Underneath by Sarah Jamila Stevenson Page A

tension is broken. My clenched muscles relax a little.
    â€œOkay,” I say, a little warily.
    â€œOkay,” she says, and sighs.
    I try a tentative smile. “My shoes still need help, though.”
    â€œI’m not arguing with that,” Mikaela says, shifting a little to turn toward me. “You know, there’s this thing called a shoe store. You may have heard of it before.”
    â€œYeah, but I need serious help. My closet is full of cute pink hoodies. I can’t be trusted to shop for myself.”
    Mikaela laughs.
    I’m trying to make a joke out of it, but inside, my heart is breaking because I’m remembering one of the last times I saw Shiri when she was alive. It was August, right before she went back to college, and we were at South Coast Plaza together, combing the stores for new school wardrobes. Or, more accurately, I was following her around and trying to emulate her as best I could with the limited budget my parents gave me.
    â€œI’m really going to miss doing this with you, Sunny,” Shiri said, throwing her arm conspiratorially over my shoulders, her Macy’s bag flapping against my arm. “It’s been fun.”
    Then I do cry. Tears slip out of my eyes as I sit there silently, aching.
    Mikaela looks over at me, her dark eyes worried.
    â€œI’m fine,” I manage to croak. “It’s just—God, I’m sick of being such a mess. Everything reminds me of her.”
    Mikaela’s voice is soft. “She meant a lot to you.” It’s a statement, not a question.
    â€œYeah.” I wipe my face with one hand and stare upward, at the rusty metal roof of the awning, and listen to the light clatter of the rain until I feel more under control .
    â€œHey,” Mikaela says suddenly. She’s not staring at me anymore but messing with something in her purse. “Are you busy tomorrow? Want to go shopping?”
    I turn and look at her stupidly.
    â€œLike at the mall?”
    â€œSure. Or, if you want, I know some cool stores in Santa Ana. Or even Grovetown. Ever been to Thumbscrew? Over on Fifth?”
    â€œIn Grovetown?”
    â€œYeah, I know, Grovetown, right? But it’s the best. The 16 bus stops right there. Come on, we should go.” Mikaela swats me on the arm. “You were complaining about your closet. We have to replace those hoodies with something .”
    â€œOkay. Sure. I just have to let my mom know.” I pause awkwardly. “You know, she wants to meet you now. She’s all excited that I have ‘creative’ friends.” I roll my eyes. “So maybe you can come over afterward and stay for dinner or something?”
    The minute the invitation slips out of my mouth, I regret it. I squeeze my eyes shut, press my lips together. She’s going to think I’m trying too hard.
    I try to backtrack. “I mean, only if you’re not busy. Either way is cool.”
    â€œYeah, why not? My mom works a late nursing shift on weekends, so I’d just be doing a whole lotta nothin’ anyway.”
    My shoulders unknot a little.
    Mikaela finishes rummaging in her purse and, with a flourish, produces a black marker. I frown at it.
    â€œUh, what’s that for?” I have this horrifying vision of having to stand watch while Mikaela tags the picnic table.
    â€œThis,” she says with a grin, “is for your boring sneakers.”

    As I walk into the house admiring my feet, I have to admit that Mikaela’s embellishments are a major improvement. Where I once had plain white low-top sneakers whose only adornment was the all-important brand-name logo, I now have shoes that swirl and vibrate with amazing designs, intricate mind-bending spirals and thorny-tattoo-looking black branches. Mikaela has serious talent.
    I hope her talent extends to improving my wardrobe. Pastel tops and swim team swag—they just remind me of my old life, and I’m more than ready for a change.