The Beginning of After

tears, then wink at him for some damage control. But I couldn’t. I was just staring at his hand on my knee, and I was wailing.
    “Oh my God . . . ,” said Joe, standing up. Backing away.
    I put my face in my hands and let the top half of me fall toward the lounge chair, a violent crumple. Noises were coming out of me that I didn’t think I was capable of. Noises like I was being physically attacked, afraid for my life, a girl in an alley at midnight.
    The pressure of my hands against my eyelids was making me see starbursts, yellow and red, but I was seeing David’s face too.
    A freaking corsage. You’re an orphan.
    I heard Joe’s feet move away, scuffling against the patio. “Hang on, I’m going to get Meg,” he said.
    I looked up to watch him go, running. Running from me, because I’d totally freaked him out. Three minutes ago we were playing Tongue Twister, and now he was fleeing for his life. I should have been wearing a label on the back of my dress that said CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE. OPEN WITH CARE .
    “No!” I yelled, an answer to nothing. “No!”
    I stood up, grabbed the lounge chair, and flung it across the patio. It was lighter than I thought it would be.
    Now I had an audience. Whoever had been standing around, sneaking peeks at Joe and me, was signed on for the full performance.
    I picked up the other lounge chair and threw it into the pool. It landed with a big splash and slowly started to sink. Things got very quiet, and I think someone even turned off the music inside the house. With no place to sit anymore, I moved to the lawn and lay down on my side, my right arm over my face, my left hand pulling chunks of grass out of the ground. The wailing came back, rushing out of my body.
    Before too long, Meg was kneeling in front of me. “Laurel? It’s me. I’m here.”
    I couldn’t even pull my arm away from my face. Didn’t want to look at her. “I’m sorry. God! I’m so sorry.”
    “Laurel, please just get up. Sit up. . . . Gavin, can you go get some Kleenex or something?”
    I heard Gavin rush away, his feet on the patio like Joe’s a few minutes earlier.
    For Meg I sat up, even as another wave overtook me and I sobbed again. She held me and I felt her wrist corsage poke the back of my neck. We began to rock.
    “Shhhh . . . shhhh . . . it’s okay,” she said.
    “I—”
    She cut me off. “Don’t talk. Just breathe.”
    Gavin was back. Joe was with him. They stood there, their legs forming a sparse, silent forest around me and Meg. Joe held out the box of tissues, letting it hover over our heads, but neither of us took it from him.

Chapter Eleven

    I woke up to the sound of thunder and heavy rain pinging against my window.
    It wasn’t really “waking up,” exactly. It was more like opening my eyes away from the half sleep that had been pulling my mind along a string of strange thoughts and images.
    At one point I was thinking about what my brother looked like when they buried him, whether they’d combed his hair back with gel or left a careful forelock to frame his face. Which made me think of the six months in middle school when I used styling mousse because I thought it made me look more like a character on my favorite TV show. That led me to my seventh-grade art teacher, Ms. Weber, who married our English teacher Mr. Weber and everyone thought it was so incredible that they already had the same name. Then this got me thinking about whether or not I would keep Meisner when I got married or become a Mrs. Somebody.
    I jumped back to that first thought of Toby in his casket, feeling horrified and ashamed. How could this have landed me in the “fantasize about your future husband” place?
    It had been three days since the prom. Three days since Manny drove Meg and me and Joe and Gavin to my house in total silence, me hugging Meg tight with my eyes closed, and Nana giving me a pill and putting me to bed for the night. In those three days I had not gotten out of bed, and since the moment that pill wore off I hadn’t gotten any real sleep, either. I wouldn’t let Nana dose me again. It felt like cheating.
    Meg called the day after.
    “I don’t know what to say, Laurel. I really just don’t have a clue.” She sounded nervous, unsure of herself.
    “It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll be okay.” I tried to sound like I believed it.
    “Call me if you need anything,” said Meg, more casually now, as if a quick trip to the drugstore for shampoo and Tylenol