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.
“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.
“Sorry about your parents getting divorced,” I blurt, in lieu of something intelligent. At the same time, Mikaela says wryly, “Nice Volvo; is it yours?”
“Kind of. My dad bikes to work most of the time, so my parents are letting me use it,” I say, blushing furiously. Now I really don’t know what to say, so I just sit there for a minute, clutching the wheel tightly.
“Uh, anyway, sorry about your parents,” I finally manage.
“It’s cool,” Mikaela says. “My parents used to argue all the time, and my mom was sick of my dad being such a tightwad asshole, so it’s definitely a good thing.”
“Oh.” I fidget uncomfortably. The extent of my knowledge about divorce comes from people like James, whose parents seem to be in a constant competition to buy his love. I’m starting to feel hopelessly sheltered. “Do you, like, have to visit him on weekends, or what?” It’s probably a stupid question, but she doesn’t treat it like one.
“Nah, not anymore. Right after the divorce, I was supposed to visit every other weekend, but since we moved here I only see him once every couple of months or so.”
“Oh,” I say again. “Where did you live before?”
“Near San Francisco.”
“Wow,” I say, stupidly. I can’t seem to give her anything but robot answers. My nervousness starts to come back, and I fiddle with the rearview mirror unnecessarily.
“It was pretty cool,” she says. “But my dad’s there, and he bugs me, so I’m glad I’m down here, hundreds of miles away.” She turn
s to me and smiles. “So where do you want to go first?”
“Uh … ” I haven’t really thought about it. “You’re the guru for the day. You tell me—where do I get my preppy dweeb makeover? I’m ready for anything.”
“Well, why don’t we start with Thumbscrew and then go to the vintage place? If there’s anything else we need after that, we can try the Orangewood Mall on the way back. I know this little shop there that has cheap Manic Panic hair dye and stuff.”
Manic Panic hair dye? I gulp nervously, wondering what I’m in for.
It turns out I have very little to worry about. Mikaela doesn’t try to tell me what I should or shouldn’t wear—unlike some people—but instead just pulls a bunch of clothes off racks and lets me accept or veto items for the dressing room. At first I’m a little weirded out by Thumbscrew, whose patrons all seem to be of the nose-ring-and-tattoo persuasion, but very few of them give me attitude. When they do, Mikaela is quick to glare at them from her full five-feet-one-inch height, and amazingly, they back off.
I look at her. “Good thing you’re here. Otherwise they’d probably bite my ear off.”
“It’s all in the way you carry yourself,” she says, looking me up and down critically. “Your new wardrobe will help—trust me. Although you should keep that head scarf around; it’s very retro.”
By the late afternoon, I have three new T-shirts and a pair of black jeans from Thumbscrew; a gauzy black top, a long silk skirt, and a pair of slightly worn black Converse hi-tops from the vintage place; some shoelaces from a mall store, which are printed with Japanese cartoon characters; and hair dye that matches my natural dark-brown color. And I still have twelve dollars left from the money my mom gave me.
“These Afro Ken shoelaces are so you,” Mikaela says, examining our hoard as I pilot us back to my house.
“Yeah?” I feel a surge of happiness. “I really like that crocheted sweater you got from Vintage Alley. And all the stuff you helped me pick out is … I love it.” I concentrate on turning the corner onto our street. I can’t help seeing it as though I’ve never really looked at it before, wondering what it looks like to Mikaela.
Underneath Page 8
