The After Girls Read online

  “Sure I’m okay,” she yelled with way too much enthusiasm. Like she was in some kind of weird drama class exercise.

  Becky shook her head like there was no way in hell she believed her. Like Sydney should do a few more character studies before getting any role in the school play.

  “I know it must just be so hard for you,” she said. “Having to go through something so … so … well, just, you know, so horrible, right at the end of the year. Right after graduation!”

  Sydney put a hand on her hip and some of the Jack and Diet sloshed out of her cup. It was long past the point when spilling mattered.

  “But you don’t know, now, do you Beckster?” Syd tapped Becky’s nose with the tip of her finger. “Because Astrid wasn’t your friend. It didn’t happen to you.”

  Becky’s mouth turned to a pout. “No, we weren’t like you guys,” she stammered. “But I really really liked Astrid, you know? We worked together with her mom. Plus Biology. We dissected a pig,” she said, taking a sip of beer.

  Sydney scrunched her eyebrows together and threw her free arm around Becky. “Now that’s something,” she said, squeezing a little too tight. “That’ll bring you together.”

  Becky just nodded, but the thought of formaldehyde and death made Sydney feel ill. She felt something rise to her throat, but she held it down, swallowing hard. “I need some air,” she managed, separating herself from Becky, and she made her way through the crowd.

  Max was out on the deck, sucking on a cigarette.

  The air was what she needed: Appalachian cool. The smoke made the night smell sweet and dark and lovely.

  Sydney ambled up to Max and took great deep breaths: in comes the oxygen, out goes Astrid.

  “Can I steal a puff?” she asked.

  “It’s bad for you,” he said, in a high-pitched falsetto. It was what she was always telling him.

  “Just one won’t kill me.”

  He handed her the cigarette, his fingers just barely brushing hers.

  But it didn’t work like she wanted it to — maybe it was the smell or the spark of the burning paper or the whiskey, swimming its way through her veins, but she thought of another time and another cigarette, and the way the light on the end of it had just matched Astrid’s hair as she took a puff.

  It was three, maybe four months ago — just the two of them. The first time Astrid had ever smoked. One of the few times Sydney had ever seen her friend properly drunk.

  They were on a porch, and Astrid was drinking strawberry-flavored wine. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail that bounced down her back. Unwashed. She was in a loose tank top, and her only jewelry was the skeleton key that she always wore around her neck. Sydney carefully lifted the key off of Astrid’s chest.

  “Why do you always wear this?”

  Astrid shrugged, her lips a thin, unwavering line. Finally: “Why do you always dye your hair?”

  “Because I like it,” Sydney said. “Because it makes me feel like me.”

  “That’s why I wear this.”

  “There’s no deep meaning behind it?” Sydney asked, almost laughing, because if Ella had been here, that’s exactly how she would have said it — except even more serious. “You never take it off.”

  Astrid narrowed her eyes at Sydney and grabbed the cigarette from her fingers. “Let me try this.” It wasn’t a question.

  She took a drag and then quickly pushed the cigarette back as her body shook with coughs.

  At first, Sydney couldn’t help but laugh, but then Astrid coughed so hard that her eyes got wet. Syd snubbed the cig on the deck and put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  Astrid lifted herself up and stared around them. Her hand went back to her necklace. She squeezed it. Let it go. Ran her finger along the ribbon that fastened it around her neck.

  “Don’t tell Ella,” Astrid said. “I don’t want her to know.”

  “Know what?” Sydney asked with a laugh. “That you’re drunk?”

  “I’m not dru-unk,” Astrid stammered, but her words were split with another cough. She looked at Sydney, and her eyes looked sad. “I’m here,” she said. “I’m me. I’m not anyone else. I haven’t gone anywhere.”

  “I know,” Sydney said. “There’s nothing wrong with being a little tipsy. It doesn’t mean you’re not you.”

  Astrid just shook her head. “I don’t like it when people become someone else.” She took a deep breath and steadied herself against the railing. Either her head felt like it was spinning or she was ready to cry. “Just don’t tell Ella,” she said.

  Sydney nodded. “And don’t tell her about before.”

  When Sydney had picked Astrid up for the party, she’d watched from the driveway as Grace followed Astrid out the door, screaming at her, running down to the car, forbidding her from leaving, not stopping until they were out of the driveway, heading down the street.

  “Why won’t you talk to me about it?”

  Astrid dropped the necklace and it bounced against her chest. She stared at her, almost instantly sober. “Because I won’t,” she said. “And I don’t want you to, either. Promise me you won’t tell Ella.”

  She hesitated, but she knew there was no winning with Astrid. No pushing. Not about that stuff. She was quiet about her family. She always had been.

  “Alright,” Sydney said, brushing a loose strand off of Astrid’s face. “I won’t.”

  Astrid stared at her then, as Sydney carefully placed a hand on her shoulder. Astrid took a breath and for a second her lips parted, almost as if she were ready to speak, as if telling everything might not really be so bad.

  And that was when Brent Avery, the bad-boy dropout Sydney had been gaga for then, walked right up to her, shoved a beer in her hand, and asked her to dance. And she really should have said no, not now, but she didn’t. Because he was right there and he was so cute, and even if she stuck around and pressed it’s not like Astrid was actually going to tell her anything anyway.

  Was she?

  “Are you going to smoke or what?” Max asked, and Sydney realized that she was just standing there, holding the cigarette a few inches from her face.

  She could still see herself walking away, and her stomach ached with guilt or Jack Daniels or both — and so she took a drag, good and long, and in an instant she could feel it, her head, detaching from her body, spinning, swimming, rising above the pain. Forgetting about every last thing that she should have done but didn’t. She tried to exhale slowly like they did in the movies, but instead, she punctuated her breath with coughs — just like Astrid.

  She took another one, and then she handed the cigarette back to Max, and now the air outside was swirling around her, and the awful thoughts in her head were getting fuzzier. Tamer. The stars were big and bright and beautiful.

  She looked at Max and he looked so cool. So detached from everything. She wanted to be where he was. She felt her body sway and leaned on him for support, her hand catching his shoulder, trailing down his arm; her fingers graced the inside of his palm.

  He seemed to get her meaning. And he clasped his hand through hers.

  • • •

  It’s not like they’d never hooked up before. They used to date a long time ago, when they’d just started the band and things made more sense. Love and music. Everything pretty. Things were perfect then.

  Now, somehow, the two of them had made it up to his bedroom. He hadn’t let go of her hand once. He was taking control. She liked that.

  Sydney knew it was probably a bad idea, but when his mouth pressed on hers, she couldn’t resist. Just like before, when he’d decided that he wanted space, she couldn’t do anything but acquiesce. She hadn’t wanted to break up the band. To ruin their friendship. She didn’t want to make Carter have to choose between the two of them. She thought he’d probably have chosen Max anyway. Max was the leader. Max called the shots.

  His lips were warm and familiar. He tasted sweet. His fingers swept her hair away from
her face just like they used to. They fell down together, his arms encircling her. She weaved her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, and as she did she tried to forget about everything else but the feel of his body against hers.

  • • •

  When Sydney woke up, it was just after five. Max was snoring loudly next to her on the bed. The blades of the fan whirred above her, and the air felt cold against her skin. She looked around the room. Posters of their favorite bands, their inspirations, stared back at her, while piles of dirty t-shirts and worn boxers littered the floor. She spotted her bra and dress in the corner and pulled them on quickly. Then she looked at herself in the mirror; her hair was a mess, her mascara was smudged underneath her eyes like she’d been prepped for a Maxim photo shoot.

  When she stood up her head started screaming at her, as if her brain was peeling away from her skull. She stared down at Max, wondering why she’d been so stupid, so pathetic. Knowing that he didn’t want anything more. That he didn’t want the real thing. Just the other things.

  Wondering if it would happen again.

  She walked away slowly, getting her balance, and headed down the stairs. The living room was strewn with plastic cups and a few people still passed out, using a castaway jacket or each other for cushion from the floor.

  Sydney found her purse tipped over on the kitchen counter. She scooped the contents back into it and headed out the door, stepping over Carter’s sleeping body as she left.

  Outside, dew kissed the grass, wetting her sandaled feet. There was a calm breeze, and Sydney gulped in breaths of fresh, real air. She walked along the side of the road; it was a straight-shot from here to her house. Her mother would likely be up with Darcy in two hours. As long as she was in bed by then, she wouldn’t ask any questions. She was sure that her mom knew that she went out sometimes, but if she said goodnight and was there in the morning, they seemed to have an unspoken agreement. Especially now during her “time of grief,” as her mother liked to call it.

  It was quiet out, as if Sydney were the only person in the whole world. If her head weren’t pounding, it would have almost been peaceful.

  She walked around her house until she reached the backyard. She’d always been the best one at climbing trees, better, always, than the boys in the playground. Better, for sure, than Astrid or Ella, though, with practice, they’d mastered the technique, as well.

  The oak tree was a good friend. It was covered in knobs and indents that made climbing an easy task. She slipped off her sandals and hooked them around her wrist. Her bare foot grasped the bark, and she felt, for a second, in control. She grabbed onto branches, shimmying herself up. The tree was old and strong; it had only failed her once, and that was when it was younger and so was she. Her arm had taken six weeks to heal.

  When she was high enough, she scooted onto the branch that nearly touched her window. It gave a little beneath her — that was normal — but her stomach seemed to twist, to knot, to rise up to her throat: Jack and Coke and bad decisions and an image of Astrid, a cigarette to her lips, swishing around inside.

  She’d left the window open; she only needed to push up the screen. With one leg still wrapped around the branch, she leaned forward and pulled herself inside, ducking her head so she wouldn’t hurt it anymore. But once she was in, her stomach contracted, and Sydney whipped around, leaning back out the window.

  Her body lurched. One time. Two times. Three times. Her throat burned bitter and acidic as her stomach emptied itself. She lurched forward one more time, hard; the motion brought tears to her eyes.

  She shook her head and wiped her hand across her eyes, spitting out all that was left in her mouth. Then she drew the curtains closed, collapsed on her bed, and shut her eyes tight, curling her body in on itself, praying at least for a little more sleep, a little more escape, before the brightness and the realness of the day inevitably took her over.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Trail Mix smelled the same.

  Hazelnut coffee and floury pastries. The chairs were stacked on the tables, and the cash register sat on the counter. Just as if they were opening for any other day. Ella almost wished it was destroyed like her room. That it could show how messed up things were. But it looked like any normal coffee shop.

  The sun was already up, streaming through the windows. The world was moving again. A world without Astrid.

  There was a boy behind the counter. It was usually just her or Astrid, sometimes Becky. Rarely a boy. And definitely not a cute one. He had curly brown hair and a weak shadow of stubble on his chin. He wore thick-rimmed glasses and a Beatles shirt that he was just a tad too skinny for. He wasn’t out-and-out attractive, not like Ben, with his blond hair and tan skin and perfect muscles, but he was good-looking in that I-listen-to-Indie-music sort of way.

  He stuffed bills in the register without looking up.

  “Uh, is Grace here?” Ella asked as the door jingled shut behind her.

  He looked up, and in a strange way he looked familiar.

  “Sorry, I was counting,” he said. He smiled, looking at her intently. Then he moved the till over, lifted up the counter, and walked to the other side.

  “I’m Jake,” he said, sticking out his hand. He was silent a moment while they shook.

  “Astrid and I were cousins,” he added. “I saw you at the wake.”

  “Oh,” she said. That must be why he’d looked familiar. But there was more to it than that. It was something in his face.

  Jake cleared his throat, and she realized they were still shaking hands. She let go too fast. “Ella,” she said. “I’m … her best friend.”

  He nodded, and their hands weren’t touching anymore, and in an instant she realized it was his eyes. They were big and wide. They looked so much like Astrid’s.

  “Are you alright?” he asked, and his eyes narrowed. Concerned. And she saw her, just for a second. Astrid, asking her if she was alright after she and Ben had had a fight. And she missed her so much then, so much that she wanted to crumple up on the floor and just cry. Cry for as long as she could until it all came out.

  But she shook her head, trying to get the image of her friend out of her mind. “Sorry,” Ella said. “I just — ”

  But she didn’t have time to finish. “Grace,” she said, because she was there, standing in the doorway to the back room. An older, sadder version of her daughter. And those same damn eyes. Her red hair was pulled back into a tight bun, errant strands framing either side of her face. She wasn’t wearing makeup, like she usually did, like she had at the wake, and now Ella could see her face. Naked before her.

  Her eyes — though wide — had deep circles beneath them, as if she hadn’t slept in weeks; her cheeks were thin, skeletal, as if she hadn’t eaten either. She was still beautiful — how could she not be? — but it was in a different way, a broken way. She looked like one of those messed up Hollywood stars who ends up having to go to rehab or something.

  It was hard to imagine this woman blasting a Pink Floyd album or entertaining them with stories of sneaking out of the house when she was younger. Ella had always thought Grace was so cool. So young and hip. She’d ask them about school gossip and rant about the bitchy girls she’d hated when she was their age. Ella had always wanted her own mother to be more like her. Now she barely recognized her.

  “Hi, Ella,” Grace said finally. “Thanks for coming.” She spoke the words slowly, as if each one took energy.

  “Hi,” Ella said, and on impulse, she rushed behind the counter and wrapped her in a hug. Grace barely hugged her back, her arms hanging limp at her sides, and she didn’t utter a single word. Instead she slowly moved out of the way as another woman walked out from the back, pushing her hand out at Ella.

  “I’m Claire,” she said. “Astrid was my niece.”

  She had dark auburn hair, not as fiery as Grace’s or Astrid’s. Not as wild either. It was cut into a short bob and obviously straightened. She, too, was pretty, but in that conservative First
Lady sort of way.

  “Ella,” she said, forcing a smile, giving Ella a firm shake. Then she turned to Grace. “There’s still lots you need to show me,” she said, and she grabbed her shoulder and directed her back into the office, almost as if she were a child. Grace followed her sister just like she was one.

  “My mom’s not exactly a chatterer,” Jake said, once the two of them were safe in the back.

  “Oh, she’s your — ”

  “Yeah,” he said. “My dad went back to West Virginia yesterday. We’re hanging around for awhile. Helping Aunt Grace get things in order.”

  Ella just shrugged. She didn’t know what to say to that because order didn’t seem possible at this point. And she usually liked order.

  Jake tossed her a bag of large filters. “You want to start brewing those pots?” he asked, pointing to the row of them on the counter. “We open in less than an hour.”

  Ella nodded, but she didn’t move. Not yet.

  “It’s weird that I didn’t know about you,” she said. And it was. Astrid never talked about her family. Ella had never noticed it before, but now it was clear as day. Astrid had never even mentioned them. No stories of grandpas walking 10 miles in the snow, of uncles getting too drunk at Thanksgiving, of cousins making fun of her because she couldn’t whistle correctly. No tales, even, of her dad’s death. Of what it was like to lose him so young. Of how much she missed him.

  Every summer, Christmas, and Thanksgiving, Ella and her mom went up to New Jersey, and she always came back with pictures and inside jokes and scabs on her knees from their annual flag football game. She knew that Grace and Astrid went up to West Virginia sometimes. She knew that there’d been family there. But Astrid had never said all that much about them. And Ella had always been so busy regaling her with fun-family-time memories that she’d never really thought to ask.

  Jake was just looking at her, his eyebrows raised.

  “I just mean, I’ve known Astrid forever,” she said finally.