Sarah Stevenson - Underneath (Sarah Jamila Stevenson)

“You would so get your cute little ass kicked,” Mikaela says, laughing.

“Whatever.” Cody slams the laptop shut and puts it on the floor. He looks back up at me. “You have to help. I don’t know what else to do. You could … push back. I don’t know.”

Push back? I feel like I’m made of lead, like I’m sinking into the couch, into the floor.

“It doesn’t work like that,” I say finally. “I want to help, but … it just won’t work.” I wouldn’t want to do it, wouldn’t want to force my thoughts on other people, even if I could.

“You haven’t tried it, though,” Mikaela says.

“I don’t have to try it.” My voice is taut and angry. They don’t understand. Every time my underhearing happens, I feel like I’m on the edge of a precipice, like I’m on the edge of losing myself.

I already lost Shiri. I won’t lose myself. I can’t.

“Why are you being so resistant?” Mikaela sits forward, leans around Cody to stare at me. “Don’t you at least want to find out if it’s possible? To influence someone?”

“No, I don’t,” I say. “Because it isn’t.” I start to get up.

“You of all people should know that anything is possible at this point,” Cody says, his eyes glinting. “I think you can do it. You learned to control it in the first place.”

It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to scream. I stand, stepping away from the pristine beige couch and the junk-food-covered coffee table.

“I can barely control it in one direction,” I say through clenched teeth. “What makes you think it even works any other way?” I fumble in my jeans pocket for my car keys.

“Wait,” Cody says. “You’re not even going to try? You could show me how to do it, if that makes you feel better.”

“It doesn’t matter. It isn’t right. You can’t just make people do what you want.” It’s absurd that he’s even considering it. And he’s using me to do it. He’s manipulating everyone.

“Oh, come on, Sunny,” Mikaela says, slumping against Cody and smirking at me.

I turn my back and walk out.

I sit in the car for a few minutes with the engine off. My forehead rests against the top of the steering wheel and I breathe deeply, the bridge of my nose throbbing with an impending headache.

My mind keeps circling the same set of thoughts, over and over. Elisa crying. The web page full of stupid gossip I was responsible for. Cody needing help; help that it’s not in my power to give. Anger at him, but also guilt at walking out when maybe I should have stayed and helped somehow. I should have at least stuck around long enough to commiserate, like Mikaela.

But even if I could have helped, it didn’t feel right. I don’t even know his parents. Unfair or not, whether they send him away to school is still their choice. It’s Cody’s responsibility to talk to them, not mine.

The headache pinches a little more. I take deep, slow breaths, picturing the flickering of the flame on my black-cherry candle, ocean waves creeping back and forth along the sand, the meditative feeling of swimming endless laps in the pool.

I’m only trying to relax enough to drive home. But without consciously meaning to do it, my mind is inexorably pulled back toward the house, back toward Cody. Suddenly I want to know, more than anything, what his issue really is. What can make a person so oblivious about everyone around him. Determined, I push harder.

I get vertigo, like I’m being tipped upside down. Then it gets weird.

At first, all I find is a maelstrom of swirling darkness. It surrounds me, buffeting me like a windstorm. Suddenly I’m in the center, floating, slowly tumbling in the eye of the storm, my ears ringing in the silence. That’s where I start to get a sensation of hiddenness, of the real Cody veiled beneath the chaos, protected by an ice-brittle surface layer. But there are cracks and melted spots in that icy surface, and I slip through.

Paradoxically, I smell heat. I smell smoke, like a burning tire, and

—it’s not fair, nobody ever cares what I want,

what about me—

—me, I deserve better than this and they’ll realize

I’m smarter than them one day and they’ll be

begging me to come back—

—I won’t be the one begging, not like this—

—not fair—NOT FAIR

The burning feeling becomes so strong that I cough, jolting myself back to reality as I spaz into the steering wheel, bumping my collarbone.

I grip the wheel, steadying myself. And I understand everything with perfect clarity. Yes, Cody’s been using me. I was stupid not to realize it sooner. But I still feel sorry for him. Sorry because he’s just a selfish, immature little boy who thinks everything revolves around him. Sorry because there’s obviously something really wrong in his family, in his life, if the way he views relationships is in terms of what’s in it for him.

Sorry because I thought he cared about something, anything, besides himself.

Tears are streaming down my face, but at the same time a part of me feels lighter.

I turn the keys in the ignition and drive home.

From Shiri Langford’s journal, September 3rd

Pain is not my friend.

The pain pills they gave me are nothing more than glorified aspirin. My ankle is still swollen like a purple balloon and I’m benched for the next month at least, maybe two. Maybe more. The ligament is torn, they said. Don’t put weight on it, they said. Wear this air cast, they said. I’ll need crutches until I can put weight on it.

I was having such a good practice, too, until I landed wrong on the court and went down, my right ankle bending the wrong way with a tearing, burning twist.

I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I think the only reason I’ve kept my scholarship is because I’ve been playing so well and coach made an exception for me. My grades just aren’t high enough, and thanks to last semester I’m on probation. I have this semester to get my GPA back up. That’s all. My dad would kill me if he found out.

I’ve been giving Brendan some space. He still hasn’t called me.

By the time I get home, I’ve stopped crying, but my face is damp and sore and my throat is raw. I really thought I knew Cody. How stupid I was. I only saw one side of him. I only wanted to see one side of him. I wanted him to be the Cody who encouraged me to accept my underhearing, the Cody who helped me get control over it, who held me when I was scared and shaking. I didn’t want to see the rest of it.

I have no idea where I stand with Mikaela now, either. She’s got to be thinking I’m cold and heartless for not trying to help him. Then again, maybe she’s glad to have Cody all to herself. I dash away a few more angry tears. Either way, I don’t belong in the picture. I don’t even know if I want to be in the picture. For all I know, she was aware of the blog as soon as he wrote it and just didn’t bother to tell me about it. The thought makes me furious all over again.

When I walk inside, the house is quiet. My parents aren’t home yet. I go into the kitchen, splash my face in the sink, and pat it dry with a dish towel. There’s a small mess of breakfast dishes in the sink and the compost bowl smells like banana peel, but I think of Cody’s sterile house and I’m profoundly relieved to be home.

On my way upstairs, I almost crash into Auntie Mina.

She looks at me with a startled half-smile. Then she gets a good look at my face and the smile falls away.

Maybe I should have taken the time to put cucumber slices on my eyes, make it a little less obvious that I’ve been weepy. But Auntie Mina doesn’t ask questions. She just gathers me close into a warm, tight hug and holds me there for a minute.