Afterward by Jennifer Mathieu Page A

wide, and I can see the tops of her gums.
    At the mention of my name, Ethan’s face seems to register who I am. He sits back down at his Ludwig really slowly, and I can feel his eyes first on me and then on his mom and then on me again. But he’s gripping his drumsticks so tight his knuckles are white, and suddenly I feel like the biggest jerk on the planet for even being here.
    â€œSo…,” Mrs. Jorgenson says, still bright as the Texas sun, “how is your family? How is Dylan doing?” Her face does this weird cross of maniacally upbeat and super concerned, and I’m surprised her eyes don’t cross.
    â€œHe’s … okay,” I say. “We’re just … getting back to normal.”
    â€œOf course,” Mrs. Jorgenson says, nodding vigorously. “It takes time. Lots of time. That’s what our therapists have been saying. Time, time, time.” She smiles again. Too big. She’s nervous I’m here. She doesn’t want to be rude, but I’m making her anxious. With every word she scoots microscopically closer toward Ethan. I try to cut the tension.
    â€œIs that a real Ludwig?” I ask Ethan even though I know it is.
    Ethan frowns a little, and his eyes go all wide. He peeks down at his drums like he needs to check.
    â€œUh … yeah?”
    â€œWow,” I say. “It’s totally gorgeous.”
    Mrs. Jorgenson is watching us. Watching me. Deciding what to do.
    â€œThanks,” Ethan says. “I just got it. For my birthday.”
    â€œHey, happy birthday,” I say.
    â€œThanks,” Ethan offers again. He glances at his mother.
    Silence.
    â€œI don’t drum myself,” I say, and now I think I sound like the nervous one, just talking spastically, filling the air up with my words. “I play guitar,” I tell him. “It’s this cheap little Fender Squier. I mean, it’s not fancy like this Ludwig or anything. But it’s still kind of cool, I guess.”
    Ethan is staring at me. When I mention my guitar, he breaks into this goofy, lopsided grin for the briefest of seconds. It’s the same grin that stared at me from the MISSING posters. He’s got a touch of stubble around it now, but it’s the same grin. The same goofiness.
    â€œWell,” Mrs. Jorgenson says. “Can I … would you…” She crosses her arms. She uncrosses them. “Would you two like some lemonade?”
    â€œOh,” I answer, “I … well…,” but Ethan gives her a half nod and I hear myself mumbling, “Sure, that would be nice.”
    As Mrs. Jorgenson crosses the backyard toward the door, she looks at us over her shoulder three times.
    â€œSo,” I say, leaning back, sliding my hands into the back pockets of my shorts. “This is a pretty cool gift.”
    â€œYeah,” Ethan says, rubbing his thumb over a drumstick. Now that Mrs. Jorgenson isn’t here, I should try to start in on my plan. But how? Just wander in here and ask this trauma victim why my little brother keeps repeating the words damn, damn piece of cake all the time? And why he can’t even go outside our house anymore?
    It’s not like Ethan and I were friends before he was taken. He was a year behind me in school. You don’t live in a town like Dove Lake and not coexist constantly, like you’re all a bunch of marbles in the same pinball game, bouncing off of and into one another all day long, most of you looking for a way out. But we don’t really know each other.
    I normally hate it when people don’t just say what they’re really thinking, but just because we’ve lived here together for most of our childhoods doesn’t mean I can come right out and just ask him about what happened. No, I need to “engage” with him. At Jackson Family Farm, Enrique is always telling me to engage with customers. Build rapport. At the farm I do it so maybe I can get