Underneath Everything (27 page)

Jolene lifts her long, dark hair out from underneath the scrawl of tour dates on the back of the shirt and

—after she finds my favorite light-blue cotton pajama shorts—peels off her jeans and threads her long, bronze legs through them. Then she crawls under the covers and curls up like a cat near my pillow.

She watches me change into a tank top and yoga pants, then turns away when I get into the bed. I lie completely still next to her, unsure of what to do, until she finds my hand and pulls me forward, into the curve of her back. Her skin is hot. Her hair smells sweet.

She looks at me over her shoulder. At first I think she’s going to speak—a line from the two little girls, like we used to. I’m already forming the words in my head when she leans forward and presses her lips to mine. They’re soft and smooth. And then they’re gone.

A few minutes later Jolene’s breath is light and rhythmic.

And even though I haven’t spoken to Hudson in over a week, his words come to me through the darkness like a dream.

You two deserve each other.

I don’t know why Jolene chose me that day on the cliff, but I’m happy she did. I’m not special, but I’m essential to her.

She needs me. I don’t know what that makes us. Best friends? Something else? Hudson and I did a lot more than kiss, but sex with him didn’t compare to this feeling.

Jolene twitches in her sleep, relaxes into me.

I don’t know what I deserve, but I hope Hudson was right.

I hope it’s this.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

CHAPTER 32

I WAKE TO the smell of onions and potatoes, the
clatter
and
clink
of my mom putting pans on the stove downstairs in the kitchen. In my half-awake haze I forget what day it is, what year, and I wonder when Kris will be over for Hanukkah dinner. Then something dark sinks down my chest and anchors in my gut as I live it all over again, Kris lying to me about Jolene.

Jolene. Where is she?

I flip up the covers. There’s nothing but creased sheets.

Then I hear her hoarse, morning voice in the hall. “Don’t you think it looks good on me?”

A deep voice answers her. “Looked better on me.” Jake. How did he get off work so early? I check my clock. It’s barely eleven. Mom said she wasn’t even sure he’d make it for dinner. She was hoping for dessert. Never mind that this isn’t even officially Hanukkah—that’s still two days away. It’s just the day Jake could
probably
make it. Like he’s the miracle, instead of the oil lasting for eight days.

I’m about to open my bedroom door and save Jolene from my brother when she says,

“Do you want it back then?”

My fingers halt on the handle. I picture Jake in the hallway in a white undershirt and warm-ups even though, lately, I only see him in suits. I imagine his lips rising at the side as he considers Jolene. Her dark hair and hazel eyes. Her long legs. Her smile.

I twist my hand and push open the door before he can accept her offer.

Jake’s in cargo shorts and a collared shirt. Jolene’s leaning against the banister, arms spread out behind her, one knee bent.

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

“Hi to you too,” Jake says, without looking up from his BlackBerry. “Happy Hanukkah.” He sighs, then types.

I stare at Jolene.
What?
she mouths.

“Stop giving my stuff away,” Jake says, tucking the BlackBerry into his pocket as he heads down the stairs. “I liked that shirt.”

“I’ll take good care of it,” Jolene says, bending over the banister.

But Jake is already in the kitchen, talking about his wonderful life. I can tell because Mom is laughing.

It’s a sound I haven’t heard in a while.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Had to pee.”

“That’s my
brother
, Jolene.”

“We were just
talking
, Mattie.” She grabs my hand and drags me into my room.

We change in silence. Until I slip on my white bra. Jolene spins me around by my shoulders and looks me up and down. My cheeks burn as her eyes move over my skin, pale compared to hers, and goose bumped.

“You have to keep this,” she says, pinning her beige sweater to my body. It’s soft and see-through thin.

There’s a delicate design stitched near the neck, above my breasts. “It’ll look amazing.”

“Okay.” I hold it against my chest and peer down over my chin. It smells like her. “But it’s not like I have anywhere to go.”

“Yeah you do.” Jolene says, with gleaming eyes and a satisfied smile.

I blink my eyes. I’ve seen that look. It’s the same one she gave me when we were sitting on the floor of her room, listening to the storm, leafing through magazines. It’s the way she settled her eyes on me right before the ropes.

My hands tremble. In anticipation. In fear. I set her sweater on my pillow and grab a gray V-neck from my bed.

“And where would that be?” I ask as my bedroom door swings open.

“Mattie, I have to go— Oh!” My mom pauses in the doorway. “Jolene. I didn’t know you stayed over.”

“You could have
knocked
, Mom.” I turn my back to her as I wrestle my shirt over my head and tug it down my torso.

“It’s okay.” Jolene takes off my light-blue shorts and tosses them to the corner of the room. The only thing she’s wearing now is Jake’s shirt and her black bikini underwear. “We were just talking about what to wear for New Year’s.”

I snap my head in Jolene’s direction, but she’s too busy smiling at my mom, whose mouth is stretched into an O of delight and surprise.

“New Year’s Eve? You’re going out, Mattie?”

Every year my mom asks if I’m going out on New Year’s Eve, and every year I stay in with Kris. New Year’s Eve was our very first sleepover, in fourth grade, and we’ve kept the tradition ever since.

When I was younger, my mom used to stay up with me until midnight, while my dad slept on the couch.

We’d play cards until the ball dropped. Solitaire. Spit. War. She’d tell me about all the parties she used to go to and how I’d go to them one day, too. She’d tell me how New Year’s Eve was her favorite night of the year. And I agreed. Until Jake was old enough to babysit, and she started going out again.

Jolene and I answer at the same time.

I say: “Maybe.”

Jolene says: “We’re going to Bella’s party.”

My mom hears Jolene.

“How nice! All you girls together again. Well, I won’t interrupt.” My mom beams at Jolene before turning to leave. “I’ve got to go to the store. I’ll be back in a bit,” she calls over her shoulder, and clicks the door shut.

Then it’s just me and Jolene again.

“Why did you say that?”

“Say what?” Jolene faces herself in the mirror, gathers the front of my brother’s shirt in her fists—

which lifts until I can see the tiny pearls on the front of her black underwear—and leans into her right hip.

But she’s not looking at herself. She’s looking at the reflection of my room, searching it.

“That we were going to Bella’s.” The thought of going to Bella’s party with Jolene makes me nauseous. I reach my hand up to cover my mouth and remember the gloss Kris wore to the bonfire, the lip balm I borrowed when we got there. How she looked at me before we went in to Bella’s, to make sure I was okay.

I wonder now if this is how Kris felt at the end of that driveway: protective, scared, like she didn’t want to share me. I wonder if she asked herself why she wasn’t enough.

“Because we are.” Jolene finds what she wants on my floor. She strips off Jake’s shirt and pulls on the pale-blue sweater my mom gave me. “And I’m going to wear this. It’s perfect,” she says to her reflection.

I run my fingers over the fuzzy blue threads on her back and notice a catch in the stitch. It must have happened one night at Hudson’s. “It looks great with your skin,” I say. She smiles, pleased. “But”—I sit down on the bed and cross my legs—“why are we even going?” I smooth the small piece of comforter in front of me. “We don’t need them.”

“Of course we don’t,” Jolene says. “They need us.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

CHAPTER 33

THE LINE AT the Bagel Place snakes around the counter and between peeling, plastic tables full of people.

Jake’s in front of me, studying the chalkboard menu hanging on the wall as if it’s changed since he’s lived here. As if he’s not going to get a toasted sesame bagel with vegetable cream cheese, tomato, and lox. I lean on the rounded glass counter that houses the smoked fish, salads, and more exotic cream cheese combinations, right next to a sign that says DON’T LEAN ON GLASS. But who cares? I didn’t want to come anyway. I was supposed to spend the afternoon with Jolene. But Jake didn’t ask me before he told Mom we’d take care of breakfast. He just announced we were leaving. Now I’m standing in line behind moms with loud little kids, middle-aged men with beer guts, and a few kids from school—some guys I recognize but don’t really know. I think they’re juniors. Either way, I’m not friends with them.

I shuffle forward a few steps and lean on the glass again, but a woman behind me with a frosted helmet of hair taps the sign with her manicured nails and pinches her lips. So I stand up, shove my hands into my pockets, and bounce a little on the balls of my feet.

I’m not used to being alone. For the past week I haven’t left the house without Jolene. When we’re together there’s always a hand to hold or a shoulder to lean into. People look at us—at least, they look at Jolene—but the best part is, she looks at me. We make up stories about the woman spraying perfume, the man who sells the shoes, the guy that butters the popcorn. I’ve tried to do it alone, but without someone else there to listen, the story doesn’t feel true.

When it’s our turn, the round-faced guy behind the counter with sweat rolling down the side of his stubbled cheeks asks us what we need. Not what we want. It’s like after years of working in the Bagel Place, he’s come to the conclusion that humanity
needs
bagels. That we’d suffer without them.

After Jake gives our order and pays, we stand against the opposite wall and wait for the warm, brown paper bag with our name on it.

“Are you wearing perfume?” Jake asks, sniffing the air around my face.

“No,” I say, bringing my arm to my nose. It tickles with cinnamon. Jolene. The sweater she left in my room.

“Okay, whatever.” Jake reaches for his BlackBerry again. “So, what’s up?”

“Abby!” yells the skinny kid handing out the brown bags. A tall blond woman in a tight, white tank top with a fluorescent iPod strapped to her bicep bounces toward the counter. “That’s me!” she says to the rest of us. As if we’d challenged her identity.

“Nothing,” I say, with a one-shoulder shrug. “Senior year. You know how it is.”

“Totally,” he says with a quick laugh. He looks up from his BlackBerry. From the faraway look on his face, I can tell he’s flipping through memories. Parties. Soccer games. Friends. Girlfriends. But the things he sees, they have nothing to do with me. He’s had tons of people in his life, but he’s never had one. He has no idea how it is.

“Mike!” the skinny kid yells again. A dad in sweatpants and a Vanderbilt sweatshirt reaches across the counter and hands the kid a tip before grabbing his bag. “Thanks, Chief,” the dad says, “take it easy.” The kid gives a quick nod before stuffing the bill into his jeans and disappearing behind the bagel racks.

“You’ve been working a lot?” I ask. I don’t want to hear another one of Jake’s stories—or worse, his lectures—and this is the only question I can think to ask him, which is really sad.

“Yup,” he says, running his hands over his hair. It’s a habit from when it hung down to his shoulders in high school. Now it’s short and cropped close to his head. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” He shoves the BlackBerry into his pocket and crosses his arms. “So who’s the new Kris? She looks familiar.”

“Her name is Jolene,” I say, pressing my back flat against the wall as a huge, sweaty boy pushes through everyone who’s waiting. No name was called, but when the boy gets to the counter, the skinny kid hands him a bulging bag with one hand and slaps him sideways with the other. Then the huge boy is on his way out again. “And she’s not the
new
anything.”

“Oh, riiiight.” Jake tilts his head and rolls his eyes. “I remember that chick from back in the day.”

Two girls walk past outside. I miss their faces but catch their hair—teased curls next to straight, dark-brown locks.

Jake nods his head. “Makes sense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, craning my neck to see the girls better. But they’re gone.

I turn back to Jake. He rubs his eyes, and for the first time in years, it occurs to me that he’s tired. I’ve never noticed the sinking yellow skin beneath his eyes, or the fine lines on his forehead. “Don’t tell me you don’t see it,” he says, blinking quickly. “I know you’re a girl and everything—”

“I am?” I say, my eyes fake-wide.

“Maybe,” he says, smirking, “but not like her.”

“Gee, thanks.” I force a tight smile and turn away from him. The toddler spinning in circles next to us stops and stares up at me. She’s got blond curls and Bambi-wide, blue eyes. Even at four, she’s gorgeous.

“That’s a compliment,” Jake says from behind me. “Jesus.” I feel his hand on my shoulder and follow its motion around until we’re facing again. I look down so he can’t see my eyes. He shakes his head and shifts his weight before reaching for his BlackBerry again. His eyes fly left to right across the screen as he speaks. “If you were anything like Jolene, you’d be getting a sit-down with me. You don’t want to be that girl, Mats. Trust me.”