“Thanks, but I just need to chill.” The day had been good. People had been nice. Mr. Churchwell tracked me down to check up on me, and Nana called at lunchtime to see how I was, but I didn’t mind. Now, even the weight of my book bag as I heaved it out of the backseat had a reassuring, solid feel to it.
“Pick you up tomorrow?” she asked.
“Call you tonight,” I said, then got out of the car.
I waved at Meg as she backed down the driveway but quickly turned toward the house. There was Masher in the front window, his ears forward and high, panting. When I opened the door, he ran past me into the driveway, then stopped and shot an intense look in my direction. “Yeah, just give me a few minutes,” I said. I dropped my stuff in the house and changed into my sneakers.
Back outside, at the end of the driveway, I stopped to open the mailbox. Masher sat in the middle of the road, looking up the hill, then down the hill. I slid out the pile of mail and started walking, the dog a few yards ahead of me. Bills, the PennySaver, some junk mail for my dad. National Geographic, addressed to Toby. I touched my finger to Toby’s name printed out in dot matrix, thinking At least he’s still alive in a computer somewhere.
Then there was an envelope addressed to “Masher, c/o Laurel Meisner.” I froze, staring at it, while Masher began peeing in the Girardis’ ivy patch.
I tucked the rest of the mail under my armpit and opened David’s envelope. Inside was a letter written on lined notebook paper.
Masher,
Sorry it took me so long to write. Things didn’t work out with my buddy Stefan, so I’m headed back. But I think I’m going to take my time and check things out on the way.
Mash, that means you’re gonna have to stay there for a while. I hope you understand. I’ll write or call whenever I can. I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again, but it won’t be too long. Promise.
C ya,
David
I read it twice, then folded it into my pocket. Masher took that as his cue to stop peeing and start walking again, and I followed him, past the Girardis’ and every familiar spot after it.
Chapter Eighteen
Every few days, a postcard from David to Masher would show up in our mailbox.
Hey Masher, the first person I saw in San Francisco was a guy with purple dreadlocks down to his waist. Masher, did you know that Seattle really does have killer coffee? Masher, you would not believe how many cows there must be in the world.
As he made his way slowly, zigzaggedly east, David told his dog that it was hard for him to get online and send an email, but he liked being able to jot things down on a twenty-five-cent postcard and mail it off when he got the chance. He told Masher about how being alone on a highway in the middle of nowhere gave him a sense of peace he’d never felt before, and how he’d had the best meal of his life late one night at a truck stop outside Salt Lake City, served by a waitress named Melba.
I read the notes aloud to Masher because it felt wrong not to, but secretly wished just one letter would come addressed to me. There was never a return address, so I couldn’t write back to him even if I wanted to.
“How is David?” Nana asked one day as I turned David’s latest over and over in my hands. This one told Masher all about what it felt like to ride a raft down the Snake River in Wyoming.
“He seems good,” I said.
“His grandparents were up here last weekend from Miami.” Nana paused. “They’re talking about selling the house.”
I felt something lurch in my stomach. “Why?”
“Well, nobody’s living there, but somebody has to pay all the taxes. The house is worth quite a bit, and I think they want to put something away for David. Also,” she leaned in to whisper, although nobody else anywhere could possibly hear us, “I got the impression that Mr. Kaufman’s care is quite expensive.”
I thought of how Mr. Kaufman drove the nicest cars of all the neighbors and was always buying pricey electronic gadgets before anyone else had heard of them. Now he needed help to cover the cost of being only half-dead, and I didn’t feel one bit sorry.
“What will they do with all the stuff?” I said, after a few seconds.
“I don’t know, sweetie.” Then Nana was miles away, staring out the window.
“Are you okay?”
She snapped out of it and looked back at me with a sudden determination. “Yes. But I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”
I just raised my eyebrows at her, tired of asking questions.
“I need to go home in a few weeks, to take care of some personal business. How do you feel about that? It would just be for three or four days. I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Dill, and you can stay with them.”
It was so easy to forget that Nana had a house full of her own furniture and uneaten food and Reader’s Digests piling up in the mail stack.
“What kind of business?” I asked.
“I’m thinking of renting out my house for the next year. I’d like to see Dr. Jacobs about my arthritis, too. And I need to meet with my lawyer about selling the condo.” When Nana said “the condo,” she winced like it hurt.
The condo meant Nana’s deluxe two-bedroom apartment at a retirement community in Hilton Head, where she’d been planning to move. My dad had helped her find the place just a few months before the accident.
Nana had had plans. She was old, yeah, but she still had a future. So what did she have now?
I looked at Nana trying so hard not to cry. “Is it okay with you if I go?” she asked. “You can come with me if you’d like, but I’d hate for you to miss school now that you’ve started again.”
She had given up so much to be here. Did she ever resent it? Or me?
“Please go,” I said. “I’ll be fine. Please do what you need to do, Nana.”
She nodded, biting her lip, wrinkling her nose. Then I watched her walk quickly out of the kitchen on her way to break down somewhere away from me, the perfectly centered back seam of her straight, straight skirt wiggling like a tail.
Andie and Hannah talked Meg and me into coming with them to Vinny’s Pizza for lunch the next day. “We’re seniors! We have to take advantage of our off-campus privileges!” Andie had argued. I was game. Tell me there’s an alternative to sitting in the cafeteria with people stealing glances at me between Tater Tots, I’m there.
At Vinny’s, we couldn’t agree on toppings, so we ordered a large pizza divided four ways: pineapple (Hannah), veggies (Meg), sausage (Andie), and plain (yours truly). Vinny himself was behind the counter and gave us a dirty look when Hannah placed the order, but later, after we’d squeezed into the booth in the window, he brought us over a free plate of garlic bread. I noticed his wife back in the kitchen, staring at me sadly.
“So Laurel,” said Andie, peeling the crust off a slice of bread. “Do you see that bench out there?”
I looked out the window to a bench on the sidewalk. A young mom was sitting on it, desperately rocking a stroller back and forth with a defeated look on her face. I glanced back at Andie and nodded, then watched her eat the crust and hand the middle of the bread to Hannah, who popped it in her mouth. This seemed like a ritual for them.
“I was trying to think of something else besides planting a tree, because I realized that’s a little tired, and one day I noticed that bench has a plaque on it,” continued Andie. “Some person I’ve never heard of, but I called the town office and guess what? They’re memorial benches. You can buy one. We can buy one, the senior class, for you know, you.”
As gung-ho as Andie was about this whole memorial idea, she didn’t seem capable of actually talking about the people it was for.
I thought of my parents’ names, Toby’s name, on a plaque on a bench. Sweaty backs and bra straps pressing against it, stupid kids sticking gum in the corners. I wasn’t sure my family would have wanted to be remembered in any way that had to do with people’s butts.
“What store would it be across from?” I said, because I couldn’t think
of anything else. Meg kicked me under the table, so then I added, “Because my dad always loved the sandwiches at the Village Deli.”
Andie and Hannah looked at each other, both chewing their bread components. “That’s a great idea!” said Hannah.
“How do you plan to raise the money?” asked Meg.
“We’re going to do a bake sale at each of the home football games,” said Hannah. “We’ll ask the senior class to make cookies and brownies and stuff. It can really add up.” She paused, then added, very seriously, “But don’t worry. We won’t ask you guys.”
“And Laurel, you can get stuff at the bake sale for free,” whispered Andie.
Just then, my cell phone rang. HOME it said on the display.
“Hello?” I answered, like I didn’t know it was Nana.
“Hi, Laurel. How are you?” Her voice strangely formal.
“I’m having lunch in town.”
“I just wanted to see how your day was going. You’re with Meg?”
“And Andie and Hannah.” The girls were trying not to watch me.
“Those popular girls?”
I lowered my voice. “Yes, Nana. What does it matter?”
“Mrs. Dill told me some things about those girls. I’m not sure I want you hanging out with them.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. Can I go now? Our pizza’s here,” I lied.
I hung up. “My grandmother,” I said to Andie and Hannah. “She’s going a little control freak on me.”
I thought of the last postcard I’d gotten from David. He’d written, Masher, would you believe I can no longer keep track of what town I’m in? It’s an incredible feeling.
I could see why, sometimes.
Later, when Meg and I went to the restroom together, she asked me, “What was that about with Nana?”
“I honestly don’t know.” I wondered how much to tell Meg about what Nana said. “I think your mom has been trash-talking Andie and Hannah.”
Meg sighed as she turned on the sink to wash her hands. “Yeah. She decided last week that they’re slutty.”
We paused, awkwardly, so I said, “And you’re not?”
Meg flicked water at me. I flicked some back. Which meant we didn’t have to talk about it anymore.
Chapter Nineteen
Dear Student:
Your college planning appointment with Mr. Churchwell has been scheduled for MONDAY at 2:30. Please arrive promptly at the guidance office and bring a list of any questions you may have.
I had found the note taped onto my locker one day in early October, and as I was reading it over, I heard a voice behind me.
“Looks like we both got tagged!”
I turned to see Joe Lasky, waving his own note. A sight that made me happy-nervous.
“They must be doing the Ls and Ms this week,” I said.
We were a month into school and I’d barely seen Joe. We had no classes together, and when I saw him in the hallways he was always rounding a corner ahead of me, or walking the other way surrounded by friends. When we did come face-to-face, all we ever had time to do was say hi to each other and keep on moving. Fortunately, Meg was smart enough to stop asking about him.
“I remembered you’d be here between fifth and sixth period,” he said, and it dawned on me: He’s been hoping to run into me like I’ve been hoping to run into him. “And I was wondering if I could talk to you about a project.”
I raised my eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“I’m doing some caricatures for a little art show at the library, and I thought it might be cool if you drew some backgrounds for them. Like the one you did for BlowHard. We could put both our names on the finished pieces.”
I thought of the stuff I’d drawn on Joe’s sketch pad that day. I’d given BlowHard a really shabby basement apartment, like he was living with his parents.
I knew that kind of thing looked great on college applications, and I knew it meant Joe and me spending more time together. Even if it was just something he came up with to give us an excuse to hang out, I wanted to take the bait.
“That would be great, Joe,” I said.
“I should be ready to show them to you in a couple of weeks. Is that cool?”
“Sure.”
He smiled at me and then looked away, as if I’d caught him doing something.
“Then I’ll be in touch.”
On Monday, as instructed, I walked to Mr. Churchwell’s office as slowly as I could. I hadn’t spoken to him since the night of the prom; I didn’t count the one-word answers I gave him when he asked me how I was doing, how the other kids were behaving toward me, and if he could help in any way (obviously, the answer to that last one was always No, thank you).
“Laurel!” he said, way too cheery, as he opened his door. I hadn’t even knocked yet. He must have seen me, standing in the guidance office waiting area, picking something really important out of my thumbnail.
“Hi, Mr. Churchwell,” I said, and waved my note at him like a white flag of surrender.
“Looks like you’re up! Come on in and take a seat.”
I did, and while he fumbled with some folders on his desk, I looked around the room. There was a poster on the wall for some college in Connecticut. Students sitting on a grassy lawn, books in their laps, gesturing intelligently. A tall clock tower behind them framed by an oak tree.
“So. College planning,” said Mr. Churchwell, like I was the one who brought it up.
“Yup.”
“Do you plan to go to college?”
I looked at him, hearing that question for the first time. “Of course I plan to go,” I said curtly.
“That’s great news, Laurel, because I hear you did very well on your SATs.”
“I did.”
“And you’ve been a strong student since the beginning. Ninety-eighth percentile, officially. Your grades haven’t suffered in the wake of the accident, which I find to be . . . amazing.” He gestured to a folder on his desk, a red-rimmed label on its tab. Clearly, my File.
I shrugged it off. “I think the teachers are being easy on me.” But even if that were true, I was working hard. I didn’t know how not to.
David’s last postcard, from just the day before, jumped into my head. It was a photo of Daytona Beach, all golden sand and empty sky. He’d drawn a stick figure lying on the beach and an arrow pointing to it next to the word “ME.” Nothing else was written on the card except my address.
“I’m sure you started this process . . . previously,” he said gently.
I remembered the pile of information packets I’d picked up at a college fair last winter. They’d sat on the coffee table in the den for weeks before my father dropped them in my lap one day while I was watching TV.
“Whaddya think?” he’d said. My dad liked to ask vague questions, soft lobs that left the ball in my court to return however I wanted.
“I like Brown and U Penn,” I’d answered. “And Yale, of course.”
“Of course.”
“And Smith,” I had added.
My mother had gone to Smith. That’s where she’d met my dad, late one night at a party in her dorm. He’d tagged along with a roommate who was visiting his high school girlfriend there in order to break up with her in person. “If he hadn’t decided to dump her,” my dad liked to say with a wink when telling me this story, “you would have never been born!”
“Are you looking for something with a good theater program?” asked Mr. Churchwell now, opening my folder and sliding a clean lined sheet of paper into it so he could make notes. “I know you’re very active in the Drama Club.”
“I don’t act. I just do behind-the-scenes stuff. Painting the scenery.”
“So . . . are you interested in art?”
I shrugged, and he jotted something down.
“It shouldn’t be hard to find a great art department. Have you thought about distance?”
“Distance?”
“Distance from home. Whether or not you want to go a
way to school, or commute.”
Wow, I was just so completely unprepared for this meeting.
“No, I hadn’t thought about it,” I said.
“If you want to live at home, there are a lot of excellent schools within an hour of where we’re sitting right now, especially in the city. Columbia, for instance, or NYU. You do have a support system here.”
Stay close. I thought of Nana, making me pancakes every morning. And then I thought of Eve, living at home, with a purpose. Maybe I could have the same kind of purpose.
“But then again,” Mr. Churchwell continued, tapping his pencil on my file, “I also think you might consider a . . . change of scenery. A lot of kids who come through my office want a fresh start somewhere.”
When I was with Eve, I got by with white lies and omissions, never talking about my family in the present tense. Going away to school would be like diving into a world full of Eves. People who had no idea who I was, or what had happened. It sounded like pure, simple heaven.
Mr. Churchwell must have seen the confusion on my face because he said, “You don’t have to make this decision now. Apply to a range of schools at a range of locations. Worry about it later after you know who’s accepted you.”
Procrastination. That worked. I took a deep breath.
Mr. Churchwell jotted something down in my folder and raised his eyebrows. “Do you have any particular schools in mind?” he asked.
“My dad went to Yale. It was his dream for me to go there too.”
“Yale would be a good fit for you,” he said, nodding and scribbling a note. “And it’s not too far away. You could come home on weekends if you needed to.” He paused, looked at me a little sideways. “It’s tough to get into, but being a legacy gives you a better shot, for sure. We’ll put that at the top of your list.”
Then I remembered Eve telling me that once she got her undergraduate degree, she was going to apply to Cornell’s vet school. “If you’re at all interested in working with animals for a living,” she’d said, “that’s the place to go to college on the East Coast.”
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