The Beginning of After (4 page)

I quickly imagined that I could reach my hand into my chest, yank out that awful feeling, place it on an invisible cloud of air right in front of me, then push it away.
Push it away.

And it worked. I could almost see it float past Mr. Churchwell’s head and out the door.

“I think I did okay,” I finally said, trying to pick up his question even though several long, terribly quiet moments had passed.

“You have a ride home?” he asked. If he sensed how close I’d just come to losing it, he didn’t let on.

“Megan’s mom.”

“And so I’ll see you again . . .”

“On Monday.” That just came out. I hadn’t really decided when I was going back to school. But now that I was there, it seemed so totally possible. I could come back. I could pick right up where I’d left off and still finish the school year on time.

“Are you sure?” Mr. Churchwell asked.

“Absolutely,” I said, and stood up, moving toward the door. “Have a great weekend.”

I opened the door slowly and peeked my head into the hallway. It was empty, so I slid out, knowing exactly where I needed to go to wait for Meg. I made it outside quickly and flew down the steps of the school’s entrance, following a concrete path around the side of the building and to the oak tree. It was our oak tree, the only one on school grounds with a trunk wide enough for two people to disappear behind, now fully green with shade. This was where Meg and I liked to hang out at lunchtime.

Most kids coming out of the school would be headed straight for their cars in the opposite direction; they’d never think to come this way. I pulled out my cell phone and sent a text message to Meg that just said:

@ d tree

Then my thumb reached toward the 2 button that would speed-dial the house.

And I froze. I’d been about to call home.
Holy crap, is it that easy to forget they’re not there?

No. You were just going to call Nana. Nana, who IS there.

It was simpler at that moment not to call at all.

I heard the front doors open and some voices, loud for a moment or two, then fading slowly. The front doors again, then fading voices. A third time I heard the doors open, and the voices, but they didn’t fade; they were getting stronger, along with footsteps.

I looked up, hoping to see Meg, but it was Andie Stokes and Hannah Lindstrom. Pretty and popular, not mean but unapproachable. Generally superhuman. And they were walking toward me.

“Hi, Laurel,” said Hannah.

“Megan Dill said you might be here,” said Andie.

I had to shield my eyes from the sun to look up at them, but didn’t stand. I was really just too nervous to move, and then I felt like an idiot for that. These were girls from my school who I’d known forever. Once, when we were little, I’d taken a bath with one of them, but I couldn’t remember which.

Now they came and sat down with me, on the ground made bumpy by the oak tree’s roots.

“We just wanted to say hi and let you know how sad we are for you,” said Andie, sweeping her famous chestnut brown hair away from her face. “You must be going through hell.”

“It’s so brave of you to do this today,” added Hannah, blond, touching my shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“We’re starting up a memorial fund, from our class to your family,” said Andie. She was known for her obsession with charities, always coordinating some kind of clean-up day, food drive, or group donation. Some kids did sports, Andie did Good.

“We’d like to do something, you know, permanent. Maybe plant a tree at the rec center park,” chimed in Hannah, who was wearing one of the craveable dresses she designed and sewed herself.

“Okay,” I said, still feeling like a moron. Why couldn’t I say something funny or smart? I was always looking for a chance to talk to these girls, and now here I was, mute.

The rec center park. That was a nice spot, near the town pool and tennis courts, where they had Family Fun Night every summer. The year before, Toby and I had almost won the egg toss, but he’d dropped it when there were just three pairs left. I was pissed, that evening in late August. I’d never won anything at Family Fun Night and was sick of Mom always packing a picnic from the Taco Bell drive-through instead of preparing sandwiches and salad and cookies like all the other moms did, and making us go home before the fireworks because they gave her a headache.

It wasn’t a great memory, but the thought of it still made my throat close up. Fortunately, just then Meg appeared around the corner with a mortified look on her face. She came toward us and said hi to Hannah and Andie, then reached down and helped me up without asking if I needed the hand.

“My mom’s here,” said Megan, and we said quick good-byes before stumbling away.

“What the hell was that?” I asked her once we were out of earshot.

“I am so sorry. They cornered me after the test and asked if I knew where you were, and for some reason I told them because I’d just gotten your message, and before I could follow them out, stupid Mrs. Cox came over to talk to me about my English paper.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “They were just being nice.”

At least, I think that’s what it was. If Andie Stokes and Hannah Lindstrom being nice felt like being run over by a steamroller and thinking you should be grateful, then yeah, that was it for sure.

When Mrs. Dill dropped me home, Nana was on the phone with someone. She waved at me as I closed the front door, then turned away. Masher ran in from another room, and I knelt down to bury my fingers in the fur on his back.

“Yes, I understand,” she said in what I knew was her “I was raised to be pleasant to everyone” tone. “Well, we appreciate the update, Lieutenant. If there’s anything we can do to help, just let us know.” She hung up the phone quickly, then turned back around. “Oh! I was hoping to be able to give you a big congratulations hug the second you walked in!”

“Who was that?” I asked. I stood up, and Masher darted from the room, like he knew his job for now was done.

“It was Lieutenant Davis, just filling us in.”

“On what?”

“Can we talk about it later? I want to hear about the tests.”

“After you tell me what he said.”

Nana sighed and looked at the ceiling. “They’re trying to determine an official cause of the accident. They need to do that, you know, for their records.”

“I know about records.”

“Well, they said Mr. Kaufman may have had too much to drink; they tested his blood alcohol level in the hospital that night. It was right on the borderline. But Lieutenant Davis personally thinks there was another car involved. So they’re still hoping someone will step forward.”

I sat down, remembering what I’d overheard at the funeral, and felt almost glad that the blame on Mr. Kaufman was becoming more official. If I could blame him, I couldn’t blame myself. I could hate him, even, and nobody would fault me for it.

Not my dad. I knew he always disliked Mr. Kaufman a little, along with the two or three other dads in our neighborhood who made lots of money and bought lots of big, obvious things with it. My parents didn’t think I knew but they struggled to support us, and sometimes they didn’t quite make it and needed help from Nana.

“But I don’t want you to concern yourself with all this accident stuff,” said Nana now. “It doesn’t affect us.”

“Of course it affects us. How can it not affect us?” I asked, not ready to drop it yet.

Now Nana turned from sad to a little fierce, her eyes narrowing.

“We have our own job with grieving and getting on with our lives. I won’t let them keep you from being able to do that.”

I saw that she had tears in her eyes, and all I wanted was to take them out.

“I’m sorry, Nana,” I said. “You’re right.”

She nodded, then went into the kitchen and came out with a plate of brownies. “I made these to celebrate the SATs.”

And just like that, the conversation was over.

Chapter Five

I
t rained hard the next day. “Pissing,” as my dad liked to say. It was pissing out, drumming a steady, angry rhythm onto the roof of the Volvo and the slate stones of our front terrace. Nana let me stay in bed, watching TV, eating my special SAT brownies. Masher lay on my left, stretched out alongside my body with one front leg across my arm. Elliot and Selina took turns at the foot of the bed.

Once, toward late afternoon, I heard Nana approach my bedroom door. I quickly dropped my head to the side, closed my eyes, and opened my mouth a bit in expert pretended
zzz
’s. I knew this made her happy; one more thing to check off on her mental daily list.
Make sure Laurel gets enough sleep.

But then someone knocked on the front door.

I heard Nana open it, and a voice I couldn’t place. After a few minutes, curiosity got the better of me, and I wandered out of my room.

David Kaufman was sitting on the bench in our foyer, taking off his boots. He was drenched, and Nana was already in the kitchen making him coffee.

“Hi,” I said, and he looked up.

“Hi, Laurel,” he said, and it occurred to me that he probably hadn’t said my name out loud, to anybody, in years.

He looked bad. Dark circles pressed themselves against the skin under his eyes, which didn’t seem as round as they used to be, and he’d broken out. I couldn’t help staring at this one really big zit on his nose.

David took off his jacket and reached up to hang it on one of the wall hooks, then noticed that Toby’s jean jacket was already there. He paused; when I didn’t react, he carefully put his jacket on top of Toby’s.

I didn’t know what else to say to him. It seemed crazy yet perfectly sensible that he should be in my house at this moment. I could continue with “How are you?” but knew I hated the question myself.

Then I thought of Mr. Kaufman, and the anger rose in me. Keeping my voice steady, trying to make it sound more curious than vengeful, I asked, “What’s going on with your dad?”

“They’ve moved him out of ICU, but there’s still no change,” he said, rubbing one of his feet where the sock had soaked through. I had a quick flashback of David and me sitting on that bench when we were kids, pulling snow-encrusted mittens and hats away from our limbs and onto the floor.

“He could wake up any day, they say,” continued David. “They say my being there might help that happen, so that’s why I’m not coming home.” This came out all practiced and mechanical, like it was a line he’d been using a lot. He said it like there was no reason why I wouldn’t want his dad to be okay.

Nana came out of the kitchen and beckoned us over to the table.

“Is Masher here?” said David. “I came home for some clothes, and my grandfather said you’d taken him.”

“Yeah. Mr. Mita wasn’t—”

“Thank you,” David said, cutting me off. Hearing David’s voice in the house must have woken Masher up, because, on cue, he came bursting down the stairs.

David fell to his knees to hug his dog, his face in the thick ring of fur around his neck, and they stayed that way for what seemed like minutes. I put two very large spoonfuls of sugar in my coffee, slowly.

When he finally let go of Masher, he was fighting back tears. Nana handed him a box of Kleenex—she had installed one in every room—and he turned his back to us, cleaning himself up.

“He seems happy. Thank you,” said David when he swiveled back around. “Do you mind watching him for a little while longer?”

Something about David’s face right then, so fragile and temporary, felt familiar. Had I seen it before on him? Or maybe, on myself? My guard fell, and a voice inside me nudged,
David is not his father. You don’t have to hate him, too.

“No, I don’t mind,” I said. “He hogs the covers, but I can deal with that.”

David burst out with a little laugh, just a snort really, and smiled a bit. He crawled back into the chair and took his first sip of coffee.

“You’ve been home all this week? Out of school?” said David.

“Yeah. I’m going back tomorrow.” Just saying it made me feel that much more like I would actually do it. “What about you?”

“Nah, I’m failing two of my classes anyway. I’m done.”

The nerd in me felt alarmed, and I couldn’t help saying, “Done? Like, dropping out?”

David just shrugged and looked at me, like he was daring me to ask more, challenging me to try to talk him out of it.

“Well, you’re lucky then,” was all I said, picking at a thumbnail. “Because you’ll miss that whole stupid senior talent show thing.”

David snorted again and nodded, and then we went silent. But the air felt a little thinner, a little warmer now. After a few more moments, he slid back down to the floor, and Masher, who’d had his head resting in David’s lap, stretched out in front of him.

“I’ve got some stuff to do, to get ready for tomorrow,” I said, getting up and taking two steps toward the stairs. He didn’t look up to say good-bye.

“Stay as long as you want, David,” said Nana from the kitchen doorway. “Do you want a sandwich?”

I didn’t wait to hear his answer, because suddenly being back in my room, without having to make conversation with David Kaufman, was all I wanted in life.

There was a picture of the two of us, David and me, in a family photo album somewhere. We’re on my front lawn. It’s my first day of third grade and his first day of fourth grade. I’m grinning wide while holding a Snoopy lunch box, and he’s standing with his hands on his hips, so over the whole thing. I remember us walking to the bus stop and then him moving away from me to talk to Lydia Franco, who was ten and unimaginably streetwise. But on some weekends we went for walks in the woods, and he’d show me the old stone homestead walls that ran through the back of our neighborhood.

We did this until the year David started middle school. Although we waited at the same stop, he took a different bus now, and he had simply stopped talking to me. I think I asked him a question once and he just looked at me, smiled, and turned away. That was it, like someone finally switching off a TV that’s been left on too long. If I felt hurt, I never admitted it. Soon, Meg moved to the neighborhood and I had someone, and that was all that mattered.

When I got to my room, Elliot and Selina were both on the bed, giving me these looks.

“Sorry, guys, the dog’s not leaving yet,” I said, and crawled under the covers.