Beneath the Surface, page 9
I expected the water to be cold, but it’s not. It’s not hot either. The water feels like it’s the exact temperature of my body.
Hannah lowers herself until she’s lying on her back, and just when I expect her to sink like a rock, she floats effortlessly on the surface.
“Where should I, uh, lie down?” I have no clue what I’m doing here or where Hannah wants me.
“Anywhere,” she says, her voice sounding muffled through my earplugs.
I situate myself beside her, but not close enough to actually touch her, and then lower myself until I’m lying on my back.
“Now what?” I ask.
She must hit a button on the inside wall of the float tank because the lights turn off, and the only illumination in the room is the soft glow of purple twinkle lights embedded in the ceiling. It’s just enough light to not be pitch-dark, but not distracting enough to prevent you from going to sleep if you wanted.
Hannah is silent, and I recall how she told me there’s no talking. I want so badly to ask her how long this float thing lasts, but I don’t. She wanted to get the full experience—wanted me to get the full experience—so I remain silent.
As time passes, the tension leaves my body, little by little. It’s like that in-between period when you are tired and comfortable and just about to fall asleep, but haven’t fully drifted off yet. I’m no longer fighting my thoughts as I allow my mind to relax completely.
“I’m glad you enjoyed your first float,” Hannah says, looking pleased with herself as we get out of the car.
“It wasn’t half bad,” I admit. Although I enjoyed it, I’m not sure I’d necessarily do it again. At least not on my own, without Hannah.
Instead of immediately going to my car, I walk Hannah to the door of her apartment. Just like my dream, I’m conflicted, and I don’t want to let her go.
“So, I guess this is it. The end of our assignment,” I say, attempting to hide the disappointment in my voice. “Do you have everything you need?”
“I do.” She could easily turn and walk back into her apartment, never giving me another thought. To my surprise, she doesn’t. Instead, she stands there, as if trying to think of something to say to make our day last a little longer.
A part of me wants to suggest that we go do something else, but her hair is soaked, and I’m still wearing the wet boxers I used in place of swim trunks for our float.
I should wish her the best and leave. I should get in my car and never look back. If I had any sense, I’d force things to return to the way they were before this assignment. It would be less complicated if I continued to shut her out, to avoid her, but I can’t now. Truthfully, I’m not sure that I want to.
Hannah stands only a couple of feet away, and I could easily close the distance and go in for a goodbye hug. That’s not really what I want from her though. It’s like I’m a teenager again, wondering what it would be like to kiss her.
I’ve thought about it more times than I can count over the past seven years. Although every time the image would creep into my head, I’d also imagine her giving me a black eye for even trying.
I chuckle as I recall one of my favorite memories of her.
Hannah notices. “What?”
“I was just thinking about the time you punched Zane in the face.”
She visibly cringes. “That was awful. I thought for sure I’d get expelled or something.”
“I never told you this,” I say, unsure why I’m willing to share it now. “But I knew we’d be friends after that first day you came to my house and schooled me in Fatal Zombies. Then, when I saw you stand up to Zane, I knew you’d be my best friend. You were unlike anyone else I’d ever met.”
It was impressive. Other than me, no one, not even other boys, had ever stood up to him like that. But there she was, this new girl who was half his size, throwing her little fist into his face, refusing to back down. Knowing Hannah and how nonconfrontational she is makes it even more remarkable.
She stands there, speechless and wide-eyed, and it takes me a second to understand why. Then, I realize that it’s because I haven’t just given her insight into when I first wanted to be friends with her. I’ve essentially admitted that what I told her during our fight all those years ago wasn’t true. During our argument, I said that I never cared for her, basically that I’d only pretended to like her out of pity and obligation, but nothing could’ve been further from the truth. And now, she knows it.
The desire to kiss her is still there, but I know I won’t act on it. I can’t throw that huge bomb out there and then make a move. She’d think it was all a ploy to hit on her, and I don’t want her to get that impression. I don’t know if it’s the fact that we’ve been forced to spend time together, or the dream I had last night, or a combination of both, but for the first time in seven years, I don’t want to scare her away.
“I’m going to go and change into dry clothes,” I say, desperate to break the noticeable tension between us.
She shifts her feet, as if she’s unsure of what to do or say next. Finally, she replies, “It might be a good idea for us to read each other’s papers after we’re finished writing them. You know, to ensure we’ve captured everything. There isn’t a rule that says we can’t. I’d really like to make an A on this one.”
She’s throwing me a bone, and like a lonely, hungry dog, I jump at the chance to possess it.
“That would be great. Maybe we can meet for lunch or something and look them over.”
She nods in agreement. “Text me when you’re finished with yours, and we’ll get it scheduled.”
“You seem awfully chipper,” Miguel says to me as he pours Alyssa another margarita. “Is it because your assignment is finally over?”
I take a sip of my water. “Actually, it’s because I had a good day with Hannah and we’re planning to meet for lunch in a couple of days.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Wow. That escalated quickly. I’m not surprised though.” He places the pitcher of margaritas back in the fridge.
“What makes you say that?”
He flashes me a knowing smile. “You’re not exactly afraid of confrontation, yet you used to exhaust so much energy trying to avoid her. I suspected that she meant more to you than you let on.”
The problem that drove us apart is far from resolved—at least for me, it isn’t—but I don’t offer further explanation. I decide it’s better to let him think what he wants.
Even if the past hasn’t fully settled, maybe that doesn’t mean we have to continue down the same path as before. I don’t expect her to forgive me fully, especially since I have no intention of bringing up my reasons for driving her away, but maybe we don’t have to avoid each other either. And maybe, just maybe, we can even salvage some sort of friendship.
Miguel takes Alyssa’s margarita into the living room and hands it to her. As he lies on the couch, he uses her lap as a pillow as they watch a movie, and I’m reminded of last night’s dream. Today has been the strongest case of déjà vu I’ve ever experienced. There are just too many similarities.
“I’m going to call it a night,” I say, suddenly feeling uneasy.
They say good night, but I’m already headed to my bedroom. As soon as I’m alone, I climb into bed, knowing good and well that I won’t be able to sleep.
I don’t hear Miguel’s phone chime, but when he opens the door to my room and turns on the light, I can see it in his eyes.
It wasn’t just a dream because it’s happened again.
She’s dead.
TWELVE
Hannah | Past
The bell rings, and I hurry to my locker to grab my English Literature book for my next class. This year, it has become one of my favorite subjects, and it’s currently the only class that I don’t mind having homework in. It doesn’t feel like work when you get to snuggle up on the recliner under a soft blanket after a long day and read great works of fiction. I’d do that with or without a grade at stake.
I squeeze around a couple who routinely make out in the hallway between classes despite getting caught by the teachers daily. At first, the couple would get detention every day, but now, it seems like the teachers have completely given up. Now, they just break it up and tell them to go to class.
I open my locker and grab my book. Before I close it, a piece of paper falls out. I reach down to pick it up and notice that it’s a note folded in half. Someone must have slid it into my locker before I got there.
I suspect the note is from Casey. Perhaps she had to leave school early today and is letting me know she won’t be coming over for dinner after all. The gesture is a little odd because, normally, she’d just text me.
I unfold the paper and immediately realize that it’s not Casey’s handwriting. Casey’s penmanship is no fuss, no frills, and borderline illegible. The handwriting I’m looking at is cursive, feminine, as if the author were attempting amateur calligraphy. Despite the presentation of the note, its contents aren’t ladylike at all. Scrolled out in the note, written with a purple glitter pen, is one word.
Slut.
I quickly crumple the note in my hand and shut the locker. As I hurry down the hall to class, heat rushes to my cheeks, and I silently pray that I’m not turning red. Sometimes, when I get flustered or upset, my face and neck will flush. It’s a clear sign to anyone around me that I’m embarrassed, and I hate it.
There’s a trash can outside the classroom, and I discard the note. I can almost hear Casey in my ear, chastising me for doing that. If I told her about it, she’d want to spend the entire evening trying to figure out who wrote it. What good would that do? I just want to forget about it as fast as possible and pretend it never happened.
Slowly inhaling a breath, I calmly take my seat. As I sit there, waiting for class to start, I rationalize maybe they meant the comment for someone else. Even at sixteen, I’ve never been on an actual date, so why would someone accuse me of being a slut? It just doesn’t make sense.
It’s not that I haven’t wanted to date, but every time I talk to a guy and feel like things are heading in a romantic direction, he suddenly becomes too busy to hang out, or he tells me he wants to be single for a while. Those sound like reasonable excuses, except on more than one occasion, I’d catch the guy out with a different girl a week or two later.
So, it must be me. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, but I’m the problem.
If I repel boys so badly, why would someone accuse me of the opposite?
I feel eyes on me, and when I glance up, I see two of the girls in my class whispering as they look in my direction. One of them makes eye contact and smirks. I feel the fire in my cheeks again, and as I tear my eyes away from the girls, I notice Casey standing in the doorway to the classroom.
She motions for me to come to the door. I check the clock hanging on the wall, and I still have three minutes before class starts, so I get up to see what she wants. Hopefully, she’ll make it quick before Mr. Calhoun arrives.
As I approach Casey, I feel like other students are taking notice of me. One guy looks me up and down while another girl giggles when I pass her. It’s probably my paranoia, but I feel like everyone is talking about me.
When I reach Casey, she grabs my hand and yanks me into the hallway, out of view of everyone in the classroom.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“You haven’t heard?” Her hazel eyes are wide with disbelief.
I shake my head. “Heard what?”
She pulls me farther down the hall and out of earshot from anyone who could be lurking. Then, she pauses, visibly gathering her thoughts, and I really worry.
“Casey, just tell me.” The suspense is killing me.
“There’s a rumor.” She bites her lip.
The image of the note pops into my head, making my heart race. “What kind of rumor?”
“Zane,” she whispers. “He told everyone that he hooked up with you last night.”
I let out a small laugh at the absurdity. Surely, no one would believe that.
She doesn’t laugh or even smile. “That’s not all. He says he has proof.”
“Proof?” I ask. “What kind of proof could he possibly have? I assure you, I have never and would never do anything with him.”
If I had to make a list of guys at our school and rank them in order from most likely to least likely for me to hook up with, Zane would be at the very bottom—with several blank pages in between. I still haven’t forgiven him for the horrible things he said to me when we were kids, right before I punched him in the face.
She pulls out her phone and shows me a topless picture of a girl. It catches me by surprise, and at first, I’m taken aback, but I force myself to look closer and to see if I recognize who she is. The photo has her face cropped out, but she has a similar shape as me and long blonde hair, so I could see how someone could mistake her for me. Regardless, I’m certain that the photo isn’t of me. The girl in the photo is clearly posing for the camera, so I doubt she’s being photographed in secret, and I know that I have never posed like that for someone to take a picture. Ever.
I point to the camera. “So, everyone thinks this is me?”
She flinches as she nods her head. “Yeah. Zane’s telling everyone that you let him take this picture of you.”
“Well, it’s not me, obviously,” I protest.
She puts her phone in the back pocket of her jeans. “I know that, but I thought you had a right to know. He’s sent it to at least half the school. My phone has been blowing up about it for the past hour.”
For a moment, my blood feels like ice before it returns to fire, scorching my cheeks. I think of the note and the way people were behaving in class. It doesn’t matter if the photo is of me or not. Everyone believes it is, and now, all my classmates think they know what I look like naked. Even though it’s not me, it’s still humiliating.
I glance back toward the doorway to the room, knowing class will start at any moment. “There’s no way I can go in there right now.”
Just the thought of entering that room with everyone talking about me and undressing me with their eyes makes me want to throw up.
I wrap my hands around my waist, trying to catch my breath.
Casey puts her hand on my shoulder. “Just try to calm down. This is the last class of the day. Find somewhere to lie low, and I’ll go grab your stuff. I can bring it to you tonight.”
Words escape me, and I can’t speak. I just nod and walk away. The last thing I want is for Mr. Calhoun to see me and order me into the room.
An hour later, the final bell rings, and I continue to hide in the room that the theater department uses to store their costumes and props. There isn’t a play in the works, so I figured this would be the best place to hole up without being discovered. So far, it’s worked out perfectly, and if I can just get through another half hour or so, the school will clear out enough for me to sneak out and go home.
As I sit there, I contemplate a way to vindicate myself but come up empty. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in high school, it’s that people love a good rumor. Especially when it’s about someone like me, who never gets into trouble.
Tears sting at my eyes, and I uselessly wipe them away. I’m terrified of spending the next year and a half of high school with this stigma. First, I was the new girl with the dead mom. Then, I was the goody-goody that Jax got bored with and cast aside. Now, my classmates will see me as the girl who’s damaged enough to sleep with a guy like Zane. If I thought dating in high school was tough before, it will be a hundred times worse now. If a guy asks me out, I’m going to wonder if it’s because he thinks I’m easy.
Footsteps approach from the other side of the door. Not ready to face anyone yet, I scoot out of view, sitting between a small sewing table and a portable rack filled with clothes. Hopefully, whoever comes into the room will just grab whatever it is they need and leave.
The doorknob turns, and a girl giggles. It grows quiet, and then I hear a soft, feminine moan.
Just as I realize that this is likely a suitable spot for couples to hook up, the footsteps slide closer until I see four legs at eye-level. Reluctantly, I allow my eyes to trail upward to see who they belong to. First, I see a girl and realize it’s Nyra from my Chemistry class. Then, I steal a glance at a guy, who’s a good bit taller than she is, and my stomach churns. It’s Jax.
As if this day couldn’t get any worse.
I’m sitting on the floor to their right, with my knees pulled to my chest, as Jax’s lips part from hers to nibble on her ear. She moans again, and I don’t want to look at them. It feels creepy to be hiding in the corner, watching them, but I can’t seem to look away. I’m worried if I do, they will feel the shift and discover me there.
Jax opens his eyes, and inevitably, he notices me. I wince, certain that he’ll call me out, and the two of them will have a good laugh at my expense. The memory of Jax calling me pathetic plays repeatedly in my mind because he’s right. I am.
Jax’s gaze locks on me as I reach up and rub away the fresh tears from my cheeks. I know I must look like a mess, which will just provide them with more ammunition when they mock me.
Jax looks away. “Shoot,” he says before pulling away from Nyra and smoothly repositioning her so her back is to me. “I just remembered that I need to go.”
Nyra huffs. “Excuse me? Go where?”
He shrugs. “I’ve got stuff to do.”
Nyra stands there with her hand on her hip, waiting for a better explanation as to why he’s cutting their make-out session short. When she doesn’t get one, she stomps away, calling him a jerk under her breath.
I hear the door open, and Nyra’s footsteps fade away, but to my surprise, Jax doesn’t follow her. Instead, he’s just standing there, looking down at me.
As usual, he appears to be in a sour mood, and I’m sure he’s annoyed with me for messing up his plans. I brace myself for him to go off on me. Jax has always had some anger issues, but they’ve gotten noticeably worse over the years. When his issues are with other guys, it usually results in a fight. I’ve never really seen him so much as raise his voice to a girl, but I know from experience that his words, even at a reasonable level, can cut through you like a knife.
