Sarah Stevenson: Underneath (Sarah Jamila Stevenson)

Lunch is even worse. I buy a bottled water from the cafeteria, trying to hide from the curious stares that seem to be everywhere. Then I go back outside to the table where I usually sit with Cassie, Eyes-Front, Elisa, James, Spike, and a few other people from swim team, at the west side of the quad near the popular crowd.

One table away is where Shiri always used to sit before she graduated. Before she left us all.

I try to pretend everything’s normal, but Cassie can’t resist talking about it.

“Oh, Sunny … we all miss her so much. It must be so awful for you.” She flips her perfect straight blond hair back, reminding me that I’m a few weeks overdue to lighten my own hair. I could see the dark-brown roots in the bathroom mirror this morning when I was getting ready. “Dark Chestnut Blonde” is still sitting on the side of the tub, but I haven’t had the energy.

“Yeah, everyone’s been talking about it while you were gone,” James says through a mouthful of fries. “Even some of the teachers were crying when they found out.” He leans against the picnic table, his tall, skinny frame towering over the rest of us.

“At first all we talked about was how you freaked out in the pool,” Cassie says. “That was totally weird enough.”

“Mr. Lopez asked me if I was okay.” I sigh heavily. “I’ve never even had a class with him. People I don’t even know keep coming up to me and talking to me about Shiri.” I stare at the ground.

“Doesn’t that drive you nuts? I’d be so sick of it,” Cassie says in an irritated voice.

I look up at her, curiously. “I guess so. They’re just trying to be nice.”

“Yeah, whatever. Like they care.” She turns away, takes out a tube of lip gloss and starts reapplying it, casually, as if this is the kind of conversation we have every day.

“Harsh,” Spike says, laughing. We exchange a wry smile. Classic Cass.

Like last year, when James took a spill that time we all went mountain biking at Lake Arrowhead. All she could do was stand there and pretend she wasn’t freaked out by the whole thing, even though everyone else was gathered around James and fawning all over him to make sure he hadn’t broken anything.

Still, Cassie’s sister was one of Shiri’s best friends. I saw how unhappy Cassie was at the funeral. And she knows how I feel about Shiri. I expected she would have something more to say.

The last two classes of the day pass in a blur, all concerned faces and hushed whispers whenever I walk into a room. When the final bell rings, I leave campus gratefully. I get into the Volvo and start driving.

It’s too quiet, so I turn on the radio. Dad or Mom must have been using the car last because it’s tuned to a classic rock station. I hardly notice the music, just head for home on autopilot, until the Beatles song “Yesterday” comes on. Just like that, there are tears streaming down my face and I’m remembering Shiri’s note. We’ll always have yesterday … Maybe one day you’ll figure it out.

Mascara runs down into my eyes, making them sting. It was one of Shiri’s favorite songs. She loved the Beatles. Her other musical tastes came and went, usually according to whatever group of friends she happened to be hanging out with at the time. But the Beatles always stuck around. She was always trying to get me to listen to them, copying playlists onto my computer when I was out of the room: “Wistful Beatles.” “Happy Beatles.” “Funny Beatles.” “Trippy Beatles.” On and on.

I went to my first concert with her when I was thirteen and she had just turned seventeen. It was just a cover band playing at an all-ages beach party, but we spent over an hour getting ready, Shiri helping me with my makeup and brushing my hair until it shone. By the time she was done, I looked almost her age. Almost as pretty.

But, squished into the back seat, tall tennis-team guys to either side of me, I still felt small. Shiri sparkled in the front passenger seat, smiling and laughing. I scratched at my eyeliner surreptitiously, pressing my knees together to avoid too much contact with the guys next to me. But it didn’t matter. I was going to a concert with high school kids. When I went back to middle school the next Monday, my friends were in awe.

My stomach hurts. I’m having trouble concentrating on the road, so I pull into a Target parking lot halfway home. I drive to a space at the very back, where it’s less crowded, and sit there taking gulping breaths until I finally calm down again.

I glance in the rearview mirror. My eyes are puffy and red-rimmed, with traces of makeup giving me raccoon eyes. I pull my hair out of its elastic and try to arrange it around my face so that my eyes don’t draw as much attention. I look awful with my hair straggling down like this, like one of the stoner kids who hang around the convenience store near school, but at least nobody can see my face.

I start the car again and head for home. Traffic is heavy and I keep my eyes on the road ahead, the white lane-lines, the light turning from green to yellow to red.

At home, I eat half a small container of fat-free vanilla yogurt before feeling gross, my stomach turning over like I’m going to throw up. I toss the rest of the yogurt, go upstairs, and turn on one of the playlists Shiri left me: “Wistful Beatles.” Then I lie down on my bed. The strains of Paul McCartney singing “Let It Be” whisper softly out of my computer speakers. Mom and Dad aren’t home yet and the house is still. My tortoiseshell cat, Pixie, hops silently onto the bed, settles next to my shoulder, and starts kneading my upper arm, purring loudly.

I don’t know what I would have done the past week without Pixie. That’s one thing I always had that Shiri didn’t. Her dad doesn’t like animals in the house.

When we were kids, Shiri spent months asking for a pet rabbit. Uncle Randall smiled and said he had something special planned. When her eleventh birthday came around, she was positive she was going to get a rabbit. Instead, Uncle Randall gave her an investment portfolio.

Shiri burst into tears. Uncle Randall didn’t get it.

“A rabbit only lives for ten years if you’re lucky,” he said, a frown creasing his forehead. “I’m planning for your future. Your college education. Maybe even a house, if the stock market goes up.” Shiri cried harder. Uncle Randall got up and stomped out of the room.

“I can’t believe he would say that,” Shiri said, wiping her face with her sleeve. Auntie Mina hugged Shiri and whispered, “I know. I’m sorry.” I just huddled in the corner of the couch, wishing I were somewhere else.

Later, that type of thing made Shiri frustrated, not sad. Last winter—after taking a women’s studies class—she said her mother was still too traditional, that she wouldn’t know what to do with her life if there weren’t a domineering, paternalistic male in it.

Uncle Randall hadn’t wanted Shiri to take that class. He was always trying to butt into her college life, telling her what she should be studying and interrogating her about her grades after every test, just like when she was in high school. I didn’t realize this until I started reading her journal. She always acted so happy when she called or visited, telling me stories about late-night pizza outings and loud college parties with live bands.

But the stuff in her journal—she didn’t tell me any of that.

The last time I saw her—just a couple of months ago, before she left for the fall semester—she was giving me advice about college applications for next year. I’ve gone over the conversation a million times in my head, wondering if I should have guessed something was wrong.

“Don’t worry, you can always call me if you need help with the essay, but I know you’ll do great,” she said, her brown eyes lighting up. Then the light died and she broke into a brittle smile. “Just pretend you’re trying to impress my dad.” She shook her head. I laughed, a little tensely, and flopped back across my bed, eager to change the subject.