The Beginning of After - By Jennifer Castle Page 0,33
Usually it took Masher just a few seconds of my not responding to leave, the jingling slower and fainter on the way out. But now the thump, thump kept thumping. I took the pillow off my face and turned to face him.
“Sorry, buddy, not today. Ask Nana to let you out in the yard.”
Masher was doing the big-eyed head tilt that dogs do when they’re trying to work you, but to me, right now, he belonged to the person who had caused the most embarrassing moment of my life. I rolled back and waited for the sound of him leaving, which took a few seconds. Then the sound down the hall of Masher whining, and Nana muttering something, and the back door opening and closing.
It was the last thing I heard before drifting into a real, complete, dreamless sleep.
“Laurel? You sound weird.”
“I just woke up from a nap.”
I’d been sleeping for eight hours when Meg called, and Nana brought the phone in and made me sit up. The light had traveled to the late-afternoon spot in my room, and although my body was still only half-awake, it felt full, like it had been starving and just stolen a huge meal.
“How are you feeling today?” Meg asked, her voice insecure again. I hated to hear her like that, with me.
“I slept. That’s good, I guess.” I wanted to ask her about school, about Gavin. I had a vague memory of Meg holding me the other night, her hair fallen out of its updo, the straps of her dress crooked on her shoulders from the interrupted make-out session in the limo. But the words didn’t come.
“That’s definitely good,” she said, then drew in a quick breath and added, “I know it’s probably the last thing you want to think about right now, but I have to ask you a question.”
“Okay.”
“About PAP.”
Ugh.
PAP meant Performing Arts Program. It was a nearby day camp run by the county. A few months ago, Meg and I had both landed sought-after summer jobs as assistant counselors.
“You forgot about it,” she teased gently.
“No,” I lied, my throat suddenly dry.
“Well, our paperwork is due this week.”
“You said you had a question.”
“Are you still going to do it? With me?”
When I’d interviewed for the job, the director asked me why I wanted it, and I’d answered, “Because I love theater, especially everything that goes on behind the scenes, and I want to share that love with young kids. I think I have a lot to give your campers.”
But now it seemed like years ago that I’d had anything to give anyone, especially a bunch of overdramatic middle schoolers.
“I don’t think I can,” I said to Meg, struggling to keep my voice from collapsing.
“That’s what I figured, but . . . I had to ask.” She paused. “Is it okay with you if I still do it?”
We’d gone to interview together, and when we heard we’d been hired, our texts to each other contained a thousand exclamation points. A summer together! Working at this fun camp! With cute older college guys as counselors!
“You should do it,” I said, then, brighter: “I want you to do it.”
“Okay.” Meg paused. “I miss you.”
“Talk later,” was all I could say back, before I hung up and crawled back under the covers to cry.
The stairs in our house usually creaked, but I knew where to step on each one to avoid that. On some steps the creak was on the left, on others it was the right, and with one it was exactly in the middle.
I put my foot on this step and gently moved my weight over it, remembering how long it had taken me to find the sweet spot. Years, really.
Getting up in the middle of the night for a drink of milk was a thing I’d done forever. When I was a toddler, I took a sippy cup to bed. My parents let me, probably because it helped keep me asleep all night, but my first cavity at age five put an end to all that. They offered me a cup of water as a compromise, but I refused. Then I’d wake up and reach for something that wasn’t there anymore, and start to thrash when I realized I couldn’t suck milk through my teeth and wash away the bad dreams. I started sneaking into the kitchen to take a swig from the gallon jug in the fridge, swish it around my mouth, and then go upstairs and back to sleep.