The Beginning of After

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 away 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.”

The only other thing I knew about Cornell was that it was cold, but I needed more names on my list.

“I’ve heard good things about Cornell,” I told Mr. Churchwell. Then I rattled off the packets I remembered showing to my dad, and Smith for my mom, and Columbia and NYU because I could commute there. When I was done, Mr. Churchwell looked at the page he’d created in my folder.

“Have you visited any of these schools?” he asked.

“Just Yale, and the ones in the city. My father and I were going to do a bunch of weekend college visits last spring.”

Dad had already arranged for the Fridays off from work and started booking hotel rooms.

“Ah yes, of course,” said Mr. Churchwell sadly.

“Did I miss the boat on that?”

“No, not necessarily. Most schools offer interviews with local alumni, and you can always visit a campus after you get in to help you decide.” He paused, making another note. “So with Yale, I recommend you take advantage of their Early Action application program,” he said. “It means if you get your application in by November first, you could be in by mid-December, but it’s nonbinding. You can still apply to other schools to keep your options open.”

I acted like this was news but the truth was, I knew all about the Early Action thing. Dad had really wanted me to apply early. He loved the level of commitment it implied, and the whole ordeal being over as quickly as possible.

“Early Action sounds like a good idea,” I said to Mr. Churchwell.

“You should download the materials and get cracking, especially with Yale, since that deadline is right around the corner,” he said. “I think you’ll have a strong application.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Well, in addition to having great grades and SAT scores, your work with the Tutoring Club and your painting. You’ll want to send them pictures of some of your sets. Your job at the vet’s office goes a long way. And you’re back in your school routine, working hard. In light of what’s happened to you, that says a lot about character. It matters.”

I thought about this for a moment, wrapping my head around what he meant. “So we should tell colleges about the accident?”

“I think your teachers should mention it in their recommendation letters, of course. But whether or not you write about it yourself, in your essay . . . that’s your choice.”

“So they might accept me out of pity.”

“No. I didn’t say that. They might accept you because among many other things, you’ve shown amazing strength and commitment in the face of adversity.”

I considered what was being laid in front of me: The chance to really use my situation to an advantage that others didn’t have.

“Think about it,” he said, “and let me know.”