The After Girls (3 page)

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.

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.

“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.