Afterward Read Online Free Page A

gone by.
    â€œEthan, how are you?” he asks, grinning at me like he just can’t wait to sit in a chair opposite me while I stare out the window of his office and give one-word answers. “How was the drive up here?”
    â€œFine,” I say, nodding, and we head inside for our session.

 
    CAROLINE—109 DAYS AFTERWARD
    The truth is that Jackson Family Farm is not owned by the Jackson family but by the Saldana family. Only Enrique Saldana, my boss, told me once that “Saldana doesn’t sound as good as Jackson.” When I asked him what he meant, he said, “Saldana sounds too Mexican.” I reminded him that not only had he been born here, which made him as American as me, but that the people who drive the hour or so out here from the city don’t care if the farm they take their snotty kids to is run by Mexicans. I mean, they all drive hybrid cars with stickers for Democrats on them. But Enrique says he doesn’t want to take a chance. If anyone asks to speak to one of the Jacksons in charge, we have to tell them to talk to Enrique, and he says he’s just the manager.
    Jackson Family Farm is one of those places where city families come to have a country experience without actually having to live in the country. These people show up dressed in overalls that they bought especially for the occasion, and their kids have names like Asher and Henry and Amelia and Josephine. They spend their time posing by the corn maze (in the fall) and the strawberry patch (in the summer), and then they pay way too much for homemade jerky and summer sausage, and by the time they leave they’ve posted pictures of their day all over the Internet. I sound rude, but I don’t mean to be. This is just how these people are. To be honest, I’m thankful for them because they’re the reason I can earn my own money in a town without a lot of part-time jobs, so I don’t have to bug my parents for extra cash I know they don’t have.
    Enrique hired me last summer, just before tenth grade. I tried to get Emma to get a job here with me, but she said the thought of being around that much hay made her break out in hives. Among my many duties, I run the cash register, hand out the white plastic buckets for collecting strawberries, and point out where we keep the porta-potties. The name of the porta-potty company is Doodie Calls. That always gets a laugh from the guests, but once you’ve seen the name fifty million times, it isn’t even funny anymore. It’s just another part of working at Jackson (actually Saldana) Family Farm.
    There are two other Dove Lake High kids who work here. One is Milagro Saldana, Enrique’s daughter, who’s a freshman and super quiet.
    The other is Jason McGinty. He’s a junior, like me.
    Jason McGinty is a lazy stoner and not the sharpest tool in the shed, but what I like about him the most is that when he kisses me he makes me feel like a head without a body. Actually, to be honest, just lips without even a head. And sometimes, if I’m lucky, he brings a joint to work and we go smoke by the back fence line after hours.
    Which is how I find myself on Saturday night, sitting on the split rail fence, trying not to cough from inhaling too deep.
    â€œOh, hell, I know you need to cough, so cough,” Jason says. Which of course makes me only want to not cough even more. He smirks at me, and I give up.
    The burning sensation passes, and I wait for the pleasant feeling of being high to begin. The pot Jason gets is pretty good, but I never ask him where he gets it. It’s just one of the many things we don’t discuss. Usually we just come back here and get high and fool around.
    But tonight Jason feels like talking. And as soon as he starts, I wish he hadn’t.
    â€œSo, is shit basically back to normal with your brother? You haven’t brought him around lately.”
    I used to bring Dylan to the farm when I wasn’t working.