The After Girls (2 page)

But her mom didn’t say anything about it now. And that was almost worse.

“Ben’s here,” she said. Her mom grabbed a sweatshirt, tossing it to her. Ella pulled it on over her pajamas. “You want me to tell him you’re up?”

Ella nodded, and her mom walked out of the room, leaving the door open behind her.

She heard Ben’s friendly voice, then his heavy footsteps climbing the stairs.

“Hey sleepy,” he said, walking inside. Even just into summer his skin was tan, glowing against his dirty blond hair, his brown eyes warm with concern. He normally wore a smile straight out of a Wonder Bread commercial, but it had grown softer these last few days.

“Can I come in?”

Ella heard her mom downstairs, banging pots around in the kitchen. She nodded. For some reason the sight of him standing before her and trying to make things better made her almost want to cry.

“Come lie down with me.”

He smiled wider that time. Then he lay by her side and wrapped his arms around her. Ben was big and strong and just a touch heavy like a Southern football player should be. His arms were hefty, and it felt good to be contained. She turned towards him, and their faces were just inches apart. She felt tears rising up in her throat, but she swallowed hard and kept them down.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and his voice felt deeper than usual. As if it were booming right through her. He clasped his hand around hers.

“Not really.” Ben’s lips were shut tight, like he was afraid to speak and say the wrong thing. She knew the feeling. He was waiting for her to explain. But even though he’d done nothing but be there for her over the last few days, Ella hadn’t been able to find the right words. The right way to explain anything to him. But she couldn’t help but try.

“I want to know why,” she said. “I feel like if I could just find something, some note, some memory, some anything that would give me a clue,” she stopped to catch her breath. “I need to know how it got to this. I still can’t — I just can’t believe it.” The last words came out as a choke, and as the tears finally came, she felt her body shake against Ben’s strong and solid arms.

“Shhh,” he said, rocking her. “Shhhh.” But she wondered why he said it, how it was supposed to console her. If she stopped talking about it, the pain wouldn’t go away.

“You can never know that,” Ben said, stroking her hair. “And it doesn’t matter. All that matters now is that she loved you. That she cared about you. She’s in a better place.”

Ella looked at him then, her eyes wide and soggy, and she wondered where he’d learned to speak in platitudes. She knew she shouldn’t care; she knew he was just trying to help, but he wasn’t. It was like some kind of sick, twisted fantasy was playing out. The kind inspired by baby-faced young actors who’d rush to the heroine’s side when tragedy strikes, unafraid to show emotion, fearlessly kissing away their shiny-haired lady’s tears — the same tears that manage never to smear her makeup. Heart-wrenching moments when the whole audience thinks,
I want to be loved like that.

She’d had those fantasies like everyone else. Particularly when she and Ben started dating. She imagined a tragedy befalling them — nothing real, nothing this bad — and running to her big, strong quarterback of a boyfriend for solace.

Now she knew that it was far less sexy in real life.

It was quiet between them, but their eyes stayed locked.

“Can I kiss you?” Ben asked finally, tracing a finger along her cheek. His voice was almost sheepish. He hadn’t asked her that since the day he’d driven her home from French club, sitting in his Jeep. Her fingers were tingling and she’d felt warm and nervous and surprised that someone who seemed so cool, so in control, had to ask before he made a move.

Now it was like they were back at the beginning, starting over. Just not so happy this time.

But Ella nodded anyway, and their lips touched lightly, and just like everything else in her life now, something was different.

• • •

She and her mom got to the funeral home right at four. Ben had offered to drive her but she’d said no. The only person she really wanted to be with was Sydney, anyway. The place was already almost full. She guessed that’s what happened when someone died so young. She looked around at all the faces, people from school, people from the café, Astrid’s neighbors. How many of them had really known her?

Had Ella even really known her?

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.

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.”