The Beginning of After

Chapter Thirty-two



HEROES AMONG US, read the art show flyer in big blue letters.

Then, underneath:


A COLLECTION OF COLLABORATIVE





PAINTINGS BY JOE LASKY





AND LAUREL MEISNER





My name on its own line.

Nana picked up a few extra copies at the library and distributed them to the neighbors. “Ms. Folsom says there’s a mention in the newspaper!” she added as I sat in front of my dinner, trying and failing to eat. “I’ll have to get a copy for my scrapbook.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, watching my hand shake as I lifted my fork.

Nana noticed. “Are you nervous?”

Judging from the buzz I felt under my skin and that “I might have to go to the bathroom” feeling, I would say yes. Definitely nervous. I wasn’t sure how much of that was the art show and how much was the “date” status of my impending evening.

“I’m just excited,” I said, which was half true.

“So am I.” She checked her watch. “Well, your Joe should be here in about five minutes.” I winced at the “your Joe” and Nana added, “He’s a nice boy . . . I’m sorry, nice guy!” She looked at the clock again. “I’m picking up Ed and Dorrie at seven, so we won’t be too far behind you.”

Nana and the Mitas had planned a big night out, to visit the art show and then the diner for coffee and dessert. It was kind of funny and kind of wonderful that she was making her own friends now.

Other neighbors had pledged to stop by. Aside from our families, Joe and I had no idea who else might come to the “opening.” He’d told only one or two friends at school, and I hadn’t told Meg, and certainly not Andie or Hannah. “It’s kind of cooler if people find out about it on their own,” he’d said that day at school, stopping by my locker to say hi. “Otherwise it seems like you’re bragging.”

Fine by me. I didn’t want any more attention. At first, I’d thought I was doing the paintings for Joe and college applications and because they needed to be created. When I saw them finished, I realized I’d done it for my mother, too. Because she would have been brimming with pride, and because she wouldn’t have been afraid to tell me what she really thought of my work. The fact that anyone else would see them was just a footnote.

I forced myself to take one more bite of chicken and set off for a final bathroom visit and mirror check. I’d put my hair in a headband, careful to seem casual, yet a little dressed up.

And then we heard Joe knock on the door.


I looked down at the road from the window of Joe’s truck and realized why people got cars like this. They made you feel safe in an exclusive, almost heady way. Like you were so far removed from the ground and everything around you, how could anything touch you enough to do damage?

“When my dad decided to get an SUV,” Joe said as if reading my mind, “he sold this to me for a dollar.”

“Bargain,” I said.

“But I have to pay for the insurance.”

We were silent again, for maybe the tenth time since he’d picked me up. I was beginning to accept that this was our thing, this start-and-stop way of talking.

I could just say, “Guess what?” and spill my news about Yale, and the conversation would roll forward so easily. But for some reason, I couldn’t form the words.

Maybe someday soon I would be able to tell him everything, about all my doubts and questions, with fingers crossed that he would get it. Not tonight, though. Not here, with just a few more minutes until we reached the library, when I didn’t know what the night was supposed to bring. To change the subject, I almost told him about Meg and me and our fight. Again, something stopped me.

My mind jumped back to the email I’d gotten from David the night before.


don’t sweat it about megan dill. doesn’t sound like you’re ready to fix things yet anyway. i’ve found that letting something stay broken for a little while helps me understand it.





What David had said made sense to me. There was no point opening it up to other opinions.

Joe made the final turn onto the street where the library was, and I dug my hands, still shaking a bit, deep into the pockets of my parka.


“This one is my favorite,” said Mrs. Lasky, Joe’s mom, to Ms. Folsom. It was SuperBrat, of course. “Joe says he’ll give it to me when the show’s over.”

I stood next to the snack table and peered across the room at the two walls where the paintings hung. Joe had framed them himself with simple black wood frames and white mattes he’d gotten at Target. The two layers, Joe’s caricature cut out and laid against my background, gave each one a 3-D effect. They looked great.

I scanned the artwork and wondered which would have been Mom’s favorite, or Dad’s, or Toby’s. But I had no idea, and a sadness washed over me. Were they already that far away?

Joe was busy taking pictures and chatting with Ms. Folsom. Every time some new person ambled down the stairs into the room, Joe walked up to say welcome and introduce himself. Nana and the Mitas came through. Mrs. Mita hugged me too tight and left a lipstick mark on my cheek, and I let Nana take one photo of me in front of the paintings.

“Let’s get one of you and Joe!” she said.

Joe heard and bounded over before I could refuse, and then Mrs. Lasky appeared with her own camera. So we posed, smiling, and as soon as all the cameras had snapped—I think Ms. Folsom got hers in there too—I made a beeline for the bathroom. On my way out, I heard Joe asking Nana which painting she wanted to keep.

I washed my hands and rinsed, then washed them again just because it was something to do, and I wanted them to smell nice for Joe later.

Even though I wasn’t sure how soon I wanted later to come.


“Is this any better?” asked Joe, as I felt a blast of hot air coming from the vent in front of me. The temperature had dropped sharply, and Joe spent the entire drive from the library to Yogurtland fiddling with the dashboard temperature controls.

“Yes, thank you,” I said, my teeth chattering.

“It’ll get better in a minute,” he said. “Maybe fro-yo isn’t such a good idea. I just thought we should celebrate.”

“They sell hot chocolate,” I suggested. Celebrate or not, I wasn’t ready to go home yet.

Joe pulled into the parking lot outside Yogurtland, which shared a small shopping center with two other stores. As he stopped the car, I noticed a bunch of kids going inside. Joe recognized them too.

“Kevin McNaughton,” said Joe, a simple observation.

The Railroad Crowd.

“Jesse Pryde. All those guys,” I said, trying to match the matter-of-factness in Joe’s voice.

Joe started to turn off the truck’s ignition, but I grabbed his arm and blurted out, “Let’s not go in.” He gave me a puzzled look, so I added, “The car just got warm, and it looks pretty crowded at the moment.”

He glanced at the bright yellow and pink lights of Yogurtland, which wasn’t really crowded at all, then took his hand off the ignition and looked earnestly at me.

“Do you want to listen to some music? I just burned a new CD I think you’d like,” he said. I nodded, and he grabbed a leather CD case, flipping through the sleeves until he found what he was looking for. “It’s a mix,” he said, and slid it into the player.

I didn’t recognize the first song but liked it immediately.

“I like to drive dance to this one,” said Joe. He grabbed the steering wheel and started moving his head and shoulders in a hopeless white-guy attempt at grooving out. I started laughing.

“What?” he asked. “You can’t tell me you don’t have a drive dance!”

“Of course I do,” I said. “But mine has rhythm.”

He reached out his hand and swatted me playfully on the head. Then he kept his hand there, hovering above me. Like now it had crossed into my territory and wasn’t sure whether to head home or forge on.

It forged on. Slowly, Joe lowered his hand to my head, his fingers warm on my scalp. He ran them along a chunk of my hair that had escaped the headband, then tucked it behind my ear.

It was still cold enough in the truck that I could see my breath, and I looked over to see Joe’s breath too. It was coming out of us at the same time, the same pace, and meeting in the space between us. I could see the molecules twirl around each other. So now I fixed my eyes squarely on Joe, who looked terrified.

“I really want this, Laurel,” he said, then audibly gulped. “You want this too, right?”

I nodded, but stayed still, determined that he should make the first move this time.

Joe leaned all the way toward me but kept his hands to himself now, offering just his face. I wasn’t sure what he was doing until I felt his forehead on mine. We stayed that way for a few moments.

Finally, he kissed me, his lips warm and hesitant. Then I could feel him relaxing and giving himself over. I tried to do the same, coaching myself. You do want this! Now it’s happening! Enjoy it!

I wasn’t getting those fireworks I remembered from prom night, but we were touching again, and that was enough.

Joe twisted his body a bit, to get into a better position, then stopped and said, “This truck was not made for . . . this. The seats are too far apart.”

“That’s a design flaw you should write the company about.”

He laughed, then reached for my seat belt and released it. “Can you come over here . . . with me?” he asked.

In three seconds I’d climbed over to his side and was sitting in his lap.

“So much better,” he murmured. I felt Joe’s arms completely around me now, cradling.

Yes. That’s what I had in mind.

I almost sobbed from relief, but choked it down.

Joe blinked quickly, as if not sure I was really there, and said, “I would like to start doing this more often, if it’s okay with you.”

“It’s okay with me.”

He smiled. A pure, joy-filled smile, like a little boy opening a gift and discovering it was the one he desperately wanted.

“You’re amazing, Laurel.”

Something in the way he said this made me uneasy. I shook my head.

“I’m really not.”

“Yes. You dazzle me. With everything that you’ve been through, you . . . you just keep . . .” Stuck again. He reset himself with a deep breath. “I should have done a painting of you.”

The uneasiness grew. To make it go away, I kissed him, and we started again, his hands moving gently over my back. After a minute, there was Joe’s tongue on my lower lip. The tickle of it took me by surprise. I giggled and he stopped.

“Are you all right?” he asked, a pleading edge to it.

“Nothing will happen this time, I promise.” Then I added, “There’s no swimming pool in sight.”

Joe smiled. “Or David Kaufman.” He leaned in again.

But I jerked away. “What?”

The sound of David’s name, here in Joe’s truck above the sound of the heater and the engine. With Joe’s arms wrapped around me. David’s name, like some kind of Molotov cocktail thrown through the moonroof.

What did Joe know? How?

Instinctively I crawled out of his lap and back over to my seat, staring out the windshield. When I finally had the courage to glance at Joe, he looked stricken with panic.

“David Kaufman . . . you know, I just meant, prom night,” he said. He smacked himself on the forehead with a fist. “I’m an idiot, even mentioning that.”

I felt a phew flow out of me.

But now David was somehow here, and Joe and I were so far apart, not even our breath was mingling anymore.

“It’s okay,” I told Joe. “There’s time. Can you just take me home now?”