The small stack in my hand is the last of it. A few stuck-together pages. I set them on my lap and begin to peel them apart, starting at the corner. The first two don’t release so easily, but the third comes away. And I see it. The map. There are more beneath. Hand-drawn plans of the house with floor layouts and measurements. A land survey with symbols for fences and farmland. Sales documents with plots and dollar amounts. Half-torn pages from a printed Colton atlas. Most of them only capture the southern part of the state, where the estate must have been located. But there is one that climbs north, detailing each county in central Jersey. It’s not a Sanborn, but it’s similar. Clear lines. Crossed boxes. Stark depictions.
I take that one to my bed, cross my legs, and smooth it flat with my hands. I don’t worry about the oil from my fingers, because this map is already ruined. It’s got color spots from the other paper it was pressed against in the box, not to mention the water stains and yellowed edges. So I touch it where I want, adding myself to the history of the page. I run my fingers up from Camden, through Mercer and Monmouth Counties, up to Union, and across the name printed on the yellow claw shape: West Field. Two words, separated by a space.
I get up and lean over my desk to lift my framed Sanborn off its nail, where it’s been hanging since Thanksgiving. Then I set it on my blanket next to the decaying map from happyelizabeth. Both maps are from the early 1900s. Both are survey maps. But they’re not the same. The northeast corner of Westfield, which stretches to meet Springfield, looks longer, narrower in my map. The dip in the middle looks steeper, as if Mountainside were dripping water into the top of Westfield and deepening the decay.
I always thought the Sanborn style was transparent, that it didn’t have an agenda or a point of view. But looking between these two maps, it’s obvious now that it’s just a matter of style. Plain versus ornate. Informative versus illustrative. Detailed versus decorative. It all depends on the mapmaker, and what kind of story she wants to tell.
I hang the map back on my wall and step up onto my bed. From this height I can see the entire contents of the box spread out on my floor—a whole year of someone’s life, laid out in scraps of paper. It gives me an idea.
After dinner that night I pack up all the pieces, laying each delicate page on top of another and slowly guiding the tall stack back into the bowed box. When I’m finished, I close the cardboard flaps and push the box into the corner of my closet. Then I gather the discarded balls of tape, some pieces still fuzzy with the film of cardboard skin that ripped away with it, and toss them in the trash. The room feels open and spacious.
I grab my cell from my nightstand and send Kris a text:
Talk at the reservation this weekend? Promise to be your Worst Friend.
It’s the first real communication we’ve had since New Year’s Eve. She doesn’t respond right away. I don’t blame her, though. I’ve blamed her long enough.
After all, Kris didn’t force me to leave the night of the manhunt game. She didn’t ask me to walk away. I could have taken Jolene’s hand. I could have gone back to find Hudson on those steps. I could have said no when Jolene showed me those ropes.
I had a choice. I chose this.
And I don’t regret it. Despite the scars—the ones you can see and the ones you can’t—I wouldn’t change anything. Without Jolene, I wouldn’t know how to run without looking down, how to laugh into the night, how to make my heart beat so loud it drowns out the rest of the world. I wouldn’t know how to take control. I wouldn’t know how to let go.
Of course, I wouldn’t know the pain, loss, loneliness, or confusion, either; but as hard as all those things were to live through, they were worth it. Because I survived them, and now I know that I can do that too.
I can survive.
About an hour later my phone buzzes. It’s Kris:
Fine, but I’m driving.
I tap the letters on my screen.
Deal.
Then I lean back on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. I finally took down that cartoonish map my parents got me in second grade. Now when I look up I see pure white. A blank canvas. And when I close my eyes, I don’t find intersecting lines. I’m not strung up in a familiar web of streets and houses.
I’m at school the next day.
Kris isn’t waiting for me. It’s not going to be that easy. Things between us might not ever be the way they used to be, but that’s okay. I don’t want to go back anymore. I want to go forward.
Jolene is at her locker. She’s still with Bella. Still in front of an audience. Still lowering her lashes, tossing her hair, becoming whoever they want her to be.
Tomorrow’s story.
But I know what’s underneath. I know who she really is.
Not beautiful. Not even pretty.
Sad. Lonely. Desperate.
But most of all, separate.
I thought Jolene and I were the same thing: two hearts wrapped in the same skin. I thought she understood me. That she chose me. And in a way, she did. She wanted attention, and she knew I’d give it to her—that I’d scoop myself out to make room for her. She knew I’d give her everything, because I was desperate, too.
That’s the thing I figured out about me and Jolene, after everything.
I wanted to be loved. She loved to be wanted.
It’s not the same thing. And it definitely isn’t love with a capital L. I’m not even sure I know what Love is.
Jolene said she loved me. I think she tried her best. It’s the only explanation I can come up with. Why else would she have fought so fiercely for me? Why else would she have disappeared on purpose after break? That was her gift to me. It was the only thing she knew how to give.
Hudson said he loved me, too.
I never said it back to either of them.
Maybe because I couldn’t separate the strands of love from need. Maybe because I was too intent on what could have been. Maybe because one was a boy, and one was a girl, and I wasn’t sure what that meant. Maybe because we were all looking for something that didn’t exist. Or maybe it’s because love isn’t what I was looking for in the first place.
What do you want to be? Jolene asked me. But that was the wrong question. It was Kris who got it right: Who are you?
I shut my eyes tighter.
I am ducking into the journalism room sixth period, not to find Kris but to collect samples of my layouts for a college portfolio. I am going to apply to some design programs, after Jake vets my essay. I am getting the issues I need. I’m locking up. I’m leaving.
Hudson is coming in from the bike racks with his headphones up and his head down. We don’t speak, but I remember what he said—that I walked away from Jolene, not because she forced me but because I wanted to. I know now that he was right. The same way I know that this time I won’t go back, no matter how many times she calls.
I will flip up the hood of my sweatshirt and listen to my thoughts, which I’ve discovered have a flow and rhythm all their own. I will walk the route I want in the halls, not to avoid someone or run toward them, but so I can get where I need to go. I will choose a college miles from Westfield, not because I want to be far away from old friends, but because I want to hold myself closer.
I will test the jagged border of the space where Jolene used to be and feel a steady beat: warm, pulsing, blue—my own blood in my veins.
The threads of a tale only I can tell.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THE FOLLOWING PEOPLE took the voices in my head seriously, and for that I’ll be forever grateful.
To critique partners Jessica Fonseca and Cathy Castelli, for early reads, insightful comments, and constant cheerleading (and for never again bringing up the foot scene).
To Paula Stokes—friend, therapist, word doctor, professional adviser, writing machine. I would have jumped off many mental cliffs without you. Thank you for all the shared tears and celebrations, and for being there every single step of the way.
To I. W. Gregorio, for perspective. See you
in Ocean City.
To Liz Van Doren, for Rolling Stones lyrics, Venn diagrams, and being the first person who really made me believe.
To Steve Raizes, for telling me about that writing class you were taking and making me wonder why I wasn’t doing the same.
To Martha Lawrence, for authorly advice, words of encouragement, and telling me when it was okay—and necessary—to take a break.
To Deborah Moss, Sieglinde McKeown, Rachel Peachman, Liz Sadeghi, Katie and Gabe Bevilacqua, and all my friends and extended family, for unlimited support and unwavering faith.
To Sarah Lieberman, the sole member of my YA book club, for answering questions about school and being the type of reader I write for.
To the town of Westfield, New Jersey, for being home. I did my best to honor your history and streets. Any inconsistencies or mistakes made in the service of the story are mine and mine alone.
To the Fall Fifteeners, the Fearless Fifteeners, the Binders, and the bloggers. You are my people and my community. This journey would have been insurmountable without you.
To Jaime Primak Sullivan, for big dreams, positive energy, love, the lake house, and divine timing.
To Hillary Scarbrough, for texts about kissing, chats about the nuances of human behavior, and Totally Getting It; and for telling me I could when I felt like I couldn’t.
To Mandy Tagger-Brockey, for plot help, the perfect advice in a crisis, and so much more than I could ever list.
To Judy and John Paul, my other parents, for always believing.
To Sara Sargent, for the best editorial letter ever, and for understanding exactly what I meant, even when I didn’t realize I meant it.
To the entire B+B team, especially fearless leaders Alessandra Balzer and Donna Bray and editorial lifesaver Viana Siniscalchi. Thanks for bringing me back to 10 East 53rd Street as an author.
To Michael Bourret, who makes everything okay. Having you in my corner has made all the difference. What can I say? I’m glad I waited the extra week.
To my older brothers, Lawrence—pillow fort builder, homework helper, fuzzy finder; and Bryan—creative ally and genuine rock star. Thanks for doing everything first.
To my parents: Mom, for telling me to invite another friend over when I was crying about what some fourth-grade girl said, for that trip to California, and for so many other things you did that got me through the hardest parts of high school (and life) and had me laughing on the other side. Dad, for telling me I could be whatever I wanted to be over and over again, even when I made faces and got all sensitive. Believe me, I know how lucky I am to be your daughter.
To Stephen and Alex, for reminding me how thin the line is between imagination and reality, and for going to bed on time so many nights so I could write.
And, finally, to Chris, who met me when I was Mattie’s age and decided to stay. This book would not have been possible without you. Thanks for making ours a love story.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Jodi Kendall
MARCY BELLER PAUL is bad at reading maps but good at folding notes. She graduated from Harvard University in Massachusetts and worked as an editor in New York before moving back to New Jersey, where she now lives with her husband and two children. Underneath Everything is her first novel. You can visit Marcy online at www.marcybellerpaul.com.
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CREDITS
Photo © 2015 by Holly Kehrt/ImageBrief.com
Hand lettering by Kate Engbring
Map © 2015 by Bill Davis/Yarbrough-Williams & Houle, Inc.
Cover design by Sarah Davis Creech
COPYRIGHT
Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
UNDERNEATH EVERYTHING. Copyright © 2015 by Marcy Beller Paul. Map art copyright © 2015 by Bill Davis/Yarbrough, Williams & Houle, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.epicreads.com
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Paul, Marcy Beller.
Underneath everything / Marcy Beller Paul. — First edition.
pages cm
Summary: Mattie discovers surprising things about herself and her long-term best friends when she decides she has had enough of her self-imposed isolation from most of the school and two of her three friends, reconnects with her ex-boyfriend, and enjoys all the parties senior year has to offer.
ISBN 978-0-06-232721-5 (hardcover)
EPub Edition © October 2015 ISBN 9780062327239
[1. Best friends—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction. 3. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 4. Conduct of life—Fiction. 5. High schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.1.P385Und 2015 2014041056
[Fic]—dc23 CIP
AC
* * *
15 16 17 18 19 CG/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
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Underneath Everything Page 24
