

“Well,” he says, “I guess I mean—what I—I need you, Sunny.” His voice is pleading now. “I need you to … do something to my parents. Make them stop. I don't want to get sent off. If I went to military school—fuck.” He swears some more, takes a long swig of his drink. “I can't go to military school.”

“You would so get your cute little ass kicked,” Mikaela says, laughing.

“Whatever.” Cody slams the laptop shut and puts it on the floor. He looks back up at me. “You have to help. I don't know what else to do. You could … push back. I don't know.”

Push back? I feel like I'm made of lead, like I'm sinking into the couch, into the floor.

“It doesn't work like that,” I say finally. “I want to help, but … it just won't work.” I wouldn't
want
to do it, wouldn't want to force my thoughts on other people, even if I could.

“You haven't tried it, though,” Mikaela says.

“I don't have to try it.” My voice is taut and angry. They don't understand. Every time my underhearing happens, I feel like I'm on the edge of a precipice, like I'm on the edge of losing myself.

I already lost Shiri. I won't lose myself. I can't.

“Why are you being so resistant?” Mikaela sits forward, leans around Cody to stare at me. “Don't you at least want to find out if it's possible? To influence someone?”

“No, I don't,” I say. “Because it isn't.” I start to get up.

“You of all people should know that anything is possible at this point,” Cody says, his eyes glinting. “I think you
can
do it. You learned to control it in the first place.”

It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to scream. I stand, stepping away from the pristine beige couch and the junk-food-covered coffee table.

“I can barely control it in one direction,” I say through clenched teeth. “What makes you think it even works any other way?” I fumble in my jeans pocket for my car keys.

“Wait,” Cody says. “You're not even going to try? You could show
me
how to do it, if that makes you feel better.”

“It doesn't matter. It isn't right. You can't just make people do what you want.” It's absurd that he's even considering it. And he's using me to do it. He's manipulating everyone.

“Oh, come on, Sunny,” Mikaela says, slumping against Cody and smirking at me.

I turn my back and walk out.

I sit in the car for a few minutes with the engine off. My forehead rests against the top of the steering wheel and I breathe deeply, the bridge of my nose throbbing with an impending headache.

My mind keeps circling the same set of thoughts, over and over. Elisa crying. The web page full of stupid gossip I was responsible for. Cody needing help; help that it's not in my power to give. Anger at him, but also guilt at walking out when maybe I should have stayed and helped somehow. I should have at least stuck around long enough to commiserate, like Mikaela.

But even if I could have helped, it didn't feel right. I don't even
know
his parents. Unfair or not, whether they send him away to school is still their choice. It's Cody's responsibility to talk to them, not mine.

The headache pinches a little more. I take deep, slow breaths, picturing the flickering of the flame on my black-cherry candle, ocean waves creeping back and forth along the sand, the meditative feeling of swimming endless laps in the pool.

I'm only trying to relax enough to drive home. But without consciously meaning to do it, my mind is inexorably pulled back toward the house, back toward Cody. Suddenly I want to know, more than anything, what his issue really is. What can make a person so oblivious about everyone around him. Determined, I push harder.

I get vertigo, like I'm being tipped upside down. Then it gets weird.

At first, all I find is a maelstrom of swirling darkness. It surrounds me, buffeting me like a windstorm. Suddenly I'm in the center, floating, slowly tumbling in the eye of the storm, my ears ringing in the silence. That's where I start to get a sensation of hiddenness, of the real Cody veiled beneath the chaos, protected by an ice-brittle surface layer. But there are cracks and melted spots in that icy surface, and I slip through.

Paradoxically, I smell heat. I smell smoke, like a burning tire, and

—it's not fair, nobody ever cares what
I
want,
what about
me
—

—me, I deserve better than this and they'll realize
I'm smarter than them one day and they'll be
begging
me
to come back—

—I won't be the one begging, not like this—

—not fair—NOT FAIR

The burning feeling becomes so strong that I cough, jolting myself back to reality as I spaz into the steering wheel, bumping my collarbone.

I grip the wheel, steadying myself. And I understand everything with perfect clarity. Yes, Cody's been using me. I was stupid not to realize it sooner. But I still feel sorry for him. Sorry because he's just a selfish, immature little boy who thinks everything revolves around him. Sorry because there's obviously something really wrong in his family, in his life, if the way he views relationships is in terms of what's in it for him.

Sorry because I thought he cared about something, anything, besides himself.

Tears are streaming down my face, but at the same time a part of me feels lighter.

I turn the keys in the ignition and drive home.

From Shiri Langford's journal, September 3rd

Pain is not my friend.

The pain pills they gave me are nothing more than glorified aspirin. My ankle is still swollen like a purple balloon and I'm benched for the next month at least, maybe two. Maybe more. The ligament is torn, they said. Don't put weight on it, they said. Wear this air cast, they said. I'll need crutches until I can put weight on it.

I was having such a good practice, too, until I landed wrong on the court and went down, my right ankle bending the wrong way with a tearing, burning twist.

I don't know what I'm going to do now. I think the only reason I've kept my scholarship is because I've been playing so well and coach made an exception for me. My grades just aren't high enough, and thanks to last semester I'm on probation. I have this semester to get my GPA back up. That's all. My dad would kill me if he found out.

I've been giving Brendan some space. He still hasn't called me.