After: Ever After, #2

Chapter

One

I am the luckiest girl in the world. Maybe that’s a cliché, or maybe it just sounds impossible, but I seriously feel that way sometimes. I’ve got great friends, an awesome supportive family, and only one year of high school to finish before I get to go off to start my life at Indiana University—assuming I get in, of course, but I’ve got the grades, and I’m a legacy. Both my parents went there. Not that it matters as much at a public university, but still, it might count for something, right? I hope it does, because I’ve always wanted to go there. And even better, my boyfriend is hoping to go there, too, and he’s practically a shoo-in because he’s one of the best divers in the country. See? Life is pretty damn great.

The only improvements I could possibly ask for are a car of my own, for my sister to be slightly less fourteen-ish, and to smell less like lemon PineSol on a regular basis. But that’s what I get for being my parents’ housekeeper, I guess. I like to think of it as my signature scent.

I’m really going to smell like it today, I can pretty much guarantee that, because I decided it was high time to do the kitchen floors by hand. I am an excellent mopper—way better than the average 17-year old, I’d wager—but there is something to be said for a floor scrubbed by hand. I don’t do it often, but with my parents out of the house for the day at a soccer tournament with my sister, this seemed like a great opportunity to get it done. Now if only I can get Efa to take her cleats off outside and not make marks all over my hard work.

Maybe I should set up a ladder to her bedroom window and she can just climb directly into her pest hole from outside. That would solve so many problems.

Smiling to myself at the thought of my sister scaling a ladder in her school uniform skirt come Monday, I haul my bucket of soapy water into the back hall to finish the massive job by scrubbing down the steps. In comparison to the big kitchen floor, the steps seem like child’s play, and soon enough I’m halfway out the back door, scrubbing the last bit of floor that’s usually hidden by the throw rug just inside.

That’s a good look for you! comes an all-too-familiar voice from the neighboring house.

I sit back on my haunches and turn to see the grin on my boyfriend’s face. Sam Evans. The literal boy next door is my boy next door, and like always, seeing him for the first time on any given day gives my heart a happy little thrill.

You like it. I can’t resist smiling at him before I turn back to the few remaining square feet of floor left to scrub. I dip my brush back in the bucket and finish with an unnecessary amount of hip wiggling. The screen door is propped open by my butt and the action makes the whole thing creak and squeak ridiculously.

Sam laughs, pushing open his own squeaky screen door to cross the shared driveway between our houses. He holds the door open for me so I can finish the floor without its accompanying noises. It only takes a moment, and then I’m climbing to my feet with the bucket of suds gone gray in one hand and the scrub brush in the other.

Hi there, Sam says, smiling down at me.

You know if you’d showed up an hour ago, you could have helped me move the furniture, too.

Really sorry I missed that. He bends to give me a swift kiss on the lips.

Don’t worry. In about a half hour, you can help me move it back. I give him my widest smile and bat my eyelashes.

God, you really are the best girlfriend.

I know. I scoot around him to carry my bucket to the patch of stones next to the garage where I can dump it out without killing any of my dad’s well-loved grass. Sam follows me, waiting patiently while I use the nearby hose to rinse the bucket and dump it again, then rinse the soap from my hands and wipe them on my ratty cleaning jeans. When he knows I’m done, he catches me in a hug and kisses me more thoroughly than he did a moment ago.

How was practice? I ask, wrapping my arms around his neck.

Good.

Did you hurt yourself? There is always a good chance that Sam will come home with an interesting injury or two.

Nope. Sorry to disappoint you.

I kiss him again, just because. You’re slipping, Evans.

He smiles and releases me with a pat on the butt. I’m glad to see you’ve managed to get up a good Lysol stench about you today.

"I keep telling you, it’s PineSol."

Whatever. He stoops to collect my bucket for me and indicates that I should lead the way. We circle my house to the front door to avoid making footprints on my freshly washed floors and pick our way past all the kitchen furniture that I’ve relocated to the living room. Sam knows his way around my house as well as his own, so he puts the bucket back in the hall closet, in precisely the spot I always leave it, which makes me smile.

Do you have much left to do? he asks.

I shrug. Just move this stuff back and vacuum.

And sweep the ashes and sort the lentils, Cinderelly? he asks.

Well, obviously. I roll my eyes.

And then you may go to the ball.

Are you saying you want to go dancing tonight?

He laughs. No.

Boo.

How about a movie instead?

Hmm. I pretend to hesitate. Do I get to pick it?

That depends. Are there any musicals playing right now that I should be aware of?

Mmmmaybe. I lean against the kitchen table, currently located behind the couch.

He makes a face. Am I going to hate it?

Probably a little.

Can we negotiate?

Maybe. I catch him by the front of his shirt and pull him close to steal a kiss, but that seems fine with him. He braces his hands on either side of my hips and tilts his head, deepening the kiss with a gentle sweep of his tongue.

I love that it doesn’t matter that we’ve been together for nearly a year. He can still make my heart race with a single kiss, or even the right smile. I am hopelessly in love with this boy. Just part of that whole luckiest girl alive thing.

Are your parents home? he asks.

Nope. Soccer tournament. Could be hours yet.

Interesting.

I thought you’d think so.

And we’ve got to let the floor dry for a half hour, you said?

Mmm hmm.

He kisses me again. One of the slow, deliberate ones that can turn my insides to liquid. Have you made your bed yet today?

I tilt my head in disbelief.

Okay, scratch that. Are you willing to make it again?

Now I tap one finger thoughtfully on my chin, then announce, Race you, before taking off for the stairs. I have a half-second lead on him, but it’s only a matter of three steps before he overtakes me. Laughing like idiots, we careen down the hall to my bedroom, and then Sam stops short, twisting to catch me like a defensive lineman, but letting us both crash back onto my neatly made bed.

The springs protest madly, but nothing breaks and we ignore it all in favor of paying complete attention to each other. Alone time is just too good to waste. With his mom and four sisters, and my parents and sister, Sam’s training schedule, and my dance classes, it’s unusual for us to have an unoccupied house at our disposal.

Sam gasps when he pulls my shirt over my head. God Gwen, how do you smell even more like Lysol without your clothes on? Are you using it as shower gel now?

Shush. I get his shirt off and start unbuttoning my jeans before he takes over and tugs them down my hips. When we’re nearly naked, he leans down to kiss me, the heat of his body a welcome weight on top of me. Besides, you smell like a pool. He always smells like a pool. So much that I actually get a little turned on when I have to go by the pool at school. Which is a bit distracting to say the least.

You love it, he echoes my typical response.

And I do. Though I’ll never admit it. Not that I have to. He knows.

Then we stop talking about each others’ smells, because there are better things to do right now. And he knows that too.

Chapter

Two

Senior year is my payoff for three years of busting my butt in school. I finagled my schedule as much as I could to get the worst classes out of the way my first three years. Of course I’m still stuck with all my core classes, including AP Calculus—ugh. But at least I don’t have any more of those annoying requisites like Tech and Phy. Ed. Plus, praise be, I have a Study Hall. It feels nothing short of a miracle to have time to get my homework done while I’m still at school.

On Monday morning, I’m actually running on time for once as I clatter down the stairs and grab a toaster waffle out of the freezer. My dad, who has spent the last few years getting in touch with his inner chef, does not approve of my relationship with Eggo, but I just pretend I don’t hear him sighing while I smear peanut butter on the waffle and fold it in half like a taco.

You have time for a real breakfast, Gwenyth, he says, indicating the skillet on the stove where he is currently bringing a mixture of eggs and god knows what to a bubble.

Then who would eat my poor waffle? I look at it sadly and give it a gentle pet. Don’t worry, little waffle, I won’t let you go to waste.

Oh my god, my dad grumbles.

What’s that? I tilt my head to the waffle, pretending to listen. You want me to eat you? Well if you insist.

Don’t you have to go to school or something? Learn something? Become a productive member of society?

I take a massive bite of my waffle taco and talk around the mouthful, just to be annoying. If you really think that’s going to happen at school.

Just then my sister runs through the kitchen at a break neck pace, screeching, Where is my backpack?

Where did I go wrong? my dad mutters.

Bye, daddy. Stepping closer to give him a kiss on the cheek, I wave goodbye and take what’s left of my breakfast out the back door.

I’m the first one to arrive for carpool this morning, which is unusual. Good thing it’s still early in the year, so I don’t freeze my butt off waiting for the others. Only seconds after I walk onto the driveway, I hear the hurried footsteps of Jill coming down the sidewalk. She lives around the corner, and has a distinct walking rhythm that means I can always hear her even from two houses away.

You’re here! she says in surprise when she spots me leaning against Sam’s prized Crown Victoria. It’s a decommissioned police car, complete with the mount for the spot light next to the driver’s side-view mirror. It’s ugly, but I think he might actually leave me for it if the car returned his love.

Hey Jilly.

She joins me by the Vic, setting her plaid messenger bag down at her feet. I have so much to do today.

This is not a surprise. Jill has so much to do every day. It’s a wonder we’re friends, really. She is the kind of person who would describe herself as driven. If the words National and Society can be used to describe an activity at school, it’s likely Jill is part of it. Jill has perfectly straight, light brown hair with caramel colored highlights that is always in a neatly cut bob. Her uniform is neat and she favors ballet flats or clogs. I, on the other hand, am involved in almost nothing at school, except Choir. All my free time is spent in the studio where I have been conducting a love affair with dance since I was old enough to walk. I have unruly wavy gold hair that hangs to my waist, and is usually at least a month past-due on a trim. My uniform manages to look like I just pulled it out of the hamper most of the time, and my favorite shoes are my aqua Chuck Taylors. Yet somehow, we’ve been friends since we were young enough to tote bags of Barbies back and forth between each others’ houses.

The Evans’s back door bangs open and the second oldest of them, Cassie, hops down the back steps to join us. Cassie is a sophomore. The oldest of Sam’s four sisters and significantly cooler than most people I know.

Hey girls. She holds up her hand, shaking a set of keys at us. Sam’ll be out in a minute.

Did he get the last shower today? I ask.

Yep.

I sigh. In a house with six people, it is not fun to be the last to shower. Unfortunately, that often falls to Sam since he likes to go for a run before school starts. It gives his sisters just enough time to use up all the hot water before he gets back.

Cassie unlocks the Vic for us, announcing, Gwen, you’ve got shotgun today. This is Sam’s car. No one else drives it, like ever. But the rest of us have a schedule, rotating through who gets the front seat. At one point, Sam thought it should be me all the time now that we’re dating, but I never even broached the subject with the other girls. I knew exactly how well that would be received: somewhere in the neighborhood of not at all with a fair chance of an uprising that would see me banished to the backseat permanently.

Besides, I like to sit behind Sam and mess with his hair sometimes. He claims he hates it, but it’s a total lie. He wouldn’t let me do it if he really hated it.

Finally, Sam comes tearing out of the house with his uniform shirt still unbuttoned and flapping open around his gray t-shirt. He’s got his tie in his hand, like always, and he practically dives into the car, shoving his heavy backpack across the bench seat with such force, it pushes me into the other door for a second.

Sorry, he says, but he’s already putting the car in reverse and backing out of the driveway.

It’s okay. I push his backpack a more reasonable distance away from me and reach across to squeeze his arm. Cold shower?

Yes, he grumbles, shooting Cassie a dirty look in the rear view mirror.

No one is making you run before school, she says in an annoyed tone.

Um, yeah, actually they are, he reminds her. My coach? As I said, Sam is a diver. Like, the insane kind who goes up on ten-meter platforms and jumps off headfirst to land in a pool of water below. It is by far the most terrifying thing about him. I am simultaneously awed by what he does, and petrified every time he does it. He’s really really good at it, too. Good enough that he’s hoping to qualify for the next Olympic Trials. He wasn’t old enough for the last ones.

Still your choice, Cassie sighs.

Sorry, babe. I give him arm another squeeze before letting my hand drop onto my lap.

It’s a typical carpool trip to Saints Agnes & Andrew Preparatory School. Jill, Cassie, and I chatting about the weekend, people we know, et cetera, Sam using every stoplight and stop sign to finish dressing himself. Finally, we arrive and he finds a parking space. Sam and I have to get out first and open the back doors. As a decommissioned police cruiser, there are no door handles on the inside of the back seat. It’s an absolute must that you let the backseat passengers out when you have the front seat privilege.

Like always, we scatter as soon as we’re out of the car. Cassie cuts across the parking lot to meet up with a friend, Jill makes a beeline for the door to take care of some Student Council related thing before the bell rings. Sam and I meet around the back of the car and link hands. He stops for a second and tugs me closer to give me a kiss.

Sorry I’m being a crab, he says.

Sorry you got a cold shower.

It’s not your fault.

You can always shower at my house, I remind him.

Unless it’s with you, not worth the effort. He tucks his thumb between our joined hands to trace a circle on my palm.

I give him a secret smile and try not to blush. I had always hoped by the time I was old enough to vote that I wouldn’t turn pink any time I was even slightly embarrassed, but we’re closing in on my 18 th birthday and my own boyfriend can still make my blush at the drop of a hat.

We get inside the crowded school entrance, and it’s time to go our separate ways. So I steal one last kiss and flash him ‘I love you’ in sign language before I join the crowd going to the third floor. My friend Emily is a few people ahead of me on the stairs and I shout her name. She waves the people between us ahead and joins me.

Have I told you I’m considering a career in sod farming? she asks.

Sod farming?

I feel like I wouldn’t need to know anything about Chemistry in the sod farming field.

Um, hello, fertilizers, weed killer, insecticide…

Damn it! Emily makes a face. Well, there’s another one off the list.

My first two classes of the day are my least favorite: AP Chemistry and AP Calculus. It’s like some kind of sick joke to have to deal with that much concrete thinking this early in the morning. On the other hand, I get them over with right away. Like ripping off a bandage. But god it’s hard to pay attention sometimes. At least I have Emily to share my pain.

Like me, Emily suffers from Good Student Syndrome. We’re both passable enough at math and science that we qualified for the AP classes, which is good because it means we get college credit. But we’re both also completely uninterested in the hard sciences, causing us to question daily our life choices.

Today my calculus teacher is covering something I actually understand for once, which means I don’t actually have to pay attention. Yay! I decide to spend my time working my way backward through my planner to count exactly how many days are left in my high school career. Maybe it’s a little ridiculous to start a countdown with over 150 days to go in the year, but I just can’t help myself.

It’s not that I don’t like high school. It’s been fine. I’m just really excited about the idea of going to college. I cannot wait to go to a school where I never have to take classes like chemistry again. And with any luck, I’ll have the AP credits to avoid taking math for the rest of my life. This is a dream worth counting down toward.

While I’m at it, I add a count down to the open auditions for the dance program at IU. It’s not likely I’ll get in as a freshman, but I have to try. There it is, in black-and-white, well purple-and-aqua because I like to use pretty pens in my planner—152 school days until graduation not including weekends, 104 days until the Indiana auditions, including weekends (because I need all the practice time I can get).

I notice a note on the calendar square for yesterday: P. That’s all it says, but I know what it means because I’ve been seeing it for years. It means this is the week I should get my period. Yuck. I’ve been spoiled rotten by being on the kind of birth control pills that last for three months, so I only have my period four times a year. I didn’t even notice that my little pill was yellow yesterday. You’d think I’d pay more attention considering how infrequently it happens, but I just grab the little plastic case, pop out the first pill left in the packet and swallow it. I barely look anymore because it’s just a habit right before I go to sleep. Sometimes I even do it in the dark because the little alarm on my phone buzzes after I’ve turned off the lights.

In fact, that’s what happened last night, now that I think about it. I was texting with Sam while we were both in bed.

Well, crap. I hope I have a tampon in my backpack.

It’s so glamorous being a girl.

Chapter

Three

After school on Tuesdays, I have exactly twenty minutes at home before I have to go to dance class. That is exactly enough time to pee, change, eat a banana and a hard boiled egg from the refrigerator—incidentally I loathe hard boiled eggs, but they are convenient and keep me from dying of hunger in the middle of dance class—and best of all, look through the mail. I have never cared much about the mail. Not since I was little and I