Sarah Stevenson - Underneath (Sarah Jamila Stevenson)

I sidestep out of the kitchen, quietly grab my keys, and sneak out the front door. They’ll hear me starting the car and driving off, but hopefully they’ll be occupied with Auntie Mina for the next few minutes. All I need is a few minutes.

I start to drive. Speeding a little, I make it across town in record time. The houses start to get bigger, the gardens fancy and landscaped, and I’m in the neighborhood where Shiri lives. Used to live. Where Uncle Randall is right now.

I drive past the house; then, nervously, I pull around the corner, about a block away. It’s dark outside, and when I turn off the headlights, the yellow glow of the streetlights is the only illumination.

Getting as comfortable as I can in the driver’s seat, I close my eyes and regulate my breathing, just like I did yesterday with Cody. It takes me a while to calm down enough to start the visualizations. Gradually, though, I can feel my heart rate slow from its angry gallop.

I start to relax into that increasingly familiar feeling of unreality. It makes me think of stepping off a cliff and having to believe that I can walk on air.

My thoughts want to tumble in freefall, but I strain to keep my attention focused. In my mind’s eye, I envision one particular place. I’m floating along the street toward that huge, echoing house, the house I used to think was a palace. I pass through the concrete columns on either side of the porch that Shiri and I used to draw on with colored chalk. In through the door. I can picture it clearly, and then I feel the thoughts I’m looking for. His thoughts.

—have to find someone to replace her at work—

how can I?—I don’t need this, can’t believe she’d—she knows how it is—

—how could she do this to me—

—not my fault not me not me NOT ME—

There’s a smell, too, a tang like something toxic melting, like plastic on fire or burning rubber or acrid metal. Not a physical smell; I guess it’s like those people who say they can taste colors or see sounds—but it feels real nonetheless. I’m choking on it; on the feelings of anger and blame and loss like bile rising in my throat. I can’t take it anymore. And then I’m hurtling through space, my head spinning as I sit with my face in my hands, leaning against the steering wheel.

Shreds of emotion drift through me like wafting smoke, making me tense up again, and then they’re gone. My palms throb where I was digging my nails into them, and my eyes sting.

I don’t know why I thought this could help. It’s just a burden of useless knowledge, of feelings that threaten to overwhelm me. To bury me.

And, I realize with growing despair, it’s not like anybody in my family would believe me anyway.

The next morning I wake up early, feeling like I’ve been sleeping under a ton of bricks. My limbs are sore and achy, and my head feels fuzzy. I gingerly climb out of bed, testing my legs, and decide to go for a run before showering for school.

The midwinter air is chilly and the sky is full of low gray clouds. As I slowly warm up, lengthening my stride, I wonder if it’s not just lack of exercise that made me so tired this morning. I wonder if it was the underhearing.

The more I think about it, the more I’m sure of it. Especially now—now that I can actually make it happen—it seems to take something out of me.

It makes sense. When I swim extra hard, I get tired. When I study too late, I get headaches. And when I underhear too intensely, when I pour everything I have into trying to use this power … I suffer for it. It happened to Shiri, too; I saw it in one of her journal entries. But I don’t think she made the connection.

I quicken my stride, breathing hard. The cool air blows past me, whipping stray strands of hair into my face. Not for the first time, not even for the fiftieth time, I wonder why this happened to me. Why it happened to Shiri. Auntie Mina’s never shown any signs of being a mind reader. And my dad doesn’t seem like he’s got any special talents.

I think about Auntie Mina again. If she’s even just a little more sensitive to people’s feelings, maybe something happened with Shiri, some … mutation that made it more powerful somehow? And if that’s true, how did it happen to me? I think about Shiri’s note. Maybe one day you’ll figure it out. I never could. How could she know about me? Was she just guessing? What if she gave it to me, like an infection?

I’m running flat-out through the neighborhood, and I force myself to slow down. I don’t need to hurt myself by running too hard. But when I get to school, my mind is still spinning with theories. Maybe it’s something that only affects the women in the family. Maybe it was something in the water when Shiri and I were growing up. Antonia would probably say it was a blessing from the Goddess. At this point, it’s no weirder a theory than anything else.

I space out through most of the morning, thinking about it. Mrs. Lam pauses next to my chair during French class and pointedly says, “Bon jour , Mademoiselle Soleil,” tapping a perfectly manicured fingernail on my desk. Still, I manage to concentrate long enough to get a B on the pop quiz. By the time I get to lunch, though, my brain is fried.

“You’ve got the burnout look going. Very hipster,” Mi-kaela says when I drop my brown bag on the table and collapse onto the bench.

“You’re just jealous.” I elbow her lightly and start picking at my carrot sticks.

“Ha ha.” She takes a bite of cafeteria pizza, then says casually, “So how was your practice session?”

“It went well,” I say. I glance around. Cody’s still not here yet, and Becca’s trapped David and Andy with an excited monologue about the latest in her string of girlfriends. I lower my voice a little. “I think I’m starting to get the hang of it. Doing it on purpose, I mean.”

Mikaela is quiet for a minute. “That’s good,” she finally says. “Right?”

I look up at her. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess ?”

“It’s just that … ” I lean toward her. “It’s exhausting.” And scary, and confusing. “I just have to get used to it, probably, but … ” I’m not sure what else to tell her. I cut my eyes in the direction of the rest of the group.

“Gotcha,” she says, following my gaze. “Later. But I ex-pect a full report on the amazing and mind-bending talents of Cody the Wanna-Be Warlock.” She says this last part in a fake-spooky voice, grabbing a stick from the ground and swirling it around like a magic wand.

“Wanna-Be Warlock?”

“Yeah, get this.” Mikaela puts down her stick-wand and turns to face me, straddling the picnic bench. “Saturday night after he left your house, he’s driving around with that stupid coven chick from the Wiccan thing, and I guess he’s trying to impress her with his dad’s Lexus, and he rear-ends this guy who’s stopped at a red light.”

“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?”