The Beginning of After

Lily Janek when I noticed three guys hanging out across the parking lot, hands in their pockets. One of them was Joe. He looked up at exactly the wrong moment and our eyes met. He just nodded. Not even a nod. Just a swoop up of the chin, then down. Our time at the coffee place had been nice, but I still wasn’t sure where it left us, and clearly he wasn’t either.
    I took a second to check out the rest of the lot. Was I hoping to see David? Even though I knew he was surely in California by now, the familiar school setting caused a knee-jerk hope that maybe he’d be there. I’d have to get over that.
    Now I smiled quickly at Joe, then someone touched my shoulder and I turned to see Meg ready to usher me inside like a bodyguard. As I walked toward the school entrance, feeling Joe’s eyes on my back, maybe even on my swinging shoulder bag or my new shoes, I wondered how soon I’d get to see him again.
    One car was missing from the driveway when Meg and I pulled up to my house that afternoon.
    “Nana must be getting her hair done,” I said.
    “You sure you don’t want to go with us to Vinny’s?” asked Meg. She was meeting Andie and Hannah and their crowd to celebrate the first day of senior year with pizza.
    “Thanks, but I just need to chill.” The day had been good. People had been nice. Mr. Churchwell tracked me down to check up on me, and Nana called at lunchtime to see how I was, but I didn’t mind. Now, even the weight of my book bag as I heaved it out of the backseat had a reassuring, solid feel to it.
    “Pick you up tomorrow?” she asked.
    “Call you tonight,” I said, then got out of the car.
    I waved at Meg as she backed down the driveway but quickly turned toward the house. There was Masher in the front window, his ears forward and high, panting. When I opened the door, he ran past me into the driveway, then stopped and shot an intense look in my direction. “Yeah, just give me a few minutes,” I said. I dropped my stuff in the house and changed into my sneakers.
    Back outside, at the end of the driveway, I stopped to open the mailbox. Masher sat in the middle of the road, looking up the hill, then down the hill. I slid out the pile of mail and started walking, the dog a few yards ahead of me. Bills, the PennySaver , some junk mail for my dad. National Geographic , addressed to Toby. I touched my finger to Toby’s name printed out in dot matrix, thinking At least he’s still alive in a computer somewhere.
    Then there was an envelope addressed to “Masher, c/o Laurel Meisner.” I froze, staring at it, while Masher began peeing in the Girardis’ ivy patch.
    I tucked the rest of the mail under my armpit and opened David’s envelope. Inside was a letter written on lined notebook paper.
Masher,
Sorry it took me so long to write. Things didn’t work out with my buddy Stefan, so I’m headed back. But I think I’m going to take my time and check things out on the way.
Mash, that means you’re gonna have to stay there for a while. I hope you understand. I’ll write or call whenever I can. I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again, but it won’t be too long. Promise.
C ya,
David

    I read it twice, then folded it into my pocket. Masher took that as his cue to stop peeing and start walking again, and I followed him, past the Girardis’ and every familiar spot after it.

Chapter Eighteen

    E very few days, a postcard from David to Masher would show up in our mailbox.
Hey Masher, the first person I saw in San Francisco was a guy with purple dreadlocks down to his waist. Masher, did you know that Seattle really does have killer coffee? Masher, you would not believe how many cows there must be in the world.

    As he made his way slowly, zigzaggedly east, David told his dog that it was hard for him to get online and send an email, but he liked being able to jot things down on a twenty-five-cent postcard and mail it off when he got the chance. He told Masher about how being alone on a highway in the middle of nowhere gave him a sense of peace he’d never felt before, and how he’d had the best meal of his life late one night at a truck stop outside Salt Lake City, served by a waitress named Melba.
    I read the notes aloud to Masher because it felt wrong not to, but secretly wished just one letter would come addressed to me. There was never a return address, so I couldn’t write back to him even if I wanted to.
    “How is David?” Nana asked one day as I turned David’s latest over