Afterward by Jennifer Mathieu Page B

the lady from the city to buy one more jar of Meemaw’s Kuntry Kitchen Preserves. With Ethan I need to do it to figure out just what happened to my sweet baby brother. Just what that bastard did to him.
    â€œSo,” I start, “what were you playing?” I know it was Green Day, but I’m just trying to get him to relax. Maybe I’m trying to relax, too.
    â€œGreen Day,” he says.
    â€œOh,” I answer. “Have you ever listened to The White Stripes?”
    Before he can answer, Mrs. Jorgenson is back out with two glasses of lemonade in these cut crystal glasses that are fancier than anything my family owns. These have to be the two fastest poured glasses of lemonade in the history of the world. Ice cubes clink together as she hands me mine.
    â€œThanks,” I say, taking a swallow.
    Mrs. Jorgenson stands there, smiling frantically. I end up drinking all my lemonade as she stands there watching, and then I hand her back the glass. She takes it and clutches it tight. Ethan just takes a sip of his drink and places it carefully on the garage floor next to his feet.
    â€œSo…,” says Mrs. Jorgenson. I know she wants me to leave.
    â€œI was just, you know, talking to Ethan about music,” I say.
    Ethan isn’t looking at either one of us. Just down at his drums. But then I hear him ask sort of quietly, “Which White Stripes album is the best?”
    â€œOh,” I answer, all in a rush, “ White Blood Cells . Their third album. It’s really good.”
    Ethan nods and glances back at me, then at his mom, then at his drums again.
    â€œSo…,” Mrs. Jorgenson says again. “Well.”
    â€œThe White Stripes are just drums and guitar,” I keep going, and Ethan is actually looking at me now, peering out of the sides of his eyes. “I mean, you wouldn’t think that would be that great, but it really is. It’s awesome.” Even though I just gulped down all that lemonade, my mouth is super dry.
    â€œI’m sure Ethan will give them a listen,” Mrs. Jorgenson says, and she puts one hand on my shoulder. Her touch is firm and means business. Her nails are a perfect pale pink.
    I don’t know if I’ve built any rapport. Mostly, I think I’ve come across as a really hyper fan of The White Stripes. This is not going at all like I’d planned. Then again, I didn’t really have a good plan in the first place.
    â€œI guess I should be going,” I say, disappointed but trying not to show it. “It was nice talking to you, Ethan.”
    Ethan nods at me, then looks away. He’s gripping his drumsticks again.
    â€œNice to talk to you, too,” he murmurs.
    â€œMaybe I’ll see you around,” I manage, but nobody answers me. I hop on my bike and as I glide toward the end of the driveway and turn onto Ethan’s street, I listen for his drumming to start up again, but there’s nothing but silence, and I feel so bad about this that my stomach twists a little out of guilt.

 
    ETHAN—149 DAYS AFTERWARD
    I normally meet with Dr. Greenberg on Fridays anyway, but if I didn’t have an appointment today I think my mom sure would have scheduled one for me anyway. Because of what happened with that girl Caroline coming over yesterday. I know my mom wasn’t crazy about Caroline showing up randomly because after Caroline left, my mom asked me like five hundred times if I was okay. Then after I started playing video games, she took her phone and went into the living room and started talking in this hushed voice, I think to my dad or to her therapist or maybe even to Dr. Greenberg.
    Anyway, I have an appointment this morning already, so now here I am, having survived the nightmarish drive into the city. I sit, swallowed up by this big, overstuffed beige couch, glancing first at Dr. Greenberg sitting across from me in his office chair and then out the window at the pecan tree, wishing I could be