The Beginning of After

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