Read Online Underneath by Sarah Jamila Stevenson - Free Book Online Page B

up.” Mom’s voice fades as she cruises out of the room, and I slam the door behind her.
    Antonia lives down the street and is even more touchy-feely than Mom. She comes to the weekend yoga sessions and has every corny new-agey hobby on the face of the earth—tarot cards, aromatherapy, crystals, you name it—and she’s just so disgustingly nice. TOO nice, if you ask me. Spike’s theory is that she was lobotomized. I think she probably just smoked too much pot in the ’70s.
    I can’t deal with her right now.
    â€œDad, you have to get me out of it,” I complain, tugging on his arm as he tries to grade Intro to Film term papers. He’s slouching in the swivel chair in his home office with a stack of papers in his lap, his hairy bare feet propped up on a file box. Blues music is playing quietly through the speakers of his computer. “Antonia is coming over tonight and I’m supposed to help with scrapbooking!” I whine this last word right in his ear.
    â€œSunny, please,” Dad says, sighing. He puts a finger in the book to hold his place and frowns up at me. “I know how you feel, but—”
    â€œ Pleeeeease. ” I know it’s no use, but I try anyway. “I’ll do chores. I don’t care.”
    â€œSunny, be nice,” Dad says, his tone sharper now. “This isn’t a bargaining situation. If your mom wants to make a scrapbook, then I don’t think it’s too much to ask for you to help her. We need to be supportive of your Auntie Mina right now.”
    â€œWe meaning me , you mean.” I stomp out of the den, exasperated. I can hear Dad grumbling to himself, but I don’t care. I go to my room, shut the door, and study with my earbuds in until the doorbell rings, when Dad comes up and marches me down to the dining room for our afternoon of vanilla chai tea blend with Auntie Mina. I’m ashamed to admit that I’m dreading it almost as much as the scrapbooking. My guts twist.
    Mom is sitting next to Auntie Mina at one end of the dining room table. She frowns at my outfit. I’m wearing a light-yellow tracksuit that Grandma and Grandpa gave me for my last birthday; it’s hideous, but it was the first thing I grabbed that was clean.
    I walk in and try to put on a smile for my aunt, who is sitting at the dining room table looking small and lost. Her normally shiny dark-brown hair hangs limply down her back, more gray in it than before. She’s staring at her full teacup, still and silent.
    I feel horrible. And I don’t know what to do.
    When I approach the table, she looks up briefly with a wan smile. “Hi, Sunny. I’m glad you’re here.”
    â€œHi, Auntie,” I say uncertainly. She doesn’t look glad; rather, the moment I walked in, it was as if her face crumpled just a little more under the weight of memories. I want to hug her, like I usually do, but I’m afraid to.
    Dad walks in behind me and sits on Auntie Mina’s other side, leaning over to give her a quick, awkward kiss on the cheek. I sit across from her, feeling queasy and awful. Her eyes are shadowed and hollow, her lips dry and cracked. I can’t imagine Uncle Randall and Number Two have been much comfort; Dad told me that Uncle Randall’s been working late every day. Number Two, as usual, is doing his plastic surgeon thing out in Palm Springs, in the Condo That Dad Bought.
    â€œWe’re all so happy to see you,” my mother says, a little too cheerfully, putting a gentle hand on Auntie Mina’s shoulder. I fidget in my chair and force another smile.
    â€œOh, pooh,” my aunt says, her voice slightly tremulous. “You make it sound like I’ve been in seclusion.”
    â€œReally, Mina. We are,” Mom says. “It feels like it’s been weeks since we’ve really talked. I’m concerned that you’ve been too … alone with your feelings.”
    Way to be subtle. Mom