The After Girls Read online

  She felt a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to see Sydney. She was decked out in black lace, tights, combat boots and lipstick that matched her hair. Only she could find a way to look hot for a funeral.

  Sydney wrapped her in a hug and held her tight. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Not too long, I hope,” Ella said.

  Sydney just shook her head.

  Their moms banded together and gave them some space.

  “Should we go in?” Sydney asked, nodding to the main room just to their right. Where Astrid would inevitably be.

  “I guess,” Ella said. “I guess we have to.”

  The place smelled toxic, like too many lilies, and the first thing she noticed was how ugly the carpeting was — mauve and brown and gaudy florals. Astrid would have hated it. They walked up to a line that led to the casket, which made her feel like she was at some kind of hellish amusement park.

  “This is so fucked up,” Sydney said, her voice a whisper. “This is like, so. Fucked. Up.”

  Ella didn’t do anything but nod. She didn’t know what to say. This was like the official confirmation that made the nightmare of the last few days real. The line moved surprisingly fast, and with each step forward, fear sparked in her stomach, kindling, dancing, growing like fire.

  Finally, they were just one away. Ella’s breathing grew quick, and Sydney must have noticed. She squeezed her hand tight and didn’t let go, even though Ella could feel her palms sweating.

  And then they were up, and there was no turning back. Ella walked slowly, her feet like weights, and then there they were. Standing over Astrid’s casket. Saying goodbye to their friend.

  The first thing she thought was that it wasn’t her. Not the Astrid she’d known, not the one she’d been seeing in her dreams. The hair was there, ginger red and carefully set around her, but her clothes were different, her chest was bare. Her face was coated in thick makeup, blush, and orangey foundation that mimicked the color of her dress. You couldn’t see the tiny freckles that spattered the bridge of her nose or the crinkly lines at the edges of her eyes.

  After a moment, she felt Sydney tug her, and she let herself be led. Grace stood waiting for them in the receiving line, next to three more faces that she didn’t know.

  Ella didn’t have words. The last time she’d spoken to this woman — this woman whom she’d known since she was eleven, who’d been her favorite adult, who was so beautiful, so wild, so fun — the last time she’d spoken to her had been in screams.

  So Ella just looked in her eyes, her puffy, messy eyes, and hugged her as quick as she could, walking away without saying anything to the people standing next to her. She didn’t want to meet anyone new today.

  In moments, Sydney was by her side again. They walked to the middle of the room and grabbed two chairs that were far away enough from anyone else in their school. Ella didn’t want to talk to people, and she had a feeling that Sydney didn’t either.

  So they sat there, Ella staring straight ahead as people moved through the line, Sydney taking sips from a bottle of Diet Coke that was most definitely splashed with rum.

  Ella didn’t know how long it had been when she saw the man. She noticed him because his cheeks were wet, really wet.

  “Who’s that?” she asked, nudging Sydney.

  “Beats me,” Sydney said. “I’ve never seen him before. Probably an old family friend or something.”

  The man had blondish-gray hair and tanned leathery skin. He wore a crisp suit like someone who wasn’t from around here, and even though he was older, probably in his forties, Ella could tell that he was attractive. That he’d probably been quite the thing in his youth.

  He walked up to the casket alone and when he did his body shook. Great gasping sobs that seemed to take over him.

  When he stopped shaking he walked over to Grace and held out his hands to hug her, but she stepped back. He leaned forward as if to whisper something in her ear, but she shook her head, and with her two tiny hands she pushed him away.

  “Did you see that?” Ella whispered, but Sydney was hunched over her purse, trying to pour the rest of the airplane bottle into her Coke.

  “What?” she asked, looking up.

  “Grace just pushed that man away.”

  Sydney sat up straight then, following the man with her eyes as he walked down the aisle and out the door.

  She shrugged. “She’s distraught.”

  “You don’t think it’s weird?”

  “Maybe they have a bad history or something. Who knows?” Sydney took another sip of her Coke.

  Ella nodded, but she couldn’t help looking from the casket to Grace and wondering what it all meant. She couldn’t help wondering how well she’d really known her friend.

  • • •

  It was almost a week before Ella dreamed of Astrid again. Blurry, blended days spent mostly in bed. On the phone with Sydney. Occasionally chatting with Ben. Watching TV, one bad reality show bleeding into the next.

  They were in the coffee shop, and they were making lattes.

  They stood together, side by side, at the giant red machine. Hips almost touching. Astrid pulled the espresso — ground it, tamped it down, hooked the portafilter in, started the machine.

  Ella heated the milk. Simmer simmer. Splash splash.

  “Something is wrong,” Astrid said, without looking at Ella.

  “What?”

  Astrid didn’t respond.

  “What?”

  “Something I can’t tell you.”

  Simmer simmer. Splash splash.

  The espresso machine was red. Red like blood.

  Ella knew! She would tell Astrid to stop, to wait, to explain. She would tell her it would all be okay. They would hug and dance and drink and cry and be like they were supposed to be, and Astrid wouldn’t ever leave.

  Simmer simmer. Splash splash. The milk was warming. The pot was hot in her hands.

  Ella turned to tell her friend — to stop her — but Astrid was gone, and the black espresso was dripping, dripping into nothing, and the pot of milk was too hot now, falling out of her hands, and it would spill and it would splash and it would hurt and it would burn, and there was nothing that Ella could do.

  She awoke with a start. Her friend’s name was on her lips, ready to burst out like a scream.

  Astrid.

  Ella pulled the covers up around her. It was dark out, and the wind surrounded the house, cooing. The dream, so clear just a minute ago, was already disappearing from her; only flashes remained. Images. Red. Astrid’s words: “Something is wrong.”

  And yet, it had felt so real. It had felt like Astrid had really been there, had really, truly been there. Had spoken to her. It had felt that for an instant, maybe things could have changed.

  The thought both comforted and terrified her at the very same time.

  There was a scratching sound at the window, and Ella jumped. The trees were close to her window, their branches and the awful moonlight casting wraithlike shadows through the curtains and about the room. Another scratch, and the wind cooed again.

  It’s just a branch it’s just a branch it’s just a branch …

  She took a deep breath, and she whipped her sheets back. She ran to the window, and she used all her courage and curiosity to open the curtains. There was nothing, and it was really just a branch. As she turned, the shadows looked so dark and yet soft, like a girl, or a bird, running and flying. Falling.

  Ella ran to the door and flipped on the light as fast as she could, and the bulb cast a glow that filled the room, hiding the shadows.

  Ella lay back in bed, and she closed her eyes tight, and she took deep breaths, in and out and in and out, but she still didn’t feel alone.

  • • •

  Sometime in the night, she’d managed to fall back asleep, but she was tired when she woke up. She couldn’t remember any more dreams, but she still felt rattled. Unsettled.
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br />   She could hear her mother downstairs, making coffee, but she didn’t want to see anyone right now. So she walked up to the studio, where she knew she’d be by herself.

  Ella squinted as her eyes adjusted to the light cascading through the arched windows, spilling onto a cracked wood floor littered with crumpled newspapers, damp rags, and remnants of clay. She sat down at the wheel. She didn’t know what else to do.

  The clay felt raw, good between her fingers. Malleable.

  She forced it into a mound on the wheel in front of her. It was fresh and new — unformed — it could become anything, anything in the world that she wanted it to.

  She pressed her foot down and the wheel began to spin, the clay whirling, taking shape. She dipped her hand in the water and placed her fingers along one edge, turning the lump into a mini mountain, rising up — becoming — right before her eyes.

  She dipped her hands in the water again; then pushed her fingers into the middle, turning the mountain into a volcano — tall, strong — rising, growing — she could still do this.

  Ella spun the wheel faster, and the volcano rose, grew taller — ready to burst, to explode any moment. Faster and faster.

  Ella pressed her fingers along the edge, and it turned, became something again. Hourglass.

  Rising.

  Existing.

  It felt good to have something real in front of her. Not sounds or scratches or visions of her friend or shadows dancing along the wall.

  And the hourglass rose, just as it should, and it spun faster. It was a vase. A beautiful fabulous vase that she would sell at the fair — she and her mom always made a bunch of pieces to sell at the fair.

  Even now, she could still make.

  Real. Fired. Solid.

  Existing.

  But she blinked and Astrid was before her again. “Something is wrong.”

  And she heard her name being called. Echoing. “Ella. Ella.”

  And then she spun too fast and the perfect pretty twirling hourglass crumpled before her. Ruined.

  The failure startled her, and then she heard her name called clearer. Her mother.

  Ella pushed the clay down so it crumpled even further. And she found herself scooting away from the wheel, dipping her hands in the water, her fingers dripping all the way down the stairs, and then her mother was there, and she was staring at Ella, asking if anything was wrong, and it wasn’t, and okay, then, the phone’s for you.

  And Ella held it to her ear and she muttered hello, and for a moment it sounded so much like Astrid that she wanted to cry.

  But only for a moment.

  Because it wasn’t Astrid.

  It was Grace.

  “How are you?” Ella asked, trying to sound calm.

  “I’m okay.” Her voice sounded hoarse.

  Grace had always insisted upon being called by her first name, unlike most other moms in the South. It was one of the many characteristics that made her awesome. That had made Ella love her, like more than an adult, like a friend. Ella hadn’t seen her since the funeral.

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?” Her voice was just like Astrid’s. It was uncanny — terrifying, even — how much it sounded like her.

  Ella shook her head. “No.”

  The line was quiet a moment, as if Grace were waiting for her to say something else.

  Then she spoke. “I need you to come in tomorrow,” Grace stammered, her voice cracking, as if she were about to cry.

  “Come in?” Ella asked, and for a second she really didn’t know what Grace could mean.

  “The café,” she said, and she almost sounded annoyed. Angry. “We need you here. Please.”

  “Oh,” Ella said. Maybe it was the dream, but Trail Mix seemed far away now. Fake, almost, like a coffee shop on TV.

  She and Astrid had practically grown up there. They’d been hanging out behind the counter since they were twelve, long before they knew the difference between steel cut and regular oatmeal, agave nectar and sugar, like all of the regulars did. The old owner had died, and Grace inherited the place when they were fifteen — ever since then she and Astrid had been working there. It was perfect. It drew enough backpackers from off the Appalachian Trail to give them plenty of eye candy. And there were lots of kids from school who came by, too. A dream job.

  “So will you do it?” Grace asked, and Ella almost expected tears to seep right through the phone. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  Ella imagined Grace, so beautiful and lithe, just like Astrid, wasting away in the house. Astrid’s dad had died years ago in a car wreck, long before Ella and Astrid became friends, and now Astrid was gone, too. Grace was all alone now. It must be unbearable.

  “What time?” Ella asked, stalling. She heard Grace’s heavy breathing on the other end.

  “Seven o’clock.” Ella felt her heartbeat quicken because she knew that she didn’t have a choice. Maybe because she needed the money or maybe because she felt bad for Grace, or maybe, just maybe, because being there could help her learn something — anything — that would help her understand.

  “Seven,” Ella repeated. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you,” Grace said, relief flooding her voice. “I knew you would help me, Ella.”

  “Of course,” Ella said. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” Grace echoed back.

  And Ella could still hear her heavy breathing as she hung up the phone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sydney decided to go to the party alone.

  It was the first big party in over a month, and she’d begged Ella to go. They needed something to take their minds off of Astrid, off of the funeral, off of these last few miserable days. But Ella had said she was tired, that she had to be up early for work the next day. She hadn’t even tried to conceal the disdain in her voice when Sydney had asked her to at least consider having some fun.

  Ella was going back to the coffee shop, back to a job that would constantly remind her of Astrid. Sydney was going to get drunk. And somehow she was the weird one.

  Max’s parents were gone until Sunday. They were often gone like that: checking B&B’s off some Best-of-the-Appalachians list. They’d altogether given up taking their children with them once they were old enough to take care of themselves — Max and his older brother had always seemed sort of like an afterthought to them.

  He was who-knows-how-many-beers in when she got there. So was everyone else: scattered across the couch, dotting the staircase, bodies pulsing, protruding from the kitchen. Some of them had been at the funeral, and some of them hadn’t, but she knew that there was no one in the entire house who felt anything like her. That’s why she needed to drink.

  A few weeks ago, she and Ella and Astrid would have pre-gamed beforehand, passed wine around the cabin, and stumbled in together. But tonight, Sydney walked calmly, steadily towards the first sight of liquor. By herself.

  “Syd!” Carter yelled as she passed the couch. He jumped up to hug her, and she let him. Carter was nice and dependable, and just a little too touchy.

  Carter let go and looked down into her eyes. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

  Sydney shrugged. “I need a distraction.” From the couch, Max gave her the obligatory head nod but nothing more. He wasn’t one to talk about feelings. He was one to pretend that they didn’t exist.

  “I’m getting a drink,” she said, turning back to Carter. “Do you need one?”

  Carter shook his head, and he didn’t quite let her go, so she ducked out of his arms and headed straight for the kitchen, pushing through the packed bodies, the summer skin that emanated heat. She didn’t really care who was in her way. People expected her to be a little abrasive anyway. It was part of her hair-dyed, eyebrow-pierced, fiddle-punk charm. She picked up the darkest bottle and poured it into a plastic cup, watching it fill. It was deep, muddy — a good place to get lost.

  She topped it off with Diet Coke and took a fiery sip and knew in a few minutes that
she wouldn’t have to think about any of it, that feeling in the cabin and the sadness on Ella’s face when she discovered there was nothing to help them, the way Ella had stared at the center of the room as if she’d seen a ghost, the shiny wood of Astrid’s casket that looked just like the wood of her fiddle, the thought that picked at her every minute, that wouldn’t go away — that she should have known, that she should have done something, that she should have saved her friend — she knew that if she kept on sipping they would leave for a bit, at least until later when they’d come back even worse and with a headache, to boot. But that was later. Now was now.

  So she took another sip and waited for the liquor to hit.

  • • •

  Sydney felt strangely famous. Different, definitely different from being up on stage, even during the couple shows that had been big enough to have fancy lights. In that, there was anonymity. She was up high with Max and Carter, and the crowd was apart, in another world. Not aware of her so much as they were the music, the feeling in the air.

  This wasn’t the same. She’d had two full drinks, and people were touching her. Like she was Jesus or something. They were actually grabbing her clothes. Everyone wanted to know if she was okay. Everyone wanted to know if Astrid’s death was a surprise. Everyone wanted to know how the suicide was affecting her, and was she really ready to go to parties? How was Astrid’s mom? Was Sydney going to see a shrink about it? Was she sure she hadn’t seen it coming?

  All the questions that they knew weren’t appropriate to ask sober.

  Becky was there. Bubbly Becky. A chatty girl in their class whose hair was about as blond as could be and whose eyes always looked like they’d just beheld the Holy Grail. She’d worked at Trail Mix with Astrid and Ella, and Sydney had always aimed her visits for when Becky was off the schedule.

  “Sssydney,” she said, grabbing her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  Syd smiled her widest smile. With the whiskey inside her, it almost felt real. Okay? Of course she wasn’t okay. She was the opposite. Somewhere inside were all the bad feelings, ready to escape. But not yet, not now. She had the warmth instead, flowing through her body, pulsing through her blood to the beat of the bass that pumped through the house. Sydney couldn’t make out any of the words to the song. Someone bumped into her from behind.