The Beginning of After

by Jennifer Castle

  “How’s his father? We haven’t been able to get in touch.”

  “I think he’s about the same.”

  It felt very strange to be providing this direct line to David’s state of affairs. Mr. Duffy nodded and pushed a piece of paper toward me.

  “I’m giving you off-campus privileges. In case you want to go home or just need a break, or to see someone. I thought it might help make things easier.”

  I looked at the paper, which was an official-looking form he’d filled out and signed. Wow. This was a really, really nice thing to do, and it would actually make things easier.

  “Thank you,” was all I said, my voice shaky.

  He put his hand lightly on my shoulder as I stood up. “You’re welcome. Anything else you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  I looked at the paper in my hand and had a brainstorm.

  “Actually,” I offered, “the one problem with this is that I’m sort of not driving these days, if you know what I mean. Could we extend these privileges to Megan Dill? She’s been chauffeuring me around.”

  Without even a second’s pause, Mr. Duffy took the paper and laid it on his desk again, scribbled something on the side, and gave it back to me.

  “All set,” he said with a grin.

  The next day when fourth period ended, Meg and I rendezvoused by my locker. We were going to McDonald’s. Not just because we could, but because lunchtime had become my toughest period. People were trying so hard not to get caught staring at me. I still felt like they were watching me out of the corners of their eyes, every bite and every chew, and I was having a hard enough time wanting to eat as it was.

  Meg and I strolled through the north lobby, through the crowd, and out the door toward the parking lot. We walked slowly, making it obvious that we were doing nothing wrong. Flaunting it.

  At McDonald’s, we sat in the corner by the window. I scanned the room and realized with relief that I didn’t recognize a single face. Meg took the first, eye-crossing drag on her milk-shake straw and leaned back, looking amused.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I heard something, but I’m not sure if I should tell you.”

  My heart sank. “It’s not something else about me and David Kaufman, is it?”

  “No, this is a good one. I think you should be prepared, in case it’s true.” She took another short sip of milk shake and shot a glance around the restaurant. “Okay,” she said, looking me square in the eye. “It’s very possible that Joe Lasky is going to ask you to the prom.”

  “Who?”

  “Lasky!”

  It seemed like all noise in McDonald’s, the hum of voices and ringing of cash registers and even the sizzling grill sounds, stopped suddenly. Because the key words here, Joe Lasky and ask and prom, had plugged up my ears, making them pop a bit.

  “Shut up,” was all I could say.

  I hadn’t really thought about the prom since the night of the accident. There was a photo in the family room of my mother in her baby-blue prom dress, all taffeta and ruffles, standing at the base of her parents’ staircase with some nerdy, pizza-face date. She used to tell me that when I went to prom, she’d snap a photo just like that of me, and then we’d put the two pictures in a nice double frame. And I’d nod and think, Not even a pizza-face nerd would take me to the prom, but you believe what you want to.

  When I felt my throat start to close up again, I pushed the thought of Mom’s photo away. It doesn’t exist, it never existed. Concentrate on something else.

  What I thought of was a word from my SAT list. Aghast: “struck with terror and amazement.”

  Joe Lasky. Even though we hadn’t spoken since eighth grade, he was on my personal list of Ten Cutest Guys at school. Meg and I had made one up back in September; while Meg kept revising hers, mine held fast. Even though he was not unhandsome, he was crazy tall, with such bony legs and arms that most people called him Joe Skellington. But I loved the way he bounced a little when he walked, and how he’d worn his brown hair in the same Beatles cut for years, and the way he sketched made-up superheroes on his notebooks.

  “Mary heard it from his sister’s friend, or something,” said Meg. “I think that’s a decently reliable source.”

  “Why? Out of pity?”

  “Laurel, don’t—”

  “He’s asking me out of pity.”

  “What makes you think that?” Meg grabbed a couple of french fries, looking down, away from me.

  “Why else?” I watched Meg shove her fries into her mouth, and remembered that she and Joe were on Debate Team together. The question came out before I could think it through. “Did you put him up to it?”

  “No!” she said, through the french fries, her eyes wide with hurt. “No way!”

  Now I felt guilty. “Sorry. It’s just . . . he’s never acted like he likes me.”

  “So what? You’ve never acted like you cared about any of the guys you’ve liked. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you as cruel as when you were crushing on Mike Shore. You totally ignored him.”

  It was true. I wasn’t good with liking someone. My instinct was total self-preservation; show no sign of weakness. This was my pathetic way of being shy.

  “Isn’t he worried about David Kaufman and me?” I said sarcastically. “I mean, hasn’t he heard the buzz?”

  Meg looked down and her shoulders sagged. “Laurel, you need to get over that. Anyone with half a brain or who knows you at all knows it’s BS.”

  “This is great,” I said. “Now I’m going to be walking around every day, wondering when it’s coming . . . if it’s coming.”

  Meg raised her head hopefully. “If it is, what will you say?”

  From Meg’s face, I could tell that this was very important to her. It made sense. Me saying yes to the prom meant it was okay for her to say yes to it too.

  “I don’t know what I would say. Joe Lasky, huh?” I drew out the moment, taking a bite of my burger. Something about this piece of news made me feel strangely hopeful. Just like the SATs, here was something that would carry me through the next few weeks.

  Looming up ahead and blocking everything that came after it, there it was: PROM.

  Chapter Seven

  Like an idiot, I waited all night for the phone to ring, not even sure I wanted it to. I was thinking that if asked, I would go to the prom. I would do it to show how resilient I was.

  But the next day, Joe Lasky managed to surprise me. I was in the north stairway en route from history class to French on the second floor, thinking about the assignment I’d barely finished, when someone called my name. It echoed against the brick and metal and was followed by the clank clank of steps being taken too fast.

  Joe. Bouncing that lanky body up the stairs. He was wearing a vintage Who T-shirt and baggy jeans, his books hooked under one arm.

  “Hey,” he said, arriving on the landing where I had frozen.

  “Hi, Joe,” I said. When I talked to guys, my big-sister-ness tended to come out. Too much sarcasm, that urge to prove how much smarter I was than they were. I totally sucked at flirting.

  “Listen, I haven’t really seen you this week, but I wanted a chance to say how sorry I am. How has it been so far, back at school?”

  He stooped a bit as he talked, but his eyes were wide, deep, sincere. I’d heard this type of line so much recently, and noticed how different people delivered it. What Joe Lasky seemed to be forgetting—or hoped I was forgetting— was the fact that he hadn’t said a word to me in almost three years.

  “It’s been okay. The cliché is true. One day at a time.” I paused, reminding myself to be nice, just be nice! So I added, “Thanks for asking. That’s sweet.”

  Joe shrugged and reached into his pocket, pulled out a CD. “Listen, Laurel, when my grandfather died last year—and I know that it’s not in the same ballpark—this album helped me. It’s this really obscure band nobody’s ever heard of, but they totally rock, and I think you’ll like it. I burned a copy for you.”

&n
bsp; He held out the CD and I looked at it, tears suddenly welling up in my eyes. No, no, no, Laurel. It’s one thing to be less sarcastic, but do not cry in front of Joe Lasky on the north stairway.

  “Thank you,” I choked out, taking the CD. We both stared at it for another moment, not wanting to look at each other, and suddenly the class bell sounded.

  “Gotta go, Laurel,” he said, glancing over my shoulder now. “Let me know what you think of the band.”

  Then he was gone, and I started walking toward French, fingering the plastic corners of the CD case as I went.

  “Did he write anything on the inside?” asked Meg when I showed it to her at McDonald’s after school.

  “No,” I said. It was one of the first things I checked.

  “So if he asks you, will you go?” prodded Meg. “Pity or no pity, he’s a cool guy, and it’s the prom.”

  I knew I owed her an answer. I wasn’t sure of it myself until the words came out of my mouth.

  “Yeah, I think I would. If he asks.”

  “I was thinking of asking Gavin,” said Meg. Gavin was Meg’s chemistry lab partner, and they had this weird secret hand gesture they did to each other when they passed in the hallway.

  “Gavin would be a good one,” I said.

  “We could double-date. Gavin and Joe are kind of friends, I’ve seen them hang out together.”

  I looked at Meg, who was trying so hard to stay casual. “You have all this figured out, don’t you?” I said.

  She just shrugged. “I’ve thought about it for a few minutes.”

  “A few hundred minutes, you mean.”

  Meg tossed a McNugget at me and stuck out her tongue.

  This had all been her idea, I was sure of it now. But why? For me, or for her? So she could go to the prom and not feel guilty about it, because I was there too?

  Maybe a little of both. And maybe the truth didn’t have to matter.

  At home that weekend, our lives seemed to be about always having something to do. There was homework, of course, even though there was a silent understanding that I could be as late with it as I wanted to. Nana started giving me some chores. Vacuum here, Windex there. Nothing heavy, but enough to count as a first baby step toward something. In between, I’d scour Toby’s DVD shelf in the den and find new movies to watch.

  David Kaufman called on Saturday morning to ask if he could come over and see Masher; it had gotten busy with other visitors at the hospital and he needed a break. I heard Nana telling him that he didn’t have to call, that he was welcome whenever he wanted to stop by, and I winced.

  I was out in the back, sweeping the terrace and listening to my iPod, when he showed up. Joe’s obscure band had turned out to be just what I needed. Sorrowful moaning set to music, sad yet sweet and blindly optimistic. I had been listening to it pretty much nonstop since the previous afternoon.

  Nana knocked gently on her side of the big dining room window, and I looked up. She was standing there with David, Masher already at his side. She waved, and he sort-of waved—it was more like a hand flutter—and they retreated away from the glass. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to come in and keep him company. I just kept sweeping.

  Five minutes later she was at the window again. When she finally got my attention, she pointed energetically toward the den, her eyebrows raised. I shook my head no. She nodded yes. I shook my head again and then there she came, out the back door to pull the headphones out of my ears.

  “You go in and say hi to him,” she said, annoyed.

  “You’re the one who said he could come over! You talk to him.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Nana, you don’t understand. We’re not friends. I barely know him anymore.”

  She looked at me and softened, then handed me back my headphones. “I was thinking,” she said, “that maybe you’d need someone to talk to.”

  I paused, turning to glance toward the open back door. “Well, I don’t. At least, not someone who’s basically a stranger. If I wanted to blab to a stranger, I’d go call that Suzie person.”

  For a second, Nana looked like she might force this. It reminded me of when I was younger and she was always trying to nudge me out of my shyness. Go sit with your Great-Aunt Ruth, she hasn’t seen you in so long. Go ask the saleslady if there’s a ladies’ room you can use. But she just smiled, patted me on the shoulder, and went into the house.

  A minute later, David came outside.

  “Hey, Laurel,” he said, looking around the terrace. Masher followed him out and made a beeline toward me, sticking his nose into my crotch.

  I jumped back. David shouted, “Mash! No!” then turned to me. “Sorry. We’ve been trying to get him not to do that since he was a puppy.”

  He didn’t have to know that Masher did it to me all the time and I thought it was hilarious.

  “If it’s any consolation,” said David, “he only does it to people he really likes.”

  “Well . . . who doesn’t?”

  David snorted a laugh, then we fell silent. Big awkward pause. I examined a spot on the ground near his feet.

  Finally, he said: “I’d ask how you were doing, but you probably hate that question even more than I do.”

  I looked up at him. He wasn’t smiling, but the corners of his mouth seemed relaxed and happy.

  “Yes,” was all I said, but I hammered down on the s and he nodded.

  “You should see what it’s like at the hospital. They all want to cure me of something.”

  “It’s pretty ridiculous at school, too,” I added.

  “Ugh! I can only imagine,” he said. A shadow moved across his face and he frowned, seemingly at a spot on the ground near my feet now. “I’m guessing the police told you about my dad.”

  I felt an adrenaline shot of anger rush through me, but swallowed it down.

  “They told my grandmother, so, yeah.”

  “He wasn’t drunk, you know.”

  “Okay,” was all I said. Swallowing again. My heart thudding in my ears.

  “Officially they say he was borderline, but I’ll tell you, I’ve seen him drink a lot more than he did that night and be totally fine. Driving, I mean.”

  “I’m sure,” I said. It felt like no matter what kind of stupid agreeing grunts I came out with, David would still sound like he was correcting me.

  “They promised they’re looking for another driver, but I think they’re too lazy. It’s so much easier for them to blame it all on my dad.”

  I blame it all on your dad! I felt like saying. But I swallowed that down too, tougher and more bitter than anything else. Then I looked at David and realized he was losing it a little as well.

  I just wanted to be out of this conversation but felt completely pinned.

  Then Masher jumped up on David and broke the tension. I loved that dog.

  “Listen, do you happen to have a Frisbee?” said David casually, like the previous horrible moment had never happened. “I was going to go out in front and toss it around with him for a while. He’s desperate.”

  “I think Toby has at least one,” I said. I started walking around the house toward the side door to the garage, and they both followed me.

  Toby, pretending to aim a Frisbee at my head. Spinning one on his finger like a top. Being pissed off that the glow-in-the-dark one didn’t glow at all, and taking it back to the store.

  On my way into the garage, I averted my eyes from the spot on the front lawn where my brother liked to play with all his guy stuff.

  Toby kept his Frisbees stashed in a box with soccer shin guards, a badminton birdie, and a single mateless cleat, which still had dirt caked on its sole from some long-ago soccer game.

  If I smell this, I thought, will it smell like him, or just be disgusting?

  Stop. Stop it. Push it away.

  I swallowed hard, took one of the Frisbees, and tossed it to David, who caught it with both hands.

  “Thanks,” he said, and headed out to the front yard. I stood on
my tiptoes to watch him through one of the garage door windows. David crouched down low and shot the Frisbee diagonally toward the trees, where Masher caught it in his mouth, a good four feet off the ground.

  That night over dinner, Nana said, “I hate seeing you get so upset about some boy.” For a second I thought she was talking about David, and then realized she meant Joe. Someone had filled her in. Mrs. Dill, I bet.

  “Guy, Nana. Nobody says boy anymore.”

  “I can’t imagine why anyone would play with your emotions at a time like this,” she said now, spreading butter on a roll. “Should I call his parents and let them know what he’s doing?”

  “For the love of God, no!” I nearly shouted.

  After a pause, she said, “Even if this boy Joe doesn’t ask you, I think you should go to the prom anyway.”

  “Go stag? Right. Like that’s what I want, people having one more reason to look at me like I’m a freak.”

  An expression of horror flashed across her face. “Do people look at you like that?”

  I shrugged, trying to downplay. I had planned to keep this whole area of information from her.

  “Laurel, I understand that people might treat you differently, at least for a while, but you can’t let them get to you. You have to show you’re strong.”

  “I am,” I said, then clarified: “I am showing I’m strong.”

  “But you’ll tell me if this boy causes problems for you? You’ll tell me if anyone does something to hurt you?”

  I looked at her, so small and dainty in her brown cashmere cardigan. What was she going to do, show up at someone’s doorstep with a bat?

  “I can stick up for myself,” I said, “but I’ll tell you if I need any help.”

  I had two classes with Joe Lasky: History during second period, then later, after lunch, English. The thought of seeing him had kept me up half the night.

  When I walked into the history classroom on Monday, he looked up from his desk in the front row and nodded. I smiled quickly and headed to the back of the room, one aisle over. It allowed me a clean line of sight to the whole left side of his head. His hair on that side flopped forward over his eyes when he bent down to take notes; he was left-handed, so he kept reaching across his face with his right hand, pushing the hair back.