Sarah Stevenson - Underneath (Sarah Jamila Stevenson)

We chat about school, and for a few minutes my life feels almost normal again. He lounges on the front porch, the palm trees in the street behind him blowing into graceful arcs in the Santa Ana wind. His hand brushes mine as he passes me a spiral notebook and a messy sheaf of papers in a blue folder.

For the first time in days, I’m not sad. I’m not crazed. I feel almost okay.

Then Spike grins like a fool, lopsided and cheesy, and invites me to one of his infamous barbecues at Corona Del Mar on Saturday.

“Saturday? Maybe,” I say, hesitantly. I’m not sure I’m ready for a swim team barbecue even though I’ve been going to Spike’s beach barbecues since we were kids, since way before the swim team. “I might have … you know … family stuff.”

“Aren’t we like your second family? Come on—you have to go.” His grin gets even wider, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “James said he’ll get his brother to bring us some beer. It’ll be awesome.”

And then, like it’s a simultaneous track on a CD, a discordant harmony behind the lead singer—

it’ll be awesome all right when those

swim hotties get all —

—drunk girls in bikinis

a real party for once, come on, come ON

don’t let me down—

And that’s what I hear. It’s like overhearing something that’s under the surface, whispering into my mind, low and urgent. Under -hearing. Unmistakable.

I stand in the open doorway in shock, my body frozen with one hand gripping the blue notebook, because this time I know it really happened. I know. And, for a moment, I’m completely caught up in his glee, his excitement, his urgent need for—I don’t know what. Then it’s gone. I sag against the doorframe.

Meanwhile, my mind is hyperactive, going over and over what I just heard until it all clicks into place. This is what happened before. It happened with my mom at dinner. It happened at the swim meet during my race; when I got home that day, Mom told me that Shiri—

No, I can’t think about that.

I want to dismiss it as my imagination, but I can’t. It sounds unbelievable to even consider, but it isn’t just “in my head.”

I straighten up; strain my ears trying to listen. But I don’t hear anything else.

I’m not crazy .

I must have been giving Spike a weird look, because he starts coming at me with his lips parted and tongue wiggling exaggeratedly, like he’s going to French kiss me.

I raise my eyebrows, take a big step back, and tell him I’ll see him tomorrow. Then I tell myself that if what I heard was really what he was thinking, it’s no big shock. It’s just Spike, through and through. I tell myself that despite that whole business about not letting him down—whatever that means—despite his excitement, he’s not really going to mind if I don’t show up to his stupid barbecue.

And I spend the evening trying not to think about it. Not just because it’s freaky weird. Also because … I know he can’t help being Spike and thinking that stuff, but I don’t want to admit to myself that I thought I knew him better than that. That he’s disappointed me. That he’s let me down.

The next morning I open my eyes to the insipid, crooning strains of some second-rate boy band. I pull my pillow over my head to muffle the sound. I don’t want to get out of bed. I’d rather stay tucked in here. I try to ignore my alarm clock, but I can’t.

I drag myself into a sitting position and reach out to shut off the clock radio, then withdraw my hand. I imagine hearing the echoes of the music die away, leaving the room still and silent but my mind burning with the sound of voices in my head. My stomach does a slow somersault, and I swallow hard.

I’m really losing it. Is this what schizophrenia is like? I shiver a little, feeling cold even under the blankets. I reach my hand out again, slowly stretching out to touch my clock radio. Trembling a little, I crank up the volume.

When I get downstairs to the kitchen table, my mind is so paralyzed I can’t even seem to make conversation.

My dad squints up at me, setting his spoon down in a bowl of granola. “You look tired. Are you feeling okay? Do you need to stay home?”

I jump at the sound of his voice. “I’m fine, Dad. Just … cramps. I have to go today. I have a test in Pre-Calculus.” I don’t really want to go, but I need to. I’m sick of my parents fussing. Dad goes back to crunching away at his cereal, but I can feel his eyes on me when I turn my back.

I start making myself breakfast, pulling things mechanically out of the cabinets and fridge. But I can’t eat. I just can’t.

I put away the banana, Rice Krispies, and milk I got out for myself and go back upstairs to get ready. In the bathroom, I try to style my hair, but I give up after squishing in a handful of mousse. I look at myself in the mirror, at my puffy eyes and half-wavy hair with an inch of dark roots showing, and I want to crawl right back under the covers. I try to pretend I’m Cassie, try to pretend I’m above it all, that nothing can touch me. But it doesn’t help.

I randomly pull a hoodie out of the closet: gray with pink edging. It’s late fall already, so the weather’s been unpredictable. Today it’s almost chilly. Only Spike could think that this was good beach party weather.

Spike. I clench my teeth. Every time I think about last night when I talked to Spike, I get a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach and I try to think about something else, anything else. I sing songs in my head. I do deep breathing exercises. I slip my earbuds in and turn the volume up to maximum.

This morning, in the car, I turn on some earsplitting aggro rock and the drive to school ends quickly. The math test gives me something to think about besides everything else. And nobody’s giving me the Stare of Pity anymore. Still, it’s hard to concentrate. During American Lit a sudden wave of exhaustion comes over me and I spend the period staring at the wall. At Mr. Patrick’s yellowing poster advertising Banned Books Week from eons ago, at the tiny square window in the classroom door reinforced with crisscrossing wire. A prison window.

In history class, I stare down at my desk and doodle a few sad little spirals to nowhere in my therapist-endorsed journal. When I look at it, I’m reminded of the journal that Shiri left me, the one I can’t bring myself to pick up again.

What if whatever happened to her is happening to me?

I put my pen down and resist the urge to slam the journal shut. I don’t know what gave Bettie or my mom the idea that this would actually help, or that I’d have anything to write about. Seriously, what would I put in there? What I had for lunch? How many times Eyes-Front had his eyes on my front? There’s nothing to tell.

Less than nothing, in fact. Because there are things that I don’t want to say. Things I don’t want to put down on paper because that would make them way too real.

I was looking forward to lunch, at least. To one part of my life getting back to normal. And it looks the same from the outside, the whole crew occupying one of the miscellaneous jock tables near the gym. Everyone’s here, everyone’s talking and laughing as we eat lunch. But James and Marc keep glancing warily at me like they think I might start acting crazy at any minute. Elisa’s voice drops to a nervous whisper every time she talks to me. Spike just acts like the same old Spike, but I still feel like an outsider.

I wish Cassie would scootch up to me on the picnic-table bench and distract me with silly gossip, the way she always used to when I was sick or tired. I know this is different, but they didn’t act this way when Elisa’s Great-Grandma Nguyen died. These are the same people I’ve been friends with since freshman year—longer, even, for Spike—and it’s like they’re afraid I’m contagious.