Underneath Everything (9 page)

As my last sanctioned electronic communication for an entire week, I’m texting you, even though I’m still officially pissed. What happened last night? Everything cool? Tell me Monday morning, when I get released for school.

Monday morning. That seems like years away. Kris and I usually see each other every day, especially over break. But it’s okay, as long as she doesn’t hate me. At least not yet. She still doesn’t know what happened. . . .

“So, everything’s okay with you and Kris?” My mom leans forward, arm outstretched, and stabs one of my strawberries.

“I said it was, didn’t I?” I slide my plate away from her. “Anyway, it’s not even about her. I have more than one friend, Mom.”

“Good,” she says, setting down her fork on her napkin. Drops of red juice spot the white paper. “You should. I mean, you know I love Kris, but being friends with her doesn’t mean you can’t be friends with anyone else.”

Actually, that’s exactly what it means. But I don’t bother correcting her.

She stands up and stacks the dirty plates as Jake and my dad start getting into it about the long haul to law firm partnership and whether or not it’s worth it. They’ve had this conversation before. My dad used to work at a firm, too, before he went in-house for a software company. I push my chair away from the table. It scrapes the floor, but that doesn’t interrupt them. Jake keeps talking, my dad keeps listening, and I make my way to my room while my mom’s still chewing on my strawberry.

“Hey,” Jake says, pushing open my bedroom door a few hours later.

“Knock much?” I ask. He’s still in his suit. It looks weird to me, even though I know he wears it every day. In my head, he’s always in a concert tee and jeans.

“Talk much?” He leans against the doorframe but doesn’t come in.

“No one talks as much as you,” I say, putting my phone down next to me on the bed.

“No one else has as much to say.” He crosses his arms and smiles.

I roll my eyes. “Are you staying?” Even though Jake is totally full of himself, it wouldn’t suck to have him around for a few days. Even when he got all popular in high school, he’d still stay home with me sometimes. We’d watch movies, listen to music. Last year when he came home from college, we even smoked together. But I didn’t get high, since it was my first time. Jake said it usually took a few tries.

“Nope,” he says, standing up straight again. “Gotta go. But I’ll be back Saturday for the game.”

“What game?” I ask him.

Jake shakes his head. “Seriously, little sister, you need to get out more.” He checks his watch. It’s thick and gold. We used to have identical diving watches until he started working. “The soccer game.

Alumni versus varsity. Saturday after Thanksgiving, every year. I’m not playing—wouldn’t want to hurt anyone or anything—but people will be there. I’m guessing you won’t?”

“I’ve got better things to do than watch you chug beer,” I say, wishing it were true.

“Your loss,” he says as he walks down the hall. “Take a shower, by the way. You reek.”

“Leave!” I call out to him. And he does.

Later that night I lie in bed, listening to the rush of water from the kitchen sink downstairs, the careful
clink
and
zip
of china being packed away in special storage bags, and the never-ending sound of whistles and fouls and football fans cheering. I lie perfectly still in my perfectly clean room with my messy thoughts. There’s a string inside of me, a teensy-tiny string, and I’m pulling on it. I know I shouldn’t. But.

Hudson. He told me I was hard-core. Brilliant. He made me believe in something I thought was long gone: him and me. I pull the string a little more. I’m back there again, weak with wanting. And where is he? He hasn’t texted or called, and I’m unraveling. I close my eyes. Try to ignore the string. But his hands in my hair. His eyes. Why do I let him do this to me? Why, after all his talk of loyalty, did I expect him to ditch Jolene? Why, after all this time, did I expect a different ending?

I roll onto my side and stare at the hand-drawn map I made in sixth grade. It
is
Thanksgiving. Maybe he’s with his family. Maybe he’ll call tomorrow.

But Friday comes and goes and I still haven’t heard anything. Not from Jolene, whose car I drove home.

Whose front door I opened, slow at first, then fast, so it wouldn’t creak when I carried her through it, even though her parents weren’t there and wouldn’t check on her anyway.

Not from Kris, who’s grounded.

Not from Hudson, who held me.

By Friday night I can’t fight it. I pull the string and paw through every jealous memory I have of Hudson and Jolene: her upturned smiles; his downcast eyes; the way he kissed her in the hall, like no one else existed. I force my eyes open, make them see—Jolene didn’t take Hudson. Hudson chose Jolene.

He’s chosen her every day since the manhunt game.

That’s
loyalty.

I flip over and bury my face in my pillow. I blink into the black, breathe the cotton in and out until the exhales don’t ache and the inhales are smooth.

If Hudson thinks I’ll take what I can get and disappear into the walls again, he’s wrong. It’s been almost a year and a half. I will not be that girl again.

I am not that girl.

When Hudson said good-bye to me at Bella’s, he said he’d find me. Instead, I’ll find him. Tomorrow’s Saturday—the soccer game. Hudson’s on varsity. I told Jake I wasn’t going, but I will. And for once I won’t control myself. I won’t stand back and watch quietly while the words claw at my throat, fight my lips to get free. I’ll let them come ripping out. I’ll tell him he doesn’t mean a thing to me. That I don’t think about him. That I never did. That he can go back to her, because I’m done with him. It’s over. It never existed in the first place.

And maybe when the words are up and out of me, I’ll believe them.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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CHAPTER 9

I HAVEN’T BEEN to Tamaques Park in years. I half expect to drive into a swath of egg-yolk-yellow paper labeled Division 41, Block 522—but as I turn the first curve, it’s obvious that everything’s exactly where I left it. The tennis courts and playgrounds on my left, the basketball courts on my right. The baseball diamond, paved walking paths, and patches of open grass inside the largest part of the loop. I lean forward in my seat and look out across the open field in front of me. I spot a couple of boys kicking a ball, setting up makeshift nets and flags on the flat grass in the outfield. But Hudson isn’t one of them. So I keep driving, up the tiny hill and into the small parking lot near the pond. I park my car—Jake’s old one, actually—and stare out at the field.

I can almost see us—Cal, Hudson, Kris, and me (Jolene was away with her family)—that summer night after sophomore year when we walked to the park, lay down in that field, and made up our own constellations. At least Kris and Cal did. I was quiet, trying to find the real ones I knew from the poster in Jake’s room: Orion, the Hunter; Perseus, the Hero; Cassiopeia, the Queen.

Hudson was quiet too. Then again, he didn’t really talk if he didn’t have to. But after a particularly disgusting creation from Cal involving a farm animal and the name of a sexual position, we all burst out laughing. Kris and I clutched our stomachs. When we finished giggling, I put my hand back on the ground.

That’s when Hudson slid his fingers through mine and left them there, between blades of grass. It was the second time we’d held hands, and it was a step up. Last time in a dark room, this time under the night sky.

I spread my fingers out so his could fall through the spaces, and even though his hands were hotter than the July air, I felt cool and clear. As I traced patterns in the stars, I imagined how he looked, lying next to me: face angled up at the sky, skin lit by the moon. And when I gave in and turned my head to see the real thing, I nearly jumped off the grass. He wasn’t staring at the stars. He was staring at me. I opened my mouth in surprise, and the long grass tickled my lips and stuck to my tongue. I spit it out, and he laughed at me while Kris and Cal fought over the best constellation name: Cal’s Starfreaker versus Kris’s Hard to Star. Later that night, when we walked up to the street corner to say our good-byes, Hudson picked a piece of grass out of my hair. Two months later, he threaded his fingers through Jolene’s, right where I could see him. He wasn’t mine anymore, if he ever had been.

A whistle blows. A bunch of alumni walk onto the grass and start warming up next to the varsity players.

I unzip my coat. The air is crisp, and the sun has hold of the whole sky. Red and yellow leaves rustle in the trees. When Jake still lived at home, and everything was loud and busy, I used to get on my bike and ride here when I needed to scream or daydream, when I wanted to be lost. Alone. But today the park is crowded.

People stream down the cracked, paved path—small clusters of scarved alumni, a massive pack from the senior class, scattered groups of juniors—talking and laughing on their way to the aluminum bleachers. I find a tree a few yards away and watch as they file in, squishing together and squinting into the winter sun.

Then the extra balls are bagged, the players are in position, and a coin is flipping in the air. When it hits the grass, Cal leans over, calls, “Heads it is, chumps!” and every pair of feet on the field starts jumping and shuffling, waiting for that first pass. Hudson places his right cleat on top of the ball, looks downfield, then passes to Cal and sprints forward. His arms pump inside his long-sleeved shirt, which folds and flaps against the wind. His cleats dig down into the grass, kicking up dirt onto his bare calves.

I end up shivering in the shade. So I step out onto the path and shield my eyes from the sun. I spot Jake and his crew at the top of the bleachers. They’re the loud ones. I take a quick look around for Jolene but don’t see her. This is her kind of thing. Normally she’d be in the first bleacher, collecting looks and catcalls, doling out lidded eyes and half smiles to select admirers. A couple of years ago we’d be with her. Jolene at the core, me, Bella, and Kris clustered around her—the original four.

A whistle blows, bringing me back to the game. Cal’s carrying the ball over for a corner kick, trash-talking the whole way. He gets smiles, shouts, and cracks back from each guy on the field. Each guy except for Hudson, that is. He’s in position in front of the goal, running up and back, trying to lose his man. He keeps his eyes on the corner and his feet moving.

I cross my arms against the cold and repeat the words I’m going to say over and over again.

Cal finally takes the kick, sending the ball soaring in a perfect arc toward the far post. The goalie launches his body up in the air and spreads his fingers wide; but before he can get his gloved hands around the ball, Hudson heads it past him, into the upper-right corner of the net, for the goal. The varsity team explodes in shouts and slaps. They rush the corner, form a tight circle, shout out a chant, and do some sort of dance. But Hudson doesn’t join them. He just jogs slowly back to midfield, ready for the next play.

Bella’s voice booms from the sideline. I don’t know how I missed her before. She’s doing her cheerleader thing: elbows bent and tight to her body, hands pausing between hard claps, legs kicking up above her waist as she spells Cal’s name. He turns toward her from midfield and bends his body forward in a deep bow. She replies with a few more claps and some wild “Wooo-hooos” before rubbing her lips together and smiling her self-proclaimed see-you-later-for-something-yummy smile. They must be hooking up again. They’ve had an on-and-off thing going for most of high school.

I search the inside of my jacket pocket as Bella cheers, sifting through spare coins, slips of paper, a tube of ChapStick. Jolene’s lighter. I still haven’t seen Jolene. I look out over the stands again, but all I see are hoods and hats. Jolene never covers her hair.

I stand on my tiptoes and search the short, brown grass surrounding the bleachers before shaking off the anxiety with a quick, cold breath. I did my part—I got her home. She’ll be fine. Always is.

The whistle blows for another free kick. Hudson turns and runs toward the other goal, away from me.

An hour later the boys are silent and sweaty. The score is 2 all. The game is in extra time. Next goal wins. The sun’s light is softer, and the wind is picking up. The crowd has thinned. Jake and his friends left ten minutes ago. My feet are near freezing, but I can’t leave. I can’t keep these words inside me. I have to tell him, to say it to his face. I watch Hudson’s chest heave in and out, and match my breath to his. Then I repeat the refrain in my head again and again until the words are all I can hear and think.

A few plays later Cal scores off a perfect cross, and the two tired teams line up to trade slaps and insults. When they’re done with that, they collect the flags, gather the balls, greet whoever’s left on the bleachers, and break up into car-sized groups before walking to the parking lot. The sky fights for some last bits of light, until the sun finally gives up and sinks behind the tall trees, leaving nothing but a gray sheen.

Hudson’s the only guy left on the grass now, but it’s like he has no idea. Either that or he doesn’t care.

He’s only paying attention to one thing: the ball he’s juggling. Right knee, left knee, right knee. Left foot, right knee, head. Even when Bella and Cal walk over to him, Hudson’s concentration doesn’t fade. He finishes a series on his right foot, boots the ball into his left hand, says something to them—only a few words—and walks away.