Underneath Everything (21 page)

My body goes rigid. We’ve never talked about Hudson. We’ve never talked about anything. Not since I saw them kiss at her locker. I feel like I’m cheating, but I’m not even sure who I’m cheating on. Hudson, or Jolene? Obviously Hudson wouldn’t want me here with Jolene, but I doubt Jolene wants me with Hudson, either. And I haven’t told her what Hudson’s been saying about her. The stories. Especially not the one that won’t leave me, the one I’ve started hearing in her voice instead of his: Jolene begging over and over again,
Tell me you love me.

I sit up and stare straight ahead. All the set pieces have been cleared. The stage is naked. Three girls in black bodysuits—smiles plastic, elbows bent—emerge from behind the right curtain in a triangle formation. They inch toward center stage like injured figure skaters: one foot swerving left and right, while the other drags behind them.

“He doesn’t hate it,” I say, brushing my hair back, taking care to keep my voice casual. Vague.

Neutral.

Neither of us says anything for a few minutes. The sounds of the auditorium bounce around us—dares and protests and laughs and lines and songs—but none of it compares to the thick air between me and Jolene, the thing that’s been between us all along.

Hudson.

“He always wanted me to cut mine,” she says finally. “But I can see why he’d like yours this way.”

I shut my eyes tight.
What does that mean?

Another part of me laughs, answers:
You know exactly what it means.

“Then again, Hudson wanted me to do a lot of things,” she says, her fingers in my hair again. I imagine the things Hudson wanted her to do. Then I try to unimagine them. He’s with me, I remind myself. Not Jolene.

She sweeps my hair up off my neck and twists it into a bun. The tension tugs at my temples. “And I’m glad I didn’t change for him. He said he loved me, but obviously he didn’t.
He
didn’t take me home from Bella’s party.”

My throat feels as tight as my scalp. Hudson might be with me, but he’s never said he loves me. Then again, he said he loved Jolene, and he left her to fend for herself when she was dead drunk at Bella’s.

Jolene pats her fingertips down my neck, the way we used to give the chills in intermediate school, then leans so far forward in her seat that our cheeks meet and whispers, “You’re too good for him, you know.”

My hair falls loose against my neck. My cheek goes cold. She’s not touching me anymore, but her words swirl and swell in my chest.

I still think the label “best friend” is empty, but when Jolene says stuff like that, I remember why I used to call her mine.

I turn around—forgetting for a second who might see us—but before I can twist completely in my seat, I’m blinded. I shield my eyes with my hand. My arm is hit with high heat. Hot pink. I blink. By then the spotlights have spun to other parts of the auditorium, coloring them pink and green. A voice yells, “Cut the gels!” and it’s dark again. I blink a few more times, and when I can finally see something other than a faintly flashing disk, I twist around to find Jolene; but all I see is a bouncing, squeaking seat. The only trace of her is a smudge of clear lip gloss on my cheek.

I sit back down. The strange dancers are gone, but the stage is full of actors costumed in carnival colors. They bow, beckon, smile, lick their lips. A couple of them drag something. A set piece. Large.

Dark. It’s not until they stop at center stage, behind a lone boy dressed in drab rags, that I get a good look at it. The set piece stands taller than the boy. It’s black. Curtained, like an upright coffin. It’s presented to the boy with twirled wrists and upturned palms. The cast whispers. Smiles. Hisses. Or maybe that’s the sound of something burning? It smells like smoke, but nobody seems to notice. Especially not the boy. He touches the black wood, tests the box, as the chorus coos behind him. They want him to go in. They want it so badly. And he wants to go too, I think. But instead he turns to the audience and starts to sing. His voice sounds fragile at first, like it might break. But it doesn’t.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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CHAPTER 24

THAT AFTERNOON IN his room, Hudson rolls out from under the flannel sheets, grabs his boxers from the floor, slides them up to his narrow hips, and runs a hand through his hair. I prop myself up on my elbow and scoot over to his side of the thin twin bed. I trace the curve of his spine with my eyes, the rise and fall of his sharp shoulder blades, the muscles in his arms as he reaches for and discards another disc that isn’t worthy. I pull the sheet up to my shoulders, then change my mind, let it slip down a little so when he turns around, he’ll be surprised.

The thing about sex is, people always talk about having it. Like it’s something you can pick up and hold and hug to your chest, or stow away in a drawer for safekeeping. Like it’s something you can own.

But it’s actually the opposite. Because when it’s over, you don’t have anything to take home.

Hudson slips his middle finger through the inner circle of a disc and places it in the tray. He doesn’t turn around. I pull the sheet back up and cover myself.

“You’re going to like this,” he says, grabbing a thermal from the floor and tugging it over his head. I watch his stomach disappear. He’s dressed, and I’m still naked. I sit up and scan the floor for my blue bra.

I find my black tank top first and reach for it without releasing the sheet.

“And if I don’t?” I say as I slip the thin material over my head and rake my fingers across the flannel near my feet in an attempt to find my underwear.

“You will,” he says.

I wriggle into my clothes underneath the sheet, then walk across the room, careful not to step on anything round and silver. I stand in front of the window, stick my hand through the opening, feel for flakes. It’s supposed to snow tonight, but so far it’s just cold.

I find my bra on the floor and turn around so I can shimmy it up under my tank top without Hudson seeing. Then I walk over to the mirror to fix my hair. I pull my fingers through it, trying to untangle the knots, but there are too many, so I give up and gather it into a ponytail. Jolene was right; it hasn’t been this long since intermediate school.

Hudson snakes his arms around me and kisses my neck. I watch us in the mirror: his eyes closed, his hand across the strap of my tank top, his mouth moving slowly up my neck; my head tilting to the side, my eyes wide, my hair the darkest it’s been all winter. Almost as dark as Jolene’s.

“Do you think I should cut my hair?” I ask.

“Definitely not,” he says into my neck.

“You don’t think it would look good short?”

Hudson stops, cocks his head, considers my reflection. “Nope. Looks good like this.” His arms tighten around my waist. His lips are back on my neck.

“The last time I had it this long, Jolene used to braid it for me.”

Hudson lifts, midkiss, from my skin. The crease in his brow deepens, folding his freckles together for a split second before they flatten again. “Really?”

“What?” I let my hair fall to my shoulders and turn around to face him. Hudson drops his arms, steps back, shakes his head.

“Jolene.” Her name. An accusation.

“You say her name like it’s a dirty word.”

He raises his ear to the air like he isn’t sure he heard me correctly. “Isn’t it?”

A lone instrument pierces the silence, some kind of horn blowing a high note, clear and strong. Then the rest of the band picks up again, and the bold sound blends into the background.

I lean against the dresser, even though the handle pokes the skin right above my jeans. “But you dated her for a year. You loved her.”

I wait for him to deny it. Instead, he sinks down on the edge of his bed and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. Then he looks at the floor and flexes his jaw.

“Love doesn’t just go away,” I say. There must be traces of Jolene inside him. Some internal mark to mirror the pale strip on his finger. He can’t be rid of her completely.

“Look.” His eyes rise. I step toward the bed. Hudson grips my hips, gathers me in. “I did love her.”

My breath catches, holds, coats the two words stuck in my throat:
Love me.
Hudson scoops a hair behind his ear, works his jaw again. “At least I tried to. But Jolene, she didn’t love me. Or maybe she tried, too.

All I know is, it didn’t work.”

Hudson pulls me down to the bed beside him. “It’s bad enough I talked about her so much. That I made you do it too. But I’m done now. For real. You know why I did what I did, and I know about whatever happened between you two. And now it’s over. Right?”

“Right,” I say, because his voice is casual, but his eyes are hard. Because I know it’s what he needs to hear, even if it’s not the truth.

Hudson brings his fingers to my knee and spreads them out like a starburst, but the warmth doesn’t shoot through me like it used to. It stops at the ends of his fingers, leaves when he lifts his hand.

He ducks his head in front of me, forces me to look at him. He smiles. His eyes crinkle at the sides. I don’t tell him those stories about me and Jolene weren’t for him. I don’t tell him about the notes. But when he kisses me, I can’t help but hear her words in my head.

Remember when we used to end each note with “love you”?

Still do.

J

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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CHAPTER 25

IT’S A FEW days before Hanukkah and my mom’s feeling it. Each night, dinner isn’t so much a time to eat as a catalog of possible presents. Luckily, I don’t really have to participate since my mom is pretty good at handling the conversation all by herself. But every once in a while, after she has piled the table with food, filled our plates, forgotten the napkins, fetched my dad a drink, and finally grabbed something for herself

—but never a full serving—she’ll turn to me.

“Do you think Jake would like that? A new coat?”

I lean over the table to grab a roll. My mom’s hand shoots across my stomach to keep my shirt from draping into the gravy. I grab my shirt myself and sit back down. She clears her throat, picks up a single green bean from the serving dish, and crunches it between her front teeth.

“I don’t know, Mom. I’m not him.”

“Don’t be fresh,” my dad says, surveying what’s left on the table. We haven’t spoken much since The Talk. Though I’ve been home for dinner on time, so I guess there isn’t much more to say. “How are those applications coming?” he asks.

“Great,” I lie.

“Good,” he says, spooning some gravy over the rice on his plate. “You should have Jake take a look at them.”

Jake used to help me with my homework. He was more patient than my parents, and better at explaining things. But that pretty much stopped when he went to college. And anyway, he can’t look at applications I haven’t written. No need to bother my father with that small detail, though.

I push my plate away and uncross my legs, but before my feet touch the floor my mom asks, “Is Kris coming for the holiday? We missed her at Thanksgiving.”

My mom thinks I’ve been with Kris every afternoon for the past few weeks. I’d told her the paper had a special issue and that I had to put in some overtime with Kris in journalism. It’s not a total lie. The holiday edition is always a double issue, so usually I do help Kris out with it. At least I have in the past.

This year she hasn’t asked, and I haven’t volunteered.

I stand up, clear my plate. “She’s been here every other year, right?” I ask, as if that’s an answer. As if the past is this immutable thing that will always keep happening.

Later that night I’m stomach down on my bed, surrounded by Spanish handouts, brain-deep in the conditional tense, when I hear the slap of bare feet down the hall. They pause on the wood floor outside my door. I should have known my mom wouldn’t let the Kris thing go. I drop my pen, balance my chin on my fists, and count five breaths before the door creaks open.

“Hi,” my mom says, peeking in. She’s changed since dinner—exchanged jeans and a blouse for plaid pajama pants and a sweatshirt.

“Hey,” I say.

My mom sidesteps into the room and looks around, taking in my maps, which have been hanging in the same spots for weeks; the clothes on the floor; the book on my bed; and the sheet of loose leaf in front of me.

“You’re still doing homework?” Her eyes skip to the digital clock above my drawers. Since I started high school, I’ve timed my nights to the minute. My mom knows this. She doesn’t knock on my door until 10 p.m. That’s when I finish my homework.

It’s 11:15 p.m.

“I was.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She takes a half step back. “Should I go?”

“No—” I don’t feel like talking to her about Kris, but I know she’s just going to keep asking. Might as well get it over with. “It’s fine.”

“Okay.” She sits down on the side of the bed, reaches behind my neck, and flips my tag inside my shirt. I shrug her off. She folds her hands in her lap.

“So,” she says, inclining her head in my direction. She’s smiling.

I was expecting questions. Some concern. A nostalgic story about one of her many high school friendships.

But a smile? One she can barely contain?

This is not what I expected. This is not good.

I flip over my homework and start drawing—skipping the compass rose again in favor of straight lines, intersections, and streets reaching toward the corners of the lined sheet.

“So,” I respond.

“Sooooo. How’s Hudson?” She rocks toward me as she says his name, tilting the bed in her direction.