The Beginning of After

embarrassing for words. Now the fact that she had taken them made the photos precious, and I had copies of them in a frame on my bedroom wall.
    “Teachers are practically lining up to write my recommendation letters. That’s pretty weird.”
    Suzie smiled. “Weird, maybe, but I’m sure not undeserved.”
    “I’m still stuck on what to write for the big essay.” In other words, do I write about my family or not tell them anything about what happened? I was totally stumped and just kept putting it off.
    “You’ll think of the right topic, I’m sure.”
    I nodded. This was what everyone else had told me, including Nana and Meg. We were silent for too long, I guess, because Suzie jumped in with a new item. “And your birthday’s coming up. Are you feeling like you want a big party, or just a small celebration?”
    I just shrugged. Every time I thought about it, I got too sad.
    “Because I think you need to empower yourself on this. You’re old enough. If people do things for you and it’s not what you want, it will really make you feel worse. What did you do in the past?”
    “Usually Meg and I would go out to a movie and then have a sleepover.”
    “Is that what you want to do this time?” asked Suzie, making a note on her pad. Sometimes I imagined Suzie drawing squiggles and hearts all this time she was pretending to take notes.
    I tried to picture Andie Stokes and Hannah Lindstrom in sleeping bags on the floor of the den. Like that was going to happen.
    “No,” I said. “I think it’s time for a change. Maybe dinner at some cool restaurant.”
    Suzie nodded. “That sounds lovely.”
    Then I pictured Meg and Nana and Eve and me and maybe Meg’s parents, eating at a corner table at the Magic Wok. It did sound lovely.
    “What about Halloween?” asked Suzie, bringing me back to reality. “There’s a school dance, right?”
    Man, she was in the loop.
    “Yes,” I said. “There’s a dance and yes, I’m going. Andie and Hannah and a couple of their friends, and Meg and I, are going dressed as sushi. I think they said I’m yellowtail.”
    “Now that I would like to see,” said Suzie, making another note (or another doodle). She looked at her notes again and, as if deciding I hadn’t given her enough to write about, asked, “Anything else you want to talk about today?”
    I had a new postcard from David tucked into the last pages of my history textbook. He was in Mexico. Just for the weekend , he’d written. Just to see what it’s like to have authentic tequila.
    I still hadn’t told Suzie about anything that had happened with David; I wasn’t about to start now. But I felt like I owed her some kind of new personal nugget.
    “Joe Lasky wants us to do an art project together,” I said, thinking of his open smile that day by my locker.
    She smiled, way too pleased, but I was glad for it. Maybe she could get excited for me, since I wasn’t allowing myself to.
    “Tell me about that ,” said Suzie, and so I did.
    It was after school and I was waiting for Joe. The day before, he’d sent me a text while I was in English:
    superhero powwow 2mrw? no villains allowd .
    I’d laughed, then texted back:
    k, jst tel me whr d scret headquarters r.
    Now the door, which I’d closed so nobody would see me sitting alone in the art classroom, started rattling. Joe’s face appeared in the door’s little window, his eyes confused.
    “It’s not locked!” I called.
    Joe rattled a little more, pushed a bit harder, and suddenly fell into the room.
    “I guess that’s why Mr. Ramirez never closes this door,” he said. His sketch pad was tucked under one arm and his bag slung diagonally across his chest. “Thanks for meeting me today.”
    “No problem.” I shrugged, thinking, Don’t you know I’ve been looking forward to this?
    And: You’d better not be doing this out of some obligation, to make up for prom night.
    Joe grabbed a stool and pulled it next to mine, then slapped his sketch pad on the table in front of us. “So, how do we do this?”
    It felt like a bigger question, one that you could only answer with action. So I opened his sketch pad to the first drawing, a preteen-aged girl in oversize red boots and a perky minidress, her hands on her hips. She was sticking out her tongue.
    “Who’s this?” I asked him.
    “My little sister. SuperBrat. I’ve been drawing her in various forms for years.”
    “She’s that bad?”
    “You have no idea,” said Joe, shaking his head. “When