I sit there stiffly. What if she’s just humoring me? I want to prove that I’m not making it up, that I’m not crazy. But even more than that, I have to know what happened.
“Let’s go downstairs,” I tell her. I slip out from under her arm and stand up, still a little shaky. “I have to know. I need to ask my mom.”
“Okay,” Mikaela says, eyeing me.
She follows me down the stairs and into the kitchen, where my mom is sitting at the table in semi-darkness. I flip on the kitchen light. In the sudden brightness, I can see the tracks of tears on her face. She glances at me but doesn’t say anything.
I start to get a creeping feeling of dread, and I stop in the doorway, Mikaela lurking in the hall behind me. Stay here, I mouth to her, and walk in.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
“Oh … ” For a minute it looks like she’s going to tell me, but then her face closes off and an unconvincing smile appears. “No, I’m fine, baby. I was just thinking.” She trails off, getting up to refill her water glass at the sink.
I have to know. I take a deep, shaky breath.
“Mom, can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” she says, but she won’t stop staring out the window at the darkness outside. I swallow hard.
“Is everything okay with Auntie Mina?” I hesitate, then continue. “After Thanksgiving, and … that dinner. And the time when she came over to have tea. She looks awful.”
My mother stands in front of the sink, as still as a stone, her face unreadable. I can hear Mikaela fidgeting around the other side of the doorjamb. I wish I’d told her to stay upstairs.
“Mom!” I say insistently. “If something was wrong, you’d tell me, right? Is she—did something happen?” I know she’s hiding something. I stare at her hard. Finally, she turns back toward me.
“Sunny, I need you to listen to me now,” she says in a low, tense voice. “I don’t want you to mention this to your dad. Not yet. Mina says everything’s fine, that this is all just going to blow over. She says it’s really not a big deal. She doesn’t want your father worried.”
“Um, okay,” I say. “But what—?”
My mother rolls her now-empty water glass around and around in her hands, then puts it back on the counter. “Well, I don’t know how to sugarcoat this, so let me tell you. Your Auntie Mina and Uncle Randall got into a big fight last night. She wants to quit her job, wants a change of pace—teaching instead of working in the corporate world.”
“That sounds okay.” I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“Well, Randall hasn’t been in favor of that. He wants her to keep working at Jones & Gonzalez. They’ve been arguing about it for weeks. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but things haven’t been going so well in their relationship since … ”
Mom clears her throat, her eyes troubled. “Anyway, she just called me on my cell phone and was nearly incoherent. She told Randall today that she thought they should go to a marriage counselor. Apparently he really lost his temper and … ” She lowers her voice to nearly a whisper. “He grabbed her.”
“Grabbed?” I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. “What do you mean, grabbed?”
“She’s fine, Sunny. She just left the house for a little while so he could cool off.”
I pace across the kitchen angrily, thinking about the bruise on Auntie Mina’s shoulder. That word “grabbed” is utterly inadequate and wrong. Words bubble up to the surface of my mind, furious words that I stuff back down. I stop in front of my mother, my fists clenched at my sides. “This has happened before, hasn’t it? And you didn’t tell me.”
“Sunny, I’m sorry,” she says miserably. “But you were so young. We thought they worked it all out. Randall had lost his job, and he just wasn’t himself back then.” She pauses, and I stop breathing for a moment. “He had a breakdown. He pulled every dish out of the cabinet and slammed them to the floor one by one.”
“I don’t remember that.” I glare at her, even though I’m not really angry with my mother.
“Like I said, you were just too young. You were only six. Mina calmed him down, though. They talked it all out. He found his new job, he found her a job there, too … they were so happy.” She reaches a hand toward my shoulder but I duck. I start pacing again.
“So now what? I’m just supposed to pretend nothing happened? Pretend he didn’t hit her?”
“Nobody said anything about hitting,” Mom says, but she looks uneasy. “Mina doesn’t want to tell Dad because she’s worried he’ll do something drastic. You know how he feels about Uncle Randall.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I wanted her to let me tell him,” she continues, “but she insisted Randall just needs to cool off, that’s all.” She smiles at me worriedly. “I hope she’s right.”
“I—okay.” My shoulders slump, and all of a sudden I’m exhausted. “I guess I’ll go upstairs and finish studying with Mikaela.” I peer at my mom, but she seems to be pulling herself together.
“She’s still here? You should probably take her home be-
fore it gets late.” Mom starts loading the dirty dinner dishes into the dishwasher with a clatter.
“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 foll
owing 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 steal
ing 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.
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