Underneath (8 page)

That gets me thinking. I can't help comparing them in my mind to Cassie the Pod Queen and her loyal zombie subjects, and I wonder, not for the first time, what I was doing with them in the first place. We had good times over the years, but when I try to remember one real moment of deep conversation with Cassie, I can't pinpoint anything. All my memories with her involve swim team, bad TV, and hair dye.

But somehow, I still can't help missing those times. Just a little.

Thinking about hair dye reminds me that my highlights have grown out at least two inches, something Cassie would have gotten on my case about ages ago. But not one of my new friends has said a word about it. Cody even said I looked better without a hat on. I smile to myself.

“What are you so happy about, little girl?” Dad walks in the kitchen and drops his keys and wallet on the table, coming over to hug me and kiss Mom. “Debby, what's cooking?”

“Just leftovers. And Sunshine's happy
because,
” she pauses dramatically, “she has some new friends at school who sound like a fun and creative bunch.” And just like that, the entire house knows my personal life. I frown at the onion before cleaving it in half.

“That's great, Sun.” Dad smiles at me and leans against the table. “What happened to those other guys? Cassie and everyone?”

“They must have had some kind of falling-out,” Mom answers for me. “Sunny, I'm not going to be nosy, but I hope you know you can talk to Dad or me any time. And I'd like to meet your new friends.”

“Mom! Okay.” I chop onions furiously, my ears hot. “I'll bring them over sometime, I promise.” I don't need their approval every time I make a new friend, but I'm trying desperately to end this line of conversation.

I continue chopping in silence, and Mom finally gets the hint. But later on, when I'm sitting next to my bed trying to meditate, my thoughts start whirling uncontrollably and I think about how much things have changed. I'm happier now, a lot happier. Sure, I miss the pool like crazy. But I couldn't face going to practice, seeing my former friends every day. I'm truly done with that. I've been jogging in the morning instead.

All part of the new me. Trying to stay grounded. Literally.

I draw a shaky breath and clear my head of everything from my old life.

For a minute or two, I'm successful, and I focus on my uneven breathing, feeling my arms and legs getting heavy and relaxed like after a long swim. Then Shiri's face shimmers into my mind's eye and I get a creeping feeling of total aloneness, like everything that used to mean anything to me has floated out of reach, somewhere untouchable, sealed away forever.

I wonder if this is what it feels like when you're dead: being able to see everyone, so clearly, who used to be a part of your life, but knowing you can never be with them again.

Then I think of Auntie Mina and my shoulders slump. If it's this hard for me, I can't imagine what it's like for her.

I open my eyes and blow out the thick, black-cherry-scented candle, then crawl under the covers. For a while I lie there wide awake, listening to the water run in the pipes while my dad takes a shower, and then feeling the silence of the house press in on me. My muscles tense up again as I huddle. Pixie hops up, settling herself at my feet. Her purring makes the quiet a little more bearable. I try to let go of my thoughts enough to sleep, relaxing each muscle one at a time like my mom tells her yoga classes to do … taking her advice willingly for once. After an hour or so my mind finally stops running in its hamster wheel and I start to drift off.

Before I fall asleep, though—while I'm still in that strange almost-dreaming, free-associating state—I think of Cody. I think of his smile first, and a small part of me loosens.

But it's not only his smile that's so compelling. There's something else about him … something deeper. Like he understands what it feels like to be lost, to be drifting like
me, not sure where I'm going to end up or if I'm even going to be the same person at the end of it.

It's just a feeling I get when I'm around him. Like that whole too-cool-for-you act he puts on. I see his anger, his scowl, but rather than pushing me away, it seems like proof that there's something more underneath, that he struggles with his emotions, too, and he's vulnerable like the rest of us.

Maybe I'll have to ask him, one day soon: Do you know what it feels like to have your world come apart at the seams?

From Shiri Langford's journal, March 28th

I love Brendan so much. I never thought I could feel this way. I can't explain it without sounding maudlin, without channeling the Romantic poets or sounding like a sentimental movie. It's the most amazing feeling.

I've told him all about my family, how screwed up my dad and my half-brother are, and how frustrated it makes me that my mom just can't seem to see it. He doesn't think I'm crazy or messed up, he just smiles and kisses me and then eventually we seem to end up in bed, and later we lie there and talk and he tells me about how he worries about his little brother, who's mixed up with a bad crowd of kids at home.

Sometimes, after he talks about Neal I end up worrying about Sunny, but I know I shouldn't. She always seems so secure, so sure of herself. Unlike me.

eight

The next day at lunch, Mikaela and I are sitting next to each other at the orange picnic table, on the bench nearest the building wall. It's raining, drumming lightly on the awning. An occasional droplet blows in on a gust of wind and catches me on the face, or on my hands clenched tightly in my lap.

Cody, Becca, and the rest of the goth crew just took off for the lunchtime pep rally in the gym—to “ridicule the conformist masses,” or so they claimed. I asked Mikaela if she'd stick around so I could ask her about something. She agreed, saying she doesn't like watching anorexic cheerleaders waving their stick-limbs around anyway.

Once everyone else is out of sight, we both scoot down so that our shoulders and heads are resting on the wall behind us and our legs are up on the table. Trying to work up the nerve to talk to her, I stare at my plain white canvas sneakers lying there next to her vintage knee-high purple Doc Martens. Typical Mikaela: outrageous. Typical me: blah. I might as well still be part of the Zombie Squad.

I let out an explosive sigh.

“What?” Mikaela nudges me.

How can I explain it to her? I'm incredibly lucky, I know that much. I could have been spending the rest of the year eating lunch on my own, wondering if I'd done the right thing. But Mikaela and her friends—they let me stay. Why did they even care? I hate to feel suspicious of everybody, but I need to know what I'm doing here.

And yet, I worry that if I question it, it'll all fall apart, like a dream about flying where you suddenly realize hey, people can't fly.

“Nothing,” I say. She stares at me. “I just hate these shoes. They're boring.”

“That's
it
? You're bumming out about having boring shoes?” She snorts a laugh. “Okay. On the scale of life's major problems, that's one we can easily address.”

“Yeah, but … ” I make a frustrated noise. This isn't happening how I imagined it. I blurt out, “Why me?”

“Are we having a philosophical discussion now?” She grins.

“No! What I meant was … ” I take a deep breath. “Why are you guys okay with hanging out with me? You didn't have to humor me when I just showed up here uninvited.” I stare at my knees, afraid to look at her face. “But you didn't kick me out.”

There's silence for a moment. I bite my thumbnail anxiously and listen to the rain dripping off the awning.

“Listen,” Mikaela finally says. “I will freely admit that at first, I was driven by morbid fascination.” Her voice is a little sheepish, and I glance up. She's staring into the distance with a tiny, embarrassed smile. “I know, I suck. But trust me, I got over it. I can now truly say that I find you a worthwhile person. Regardless of your footwear.”

Still not looking at me, she flicks one of my tennis shoes with a black-painted fingernail. Just like that, the tension is broken. My clenched muscles relax a little.

“Okay,” I say, a little warily.

“Okay,” she says, and sighs.

I try a tentative smile. “My shoes still need help, though.”

“I'm not arguing with that,” Mikaela says, shifting a little to turn toward me. “You know, there's this thing called a shoe store. You may have heard of it before.”

“Yeah, but I need serious help. My closet is full of cute pink hoodies. I can't be trusted to shop for myself.”

Mikaela laughs.

I'm trying to make a joke out of it, but inside, my heart is breaking because I'm remembering one of the last times I saw Shiri when she was alive. It was August, right before she went back to college, and we were at South Coast Plaza together, combing the stores for new school wardrobes. Or, more accurately, I was following her around and trying to emulate her as best I could with the limited budget my parents gave me.

“I'm really going to miss doing this with you, Sunny,” Shiri said, throwing her arm conspiratorially over my shoulders, her Macy's bag flapping against my arm. “It's been fun.”

Then I do cry. Tears slip out of my eyes as I sit there silently, aching.

Mikaela looks over at me, her dark eyes worried.

“I'm fine,” I manage to croak. “It's just—God, I'm sick of being such a mess. Everything reminds me of her.”

Mikaela's voice is soft. “She meant a lot to you.” It's a statement, not a question.

“Yeah.” I wipe my face with one hand and stare upward, at the rusty metal roof of the awning, and listen to the light clatter of the rain until I feel more under control
.

“Hey,” Mikaela says suddenly. She's not staring at me anymore but messing with something in her purse. “Are you busy tomorrow? Want to go shopping?”

I turn and look at her stupidly.

“Like at the mall?”

“Sure. Or, if you want, I know some cool stores in Santa Ana. Or even Grovetown. Ever been to Thumbscrew? Over on Fifth?”

“In Grovetown?”

“Yeah, I know, Grovetown, right? But it's the best. The 16 bus stops right there. Come on, we should go.” Mikaela swats me on the arm. “You were complaining about your closet. We have to replace those hoodies with
something
.”

“Okay. Sure. I just have to let my mom know.” I pause awkwardly. “You know, she wants to meet you now. She's all excited that I have ‘creative' friends.” I roll my eyes. “So maybe you can come over afterward and stay for dinner or something?”

The minute the invitation slips out of my mouth, I regret it. I squeeze my eyes shut, press my lips together. She's going to think I'm trying too hard.

I try to backtrack. “I mean, only if you're not busy. Either way is cool.”

“Yeah, why not? My mom works a late nursing shift on weekends, so I'd just be doing a whole lotta nothin' anyway.”

My shoulders unknot a little.

Mikaela finishes rummaging in her purse and, with a flourish, produces a black marker. I frown at it.

“Uh, what's that for?” I have this horrifying vision of having to stand watch while Mikaela tags the picnic table.

“This,” she says with a grin, “is for your boring sneakers.”

As I walk into the house admiring my feet, I have to admit that Mikaela's embellishments are a major improvement. Where I once had plain white low-top sneakers whose only adornment was the all-important brand-name logo, I now have shoes that swirl and vibrate with amazing designs, intricate mind-bending spirals and thorny-tattoo-looking black branches. Mikaela has serious talent.

I hope her talent extends to improving my wardrobe. Pastel tops and swim team swag—they just remind me of my old life, and I'm more than ready for a change. I can't keep getting bogged down in memories, can't deal with crying every time I'm reminded of the past. I'm done.

Later, when my mom gets home, I make sure she gets the message as if it's a top story headline: “Reclusive Daughter Finally Ready to Leave House, Be Sociable.” I slide off the bed, run down the stairs, and start burbling about Mikaela like I'm five years old and just made my first friend at school. The funny thing is, I
do
feel that excited.

“A shopping trip? Oh, honey. That's great.” Mom closes the front door behind her with a tinkle of the chimes hung on the back.

“Not only that, there's a vintage clothes store over in Grovetown, and Mikaela wants us to go there tomorrow,” I say all in a rush. “And look what she drew on my shoes!” I show them off, tilting them one way and then the other so my mother can get the full effect.

“Oh, how
cute
,” she says. “How creative!” She smiles at me distractedly and hangs up her blue sweater in the front closet. I'm a little dismayed. I could pierce my chin and my mom would just say “How unique! How creative! I wish I were your age so I could do wild stuff like that!” It takes the appeal out of just about anything.

Swimming was one of the few things that was mine, and mine alone. Mom would come to my races whenever she could, but she always stepped back when it came to the whole swim scene, when it was me and my friends. And she knew that I was a different person then—not just when I was in the water, but whenever I was with Cassie.

I miss swimming. But I don't want to be that person anymore.

And … now I have something new that's mine, whether I want it or not.

“So is it okay if I drive to Grovetown with Mikaela to-morrow?” I take off my shoes and stash them on the shoe rack in the front hall closet. Mom thinks about it for a minute while she brings a paper grocery bag into the kitchen, depositing it on the counter.

“I'm a little nervous about it,” she says, giving me a direct look. “I haven't met Mikaela yet.”

Anxiously, I clench my hands behind my back. “Well, I asked her if she wants to come over for dinner after we go shopping. You can meet her then. I hope that's okay. You know I'm always careful.” I stop, press my lips together.

“Oh, honey, I know you're always careful.” She smiles. “I wish you'd asked me first, but I'll be happy to meet your new friend. I've been hoping you'd invite her over—you've been so unhappy and you could stand to have a little fun.”

I resist the urge to cringe.

“Well, great,” I say. “Thanks.”

Mom beams at me, reaches into her purse, and presses a few twenties into my hand. “Just call me when you're leaving Grovetown, okay?”

I nod and turn back toward the stairs.

“Oh, and don't forget we're having dinner at Uncle Randall and Auntie Mina's on Sunday.”

That sounds like a barrel of laughs. I try to muster up something enthusiastic to say, but I can't think of anything. Auntie Mina will sit there like a ghost; Uncle Randall will criticize her in between praising Number Two's latest achievements in the world of plastic surgery; Mom and Dad will nod and smile. And I won't be able to leave.

Forget it. I'm not going to worry about Sunday. I have Saturday to think about. I paste a smile on my face and trudge back upstairs. By the time Sunday rolls around, there
will be a new and improved Sunny in the house. I think about the diary entry that Shiri wrote, the one about me always seeming so sure of myself. That's the Sunny I want to be. Someone who can always handle things. Not someone who's too scared to even give her fears a name. Not someone who holds everything inside until it leaks out anyway, until something breaks.

I know my fears. And I'm not going to break.

Not cool enough, not fun enough, not quirky enough.
The litany torments me as I ransack my room the next afternoon for something bearable I can wear out with Mikaela. After tossing aside lots of khakis, skinny jeans, and other remnants of my old life, I decide on a “transition outfit”—something I can tolerate being seen in while I shop for clothes that fit the new Sunny.

Whatever that is.

I pull on a pair of baggy old tan cargo pants that are splotched with green from when we painted the dining room, belt them with a black scarf, add a plain black V-neck sweater, and top it off with an Indian-print kerchief in maroon and tan. Under the kerchief, my hair hangs loose past my shoulders. A little weird, but passable.

I head for the bathroom and rummage in my makeup drawer, hardly touched since the funeral, and put on a trace of dark eyeliner pencil and some ChapStick. As I'm leaving the bathroom, I change my mind and decide to put on red lip gloss. You never know who you might run into.
Maybe Cody
,
I think, surprising myself a little. But the truth is, I wouldn't mind running into him.

When I glance at the clock I realize I'm going to be late. I hope Mikaela's not the punctual type. I rush downstairs and pull on my newly adorned sneakers.

“Mom!” I shout in the general direction of the living room. “I'm going. See you around five.”

“Have fun,” she says, poking her head into the front hall. In one hand she's holding the scrapbook we're supposed to be finishing up for Auntie Mina. For a moment I feel guilty that I'm leaving Mom with the rest of the project, but mostly I'm glad that just this once I don't have to be reminded of the way things used to be.

When I get back today, I'll be a new Sunny Pryce-Shah. Not a member of the Zombie Squad. Not the Girl Whose Cousin Committed Suicide. Not that sad little kid who followed around a false idol. I'll be someone else.

When I pull up in front of the apartment complex where Mikaela lives with her mom, she's waiting there already, bouncing a little on the toes of her heavy black platforms. The iron entry gate she's standing near is bent and dented, and the dull tan paint on the buildings is dirty and weathered.

Most of my former friends live in gated communities with fancy cars and security guards, or in newer tract houses like my family does. I haven't really hung out before with anyone who wasn't from an upper-middle-class background. Not deliberately. It just seemed to work out that way.

I kind of want to say something, but I'm not sure what to say. I just don't want to say the wrong thing.

“Aren't these apartments nasty?” Mikaela slides in on the passenger side and slams the door, letting her purse fall to the floor at her feet. “My mom divorced my dad a few years ago, but she didn't have enough money to buy a house after we moved here. I've been house hunting with her forever, but everything is either too expensive or too pre-fab. Like they're cloning houses.”

“I know what you mean,” I say. My stomach unclenches a little. “We live in a tract house.
Definitely
the Land of the Clones.” We both laugh. Then there's an awkward silence. I just drive, following the occasional “turn left here” or “go that way” from Mikaela. Finally, I open my big mouth.