The Beginning of After

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.”

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.

I also noticed his feet. Scanning the line of legs below desk level, I saw that most people tapped their toes or had their ankles crossed, swinging slightly. But Joe’s feet were still, placed neatly together directly under the desk, his long legs forming a perfect L as they bent.

These things were enough to make me like Joe Lasky, right there in a windowless classroom while Dr. Garrett was lecturing us about the Hundred Years’ War. I found myself wanting the period to be over quickly, then not wanting it, then wanting it again. Several times, Dr. Garrett paused to glance back at me and saw me doodling in my notebook. I saw this out of the corner of my eye, along with several people turning around to see me, and knew he wouldn’t say a word.

When the bell rang, I instinctively shot up, but then saw Joe taking his time and hung back a bit. It took everything I had to walk slowly down the aisle and stop parallel to Joe’s desk instead of zooming out of the room like everyone else.

“Hi, Joe,” I said. He was actually finishing up something he was writing, a final scribble at the bottom of his notebook page. He snapped it shut and looked up at me, a little distracted.

“Hey. What’s going on?” He looked like I’d shaken him out of some fabulous dream.

On Friday he had said my name at conspicuous places. Gotta go, Laurel. Now I just get a “hey”?

I took his CD out of my pocket and held it up. This was premeditated; I thought it would be a good way to fill a pause.

“So, you liked it?” Joe asked, taking my cue.

“Yes. You were right about the comfort part. There’s something about hearing someone else moan and wail that makes you feel a little better. Like—”

“They have it worse,” he said.

I just nodded, looking at the CD instead of him. I was glad we had this prop between us.

“That’s the whole thing about grieving,” Joe continued. “It’s part of the deal: You get to be alive and to love, but in exchange you also have to put in some serious hurt time.”

I couldn’t believe he was saying these things to me. Nobody had been so direct about my situation. Not Mr. Churchwell, not Suzie Sirico that night on the white couch, not Nana driving our Volvo. Meg had the strong, stoic thing wired into her blood and would never dream of being so simple and ridiculously true.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have no right to talk to you like that.”

“No,” I said, snapping out of it. “You can talk to me like that. I appreciate it.” It sounded too bland and polite. In my mind I was throwing myself across the desk corner that separated us, wrapping my arms around his neck, adoring him.

Joe finally stood up. “So, Laurel,” he began, “I know that you know that I want to ask you to the prom.” He was smiling as he said this, showing that he appreciated the weirdness of what was coming out of his mouth. His eyes said, Go ahead. Play along.

“Okay. And I guess now I know that you know that I know.”

We both laughed a little nervously.

“You wanna know how I know? I’m the one who started the rumor. I told my sister and her friend, and told them to make sure they told Megan Dill’s sister. I guess that’s not really enough people to be a rumor. Maybe just a buzz.”

“A buzz,” I echoed, nodding, feeling stupid.

“To give you a heads-up. I didn’t want to take you by surprise.”

“That’s considerate,” I said, cringing at another word from the Bland and Polite collection.

“I’m glad you think so,” said Joe. “I was worried that maybe it was kind of chicken. Like it was the easy way to do it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the easy way. I’m a big fan of it myself.”

He looked at me and smiled again, those eyes, those eyes. It was the second or third instant with him that I thought, perhaps pity has nothing to do with this.

“So. Will you? Go to the prom? With me?”

“Yes. Of course,” I said. It came out sounding vague, like I wasn’t sure what I was agreeing to. “It’ll be fun.”

“That it will.”

We paused. Suddenly, brilliantly, there was Meg standing in the doorway. She looked back and forth between us, as if she’d been flipping through channels and landed on something strange but fascinating.

“Hi, guys,” she said, then looked sideways at me. “Do you still want to go eat?”

“Yeah. We’re going into town,” I told Joe. The whole school knew about our off-campus privileges.

He looked at Meg with a “You can trust me” face, then turned to me. “I’ll call you. We’ll talk.”

I looked straight into his eyes again and forced myself to hold them there, counting one, two, three, before it became unbearable and I had to glance away.