By the late afternoon, I have three new T-shirts and a pair of black jeans from Thumbscrew; a gauzy black top, a long silk skirt, and a pair of slightly worn black Converse hi-tops from the vintage place; some shoelaces from a mall store, which are printed with Japanese cartoon characters; and hair dye that matches my natural dark-brown color. And I still have twelve dollars left from the money my mom gave me.
“These Afro Ken shoelaces are so you,” Mikaela says, examining our hoard as I pilot us back to my house.
“Yeah?” I feel a surge of happiness. “I really like that crocheted sweater you got from Vintage Alley. And all the stuff you helped me pick out is … I love it.” I concentrate on turning the corner onto our street. I can’t help seeing it as though I’ve never really looked at it before, wondering what it looks like to Mikaela.
To me, now, the houses seem huge and ostentatious, like giant stucco boxes with identically trimmed lawns and squeaky-clean cars parked in front. It’s dusk, so they look even more identical than usual. Of course, there’s our house. Mom painted a huge rock in our front yard with our house number in bizarre colors. You can’t miss it. She had a huge fight with the neighborhood association about it, but she didn’t back down, and, as usual, somehow she got her way.
“This is you, huh?” Mikaela looks at the place appraisingly but doesn’t say anything. I know she must be thinking about what a homogenous McNeighborhood I live in. Maybe she even thinks I’m spoiled. But I’m glad she doesn’t say it.
“Nice rock.”
“Uh, yeah. My mom did that,” I mumble as we carry our haul up the front walk.
“Cool. My mom just knits crap.” Mikaela follows me through the front door. Clinging to my shopping bags like a shield, I introduce her to my parents.
Dad actually manages to act pretty normal, considering he wasn’t too pleased about me putting dibs on the car at the last minute. He asks her how our shopping went, what we bought, and whether she thinks a film professor like him needs to make a dramatic fashion statement. I should have guessed that Mom would fawn all over Mikaela, and she does, exclaiming over her “adorable little braids” and offering her every nonalcoholic beverage under the sun. Mikaela seems to be okay with it. I’m surprised. I’d have expected her to be—I don’t know. Uncomfortable, or disdainful. Instead, she grins at my mom and sits down at the kitchen table like she’s been here a million times.
I drop into a chair next to her, letting Mom’s chatter wash over me. My breathing slows a little and I start to relax. At the same time, I feel something open in my mind, like a sliding door, or like a television turning on, and I realize this is the first time I’ve known beforehand that my underhearing is about to happen.
What I hear almost makes me drop my bottle of orange soda. This time, it’s not my mom. It’s Mikaela.
—this THIS is what we deserve mom I wish we could
have this a house a new life something better
because we should have it and it wasn’t right of
dad to take it away but I guess we have to deal—
but—still—I want this—
for us—
The words—barely coherent—are accompanied by a wave of profound sadness tinged with a whole array of other emotions. Regret, frustration, anger, determination. And, shockingly, nervousness. My own stomach does a slow somersault in response; my forehead breaks out in angry sweat.
It’s dizzying, and I put a hand to my head involuntarily.
Mikaela glances at me. My face gets hot.
I shouldn’t have heard that. It’s not something I should ever know, unless she chooses to tell me. But I do know.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair and force a smile. She smiles back wryly, as if nothing strange happened. As far as she knows, nothing did. As the lingering emotions subside, I steal another glance at her. She isn’t showing any of what she feels on the outside.
Dinner goes quickly. Mom and Dad serve spinach lasagna, salad, and garlic bread, and Mikaela tells them how great everything is and thanks them for having her over, just like my parents are always reminding me to do, so I know they’ll be pleased. They’re all smiles, actually. They don’t even blink when Mikaela asks if she can stay for another hour or two.
After dinner, we go upstairs to my room. She looks app-raisingly at my posters of the Olympic swim team and the sun and moon pillows that I got for my thirteenth birthday, but she doesn’t say anything about them.
“Ready to go brown again?” she asks, shaking the bag with the hair dye in it.
“Yeah, I think I am,” I say. “It’s been a while.” I try to remember the last time my hair was its natural color. Probably freshman year, like Mikaela. “It’s going to feel weird.”
“Are you kidding? Your natural hair color is gorgeous.” She rips open the cardboard container and pulls out the plastic squeeze bottle of dye. “It’s just sad that we have to approximate it with this crap.”
Funny; I never thought my hair was that exciting. And Cassie never really had any suggestions other than to highlight it. I assumed that meant it was hopeless.
It takes us about half an hour to work the dye through my hair. Once it’s finished and goopy with brownish crud, we stuff it into a shower cap and go into my room to wait for the dye to set. I debate whether to turn on some music, and if so, what kind of music Mikaela would want to listen to.
“This is cool,” Mikaela exclaims, picking up an incense burner sitting on my bookshelf. It’s a small brass cone burner in the shape of a genie lamp that my grandparents brought back from Pakistan.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say. “But the incense kind of makes me sneeze.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Hey, we should light this candle.” She points at my black-cherry meditation candle. She pulls a plastic cigarette lighter out of her purse and sets the wick alight. “Smells good. Where’d you get this?”
“I found it at the drugstore.” I avoid meeting her eyes. “I, uh, use it when I’m trying to meditate.”
“You meditate?” She sounds genuinely interested. “Is it hard?”
“I don’t think I’m very good at it,” I admit, sitting on the floor next to the bed. Mikaela sits down next to me, leaning back and staring at the ceiling.
“I wish I could meditate,” she says. “I heard you can really reach a different state of mind.”
I let out a sigh. “I don’t think I’m there yet. I just spend the whole time obsessing about lame stuff.”
“It can’t hurt,” she points out. “Trying is better than nothing. More than I’m doing, anyway,” she adds under her breath, like an afterthought.
I’m not sure what to say to this, so I just sit there and let the hair-dye fumes and the cherry-candle smoke have a little war in my nostrils. It’s making me lightheaded.
“Why do you meditate?” she asks suddenly. “If you don’t mind me asking.” She still looks curious.
I hesitate. “I started after my cousin … died. My mom suggested it. I guess it’s helping with the—with being depressed.” I stumble over my words awkwardly, my stomach increasingly queasy. I feel so stupid. “I mean, I’m not that depressed, not like my cousin was—she was on medication and … but it’s been so hard, I … ” I suck in a breath, but I can’t seem to stop babbling. “I haven’t had anyone to really talk to and I’m tired of holding it all in, and tired of these stupid thoughts in my head and of being scared all the time.” I look down at my lap, my breath trembling in and out.