Sarah Stevenson: Underneath (Sarah Jamila Stevenson)

“No vanity or dark rumors will they hear,” the imam quotes, describing some heaven that I can hardly imagine exists; “only the call, ‘Peace! Peace!’ ”

He rationalizes Shiri’s death for my more traditional relatives, reassuring them that she will still make it to Paradise, since she was obviously suffering some mental affliction that made her not responsible for her actions. I glance around. On the other side of Auntie Mina, Dadi is rocking back and forth in her seat, her gauzy shawl wrapped around her head and tears trickling down her wrinkled, nut-brown face. Dada just sits there looking miserable.

After the lanky, skullcapped imam concludes his part of the ceremony with a brief sura from the Qur’an, there’s a viewing of the deceased so people can go up and pay their respects. My dad puts a hand on my shoulder as we stand, so I know I can’t avoid this.

Even though all my shaking legs want to do is run out of here.

The wooden casket lies on the carpeted dais at the front of the room. The top half of it is open. It’s surrounded by arrangements of white and yellow flowers, and black plastic stands holding blown-up photographs of Shiri: her senior portrait with the fuzzy filter that makes her look like a movie star; an action shot of her whacking a tennis ball that appeared in the local paper her junior year. In the tennis picture her long brown hair is tied back in a ponytail, flying behind her as she hits the ball; her tiny features are scrunched in a grimace of concentration.

I stop, reach one hand up, and lightly touch the edge of her senior portrait, my other hand knotted into a fist at my side. In that photo, she’s the epitome of calm, her makeup perfect and her mouth curved slightly as if she’s smiling at someone off camera. But she’s got that little line between her eyebrows that she only gets when she’s upset. I wonder what made her so unhappy that day.

I wonder what made her so unhappy, period. She seemed embarrassed about taking antidepressants; she only told me reluctantly, after I found the bottle in her purse while rummaging for hand lotion. I can’t help feeling like I should have known, should have been able to figure it out somehow. But how could I? How could anyone?

Earlier today, my mom told me something else I hadn’t known. Shiri had been put on academic probation after last spring and would be in danger of losing her scholarship if she didn’t get a good enough GPA this fall. Even worse, she’d gotten a stress fracture during a tennis match that left her on the bench for the duration of the season.

“None of us knew that was going on,” my mom said this morning, looking at me with red-rimmed eyes across the kitchen table. “She must have been feeling so much pressure. We never want you to feel like you’re under that kind of pressure, Sunshine.”

I let out a shaky sigh. There was no chance of that happening. Sure, they’re always telling me I have to “live my ideals,” but I don’t think the words “parental pressure” are in their vocabulary. Not the way Uncle Randall put pressure on Shiri. They’re probably just glad I’m not like they were at my age, ditching school to smoke pot at the nude beach or whatever. They have nothing to worry about. I’m a swim jock, not a hippie. I have popular friends. I fit in at school. I’m happy there. I am nothing like them.

But they’ve always supported me. I’m lucky, I guess. We don’t have money to throw around like my aunt and uncle do, but we live in a pretty nice neighborhood and I go to Citrus Valley High, which is a college-prep magnet full of the “right” kind of kids, as Uncle Randall would put it. The kind of kids that parents love.

Kids like Shiri.

I reach the front of the room. The sickly sweet smell of the flower arrangements almost overwhelms me, but I step up to the coffin, trying to swallow past the huge knot in my throat. I force my eyes to stay open, force myself to look at her. At her body. This isn’t really her, says a little voice in my head. She’s still back at school, studying in the library or throwing a frisbee with her hair flying in the breeze. Not lying here, her lips artificially pink and her skin powdery and dull with makeup. Not dead.

—dead. no no no—

I grind my teeth. I don’t want to remember the voice. The swim meet. Not now.

My limbs feel jerky, like they aren’t attached to me, as I step down from the dais and stand near the end of the front row of seats. My dad is off to one side, talking quietly with Grandma and Grandpa Pryce, Mom’s parents. Cassie’s older sister Tessa is on a bench about halfway back, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She used to be one of Shiri’s best friends in high school. It was because of Shiri and Tessa that I met Cassie, the summer before freshman year. Shiri brought me along to a swim party at Tessa’s house, and there was Cassie, who loved swimming as much as I did and invited me to go shopping with her for first-day-of-school clothes.

I search for Cassie. She’s in the very back, next to Spike, who’s looking uncomfortable, and Marc, who’s texting somebody. She’s frowning at her mother, shaking her head, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Some people might think she’s being cold not coming up to me, but I know Cassie—she’s not hard-hearted. She always remembers things like my birthday, like my cat’s birthday. She’s detail-oriented like that. But she’s never been a touchy-feely person. She’s not good with tragedy.

Who is, though?

Still, I have the urge to run over there. Rip the phone out of Marc’s hand, put my head on Cassie’s shoulder. Listen to Spike make a dumb joke. But I can’t.

I move away, cross the burgundy-carpeted funeral parlor to the ladies’ room in the back. There’s a small cushioned bench in there, plush like the carpet, and I sit. I stare at the beige-painted wall but I can’t bring myself to cry. I feel abnormal and disloyal, but I can’t help it. I shake my head, almost violently. That’s not her out there.

And she didn’t commit suicide. Suicide . It’s something that happens on TV. Not in real life. Not to her.

I can’t grasp it. I may not be a religious person. I may not know what I believe. But I can’t believe she’s gone.

I go to school on Wednesday in a fog. I missed Monday and Tuesday. Of course, everyone knows what happened. Gossip spreads quickly at our school.

Failing that, there was always the local newspaper: “Suicide Suspected in Teen Overdose Death.” Just in case you hadn’t heard.

While I was gone, the school counselor held one of those excruciating assemblies where they talk about “what you can do if you think someone close to you might harm themselves.” Today, everybody asks if I’m okay. I just nod, keep walking. I feel like they’re all staring at me, at my disheveled hair and shifty eyes, trying to figure out if I’m “thinking of harming myself.”

When I walk into my second-period Honors American Lit class there’s a sudden uncomfortable silence, though I can still hear the clamor, the echo of voices in my head. I feel like plugging my ears. It’s as if people were talking about me in their little pre-class groups and then zipped it the minute I showed up. Even Cassie won’t quite look at me.

Eyes-Front—a.k.a. our friend Marc—does his usual chest-level stare. I automatically cross my arms. At least I know the world hasn’t gone entirely nuts.

Mr. Patrick says, “Welcome back, Sunny. We all hope you’re feeling better.” He puts the emphasis on feeling better , just in case there were one or two people still left who didn’t have a clue. I duck my head and slouch into my seat, but I’m sure they can all read it on my face. Still, I try to stuff down my emotions, swallow them so that I can get through the day and go home.