Underneath

by Sarah Jamila Stevenson

  But every night was like a party. We’d drink, get high, and stay up until the sun came up again and it was time to go, or until we were so tired we just passed out. THAT didn’t happen once. I didn’t even need my medication.

  Sometimes I would just walk out into the woods, so different from the hills and shrubs, beaches and deserts back home, and lose myself for a while in the complete silence. I wish my head were silent like that all the time.

  eighteen

  Cody saunters into my front hall, wearing his usual black coat and smiling slightly. He takes in the old photos of me on the walls, the shiny brass vase on the hall table, a few pairs of shoes lying haphazardly on the floor, in fidgety, quick glances. His eyes finally settle on me, and my stomach jumps.

  “How goes it?”

  “I’m good,” I say cautiously. “Listen, I think we should do this … somewhere else.” I glance furtively into the kitchen, where Auntie Mina is busy going over paperwork for her new job. Her stuff is everywhere, and the house has seemed too full the past few weeks, like I can’t get any privacy.

  “Okay,” Cody says, agreeably. “Whatever works.” After a rushed explanation to my parents, something completely made up about a writing assignment that has to be done outside, I hurry us back toward the front door.

  “I was thinking we could go over to the park,” I tell him, grabbing my backpack. He nods. I don’t explain to him that I’m not ready to underhear my family yet. But I do have a plan.

  I lead the way out, hyper-conscious of Cody behind me and the unfamiliar tread of his boots on my front steps. We walk most of the four blocks to the park in edgy silence, dodging four of the eight Abronzino kids playing a game of tackle football in their front yard, and then getting chased half a block by somebody’s loose Chihuahua.

  I’m shocked Cody’s being so docile. I’d expected at least one crack about my house being smack dab in the Land of the Clones.

  “Here we are, home away from home,” I say as we walk onto the damp grass of the small neighborhood park across the street from Spike’s house. There are a couple of bundled-up toddlers with their parents in the playground area, and two girls are kicking a soccer ball around, but nobody’s at the picnic table under the trees. We go over there and I deliberately sit facing away from the Doherty house. I look at Cody, feeling awkward, shy. He perches on the edge of the table, smiling at me.

  I can’t help smiling back. “I have to tell you something.”

  “Uh-huh.” Cody drums his fingers against the table, sort of like he’s anxious to get started. He eyes me, looking down from his perch and making the butterflies start all over again. I wonder if he notices I’m wearing the necklace he gave me, the little sun charm.

  “I tried last night. Some of the stuff you printed out for me. It … ” I swallow. “I think it almost worked.”

  “It did?” Cody sits up straighter.

  “Yeah. Well—at least, I heard something. A voice. Maybe my dad. I couldn’t make out the words. But I think … I think I’m almost there.” I’m a little awestruck at the thought. I describe what happened, from the visualization exercise to the moment I heard the elusive, not-quite-there voice, the moment I felt the ghosts of emotions passing through me.

  Cody gets up and starts to pace back and forth in front of the picnic table. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” I can practically see the gears turning in his brain. “So, I think what we should do is repeat the conditions of however you did it last night. As closely as possible. If you want, I can try to prompt you, you know, verbally.” He takes off his jacket and tosses it carelessly onto the table. “And I think we should try for somebody you know really well.” He looks at me expectantly.

  “I guess that’s why I picked the park,” I say slowly. “I thought we might see someone I know, someone from the neighborhood.” I swallow, feeling disloyal as I say, “And Spike lives around here.”

  “Yeah? You used to hang out with him all the time, right?”

  “Yeah.” Then my heart sinks. Since it’s Saturday, there’s every possibility that not just Spike will be at his house but also the rest of the Zombie Squad, hanging out in the backyard, jumping in and out of the hot tub. Including Cassie.

  I have no desire to underhear Cassie ever again.

  “What?” Cody says.

  “He might have friends over,” I say reluctantly. “I don’t know if I can pick and choose who I hear.”

  He smiles. “That’s okay. If it works, it works, right?”

  I don’t quite smile back. He’s right, of course. I need to just get over it. If I want to be able to control this—instead of it controlling me, instead of spinning out of control like Shiri did—I’m going to have to set aside my fears.

  “Okay. I’ll try,” I say, settling my legs into as comfortable a position as I can manage on the hard bench. “Can you light this?” I reach for my backpack and pull out my black-cherry candle. Cody takes his Zippo out of his pocket and lights the candle with a soft tink of metal.

  “Okay,” I say. “I think I’m ready.” I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

  He’s quiet for a minute. I crack my eyelids a tiny bit and peek through. He’s staring at the candle, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sits on the bench opposite me and leans his arms on the table. I close my eyes all the way again.

  “Are you sure?” he says.

  I say yes. A trickle of sweat rolls down the back of my neck.

  Cody starts by prompting me to relax certain muscles in turn, and then, after a few minutes of this, he tells me in a soft, hypnotic voice that I am now completely relaxed and aware. At first it’s hard to concentrate, but gradually, his voice fades, and all I can hear are birds in the trees and the faint laughter of the girls playing soccer. The crown of my head is light, airy, and I have a sense of floating, like I’m not quite touching the bench even though I can feel the hard boards under my butt in a sort of distant way.

  Think of Spike. I’m not sure whether the words were spoken out loud or in my head, but I comply, my thoughts drifting, bobbing erratically as if they’re on an ocean or a breeze. There’s a memory of one of Spike’s beach barbecues, the summer after freshman year, his dad manning the grill and handing out hot dogs as soon as they cooked. Biting in and tasting the smoky richness, the slight dryness of charcoal, the grit of sea salt.

  It’s vivid, but it’s just a memory. So I keep trying. I think about his house, right there across the street; his mom’s soft accent.

  But the harder I try, paradoxically, the more the idea of Spike seems to slip out of my grasp, like trying to grab water. He’s there, but I can’t keep hold of him. I breathe slowly, hold my desperation and eagerness down somehow, and then someone does come clear in my mind: Cassie.

  Bitterness surges inside me. I don’t want to underhear her. Is she at Spike’s house? My breath catches when I realize that I’m sort of hovering beside her, my thoughts floating in a formless space next to her head. Her voice sharpens, clarifies, a wisp or memory of the acrid smell of permanent hair dye ghosting through my nostrils.

  —Why did I ever go to that stupid party with James?

  Elisa wasn’t even there—she—and then—

  —the bedroom with Damion, he brought me

  in there, I was drunk, and I don’t even remember

  what happened—and I heard that he told his friends we—did we? God what if—

  And then it’s over. Except that I can feel tears sliding down my cheeks, stinging my wind-chapped skin. Horror and revulsion and regret slither through me. Hers? Or my own? I’m over her, so why am I crying?

  I breathe raggedly, and I’m about to open my eyes when I hear Cody say softly, “Not yet. Try again.” I don’t really want to keep going, but I have trouble focusing enough to snap out of it and tell him so. It’s easier to just let it go, to follow wherever my mind leads. My thoughts slide along again.

  —party with James? Elisa wasn’t even there—

  —Elisa wasn’t eve
n—

  Echoes of Cassie’s thoughts spin in fragments around me and then disappear, fading into that increasingly familiar feeling of openness in the crown of my head. Almost too soon, soon enough to surprise me, I hear another voice. Is Spike having a party? My brief flare of curiosity fades and I’m distracted by the sound of crackling, tearing paper in my head, a phantom smell of something slowly burning, smoldering down to ashes.

  It’s another familiar voice.

  —I can’t tell him what happened with Marc,

  how he told me he’d always wanted—no—

  why did Marc kiss

  me?—why did I—

  —have to get rid of this letter—

  —can’t tell him, can’t tell James, can’t tell James can’t tell can’t tell can’t tell—

  I feel like I’m drowning. The words smother me and colors well behind my eyes, intricate patterns laced with swirling strands black as Elisa’s dark hair. My heart races with panic. I try to breathe. I remind myself where I am: the park. Outside. Safe. I remind myself who I am. The swirling eases, and the smell of burned paper turns into a faint tendril of black-cherry fragrance. I can feel my hands again, and I flex them.

  My eyes fly open, and I start to shiver. Cody jumps off the bench and asks, “Did it work?” And then, when I don’t say anything, he adds, “Are you okay?”

  I nod, but my teeth are chattering too hard to respond. He slides onto the bench next to me but I hardly react, even when he puts both arms around me and hugs me until I stop shaking. That’s when I realize I’m still crying, that my cheeks are wet and my nails are digging into my palms. My breath hitches, knowing all of these things that I’m not supposed to know.

  Cody just sits quietly, holding my hand in his, his thumb slowly stroking mine. He gazes at me steadily, his expression serious.

  I can’t keep my feelings inside. I can’t be alone with this secret. I’ll burst.

  Slowly, I start to tell Cody what I heard. Who I heard. What I felt. The more I talk, the more my resentment and anger grow—anger that I can’t seem to get away from Cassie; anger at Elisa for never having the guts to talk to me at school; frustration at Spike for being able to stay friends with them; fury at Shiri for not being able to cope, and at the universe for causing this gift, this curse. The emotions are raging out of me, and the words just keep spilling out.

  Cody inches his body a little closer. He puts his arm around my shoulders again and pulls me into him. I can feel the warmth radiating from his arm like it’s a burning branch, and right now it feels like the most solid thing in the world to me.

  nineteen

  When I get home from the park, I wrap my fleece moon-and-stars blanket tightly around me and huddle against the side of the bed. I’m sitting on the floor of my room, the door closed and locked, even though I know my mom hates it when I lock the door. But I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. I don’t want to hear anyone right now.

  I’ve tried candles, incense, a hot bath, and right now I’m sipping some of Mom’s mossy-tasting herbal tea, but I can’t stop my thoughts from marching forward into places I don’t want to go. Being able to underhear at will—it scares me. What if I can’t fully control it? What if it’s more like a dam bursting open and less like a door with a nice little doorknob that I can push closed whenever I feel like it?

  What if I’ve done something I can’t ever reverse?

  I’ve always taken it for granted that I can be alone with my thoughts any time I want. In my room. In the pool. At the beach, on the sand, lapping waves the only sound. Maybe it won’t be that way ever again.

  Feeling completely alone, yet never again being completely alone. How could anybody stand it? For the first time, maybe, I understand Shiri’s desperation. Not why she made the choice to die, but why she might have felt so trapped.

  I put down the tea, clench my fingers around the blanket. It could be dangerous, deliberately trying to underhear people. What if I do something really weird and give myself brain damage? I don’t even know if it’s healthy that I can do this.

  At least I have Cody and Mikaela. They didn’t know how serious it was at first; they didn’t know how to react. But we’ve gotten past that. Forgive and forget. I have to learn to forgive people, to trust them.

  Even if knowing what they’re really thinking makes it a whole lot harder sometimes.

  Later, lying in bed, I take some deep breaths, trying to envision the top of my head as an impenetrable wall. For the first time since I started underhearing people, I’m scared to sleep. What might happen when I’m dreaming?

  After a few hours of tossing and turning, I finally drop off. Thankfully, I don’t dream.

  The next morning, I don’t wake up until almost nine o’clock. I feel a pang, missing the peace and silence of the school pool in the early morning, the feeling of working my muscles until they’re tired. We don’t have a pool at home, but I could go for a jog.

  I yawn and haul myself up, opening the curtains a little to let in the grayish light from the overcast morning. My eyes feel dry and itchy. I rub grit out of the corners and reach down to pull my extra blanket off the floor, and that’s when yesterday comes flooding back.

  —Elisa wasn’t even—

  —can’t tell can’t tell can’t tell—

  I knot my hands in my hair, yanking at it painfully. I can’t think about this now. I get up and start stretching my legs. My parents’ yoga group is due to arrive any minute, so it’s the perfect time to make an exit. I pull on gray sweats, grab a hoodie, and go.

  My feet pound the sidewalk and I’m quickly breathing hard. I’m out of shape, but I push myself a little more, trying to drive everything out of my head except the feeling of my legs pumping. My course takes me on a long loop through the neighborhood, out to the main road, and back around the other side, past the park.

  I pass the Dohertys’ house. Spike is outside, loading the family’s huge red-and-white cooler into his mom’s minivan.

  “Hey,” he shouts, and I slow down, jogging across his driveway. I stop in front of him, a little breathless.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing’s up. You know me. Never need an excuse to celebrate, baby.” He grins.

  Ah. Beach party time. “Cool,” I say halfheartedly. I should really leave.

  “Listen, you should come out,” Spike says. “My dad’s cooking dogs and burgers. He already asked if you were coming. I told him you were.”

  “You what?” I put one hand on my hip and glare at him.

  “I’m relying on my superhuman powers of persuasion.” He’s looking at me innocently, lazily, his eyes half closed.

  “I’m not seeing any evidence of these powers,” I say. “Plus—”

  “Cassie’s not going to be there, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Spike says. “She’s on some kind of spa day with her mom. Putting mud in her hair or something.” He grins wickedly.

  Do I even want to go? There’s a risk—a risk I might underhear someone. But that’s a risk no matter what I do. Whether I’m home, whether I’m at school. At least at the beach, I can wander away. Be alone for a while. And I don’t have to stay long.

  “Okay. I’ll stop by for a while,” I tell him. Just for old times’ sake. I haven’t done stuff with Spike outside of school since last summer, and I do feel a little guilty about it.

  “Sweet,” Spike says. “My dad said he’d bring that nasty mustard you like.”

  “There is nothing wrong with Dijon mustard.”

  “Nothing except that it’s naaaassssty.”

  I laugh and tell him that I’ll see him later. I miss these stupid conversations with Spike, conversations about nothing at all but that leave me feeling better anyway. For a few minutes, I can forget about everything important.

  And, for a while there at the beach, it is like old times—me and Spike and his dad, James and Elisa and another guy from swim team, Jared, all hanging out and eating hot dogs and chips around the barbe
cue. It’s less awkward than I thought, but I still avoid being alone with James or Elisa. I don’t make eye contact with either one, and I keep thinking about what Elisa said; what I heard. What I shouldn’t know.

  The weather is clear but chilly. January is still too cold to swim, in my opinion, but the water in front of me is crisply blue, little wavelets running almost up to the toes of my sneakers. Something about the sheer scale of the ocean, its power and overwhelming size, puts things into perspective somehow. I feel small, but so do my problems.

  “Wanna look for tide pools under the pier?” Spike comes up behind me, making me jump.

  “Sure,” I say, grinning back at him. We walk north along the shore for a few minutes. In my head is an image of Spike and me in junior high, me with my dorky haircut, Spike still short and a little doughy, before we started to swim all the time. Back then, we used to clamber around the rocks under the pier looking for starfish and sea anemones, poking the anemones to make them retract their tentacles. Later, we’d come here with the whole swim crew, but it was always different when it was just the two of us. I never felt like I had to put on an act with Spike.

  “Remember that time you picked up a sea slug and tried to freak me out with it? And it peed purple ink all over your hands?”

  Spike laughs. “I forgot about that. That was classic.”

  “It was.” I smile, looking down at our feet making wet footprints in the sand at the water’s edge. Finally, we get to the fall of stones that surrounds the base of the pier. After climbing around the rocks for a while, we reach a relatively dry, flat rock and sit on it, looking out at the ocean from just under the overhang of the boardwalk above us. Little waves lap against the rocks below.