Every Moment After Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  More Books from HMH Teen

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH on Social Media

  Copyright © 2019 by Joseph Moldover

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  hmhbooks.com

  Cover photograph © 2019 by Thinkstock by Getty Images/Evgen_Prozhyrko

  Cover design by Celeste Knudsen

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Names: Moldover, Joseph, author.

  Title: Every moment after / by Joseph Moldover.

  Description: Boston ; New York : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2019] | Summary: After high school graduation, best friends Matt and Cole strive to put behind them the school shooting they survived in first grade and really begin to live. Told in two voices.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018014689 | ISBN 9781328547279

  Subjects: | CYAC: Best friends—​Fiction. | Friendship—​Fiction. | Community life—​New Jersey—​Fiction. | School shootings—​Fiction. | High schools—​Fiction. | Schools—​Fiction. | New Jersey—​Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M63965 Eve 2019 | DDC [Fic]—​dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018014689

  eISBN 978-1-328-63005-6

  v1.0319

  For Leah, with all the love in my heart

  One

  — Cole —

  People want to forget. No one would ever say it, but I think this town will be glad to see our class leave. They put up all the memorials you’d expect, but there was no need: we’re living reminders. Year after year, walking the streets, sitting in the diner, popping up in marching band and on the baseball team.

  Teachers retired right before we got to them. Like we were a wave slowly sweeping from grade two to twelve, washing away all the old and tired ones, the ones who were sick of telling people they taught school in East Ridge, New Jersey, and getting that horrible look back. The ones who couldn’t deal with staring out at our faces for a whole year. And now those who made it all the way to this afternoon have convinced themselves that they need to get through only a few more hours, as if they’ll be able to forget us after we’re gone.

  Even the weather knows the script today. Low gray clouds, black in the distance. A warm wind, midsixties. It will rain later, but it will hold off until after we’ve all gone home for quick parties with our parents before coming back to be bused off for Project Graduation. It will rain on empty chairs, eighteen of them still draped in black, and it will turn this field into mud.

  There are lots of people here now, though. Teachers, some parents, and other students who are helping to set up. Mom is toward the back, unfolding chairs from a cart. The principal and superintendent are going over paperwork together, probably making sure the superintendent knows how to pronounce all the last names. Lots of police, not surprisingly, some of them leaning against the back wall of the school and some in the parking lot, holding the press at bay. It’s a few minutes past one; we’re supposed to line up in half an hour.

  I’m trying to stay busy and starting to get frustrated with this uncooperative row of chairs. It’s the tenth row back, left-hand side. I can get every chair to align with the one next to it, but somehow when I get to the center aisle, the line in its entirety is veering off on a slant. I start back to try again when I hear someone calling my name and see Mrs. Kennedy, my tenth-grade history teacher, waving to me from the front. I look around to see whether anyone’s watching, push my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose, and make my way down to her.

  The black draperies aren’t staying on in the wind. “Help me with this, Cole,” she says. “I don’t want poor Mrs. Maiden to have to.” The fabric is a weird sort of material, heavier than a bedsheet, kind of glossy. It’s draped over the same flimsy chairs that we all have to sit in and it’s taped in a few key spots so that it folds right, but the tape isn’t holding. I study the third chair in from the aisle. If they were arranged alphabetically, whose seat would this be? Abrams, Clemson, Edwards. Susie Edwards. Unless Principal Schultz got the aisle, in which case everybody would be pushed in by one. Poor guy, having to show up for a high school graduation ceremony eleven years after his death. We should let him rest in peace. So let’s just say that this one belongs to Susie. She was a funny little girl with pigtails. We played tag together. When we went out for recess that last winter, she used to ask me for help getting her snow boots on the right feet. I go in search of stronger tape so that her chair will look good.

  Mrs. Maiden is collating programs at the edge of the risers, and she pauses what she’s doing to smile at me and squeeze my arm as I pass. I smile back and then instinctively look down. Some of the parents are coming today and some aren’t, but I think Mrs. Maiden is the only one who’s actually volunteering with setup, as though she had a living child getting ready to walk. I move past her as quickly as I can.

  Families are filtering in, setting bags and umbrellas down to reserve long lines of seats. The media is back behind the police line on the far side of the parking lot. They’ve been around all week doing retrospectives, just like they were at the first and the fifth and, to a lesser extent, the tenth anniversary. We’ve been told to notify one of the police officers if we see someone suspicious taking pictures, although I don’t know how you enforce that at a graduation, since everyone’s going to be taking pictures of everything. Anyway, I think that most people they’d want to interview have already said no. I don’t think that’s right. There’s a responsibility that comes with being a survivor.

  Someone nudges me hard, and I turn. “What’s up, bro?” Eddie Deangelo asks, swinging his hand around in a wide arc to grab mine. Awkward. I never know how to respond when someone calls me bro. Like, do I have to call him bro back, or is it a one-way street? And the sideways handshake, the hand clasp, I can never get the angle right. Are we shaking hands? Is it a high-five? Are we supposed to do something afterward, like a secret handshake? I manage to grab his hand and mumble a greeting that may or may not include the word bro, not that Eddie seems to notice. He slaps me hard on the shoulder. Eddie is the only other person who’s wearing sunglasses under the overcast sky, and seeing him makes me realize that mine must make me more noticeable, not less. I push them up on my forehead.

  “We good?” he asks. Eddie’s somehow managed to rumple and stain his gown, even though this is the only time he’s worn it. Probably will be the only time he ever wears a graduation gown, I think. Even with the wind, he reeks of pot. Eddie’s one of the select few not going off to college in the fall. Me and Eddie Deangelo: Who would have thought?

  “We’re good,” I say.

  “Your boy had some cash-flow problems, huh?”

  “What boy?”

  “Your bro, Matt!” Eddie must live in a world of people who are all bros. “Don’t sweat it,” he continues. “We got it
all worked out. I’m looking forward to seeing what you got.” He slaps my shoulder again, wags his finger in my face, and turns away, leaving me to wonder what the hell he was talking about.

  Matt Simpson and I made an arrangement with Eddie, one I’m counting on, but Matt didn’t tell me about any problems with money. If there’s one thing you can usually count on Matt for, it’s having cash. I scan the crowd, looking for him. If there’s something you can absolutely always count on him for, it’s turning up at the last minute.

  Over on the other side of the field, Mom has finished setting up the chairs and is talking with some other parents. People are milling around. There’s a family standing nearby, and the mother is whispering to the grandmother. They both look in my direction. I freeze for a moment, the way I always do, feeling like a bug under a microscope. Is she pointing me out? Are they looking at me? The Boy in the Picture, all grown up. That photo won a Pulitzer for the reporter and a lifetime of wearing sunglasses for me. I pull them back down over my eyes and hurry toward the school.

  There was a lot of discussion about how the ceremony was going to go. First, the governor was going to come and speak, but that got scrapped. We have a Republican governor for a change, and I read that it was because he hasn’t been great on gun control. So, you know, awkward to be facing all those empty chairs. Then the senator was going to come. He’s the opposite of the governor; every year on the anniversary, he puts enlarged photos of everyone who died up on the floor of Congress and asks why they still haven’t done anything about guns. But now the senator’s not coming either. The same article I read about the governor said that the senator didn’t want to be seen as making it political after all this time.

  I don’t pay much attention to politicians, but one thing I do notice: for a while it was too soon for them to talk about it or do anything, and then right after that, it was too late, like they were dredging up the past. I don’t know when it would have been the right time for someone to do something. I don’t know what anyone could have done, though I do think they should have gotten rid of the big guns. A crazy dude isn’t going to kill seventeen first-graders and their principal with a knife. Probably not with a pistol. Not even with a hunting rifle, people said, though I’m not a gun person and I’ve never checked one out. But there’s one thing I do know: an assault rifle made it pretty fucking easy.

  I make my way up the center aisle and step to the side to let Chris Thayer’s wheelchair roll by, narrowly avoiding getting my feet run over in the process. He can basically move one arm, and even that’s hard for him, so he steers the thing with a joystick. Chris knows everyone, and everyone loves him. It was no surprise when he was elected our senior class president.

  “Hey, Cole,” he says, pausing and turning toward me, “how’re you doing?” His voice is always soft and unsteady, like he can’t quite control it.

  “I’m okay, Chris. How are you?”

  He shakes his head. “Can you believe all the reporters?”

  I shrug. “We’re still a story.”

  “A few of them tried to take a picture of me, but my mom blocked them.”

  “Crazy.”

  “You know what I think, though?” he asks, dropping his voice. I lean in to hear him. “I think it would have been more terrible if they didn’t show up. You know?”

  “Maybe it would have been,” I say. “Maybe they’ll forget about us after this, and then we’ll know whether it’s worse than being remembered.”

  “That’s a good line. I should use it.” Chris gets to give a speech as class president.

  “It’s all yours.”

  He considers for a moment. “Nah, I’m trying to be upbeat. I’ll see you, Cole.”

  “Good luck, Chris.”

  Chris moves along, and I go in the opposite direction. A few parents greet me, and one gives me a hug. She looks teary. I can’t remember whose mother she is, but I half hug her back without fully stopping. I don’t like big crowds, and this one is getting bigger by the minute. I zigzag back and forth, feeling my tension rising, sort of looking for the custodian but mostly looking for someone else. I wind up momentarily wedged against the back wall of the school as an old man with a cane is being helped along by a woman with three toddlers trailing behind her, and I take this moment to look for Viola.

  This is how I’ve walked through most of senior year. No matter what else was happening, no matter what I was doing, a very significant part of my brain was devoted to Viola Grey. I’m constantly thinking about where she might be, what she might be doing, who she’s with, and what I can say if and when I see her. It’s amazing how much time I spend thinking about her. It’s amazing how many things I think of to say, and it’s even more amazing how few of them ever actually wind up coming out of my mouth.

  The family finally trickles past, and I’m able to make my way around the bleachers and into the school through one of the rear doors. I find the custodian in the gym; he’s pushing his mop around, which seems stupid, given that no one’s coming in here and he has the whole summer to clean the place up. He tells me where the tape is, and I notice that he seems uncomfortable. A lot of people are around me. Like I said, people want to forget. So here we are, hours away from being gone forever, and I know it will be a relief for the custodian and for lots of other people. I get the tape from his closet and head back out to the field, weaving through the thickening crowd, making for the empty black chairs. I spot a few other survivors, scattered like islands.

  Mrs. Kennedy thanks me for the tape and, apparently recognizing that it’s not at all the sort of thing I’m good at, starts fixing the chairs herself. I feel eyes on me and don’t want to stay down front, so I go back to the tenth row and start over, keeping my head down. It’s like there’s some microscopic problem I’m having in lining this up, and it’s so small that I can’t see it when I look at one seat next to another, but when it’s amplified over a whole row, it looks like it was done by a toddler. How does everyone else’s look better?

  “Cole, say hello to the Gerbers.”

  Mom has snuck up on me with Frank and Ruth Gerber, and their son, Paul. Frank and Ruth size me up the way they always do, looking me up and down with sad, surprised smiles. There used to be three of us: me, Matt, and Andy Gerber. Always together. Seeing me must make them remember how long Andy’s been gone.

  “My God, Cole,” Mr. Gerber says, “look at the size of you.”

  I shake his hand, and then Mrs. Gerber’s, and then look awkwardly to Paul, who, as usual, isn’t acknowledging anyone around him.

  “You’re looking good, kid,” Mr. Gerber says, and I smile and nod. I glance at Paul again. He has his gown on, but it’s misbuttoned. He’s shifting his weight from one foot to another, staring down at his shoes in the grass, making a sort of high-pitched humming noise. “Paulie,” Mr. Gerber says, “Paulie, say hi to Cole.” Paul doesn’t respond, just keeps shifting his weight and humming.

  “You look good, Paul,” I offer. He does, relatively speaking. He’s lost about a hundred pounds since they took him off the medicine he was on. I mean that: a literal hundred pounds. Sophomore year, Paul Gerber blew up like an absolute blimp. Not that it was his fault; it wasn’t anyone’s fault, except maybe the doctor who was prescribing for him. I guess he needed the meds—​he was getting out of control and all—​but it was sad because when he was younger, he looked just like Andy, although you would never confuse them. Paul was always flapping his hands and spinning in circles, staring at the ceiling fan in their kitchen, not talking. It’s a weird thing, but it’s true: you can have identical twins where one has autism and one doesn’t. Same genes, same family, different random quirks of the brain.

  “Cole,” Mrs. Gerber says, “when everyone lines up, can you help make sure Paul’s in the right spot for us?”

  Gerber is a few places before Hewitt. I promise I will and then stand looking at the grass while my mom makes small talk. She seems well, for the moment. She has makeup on and is chatty and lively.


  There’s a family taking a picture off to my left. I can see them from the corner of my eye, and for a moment I think they’re trying to get a photo of me. Then I tell myself that’s ridiculous and that I’m being paranoid. I’m a curiosity, not a celebrity. I kick at a small tuft of tickseed.

  Coreopsis, I think automatically. Coreopsis . . . lanceolata. That’s it. C. lanceolata. As always, the scientific name comes to me in Dad’s voice. As always, it calms me.

  I tell Mom I have to keep helping with the chairs. I say goodbye to the Gerbers, and a few moments later, I’m alone again, jealously contemplating the architectural precision with which Rosie Horowitz has set up rows eleven through fourteen. I am seriously considering moving at least a few of her chairs off-kilter when I hear a voice behind me. It’s the one I’ve been waiting all day to hear: light English accent, slower paced than we talk in Jersey. Excellent diction, the last consonant in my last name snapped off clean. Maybe just a hint of a tease, though I might only be kidding myself.

  “Cole Anthony Hewitt.”

  I turn around, and there is Viola, standing just a few feet away. She’s holding a program and her cap. The wind picks up a little bit and ruffles both our gowns, blowing a strand of hair over her face. She reaches up to loop it back over an ear.

  She is beautiful. Her chestnut-brown hair is up in a twist, and if the sun were out, her eyes would be a bright green, but with the clouds, they’ve faded to a sort of steel blue. I could go on all day about Viola’s eyes, by the way. Green can be described by all sorts of things: emeralds, the ocean, budding leaves in early spring. I think I’ve used them all; I have notebooks full of poems at home, lined up on a shelf in chronological order. If you went back a few years and read forward, you’d find me writing about nature, about the lake, about kids at school. As you went along, you’d find a few minor crushes, and then you’d find my dad getting sick. It would get heavy fast. And then you’d start to read my poems about Viola, and you’d find every way the English language offers to describe green eyes.