Sarah Stevenson - Underneath (Sarah Jamila Stevenson)

“And then what?” He catches and holds my gaze, and I look away. A tear slides down my cheek involuntarily. He reaches out, gently turns my chin so that I’m facing him again, then strokes my cheek with his thumb. “What?”

I close my eyes, lean into his hand. I don’t want to tell him. It almost makes me feel sick. But I do anyway.

“It was something about … you needing discipline. Like sending you away to work camp or military school. She sounded really insistent.” I can’t look at him. I pull away from his hand, sit back in my seat, and stare out the window at the street ahead of me and the identical palm trees punctuating the sidewalk. “She sounded desperate.”

He swears explosively and slams his palm against the dashboard. “I should have known this would happen. This is so typical of them.” I can hear his teeth grinding together as he clenches his jaw, and I try not to cringe.

But I have to admit, his anger scares me a little.

“Look,” I say, trying to sound calming, “it could just be a threat. So, you try not to get on their nerves for a while.”

“You don’t know what they’re like,” he says abruptly.

“They’d really send you away?” I can’t imagine my parents ever wanting to get rid of me, even if they thought I needed to learn a lesson. But then, I haven’t crashed the car. Or shoplifted. Or gotten arrested. Or thrown a party at my house without my parents around.

“This cannot happen .” Cody sounds less angry now. More like eerily calm. I look at him. His jaw is still clenched, but he seems to be more in control of himself. He looks at me and his eyes are hard. “I won’t let them. This is my life.”

“You’re not eighteen yet,” I point out. “They can still—”

“They won’t do anything. I won’t let them. If they try …

I’ll make them sorry.” His eyes glitter with something I can’t fathom.

“Make them sorry? What are you talking about?” Suddenly I’m terrified. He wouldn’t hurt himself. Would he? I peer at him, but he just stares past me, over my shoulder, his face grim.

I clutch my hands together in my lap to keep them from shaking. How could he even imply it in front of me? It’s too cruel. But that sounds like what he’s saying. Or maybe he’s talking about hurting his parents. Or damaging their house.

In a moment, though, my hands relax. Because I know: that’s not Cody. None of it is, not really. He’s always talking about his big plans for his life, about moving to L.A. to live in a house full of artists or a Wiccan coven and start an underground music ’zine.

He’s not going to hurt anyone. I don’t even think he’d run away to L.A. He just wants his parents to think he will.

He’s planning to manipulate them. Scare them into doing what he wants.

No matter how tough his parents are, I’m not sure they deserve that.

I must look shocked. “It’s okay,” Cody says, his voice softening. “I know what I need to do now.”

“You’re not going to do anything dumb, are you?” I try to sound casual, but inside I’m reeling. Cody, his parents—both of them desperate, both of them stubborn. What’s going to happen now?

“Like I said, I’ll do what I have to do to get them to listen. Even if it means … scaring them a little.” Cody sees me start and puts his hand on my hand again; warm, gentle. “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t freak. Listen, I really appreciated this. You were … incredible. I couldn’t have done this without you. Obviously.”

And then he leans toward me, quickly, too quickly for me to react, and kisses me hard on the mouth. I can’t help moving toward him, almost reflexively. I feel the tip of his tongue glide lightly against the inside of my upper lip, and I shiver.

The first thing I think is, Oh. Wow.

The second thing I think, as his other hand comes up to stroke the back of my neck, is This feels wrong . Oh, it feels good , but it’s wrong. The timing … my mind’s not exactly working clearly. I’m still reeling from his mother’s thoughts, from what Cody might do. I shouldn’t be kissing anyone right now.

And I shouldn’t be kissing Cody, of all people. No matter how much I might want to. God, what if Mikaela finds out? She doesn’t even think this is a possibility. But I’m still kissing him, aren’t I? No. I pull away, my face hot.

Before I can say anything, he leans back and says, “I mean it. I won’t forget this.”

“Okay.” My mind spins, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me again. I want him to and I don’t at the same time. But he’s already opening the door and getting out of the car.

At school the following Monday, I manage to act like everything’s normal. Cody acts like his old self. Mikaela doesn’t seem to think anything’s weird.

I’m not about to tell her that Cody kissed me, even though it’s not like I did anything wrong, because he kissed me. And it hasn’t happened again.

Still, I didn’t stop him. I kissed him back. And I can’t help thinking about it.

A lot.

From Shiri Langford’s journal, August 29th

Such a relief to be back at school, away from THAT. Except of course THAT follows me wherever I go. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do. So I stopped taking those stupid antidepressants. I’m not convinced they help me anyway.

(Later)

I did something terrible.

I tried to tell Brendan about the things I hear. What a mistake. What a disaster. I’m

such a pointless waste of space

so stupid. The other times it’s happened while we were together, I passed it off as side effects from my medication. Now he knows I’m not taking my medication any more. He asked what was wrong. I started to lie, and then I just couldn’t stand keeping it inside anymore and I told him.

He didn’t say anything at all, just clenched his hands around the edge of the table. He turned kind of red, his eyes cold, and he got up and walked out of my apartment.

I don’t know why he was so angry.

I haven’t been able to get hold of him for the past two hours. I keep calling and calling.

The early February air is crisp and dry. A breeze cuts under the open zipper of my jacket as I rush out of my last-period class and into the bathroom along with about eight million other girls.

I retie my ponytail, craning my neck to see around a girl who’s hogging the mirror as she applies lipstick. Then I duck into a stall. The swirl of noise and voices echoes around the room for a minute, and then dwindles as the restroom empties out.

I flush the toilet, unlatch the door, and as I’m washing my hands at the sink I hear the clop-clop of high-heeled boots. And who walks in but Cassie, tottering a little on her fancy designer shoes, and Elisa.

Great.

I knew I should have avoided the bathrooms in the social science block.

I don’t meet their eyes. I just nod noncommittally and try to dry my hands as quickly as possible.

The electric dryer seems to be operating excruciatingly slowly. I’m about to wipe my hands on my cargo pants and leave when I notice that Elisa is crying.

Against my better judgment, I go up to the two of them where they’re standing over in the far corner. I mean, Elisa was my friend. And it’s not like she did anything to me directly. She just kind of followed along. Like I used to. When I see her crying it’s like we’re all struggling through freshman year again, and I can’t just leave.

“Lise, are you okay?” My voice is tentative. “What’s wrong?” Cassie is murmuring comfortingly in Elisa’s ear, but when she hears my voice, her head whips up and she glares at me.