What Happens After

by Portia Moore

  “I don’t care about him and his dream of becoming the mayor, governor, or whatever else. I’m not going to change who I am because he’s an opportunistic jackass,” I say defensively.

  “Look, it’s not just about that. You can kind of come off . . . like a bitch sometimes, and I mean that in the best way possible,” he says with a shrug.

  “You can’t call someone a bitch in the best way possible.”

  “Look, I know it’s the eighties and women’s lib and all of that good stuff, but at the end of the day, girls are expected to be sweet, demure, smart . . . well, since you’re cute you don’t necessarily have to be smart, but you get what I mean,” he says, and I turn the radio up to end this conversation. “Don’t touch the radio.” He turns it back down.

  “I don’t want to talk. I just want to listen to music before I get on this bus for God knows how long,” I say, frustrated.

  “Hey, it’s my car,”

  “Your brother’s car,” I correct him.

  “I’m driving it, and if I want to talk, we talk,” he says simply.

  “Did someone lace your pot or something? What prompted you to go all mentor on me?” I scoff at him.

  “I’m not trying to be your mentor, but I’m trying to tell you some good stuff so your ass doesn’t get packed away to boarding school,” he says, his voice rising.

  For a moment, I think he’s offended. “You’re telling me to be someone I’m not, to change who I am, and it’s not cool!”

  “Is this who you are?” he asks.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I just remember this girl named Gwen Dwyer. She was a fourteen-year-old honors student who volunteered at the blood drives and followed her older sister around like she was Jesus. She was nice, sweet, and the type of girl who would be the perfect daughter to any political candidate,” he says simply.

  I feel my face heat up.

  “Something happened that made you say, ‘Fuck the world and anyone in the surrounding universe.’ You’re pissed, and hey, maybe you deserve to be, but deep down, you’re still that same sweet little girl who can play by rules and be what they want you to be.” Each syllable he speaks makes me madder and madder.

  “Stop the car,” I say quietly.

  “What, you have to pee or something?”

  “Stop it!” I scream, and he slams on the brakes.

  “Chill. What’s your problem?” he says angrily as I swing my door open, pulling on my bag behind me and walking to the side of the road. He’s still in the car, looking at me as though I’m a psycho.

  “I’m going to catch another ride. You can go. Keep the ten bucks!” I yell.

  He looks shocked then laughs. “Get in the car, brat.” He says it as if it’s a joke, as if I’m a joke. I hate when he calls me that or kid.

  “I’m not a brat or a kid. You’re only a year older than me, and if you look at me like a kid, that makes you a pedophile since you’ve been trying to get in my pants for couple of months,” I shout.

  “What did I do?” he says as if he’s clueless.

  “You won’t shut up. All I want is a ride to the bus station—no long talks, no lectures, no advice, just a ride. I don’t know if it’s a full moon or something, but you’re not acting like the Zach I know. The Zach I know would take my ten bucks, blast the radio, and shut the hell up and expect me to do the same. So can that guy tell me to get back in the car? Because this one is really pissing me off.”

  He shakes his head and grins at me. “Or I could drive off with your ten bucks and leave you here to get picked up by the police or some serial killer.” He shrugs with the indifferent smugness I know him for.

  “That’s more like it,” I say with a small smile.

  I hop back in the truck, and as I suggested, he blasts the music occasionally singing when one of his songs come on. I glance at him out the corner of my eye. I occasionally forget that Zach grew up here and knows as much about the people as I do. He’s so different, sometimes I forget that I only think that he’s from another planet.

  When we finally make it to the bus station, he turns the music down. “Your stop, my lady.”

  “You were being weird tonight. I don’t like it,” I say before climbing out of his truck and shutting the door.

  He leans toward my side. “You like everything about me.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Careful, Zach. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you’re starting to like me. Well, for more than just my amazing ass.”

  “I’d definitely miss it if it got sent to boarding school,” he retorts.

  “I’m not going to boarding school. I’d just have to run away and shack up with you since I now know you’re in love with me and all,” I tease.

  He rolls his eyes, but I do notice his cheeks turn red, and I get little butterflies. He shakes his head and gives me the middle finger before he pulls off.

  The bus ride to Chicago should have been titled the bus ride from hell. When you take forty people, most of whom haven’t showered for hours, add screaming kids, and put them all on a bus with little to no air circulation, you’re asking for trouble. The only thing I can say was half okay was the two hours I was able to sit by myself, which didn’t last long. I got a chatty Cathy on steroids who had the worst breath in the entire world as my neighbor for the rest of my three-hour ride.

  After I get off the bus and thank God for the privilege of air that doesn’t smell like ten different colognes, BO, and dirty diapers, I immediately realize I’m not in my small town in Michigan anymore. Even the bus station is different from ours. Where ours is just a few benches and elevator music playing in the background with one payphone in the center, this station is bustling. They have arcade games, a dozen restaurant kiosks, and a currency exchange booth. Everyone seems to be in such a hurry that I’m almost knocked down a few times. It’s something like out of the movies—people everywhere, all different races, hairstyles, and clothes I’ve never seen before. It’s exciting but a bit intimidating, and for a moment, I’m even scared. Do I look like a little country girl who’s never been more than a half hour away from home alone and now I’m in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the US, thirty dollars in my pocket, an address on an envelope, and the clothes on my back? I walk over to a hot dog stand that already has six people waiting in line.

  My stomach is growling. It’s five thirty in the morning, but I don’t see anything that looks as though it’s selling breakfast. The funny thing is no one looks tired or like they just woke up, but I feel like a zombie. The line moves fast and I grab my hot dog, eating most of it before I make it outside of the station. Thankfully there’s a line of cabs waiting to take you anywhere you want to go. I scan the faces of the drivers standing outside the cars and find a short, chubby Hispanic woman standing next to one. I bypass the other drivers and ask if she’s free.

  “I sure am, sweetie. Let’s get going.” She hops in, and I get in the back, fumbling through my bag for the address. I realize I probably should have memorized it.

  “Where we headed?” she asks just as I find the envelope.

  “Here, please,” I say, handing her the envelope.

  She chuckles. “Evanston. That’s going to be about an hour from here.” She glances at me in the mirror.

  “Can you take me?” I ask, trying to sound sweet and innocent.

  “Honey, I’d drive you to New York City if that’s where you wanted to go, but the question is, do you have the fare? It’s going to be about twenty five bucks,” she says through a chuckle.

  “Twenty-five dollars? Are you kidding?” I say in disbelief.

  “Yup, and that’s only because traffic is pretty light.”

  I groan. This trip has wiped out my savings from the past two years. Back in Claredon, I could have had a personal driver for the day for twenty-five dollars.

  “You’re not from here, are you?” The cab driver chuckles.

  I feel my stomach knot up. I don’t want to ma
ke it so obvious, so instead of answering her question, I dig into my bag.

  “It’s fine. Just get me there, please,” I say, handing her a twenty dollar bill.

  She smiles widely. “My type of woman.”

  IN CLAREDON, EVERYTHING looks the same. Of course some houses are a little bigger than others—you can tell which ones cost more and who doesn’t bother to keep up with the property upkeep—but here, it’s so different. For the first ten minutes, we drive past buildings taller than anything I’ve ever seen, all lit up as if they have lives of their own. Then we pass smaller buildings only about two and three stories high, clustered together, and after that, the driver tells me we’re heading to the suburbs. There, the houses look more like the ones in Claredon—some large, some small, but all pretty similar—but the longer we drive, the more things change. A distinct difference from what I had just seen. Even though some of the houses before were bigger, you can tell the smaller houses here cost more.

  “Who are you coming to see here, hon?” the cab driver asks me.

  “My sister. She’s in her senior year at Northwestern,” I reply.

  “She must be a smart cookie. Northwestern is a great school,” she says, impressed. “We’re only a few blocks away from the address you gave me.”

  “Is this area, I mean, does it cost a lot to stay around here?” I ask.

  She chuckles. “Hon, I could work twelve hours a day and couldn’t afford a studio apartment here.”

  How is Gia staying in a place like this? I don’t think my dad could have afforded her tuition and board here even if he was alive. Maybe she has a roommate? Is Martin making enough money to write her checks to live here?

  We pull up to a house in the center of a block. It’s not as large as the homes around it, but it’s still beautiful, even more so for a single college student. Last I talked to Gia, she said she’d just started working in some department in her school.

  “Are you okay here, little lady?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say, heading out of the cab.

  “Have a good one,” the cabbie says before pulling off and leaving me on the sidewalk, hopefully in front of my sister’s house.

  I trudge up the stairs and hope that she’s happy to see me. I haven’t seen her since Christmas last year, though she writes me letters. I’ve kind of forgotten to write back after the last couple ones she’s sent. I didn’t even open them. I’m really regretting that now. I ring the doorbell and bounce my weight from one side to the other.

  “Coming,” her voice sings from the other side of the door.

  It’s a little past seven thirty. I’m really lucky she’s not headed out for school or work. The door opens, and she’s standing there, wearing a white blouse and jeans. Even though it’s early, she looks as though she’s already showered, put on makeup. She looks at me, a little confused.

  “You forgot what your sister looks like,” I kid.

  “Gwen!” she says, almost knocking me over in a hug.

  “You did forget what I look like!”

  She steps back and laughs as she pushes my hair off my shoulder. “Well, uh, this is a huge difference.”

  I’d forgotten I’d dyed it dark brown since she last saw me. “Yeah, no longer the little strawberry shortcake.”

  “Wow, it’s just you look so different,” she says, more amazed by the color of my hair than the fact I’m five hours from home and on her doorstep. I’ll go with it.

  “Can I come in?” I say teasingly.

  “Of course!” She pulls me by the hand inside the house. It’s beautiful and typical Gia. It’s clean, bright, not too cluttered, everything in its place. “Welcome to my home, little sis.” She closes the door behind me.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking off my bag.

  “You like it?” She pushes her long dark hair from one shoulder to another.

  The house isn’t really my thing, but she knows it of course, and Zach’s words about me being a bitch still ring in my ears. I’ve always thought of myself as honest and maybe a little self-centered, but who should your life be centered on if it’s not yourself?

  “It fits you perfectly,” I say with a wide smile.

  “Sooo, tell me what you are doing here?” she asks the million-dollar question.

  “I wanted to see you. I missed you,” I say, avoiding the real answer for now. It’s not a lie. I have missed my sister. I didn’t realize how much until now. I hug her again.

  “I’ve missed you to. You’re the one who hasn’t responded to any of my letters,” she says with a playful nudge.

  “I know. I’m bad with stuff like that.”

  “You’re in high school. People who say that usually have families or jobs or something substantial going on to make them be so absentminded,” she says.

  “Great. My life isn’t substantial,” I say sarcastically.

  She rolls her eyes at me with a laugh. “You know what I mean. Come on, you, let me get you something to eat and get the real reason why you’re here out of you.”

  I follow her and see I have a choice of Sugar Smacks, Apple Jacks, and Cheerios for breakfast. I feel my face fall.

  “Everyone’s not Chef Boyardee,” she says to my expression, and I laugh.

  “I’ll cook breakfast tomorrow,” I say, choosing the box of Sugar Smacks.

  “Tomorrow? Meaning you’re staying overnight?” Her eyes narrow in on me.

  “If that’s okay. You trying to get rid of me already?” I ask playfully.

  She folds her arms with a small smirk. “It depends. Is it okay with Mom that you’re here?”

  Instead of answering, I pour the Sugar Smacks into the bowl she handed me earlier.

  “She doesn’t know you’re here. Of course she wouldn’t know,” she says anxiously.

  “Okay, look, I need your help, Gia. She’s trying to send me away to boarding school or something. I’m not sure where, but I can’t be in one of those places. You have to get her to change her mind!” I whine.

  Gia throws her head back in frustration. “Why would Mom send you to boarding school?”

  I take a deep breath and catch Gia up on everything that’s happened. She looks at me with frustration as she folds her hands at the table and shakes her head, then she laughs.

  “So instead of talking to Mom, telling her you’re sorry and that you’re going to clean up your act, you sneak out of the house, while you’re grounded, catch a bus to a different state, while you’re grounded, and think that’s the best way to get her to see that you’re not completely out of control?” she says sarcastically.

  I roll my eyes. “You sound like Zach,” I mutter, defeated.

  “Who’s Zach?”

  “He’s not important,” I tell her with a shrug.

  She looks at me knowingly. Ugh, we’re getting off track.

  “Look, Mom doesn’t listen to me, Gia. I know she thinks I’m too far-gone. You know how she is, and with Martin in her ear, it would have been a lost cause. You’re my only hope,” I plead.

  She sighs and shakes her head. “Gwen, you always jump the gun. You eavesdropped on her phone call, so you don’t know really what the conversation was in regards to. What if it’s something completely different from what you think? Mom hasn’t mentioned sending you to boarding school or some bad girls’ camp.” She says the last part with a chuckle.

  “What else would she be talking about when she’s touring a facility for me? An asylum?” I say sarcastically.

  “You always jump to the absolute worst conclusion. Mom would have told me if she was thinking of doing something like that.”

  “Maybe she forgot to mention it, or she’s so fed up with me that she’s going to call and tell you today.” I grimace.

  “You know our mother is far from absentminded, and she would have told me. Mom tells me everything.” She stands, walks over to the phone, and picks it up.

  I jump out of my seat and hang up the receiver. “You can’t call her!”

  “You ran away
while you’re grounded. Mom’s going to wake up and not know where you are,” she says as if it’s obvious.

  “Please, Gia! Can we just finish talking first?” I plead. I give her my best puppy-dog eyes, then I spot the humongous ring on her finger. “Gia, is that what I think it is!”

  My eyes get wider as I continue to look at it. She glances at it, and a smile spreads across her face and her cheeks light up like Rudolph’s nose. I grab her hand and examine it.

  “It’s so pretty!” I say enthusiastically. It’s a beautiful diamond ring and just my ticket to changing the subject. I nudge her. “You little sneak. You’re engaged?”

  She takes her hand back and walks into her living room. “It’s not an engagement ring,” she says bashfully.

  “Bullshit, it looks like it to me,” I say, flopping onto the sofa beside her.

  “Language, Gwen,” she says with a small smile. It disappears, and a wide grin spreads across her face.

  “Does Mom know? Why haven’t you said anything? I can’t believe you’re getting married!” I say in disbelief.

  “Slow down, sis. First off, again, it’s not an engagement ring. Mom does know that I have it as a promise ring, and maybe you’d have an inkling if you read my letters or picked up the phone and called me,” she says, swatting me playfully.

  I instantly feel guilty. “I’m sorry.” I guess I have kind of blocked her out since she’s been gone.

  “Mom’s really worried about you.” She sighs.

  I roll my eyes.

  “She is. She cares, and she thinks you’ve done a personality one-eighty since dad passed away,” she says, her voice full of concern.

  “Everything else has changed. Dad’s gone, Mom’s obsessed with Martin, and you’re gone. Sometimes you change who you are to adapt,” I snap.

  She scoots closer to me. “I know a lot has changed, but you can’t let it ruin you,” she says solemnly, stroking my now-darkened hair. “Like this, this isn’t you. Hanging out with trash, being rude, shutting yourself off from the people you care about—”

  I scoot away from her. “You believe anything Mom says. It’s not like that. My friends aren’t trash. I’m not rude, only honest, and I don’t hang around places I’m not wanted.”