Underneath

by Sarah Jamila Stevenson

  “No way!” I almost choke on a carrot. “So is he okay?”

  “Oh, totally,” Mikaela says. “The air bags went off and the witch-bitch got some kind of chemical burn from the powder in the air bags, but Cody’s fine. Physically, anyway.”

  “Physically?” I’m confused. “So he’s, like, suffering from PTSD?”

  “Yeah, right. No, he’s in major trouble at home. His dad was pissed off. I mean majorly. No car for the next three months, no going anywhere at all besides school for the next two weeks … poor baby.” Mikaela has a tiny smirk. “And he has to actually get a job to pay for the repairs to the Lexus.”

  “Oooh, a job,” I say. “But apparently he can still make calls to the outside world. He called you, right?”

  “On a five-minute restriction, yeah.”

  “Jeez.” I roll up my reusable lunch bag and stuff it into my backpack. “You know what, though? He gets away with everything.”

  “Yeah,” Mikaela says, “but he’s in for it now. His parents have been pretty easy on him, just cutting off his phone privileges and stuff like that, but now they’re doing a 180.” She tosses a few crumbs from her pizza crust out into the grass, where some birds are pecking around. She looks sad for a minute, but then her expression hardens. “He might be a jackass, but they’re kind of being tyrants, you know?”

  I don’t really know, don’t know at all, but I nod. Then Uncle Randall comes to mind, and I feel bad for Cody. If his dad is anything like that … if it were me, I’d feel like I was walking on a knife edge, just trying not to fall off.

  twenty-one

  Cody is absent on Tuesday but shows up on Wednesday, glowering so fiercely that lunch is nearly silent. The atmosphere is brittle, and even Becca doesn’t say much. I’m edgy, afraid that my mind will drift and I’ll underhear one of them, so I picture the top of my head as solid and impenetrable, the opposite of those dotted lines in the drawing Cody printed out. It seems to help, and I’m relieved that I don’t have to hear Cody’s fury or Becca’s uncharacteristic listlessness.

  It’s enough just to see it, and know.

  Thursday after school, Mikaela and I go to a used-CD store with Becca, who acts like such a spaz that it’s impossible to worry about, or even concentrate on, anything else. She darts around the store, chattering about this girl she met who’s a guitarist for some goth band, flirting with all of the store employees and leaving a black lipstick kiss mark on the credit card receipt she hands back to the cashier.

  We all leave the store laughing, but when Becca drops me off at home, I notice Auntie Mina sitting on the front porch bench, alone. I wave, let myself in through the garage door, and put down my backpack. Mom and Dad aren’t home yet and the house is quiet. I could have some time to myself.

  My conscience nags at me. I open the front door and lean out.

  “Hi, Sunny,” Auntie Mina says, turning to face me with a wan smile.

  “Is everything okay?”

  She sets down a stack of papers on the bench next to her. “Yes … no. Well, I’m not sure. I’m trying to figure some things out. Come on—have a seat.” She pats the bench.

  Reluctantly, I sit next to her. I catch a glimpse of the papers on her other side: computer printouts. The top page says, “Trial Separation or Legal Separation?” in big black letters. I feel a wave of relief.

  “Are you … ” I gesture toward the stack of printouts, not sure what I really want to ask. Nothing’s happened yet. Has it?

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Auntie Mina says, sighing. “I’ll be honest with you. This is really tough. I didn’t know it would be this hard.”

  I’m not sure if she’s talking about the paperwork or the idea of leaving Uncle Randall, but I say, “He hurts you. You have to leave.” My voice sounds small and I can’t bring myself to look at her, so I stare out at the road. Mrs. Abronzino drives by in her silver station wagon and waves at us.

  “The thing is, he really does care, in his own way. This is hard for him, too. Shiri is … ” She pauses, then continues. “Shiri was his daughter. Our daughter. He’s looking out for the family. That’s how he sees it, anyway. It’s all falling apart for him, and he’s trying his best to keep it together.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I insist. I struggle to articulate my thoughts. “The why doesn’t matter. If the way he deals with it is to hurt you, then you can’t stay with him.”

  Auntie Mina puts her arm around my shoulders. “It’s okay,” she says soothingly. “For now, I’m here. I don’t know what’s going to happen, not yet, but I’m here, okay?”

  I can’t help noticing: she hasn’t said she’ll never go back to him. Still, I lean into her and drop the subject.

  We stay on the porch for a few more minutes, not talking. I close my eyes and drift a little. I don’t even consciously realize that I’m reaching gently for Auntie Mina’s thoughts until, softly, almost like a whisper, I hear her:

  —reminds me so much of Shiri, miss her so much—

  —if I can just get Randall to listen, if I can

  convince—maybe he’ll be different

  maybe all we need is a break—

  —love him, still love him, do I love him?

  I don’t know—

  I don’t want to be alone but I love him but I don’t know, I don’t know—

  Her agonized confusion, her loneliness, her desperation and love roil through me like a flood, and I feel tears spring to my eyes. Before they have a chance to spill over, I make some halfhearted excuse and run up to my room. I could feel how close to tears she was herself, how many emotions were surging just under the surface, yet she was so calm. She made it sound so simple.

  Sometimes I feel like I don’t really know anybody at all.

  None of us does.

  But for some reason, now that I can find out more than anyone else can, I feel even more lost. And there’s an undercurrent of worry that won’t go away, because I’m not sure Auntie Mina is over Uncle Randall, no matter what she says.

  On Friday, Cody corners me after school in the parking lot. When I go to my car, he’s leaning against the driver’s-side door, flipping his Zippo open and shut and smiling that little secret smile. It brings a smile to my own face in response.

  Things have been different between us since the weekend. It feels like we have an unspoken understanding, something that goes deeper than ordinary friendship. He saw me at my worst, my most vulnerable, and he didn’t freak out or get scared. He just held me closer, gave me the silence I needed.

  It makes me feel a lot less alone.

  When I walk up and jingle my keys in front of him point-

  edly, his smile broadens and he says, “Give me a ride to my house?”

  The bottom drops out of my stomach for a second. Am I going to have to meet the Parents from Hell? Part of me doesn’t care if they’re there or not; part of me wants to go inside his house, see inside that part of his life.

  “Earth to Sunshine,” Cody says, and laughs at his own turn of phrase. “Ride?”

  I swat his arm. “Sure, but it’s a lot easier to drive people places when I can get into the car.”

  “What, you can’t walk through walls?” he says jokingly. He gives my ponytail a tug and walks around to the passenger side. I unlock the doors and he slides in, not bothering with the seat belt. I refrain from making a snide remark about his fender-bender. In fact, as we drive away from school, I have trouble thinking of anything to say. Cody is thrumming with edgy energy, tapping his fingers on the dashboard, flipping radio stations back and forth, and smiling to himself.

  “So,” I say eventually, “What’s the deal?”

  “Turn here,” he says, pointing at a stoplight that goes into a ritzy housing development I’ve never been in before. It isn’t gated, but palm trees line the entry road and everything seems to be painted in trendy colors. There are a lot of fake columns and stonework facades and SUVs.

  “Here,” he says again, pointing to a cul-de-sac on the left
with five or six big houses on it. “Hang on—you can park right there.” He points at the curb next to a two-story house with giant glass picture windows and two cars, a Hummer and a Lexus, parked in front. The silver Lexus has been backed into the driveway, and I can see the crumpled part of the front bumper. I wince as I pull up to the curb and turn off the car.

  “It’s fine,” Cody says shortly. “I’ll be able to pay it off by the end of the school year if I can get a cashier job at Thumbscrew. “

  “But if you can’t drive there … ” I trail off, not wanting to piss him off.

  “Pop says I’ll have to take the bus. Not that there’s a bus stop anywhere near this neighborhood. Nobody wants the noise or the diesel fumes or ‘those kinds of people’ wandering around here.” His voice is sarcastic. “Or I might be able to—I don’t know.” He fidgets with his Zippo again. He’s all serious now, and he turns to look at me intently.

  “So what is it?” I tilt my head and smile at him a little, trying to lighten the mood. It feels like we’re trapped in a heavy silence.

  “I—okay, listen,” Cody says, sounding urgent now. “I have to ask you something. A favor.”

  I nod warily. He leans toward me, close enough in my little car that I can smell his shampoo. He closes his eyes for a second, then opens them, but his expression is hard to read. “That accident—that wasn’t the only reason I got in trouble. I didn’t tell Mikaela everything that happened.”

  “So, what else was there?” I ask. Even though I’m worried, I’m the one he’s taking into his confidence this time, and it feels good.

  He sighs. “Since I’m not allowed to drive for the foreseeable future, I invited some of those people you met at the solstice thing to have their meeting at my house on Sunday. It turned into kind of a party, I guess. My parents were supposed to be at a charity dinner, but Mom came home early and caught some of them smoking pot in the backyard and drinking Pop’s scotch. And they broke one of his highball glasses. It wasn’t on purpose, and I didn’t mean for them to find out. But my parents were fucking pissed. I’ve never seen them so … ” He swallows. “Anyway. I just thought maybe you could help me. You know. With your … ” He taps the side of his head, and I have a growing feeling of unease.

  “Cody, I—”

  “I’m a little freaked,” he says, putting his hand on my hand where it’s resting on the gearshift. There’s a crease of worry between his eyebrows. “More than a little. I just want to know if they’re planning on—I don’t know what they’re thinking. But I need to know. I just want to be ready. There’s going to be some kind of ‘big discussion’ and I have to be prepared.” His voice is hard, but then it softens. He looks right at me, his eyes intense. “I wouldn’t be asking you this if I didn’t think it was really important.”

  “I know,” I say, still shaken that Cody, of all people, would admit that he’s actually scared. Of course, he really screwed up this time. But that doesn’t mean Mikaela was wrong about his parents being tyrants.

  “It wasn’t your fault, though,” I point out. “The party got out of control. Can’t you explain that?”

  “I tried,” he says flatly. “They don’t want to listen to me.”

  I squeeze his hand. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll try. But … I can’t guarantee anything. They might be thinking about something totally unrelated.”

  “Not a chance,” he says, looking away from me and staring out the front windshield. “I’m supposed to check in with my mom right after I get home from school today, so I’ll just go in the front door, pick a little fight, and then let her rip about what a big screw-up I am. You’ll definitely hear something.”

  His voice is desolate; bitter. I can’t control my frown or the sick feeling that wells up in the pit of my stomach, but I try not to let Cody see just how painful it is to hear him say that. I don’t want to be yet another source of stress in his life. Instead, I lean back a little in my seat, put my hands loosely in my lap, and close my eyes.

  Unlike last week, Cody doesn’t say anything to prompt me. He just breathes loudly and tensely in the seat next to me for a moment, then gets out of the car and slams the door. I go through the visualization process on my own, trying not to think about Cody trudging heavily up to the door of his house, trying not to fixate on the hopelessness in his voice.

  After a few minutes of silence, I start to relax, and my mind drifts.

  My awareness, my sense of myself, is in that nothing-space, and it’s starting to seem more familiar, less … terrifying. Though it’s not really a space, but something intangible I can’t quite describe. I sort of nudge myself toward Cody’s house, picturing my mind drifting through the walls of the building not thirty feet away and looking—feeling, really—around for other thoughts.

  And I find them.

  —is NOT a choice, this is it, this is the last time, not kidding, not playing around anymore—sick of

  it—wild—undisciplined—needs structure—summer work camp or maybe military school if he doesn’t—

  —has to learn, I don’t know what more to do—

  —have to send him—send him away—

  My muscles tense with rage. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, starts dripping down my back and sides. My breath quickens and my heart races. It takes me a moment to calm down enough to remind myself that these aren’t my emotions, this isn’t my anger. I’m so shocked at the anguished, bitter flavor of the thoughts—his mother’s thoughts—that I’m almost flung back into consciousness. But not before I sense something else.

  Someone else. Someone I do know, because he’s walking toward me now, walking back to the car. My thoughts are already spinning away, out of control, and all I can read is a sense of desperation, a moment of

  —have to—have to do something—

  … and then my eyes are open and I’m breathing hard, like I just finished an 800-meter swim race.

  From Shiri Langford’s journal, August 5th

  This morning I was jogging around the neighborhood and listening to my iPod, one of the Beatles mixes I made for Sunny before I left for college, and the song “Yesterday” came on. When Paul sang out those first few lines, I couldn’t help it, I just stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk and bent over and started sobbing, thinking about how my life didn’t used to be like this, how it used to be different until one day, I don’t know exactly when, it just started changing.

  Like Paul said, all my troubles used to seem far away. But it’s not like that now. I’m not sure it ever really was.

  twenty-two

  When I open my eyes again, I nearly jump out of my skin. Cody is staring at me through the car window. He opens the door and sits back down in the passenger seat, his whole posture radiating tension. But there’s a lump in my throat and I can’t talk just yet. I rummage in the glove box for a tissue, find a crumpled napkin, and wipe damp sweat off my forehead. Finally, he breaks the silence.

  “So did it work? What did you hear?” His voice is low and rough.

  “I—they—” I cough, my throat dry, and shake my head. “How did you manage to leave the house?”

  “Bathroom window. Mom has no idea.” He lets a tiny self-

  satisfied smile flit across his face, but it’s gone in a moment and his face is nervous again.

  How can I tell him? What’s it going to change?

  “Sunny? What’s going to happen to me?” Cody asks, a little more desperately. I swallow a few times and try again, a creeping feeling of dread making my palms sweat. I wipe them on my jeans.

  “Your mom,” I finally force out. “She was pretty mad.”

  He’s quiet, waiting for me to continue, but he tenses up even more the second I mention his mom.

  I hesitate again. “She was saying something about how they’re not kidding around anymore, they’re sick of it, it’s the last straw, blah blah blah. Typical parent stuff, I guess.” I’m forcing my tone to be light. I can’t bring myself to tell him that I could feel how angry she was
, how afraid for him, how desperate. How she was ready to do anything to make him into the son she wanted him to be.

  “And then what?” He catches and holds my gaze, and I look away. A tear slides down my cheek involuntarily. He reaches out, gently turns my chin so that I’m facing him again, then strokes my cheek with his thumb. “What?”

  I close my eyes, lean into his hand. I don’t want to tell him. It almost makes me feel sick. But I do anyway.

  “It was something about … you needing discipline. Like sending you away to work camp or military school. She sounded really insistent.” I can’t look at him. I pull away from his hand, sit back in my seat, and stare out the window at the street ahead of me and the identical palm trees punctuating the sidewalk. “She sounded desperate.”

  He swears explosively and slams his palm against the dashboard. “I should have known this would happen. This is so typical of them.” I can hear his teeth grinding together as he clenches his jaw, and I try not to cringe.

  But I have to admit, his anger scares me a little.

  “Look,” I say, trying to sound calming, “it could just be a threat. So, you try not to get on their nerves for a while.”

  “You don’t know what they’re like,” he says abruptly.

  “They’d really send you away?” I can’t imagine my parents ever wanting to get rid of me, even if they thought I needed to learn a lesson. But then, I haven’t crashed the car. Or shoplifted. Or gotten arrested. Or thrown a party at my house without my parents around.

  “This cannot happen.” Cody sounds less angry now. More like eerily calm. I look at him. His jaw is still clenched, but he seems to be more in control of himself. He looks at me and his eyes are hard. “I won’t let them. This is my life.”

  “You’re not eighteen yet,” I point out. “They can still—”

  “They won’t do anything. I won’t let them. If they try …

  I’ll make them sorry.” His eyes glitter with something I can’t fathom.