Sarah Stevenson - Underneath (Sarah Jamila Stevenson)

“No big deal,” she says, flashing a look at her comrades. “It’s cool. If she wants to, she can stay.” I give her an uneasy smile. She doesn’t smile back, but she takes the lead in sitting down next to me at the table.

The rest of the group starts filling in the bench around and across from me, haphazardly tossing an array of army-surplus messenger bags and black patent leather purses next to my baby-blue backpack. I stand out like a sore thumb in my swim team sweatshirt. My legs tense with the urge to bolt.

Mikaela Ramirez. I remember her name all of a sudden, randomly, along with the subject of her ninth grade oral report on A Midsummer Night’s Dream : something about tricksters and fairies. Even that thin thread of connection helps me relax a little, and I sneak another look at her. Other than the new fashion statement, she’s pretty much as I remember: short and sturdy, with light-brown skin a few shades darker than mine. Then one of the guys stares over at me, coldly enough to make me look down.

“Nice. We ditch one day of school and the Attack of the Clones moves in.” He says it in a low voice, offhandedly, but with a hint of a snarl. For a minute I can’t even bring myself to look up. My ears are hot, my eyeballs are prickling, and I wish I’d worn anything other than swim team sweats and my Citrus Valley Vikings hat.

I haven’t been sitting with these people five minutes, and they’re already judging me. How unfair is that? I guess it’s karma coming back to bite me, after everything I used to say. A song lyric pops into my head, the one about instant karma. John Lennon.

Shiri loved that song.

“So, what’s a clone like you doing slumming it back here?” the guy adds.

“Ex cuse me?” I look up at him. He’d almost be cute, in a goth sort of way, if he hadn’t just annoyed the crap out of me: tall, a little skinny, but with a strong jaw and profile. His eyes are blue, he’s got a silver eyebrow ring, and his hair is jet black, obviously dyed. His lips twist into a sneer. I shoot my fiercest glare back at him.

It doesn’t seem to matter where I go; all anyone ever does is judge me by the way I look. I might as well still be five years old wearing my purple kindergarten dress.

I don’t need this. I swallow my bite of sandwich and start gathering my stuff together.

“Hey, don’t go anywhere,” Mikaela says. “You can’t take him seriously. He doesn’t have a filter between his brain and his mouth.” She turns to the guy. “God, can you stop being a bitch for one day? This is that girl Sunny; you know.” She glares at him across the table, then lowers her voice. “The assembly , Les. Remember?”

I let out my breath as silently as possible in a long sigh and sit back down, mortified. This is going about as badly as I could have imagined.

“Quit calling me Les. It’s Cody now,” he corrects her, turning the sneer on her. She seems to wilt a little, momentarily, but then her face hardens to a glower again. “And yeah,” Cody continues, “I remember the assembly. So what?”

“So nothing. So, shut the fuck up,” she says almost good-naturedly, like she says it a dozen times a day. The group laughs and Cody flips her off, but he’s smiling as he does it. Meanwhile, I’m just sitting there like an idiot without a single intelligent thought running through my head. And then —jerk you always act like such a jerk, god just get a life and leave the poor girl alone. jesus I can’t believe she’s taking this so well, I’d be bawling already I’d be crying still from what happened—

My body shakes a little, and I feel her anger almost as intensely as if it’s my own. The anger hums through me along with a mixture of frustration and—not pity, but a feeling I can’t quite put my finger on, something complicated like the flavor of spice cookies or the smell of anise. It takes a moment to regain my composure, but my eyes finally focus again and I drop the squished remains of my sandwich, blinking stupidly.

I have no idea what to think. All I know is, she defended me to her friends and she absolutely, positively meant it, too.

I inhale sharply, trying to calm down, then immediately regret drawing attention to myself.

“What, Little-Miss-Preppy-Pants is traumatized by the F-word? Do you want to wash her mouth out with soap—what’s your name—Sunny? Is that for real?” He directs a mildly amused glance in my general direction, briefly making eye contact. Is he trying to flirt now? What a freak. I tilt my head, strain to pick up something, anything, but my brief moment of underhearing has stopped and I’m left confused as ever, without a clue what’s going on behind his eyes.

“I had her in a class freshman year. It’s for real, Lester Cody Anderson,” Mikaela says scornfully. She turns toward me and, all of a sudden, her face lights up with a huge grin. Not another glare, not even the dreaded Stare of Pity. She has a truly gorgeous, thousand-watt smile, and sitting there basking in it, I can’t help feeling a little better.

From Shiri Langford’s journal, February 22nd

Dad said if I don’t “shape up” he’s going to have to “seriously reconsider his decision to send me so far away to such an exclusive college.” I’m not even sure what that means. Is he going to make me move back home, just because he’s paying for my housing? I can’t let that happen. I’d run away first. He can’t stop me. My tuition, at least, is paid for with my tennis scholarship, as long as I get my grades back up.

It’s so unfair. Randall gets everything and I get nothing, I never even asked for anything, and what little I get is contingent on doing exactly what HE wants.

I hope Mom’s holding up.

Some good news, though. Brendan. Every time I think about him, I think that maybe if things get bad … maybe we could run away together. The first time I met him, THAT happened and I knew he was the kind of guy who would understand how my family is, because he’s had his own struggles. I admire him so much.

If I could just never go home again, I think I might be able to stay happy.

Breathe. In past my nostrils and filling my lungs; hold. Feel the breath leave my body and puff out of my mouth. Again. Breathe .

Again.

Breathe —there’s another knock at the front door, and my eyes fly open.

It’s Saturday, and I’m spending it on an unsuccessful attempt to meditate in my room while my parents lead the neighbors in their weekly session of Yoga for Aging Suburbanites.

Normally the last thing I’d do would be to follow one of my mother’s wacky suggestions. She thinks meditation is the solution to everything except maybe actual broken bones. But I can’t keep from hoping that somehow it’ll help me. It’s worth a shot. I don’t know what else to do. Once or twice a day, without fail, I’m hearing somebody’s thoughts in my head, feeling someone else’s emotions sweep me away like the tide. And I don’t have anyone to talk to about it.

I never asked for this … ability. My life was fine.

I never even asked for anything . It’s almost like an echo, and I shiver. Shiri’s journal. She said nearly the same thing. Only she said it about her own life. Her sad story, all the little hurts we never suspected but which added up somehow. The mysterious THAT. Shiri’s life was anything but fine. And now mine feels like it’s spiraling out of control, too.

I sit cross-legged on the floor next to my bed with my hands folded in my lap. What a joke. I’m supposed to be focusing on my breathing, clearing my mind. Instead, I keep thinking , nonstop. Shiri. Auntie Mina. Cassie. Spike. Even Cody and Mikaela. All of them going around and around my skull like animated bluebirds when a cartoon character gets whacked on the head.