Underneath by Sarah Jamila Stevenson Page B

I can’t keep getting bogged down in memories, can’t deal with crying every time I’m reminded of the past. I’m done.
    Later, when my mom gets home, I make sure she gets the message as if it’s a top story headline: “Reclusive Daughter Finally Ready to Leave House, Be Sociable.” I slide off the bed, run down the stairs, and start burbling about Mikaela like I’m five years old and just made my first friend at school. The funny thing is, I do feel that excited.
    â€œA shopping trip? Oh, honey. That’s great.” Mom closes the front door behind her with a tinkle of the chimes hung on the back.
    â€œNot only that, there’s a vintage clothes store over in Grovetown, and Mikaela wants us to go there tomorrow,” I say all in a rush. “And look what she drew on my shoes!” I show them off, tilting them one way and then the other so my mother can get the full effect.
    â€œOh, how cute ,” she says. “How creative!” She smiles at me distractedly and hangs up her blue sweater in the front closet. I’m a little dismayed. I could pierce my chin and my mom would just say “How unique! How creative! I wish I were your age so I could do wild stuff like that!” It takes the appeal out of just about anything.
    Swimming was one of the few things that was mine, and mine alone. Mom would come to my races whenever she could, but she always stepped back when it came to the whole swim scene, when it was me and my friends. And she knew that I was a different person then—not just when I was in the water, but whenever I was with Cassie.
    I miss swimming. But I don’t want to be that person anymore.
    And … now I have something new that’s mine, whether I want it or not.
    â€œSo is it okay if I drive to Grovetown with Mikaela to-morrow?” I take off my shoes and stash them on the shoe rack in the front hall closet. Mom thinks about it for a minute while she brings a paper grocery bag into the kitchen, depositing it on the counter.
    â€œI’m a little nervous about it,” she says, giving me a direct look. “I haven’t met Mikaela yet.”
    Anxiously, I clench my hands behind my back. “Well, I asked her if she wants to come over for dinner after we go shopping. You can meet her then. I hope that’s okay. You know I’m always careful.” I stop, press my lips together.
    â€œOh, honey, I know you’re always careful.” She smiles. “I wish you’d asked me first, but I’ll be happy to meet your new friend. I’ve been hoping you’d invite her over—you’ve been so unhappy and you could stand to have a little fun.”
    I resist the urge to cringe.
    â€œWell, great,” I say. “Thanks.”
    Mom beams at me, reaches into her purse, and presses a few twenties into my hand. “Just call me when you’re leaving Grovetown, okay?”
    I nod and turn back toward the stairs.
    â€œOh, and don’t forget we’re having dinner at Uncle Randall and Auntie Mina’s on Sunday.”
    That sounds like a barrel of laughs. I try to muster up something enthusiastic to say, but I can’t think of anything. Auntie Mina will sit there like a ghost; Uncle Randall will criticize her in between praising Number Two’s latest achievements in the world of plastic surgery; Mom and Dad will nod and smile. And I won’t be able to leave.
    Forget it. I’m not going to worry about Sunday. I have Saturday to think about. I paste a smile on my face and trudge back upstairs. By the time Sunday rolls around, there will be a new and improved Sunny in the house. I think about the diary entry that Shiri wrote, the one about me always seeming so sure of myself. That’s the Sunny I want to be. Someone who can always handle things. Not someone who’s too scared to even give her fears a name. Not someone who holds everything inside until it leaks out anyway, until