Sarah Stevenson - Underneath (Sarah Jamila Stevenson)

“It’s none of your business,” Cassie says. “Like you care about us anymore anyway. Go back to your new friends.”

“I’m fine,” Elisa says, her voice hoarse. “It’s—don’t worry about it.” She turns away from me, toward Cassie.

“Okay,” I say, hurt. “I’m not going to pretend I have any idea what’s going on, but here.” I fish a tissue out of my purse and hold it out to her.

“Oh, come on ,” Cassie says. She rips the tissue out of my hand almost violently and throws it in the trash can. “You have to know. Everyone does. You’re on there, too.” She stares at me challengingly, but I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“On what?” I sneak a sideways glance at the defaced bathroom wall, half-expecting to see our names and phone numbers listed along with “for a good time, call.”

“On the blog , stupid.”

“I’m not on any blog,” I protest. “I haven’t even been on- line in a week.”

“I’m talking about that Voice of the Underground thing. It got emailed to everyone on the school list. You seriously don’t know?” Cassie rolls her eyes and flips her hair over one shoulder. She’s looking at me like I’m beyond idiotic.

“I seriously don’t know,” I tell her, bewildered. I shift my gaze to Elisa, but she’s not looking at me. She’s still dabbing at tears with her sleeve.

“Yeah, right,” Cassie says. “Just check your email.”

I stand there for a minute, wondering what the hell is going on, wondering if I should offer Elisa another tissue, but they ignore me. The atmosphere feels brittle, like a dead leaf. So I go. Obviously they don’t want me around. I should never have stopped to talk to them in the first place. I shove aside my worry about Elisa and leave.

I have better things to do. I have better friends to see.

First, though, I call home, slowly walking across campus as I hit the speed-dial button and wait for our old answering machine to pick up.

“Auntie Mina? Are you home? This is Sunny.” I wait a minute, and she answers.

“Yes, Sunny? How are you? How was school?” She sounds tired.

“Fine,” I say. “I wanted to let you know, I was invited to my friend Cody’s house after school. I should still be home before Mom and Dad. Will you be okay until I get there?” It’s like I’m the adult and Auntie Mina is the child. But I’m worried. Uncle Randall hasn’t come over since that last time, but he’s been calling a lot ever since they started talking again. Sometimes two or three times a day. That’s why we told her not to pick up until whoever it was talked into the machine. She doesn’t have to talk to him all the time.

There’s been a lot of hang-up messages. Click, and then a dial tone.

“Oh, sweetie, I’ll be fine,” she says, but her voice sounds artificially cheerful. “You deserve some time with your friends.”

I feel a stab of guilt. “Well, call me if you need me.”

“Pshht. Go enjoy yourself,” she says, and hangs up. But I don’t feel any better. Especially since there’s absolutely nothing I can do.

Mikaela and Cody are already waiting for me by the gate to the back parking lot, and they fall into step on either side of me as I head for my car. As we walk, I can’t help feeling extra-conscious of Cody on my right, of the warmth of his skin as his bare arm brushes mine for a second.

“So why do girls take so long in the bathroom?” Cody asks, with fake earnestness.

“It wasn’t me,” I start to explain; but Mikaela pats me on the head.

“It’s okay; we won’t tell anyone about your secret girly makeup obsession. Your hidden collection of Cover Girl stuff. The perfume bottles stashed in your locker. The eyebrow pencils in your pencil case.”

I start laughing, letting myself be distracted. “Okay, seriously, who carries a pencil case? Name one person.”

“Billy Dorf,” she says solemnly. Her dark eyes twinkle.

“Fine. Okay. Name two .”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” Cody says, “but … here.” He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a battered black plastic pencil case with a Transformers logo on the front and an “Anarchy in the UK” sticker plastered on the back. We all crack up. During the car ride, Cody plugs his iPod into the adapter and cranks the volume and we speed along with the windows open, an old Rob Zombie album streaming out into the breeze. By the time we pull into Cody’s neighborhood I’m a little happier.

I’m nervous, though, stepping into Cody’s house.

“Are you sure your parents aren’t going to be pissed? You’re supposed to start work later tonight.” I look down at the marble-tiled entryway as I walk in. It’s spotless and mirror-shiny, as if it’s been recently buffed. A planter box full of fake flowers lines one side of the foyer, which extends out into an open-plan living room and kitchen. Everything looks clean, modern, and strangely empty.

“They’re not even going to know,” he says. “They won’t be home for a few hours. By the time they get back, I’ll already be at the theater.” He smiles enigmatically. “Want anything from the kitchen? I can fix a mean whiskey and Coke.”

“Uh, that’s okay,” I say. “It’s a little early.”

“I’ll take one,” Mikaela says, grinning at me mischievously. “Sunny can be a party pooper, but somebody’s gotta have some fun around here.”

“Fine, whatever,” I say, but I’m not really in the mood. I feel like his parents could show up any second. I take a doctored Coke, though, and help carry enough chips and snacks to feed a small army. It’s supposed to be an “anti-retirement” party, just the three of us, before he leaves for his first evening on the job.

I’ve tried—and failed—repeatedly to imagine him in that stupid red vest they make all the movie concessions workers wear. I don’t think I’ve seen him wear anything but black or gray.

So much for that Thumbscrew job he kept talking about.

We plop down in the sunken living room and spread everything out on the glass coffee table. The hardwood floor is almost completely covered in a fancy white shag rug. I make sure my drink is on a coaster and far away from the edge of the table before I grab a handful of cheese puffs and start crunching away.

Mikaela rips open a bag of pretzels. Cody turns on the entertainment center and switches to a music video channel. We sit there for a few minutes, yelling and laughing over the music and cramming our faces with junk food. It’s nice, not having to think.

After a while, Cody clicks a button on the remote and mutes the sound. The silence is almost painful after the crunching and wailing of guitars.

He pulls a fancy laptop from the bottom shelf of the coffee table.

“I have to show you guys something,” he says with barely suppressed glee.

“Is it that band you were telling me about? The one with the girl drummer? You better not like her,” Mikaela says teasingly. I flinch inwardly.

“Nope.” Cody is fidgety, waiting for the computer to boot up. “You’ll see.”

“C’mon, tell us,” she says, scooting a little closer to him on the couch. I’m sitting on his other side, and I lean toward him for a better view as he opens up the web browser.

This close to him, I can’t help thinking about what happened the last time we sat so close to each other. It’s been over two weeks, but I can’t get it out of my head.

“You can call this the last gasp of freedom before my corporate enslavement,” Cody says.

“When are you going to learn? We’re all already slaves to The Man.” Mikaela pokes him in the arm.

“I’m going to have to agree with Mikaela on this one,” I say.