Afterward Read Online Free PDF

door, and sitting there in the middle of the garage is a brand new drum kit.
    My eyebrows pop up. My mouth drops open.
    It’s not just any kit. It’s a Ludwig. Deep blue with Zildjian cymbals.
    Shit.
    â€œWait, is this for me?” I ask.
    â€œYes, it’s for you!” my mother cries, and she claps her hands.
    I want to touch it, but it’s like I can’t move my feet. I can’t believe what I’m looking at. I mean, it’s a Ludwig. A fucking Ludwig!
    â€œWow,” I say, and I finally manage to move forward and touch the cymbals just a bit. They feel so solid in my hands. So sure of themselves.
    â€œPlay us something!” my dad booms, and suddenly my stomach crumbles a little.
    â€œOh, he doesn’t have to,” my mom says super fast in this high, singsong voice, and she looks at my dad with a You should know better than to ask that, honey look like I’m not even there. Like I’m still eleven and wouldn’t get the meaning.
    â€œOh, yeah, there’s no rush,” my dad says, shaking his head like he was being silly to ask me to play this instrument that they had to have dropped serious cash to get.
    I let my fingers circle the cymbals again. “What happened to my old drums?” I ask, thinking of the cherry red Pearl set that used to live in here. I’d messed with it a couple of times since coming back, just to see if I could still play. At Marty’s I only played drums in my mind. He doesn’t like rock music or punk. I mean, he didn’t.
    Stop, stop, he’s dead and he’s not here.
    â€œThe old drums are in the attic,” my mom says, and her voice is cracking. “Is that okay? We can get them out for you. It’s no problem. It’s just that we thought this one would be so much nicer.” She does that silly, high voice again, and it sounds forced enough to annoy me, and as soon as it does, I feel bad.
    â€œNo, it’s okay,” I say. I’m glad the Pearl kit is gone. I like that this one is new. Brand new. “I love this,” I say. “Thank you.”
    And I look at my parents and I want to start crying all of a sudden, but I don’t. I just stand there, uncertain, and then my mom walks over and pulls me to her, and she smells like pancakes and soap and that perfume she keeps on her dresser—Shalimar. She kisses me on the temple. Once. Twice. Over and over again. This time it doesn’t bug me as much as it did when she petted me at breakfast, but I still find myself holding my breath.
    â€œOh, Ethan, it feels so good to tell you happy birthday,” she says. “Happy, happy, happy, happy birthday!” She’s crying now, which she does three to four times a day. Which is a few times less than when I first got home. Sometimes they’re sad tears and sometimes they’re happy tears, but I think lately the happy tears have been winning out.
    My dad is standing there in his tie and jacket, all dressed to leave for the office. He’s not crying but he is nodding and smiling, like he could stand there all day and watch my mom hug me.
    Finally I pull away because I know my mom will never pull away first, and my dad says he has to get going, but what about driving into the city tonight for a fancy birthday dinner? I think about making that drive on I-10, and my heart starts to pick up speed a little.
    â€œMaybe we could just stay home,” I say. “Maybe we could make our own pizzas.” The idea just comes to me. It’s something we used to do when I was little. Before. Until I say it I realize I hadn’t remembered it in a long time.
    â€œOh, that’s nice,” my mom says, nodding, dabbing at her red eyes with her fingertips. “We’ll go to the store today and get everything.”
    â€œSounds good,” dad says, nodding.
    Finally my dad gets going to work, and my mom goes inside to make a shopping list for the pizza stuff. I tell her