The Beginning of After

shooting me a puzzled glance. I just shrugged at her before turning to follow Mr. Churchwell away from the crowd.
    I hadn’t even gotten the chance to wish my best friend good luck.
    It was a long morning taking the critical reading and then the writing parts of the test at a desk in the middle of the faculty lounge, Mr. Churchwell sitting at a nearby table with a copy of Rolling Stone , but the tests didn’t surprise me at all. I felt prepared—thank you, SAT prep course! During the breaks I got at the end of each hour, I used the teachers’ private bathroom and listened to the buzz of voices in the hallway.
    I finished the math section early and signaled Mr. Churchwell.
    “I’m done. What should I do?”
    “You want to check your answers?”
    “I did. I’m done.”
    He glanced at his watch and came over to me. “Then I guess I’ll just take that,” he said, holding out his hand for the test, “and you can go early.” I handed him the answer sheet and he took it gently, like it was something precious. “How do you think you did?” he whispered.
    The way he said that, as if he was begging for me to share a secret, sounded almost exactly like my mother.
    Do you think Mrs. Dixon liked your project? Did everyone laugh at the right times during your mock newscast?
    She never wanted to sound like a pushy, overbearing parent. She wanted to be like the encouraging friend, confident that I’d do well in whatever I tried. So she’d ask me with her voice at half volume to sound like she only half cared, which totally bugged me. Because she fully cared, and I knew it.
    The sensation of missing Mom came at me fast and hard, right into my chest. I might have even stumbled backward from the impact.
    Not here! Not now! And definitely not in front of Mr. Churchwell.
    I quickly imagined that I could reach my hand into my chest, yank out that awful feeling, place it on an invisible cloud of air right in front of me, then push it away. Push it away.
    And it worked. I could almost see it float past Mr. Churchwell’s head and out the door.
    “I think I did okay,” I finally said, trying to pick up his question even though several long, terribly quiet moments had passed.
    “You have a ride home?” he asked. If he sensed how close I’d just come to losing it, he didn’t let on.
    “Megan’s mom.”
    “And so I’ll see you again . . .”
    “On Monday.” That just came out. I hadn’t really decided when I was going back to school. But now that I was there, it seemed so totally possible. I could come back. I could pick right up where I’d left off and still finish the school year on time.
    “Are you sure?” Mr. Churchwell asked.
    “Absolutely,” I said, and stood up, moving toward the door. “Have a great weekend.”
    I opened the door slowly and peeked my head into the hallway. It was empty, so I slid out, knowing exactly where I needed to go to wait for Meg. I made it outside quickly and flew down the steps of the school’s entrance, following a concrete path around the side of the building and to the oak tree. It was our oak tree, the only one on school grounds with a trunk wide enough for two people to disappear behind, now fully green with shade. This was where Meg and I liked to hang out at lunchtime.
    Most kids coming out of the school would be headed straight for their cars in the opposite direction; they’d never think to come this way. I pulled out my cell phone and sent a text message to Meg that just said:
    @ d tree
    Then my thumb reached toward the 2 button that would speed-dial the house.
    And I froze. I’d been about to call home. Holy crap, is it that easy to forget they’re not there?
    No. You were just going to call Nana. Nana, who IS there.
    It was simpler at that moment not to call at all.
    I heard the front doors open and some voices, loud for a moment or two, then fading slowly. The front doors again, then fading voices. A third time I heard the doors open, and the voices, but they didn’t fade; they were getting stronger, along with footsteps.
    I looked up, hoping to see Meg, but it was Andie Stokes and Hannah Lindstrom. Pretty and popular, not mean but unapproachable. Generally superhuman. And they were walking toward me.
    “Hi, Laurel,” said Hannah.
    “Megan Dill said you might be here,” said Andie.
    I had to shield my eyes from the sun to look up at them, but didn’t stand. I was really just too nervous to move, and then I felt like an idiot for that. These were