August and Everything After

By Jennifer Doktorski

One last summer to escape, to find herself, to figure out what comes next. Fans of Sarah Dessen and Jenny Han will love this contemporary, coming-of-age romance.

Graduation was supposed to be a relief. Except Quinn can't avoid the rumors that plagued her throughout high school or the barrage of well-intentioned questions about her college plans. How is she supposed to know what she wants to do for the next four years, let alone the rest of her life? And why does no one understand that it's hard for her to think about the future—or feel as if she even deserves one—when her best friend is dead?

Spending the summer with her aunt on the Jersey shore may just be the fresh start Quinn so desperately needs. And when she meets Malcolm, a musician with his own haunted past, she starts to believe in second chances. Can Quinn find love while finding herself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sourcebooks
• Release date: May 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781492657163

Jennifer Doktorski

Jennifer Salvato Doktorski is the author of several young adult novels, including The Summer After You and Me, a YALSA Teens’ Top Ten nominee. She lives with her family in New Jersey, spending her summers “down the shore,” where everything’s always all right. You can find out more about her at jendoktorski.com.

Book preview

ONE

I started wearing my grandmother’s old cat-eye glasses in June, right after my latest crush nearly crushed me. The messy incident involved my band student teacher, a six-pack of Blue Moon, and a freak thunderstorm. Connect the dots any way you want. I know it’s not pretty. Neither was I when I put on Grammy’s glasses. But that was kind of the point. When I fled my small town after graduation to spend the summer at my aunt’s beach house, I didn’t want to be the old Quinn Gallo anymore. Here at the Jersey shore, no one knows me as the half-naked girl who had to be rescued from her band teacher’s Toyota Corolla by the Jaws of Life.

The glasses added a layer to my new anonymity. I found them tucked in the top drawer of the wicker dresser as I unpacked in the guest room, and something inside me shifted when I put on the black, bejeweled frames. Like the first time Bilbo slipped on the One Ring of Power.

I got the prescription adjusted to fit me and I’ve been wearing them ever since.

In fact, I’m wearing them tonight as I sit on a barstool at Keegan’s Cocktail Lounge, the old-man bar turned indie rock club where I waitress on Friday nights. I’m reading The Awakening while the opening act—a singer/songwriter dude with a backstory more tragic than my own—sets up. It’s his first performance since his guitarist and drummer were killed in a tour bus accident two years ago. My coworker, Liam, told me all about it.

Malcolm was really messed up. He blamed himself.

I told Liam I couldn’t imagine, but unfortunately, I could. My best friend, Lynn, died when we were fifteen.

So I’ve been avoiding Malcolm since he got here, knowing that if I’m not careful, I’ll get pulled into his orbit. Fuckups attract fuckups, I’m sure of it.

Apparently I’m ignoring him better than I thought, because he manages to sneak up behind me, lean down so that we’re almost cheek to cheek, and peek through my glasses. I startle and face him.

What the hell are you doing? I ask, louder than I intended.

Sorry, he says. I had to know if those glasses were real or some hipster gimmick.

Before I can stop myself, I reach up and tug his beard. I was thinking the same thing about this.

Ouch. I usually get a girl’s name before she grabs my facial hair. Or anything else.

He wishes.

I put down my book and hold out my hand.

Quinn Gallo.

He holds my gaze and hand longer than he needs to, swinging my arm a little like we’re about to twirl a jump rope.

Malcolm Trent.

I pull away.

I know. I flick my thumb toward the flyer taped to the mirror behind the bar. I can read.

He nods toward my book. I see. Is that the feminist lit talking or are you always like this?

I twist the leather cuff bracelet I never take off and think of something nice to say. It’s not his fault he’s immune to Grammy’s glasses. I’m looking forward to your set.

Yeah? But you brought backup entertainment just in case?

Reading is work, not entertainment. My aunt’s letting me live with her this summer on the condition that I read one book a week. Her picks.

What else have you read?

I tick off my reading list thus far.

"Jane Eyre, Beloved, The Bell Jar—"

It’s possible your aunt needs to lighten up. I shrug.

Small price to pay for a summer away from home. I had to get away from my town.

Trouble with the law?

More like trouble with The Mom. I’m not her favorite daughter at the moment.

My poor judgment regarding my unromantic evening with my band teacher coupled with my decision not to go to college this fall landed Mom and I on opposite sides of an enormous iceberg. We both needed time to thaw.

Ha! I could write a book about being the prodigal son.

Can you make it a song instead? If you write a book, my aunt will make me read it.

Malcolm’s reflexive laugh warms my body. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but before he has a chance, Caleb, the owner of Keegan’s, signals Malcolm that it’s time to take the stage.

I gotta—

Oh, yeah, of course. I’ve gotta get to work too.

Neither of us moves.

I stare at him over the top of my glasses. He tilts his head like he’s deciding what to do next. Then, before I have time to register what’s happening, Malcolm reaches toward my face and gently pushes my glasses back up my nose.

You have pretty eyes, Quinn. You shouldn’t hide them behind ugly glasses.

For the first time in my life, someone looked me in the eyes and didn’t point out that they’re two different colors. The right one is brown, the left is blue. I want to say thank you, or have a good set, or something, but by the time I get my voice back, he’s gone.

I smooth my apron, pick up my book, and try to shake off the feeling that my defensive shield failed me and allowed my next nobody to walk right through.

TWO

Nobodies. That’s what my younger, wiser sister, Evie, calls the guys I attract and/or obsess over.

It’s hard to argue with her. I’ve had a bad run.

Sophomore year I unceremoniously lost my virginity to Sammy the Snake. The nickname alone should have tipped me off that a sexting scandal with some girl named Brittany was in his future, but my best friend had recently died and I wasn’t thinking. Junior year I had a thing for the Austrian exchange student, Ralph. We had a friends-with-benefits arrangement for most of the school year before he blew me off. Brokenhearted, I retreated to my bedroom to listen to sad songs and study Jeff Buckley lyrics until Ralph boarded his jet back to Vienna.

Halfway through my senior year, Mr. G—a guy with one tie and a limited number of dress pants—walked into the band room and took up residence in my geek love fantasies. I thought I caught him staring at me a few times as I lugged my drum to the storage room, but figured I’d imagined it. Up until then, all my romantic relationships had been exactly that: imagined. Or maybe unrequited? Same thing, I guess. The good parts were all in my head. Then on the last day of band, two days before graduation, he left a note on my snare: Need to talk to you about something, and it has nothing to do with band.

After Lynn died, I had some definite ideas about what I did and didn’t deserve. I’d skipped homecoming dances, parties, college visits, talent show tryouts, and student council fund-raisers. I was one of only six senior girls who didn’t get asked to prom. When I got that note, I thought my cosmic debt had been repaid, that it was okay to want to really connect with someone again. I took it as a sign from the universe.

After my one and only date with Mr. G made the local news, I figured the universe was telling me we weren’t quite even-stevens yet.

You can’t keep giving the best parts of yourself away to some nobody, Evie had said after the oak branch and my reputation came crashing down.

I’m so caught up flipping through my mental scrapbook of Love Gone Wrong that I bump into Liam as he’s washing glasses behind the bar in Keegan’s. He’s wearing his uniform—a black tee that says Barback. I can’t pour beer. Please stop asking. Barbacks are like busboys for the bartenders. They clean up and stock shelves but don’t serve.

Sorry, I say.

Liam says nothing. Just smirks.

What? He’s making me paranoid.

Nothin’.

Yeah, right. I know Liam, and that face is not nothing. I start filling the crystal-like bowls we keep on the bar with trail mix, because Keegan’s is fancy like that, and pretend I don’t care what Liam has to say. I can wait.

Saw you talking to Malcolm, he says.

Here we go. And?

Looked like you two were having a moment.

A moment? There was no moment. I told him I was looking forward to his set. He told me my glasses were ugly.

Liam laughs.

You know, Q, it wouldn’t kill you to get a new pair…and a new wardrobe.

Rude. I love the vintage Doc Martens and sleeveless plaid shirt I’m wearing. Both belonged to my aunt Annie, a diehard Gen Xer who’s convinced the music world is ripe for a grunge revival.

Where’s Kiki tonight? I ask. I like you better when she’s around.

I thought Liam was a douchebag when I first met him back in June. Before he called me Q he called me Benny, which is Jersey shore-speak for unwelcomed tourist. So there’s that. But there’s also the way he makes these big proclamations about music, picking apart every band that comes through here like he invented the three-chord pop song. He’s grown on me in the past few weeks, in a poor-misunderstood-douchebag kind of way. His twin sister Lucy and friends are nice though, and Kiki, his girlfriend, is totally adorable. She keeps telling me we need to hang out.

She’ll be here soon, he says.

"Good. They invented the phrase better half for guys like you."

His wry smile tells me we get each other. Liam picks up a dishrag and snaps it in my direction, then proceeds to wipe down the bar.

You know, Malcolm’s looking to put a new band together. You play drums right?

I play drum, Liam. Drum.

Oh, come on. I see you tapping out rhythms and working that fake kick drum with your foot when you watch the bands here.

My face heats up. He noticed me playing air drums?

Liam, I do not—

He puts up a hand.

Bup bup bup. Don’t try to deny it. My point is, snare is the hard part. It probably wouldn’t take you long to learn to play a full kit.

I’ve been teaching myself to do that very thing (you could learn how to run your own island nation with YouTube), but I haven’t told anyone.

If he needs a drummer, he can find a better one than me.

Liam winks. "But maybe not one he likes more than you."

I punch him in the arm. Kiddingly. Sort of.

Ouch. I’m just saying. You should talk to Malcolm. We both should, Liam says.

Liam plays guitar, and from the way he talks about Malcolm and his legendary brush with fame, I know Liam would love to hitch his wagon to Malcolm’s star, or whatever that saying is. But me playing drums in a rock band? Pfff. Yeah, right. I shake my head and snap out of it. Mom said I needed to come up with a solid life plan by the end of summer, not join a rock band.

Liam! Caleb calls out. Watch the board.

Liam holds the dishrag in my direction.

Can you please finish up for me?

All right. But only because you asked nicely. Please and thank you are the magic words.

Liam hustles toward the soundboard. In addition to barbacking, he took over sound duty from his friend Andrew Clark. Before I started here, Andrew quit Keegan’s to be a counselor at a sleepaway camp. I hear about him a lot. How Andrew is the funniest person Liam knows. How Andrew once dated his sister. How Andrew was supposed to go to Rutgers with Liam, but decided to take a gap year until he decides what he wants to do. I know everything about this guy but his shoe size. Oh wait, I do know his shoe size. Nine and a half.

I get it. Liam misses his best friend. We have that in common, and it makes him seem like less of a know-it-all jerk.

I finish cleaning the bar and move out onto the floor to take drink orders from customers sitting in the booths. They each have faux portholes, remnants of Keegan’s former life as a seafood restaurant.

Malcolm is all set up on the stage made of milk crates and wooden pallets. It’s tucked in the corner under a ship wheel chandelier. I try not to let my eyes stray as I jot down orders, but my ears stay tuned to his frequency. Malcolm strums a few chords, then taps the mic and sings the line about a tired dream from The Replacements’ I’ll Be You. I didn’t know anyone under forty knew that song. Lucky for me, I’m my aunt’s ’90s alt-rock disciple. After the obligatory check, one, two into the vocal mic, he plays snippets of songs I’ve never heard before while Liam makes adjustments.

The standing room in front of the stage is filling up, mostly with underage kids. Kiki, Liam’s sister Lucy, and Lucy’s boyfriend Connor are among them. Big crowds are unusual for us. Keegan’s is across the bay bridge from the barrier island, landlocked in a residential neighborhood without a tiki bar or water view. We appeal more to pale-skinned misanthropes and music snobs, who scorn sunny beaches and tourists in equal measure.

Guess Malcolm still has a lot of fans.

The excited chatter gets louder and the room hums with electricity like the air before a thunderstorm. My pulse kicks up a notch and my breath quickens. I don’t know why, but I’m nervous for Malcolm.

Finally, Caleb steps up to the mic. He’s got a few grays in his sideburns, and a slight paunch, but his cargo jeans, Converse high tops, and black tee camouflage his age well.

It’s been a while since he’s been here, Caleb announces But it’s nice to have him back. Welcome, Malcolm Trent.

The brief intro is met with a round of ear-piercing whistles and applause. Malcolm doesn’t wait for the noise to subside and just gets right to it, launching into a song everyone seems to know.

To be honest, he starts off a bit rough. Malcolm’s voice is pitchy at times, his guitar playing not so smooth, but the crowd is behind him, singing along to every word. There’s a sincerity about Malcolm, an earnestness, which makes him captivating to watch. I sneak peeks while scrambling to settle tabs at some tables and delivering hot wings and fresh rounds to others.

Malcolm’s set gets better as he segues from one song to the next without stopping to banter with the audience or even make eye contact. It can’t be easy for him, standing alone up there with the specter of his bandmates backing every song.

When his set’s over, the crowd chants one more song, and Malcolm finally looks out into the audience and blinks, like he’s only now realized we’re here.

You guys want to hear a new one?

The crowd responds with whoops and hollers, and Malcolm breaks into a grin so warm and genuine, I can almost see the little boy behind the beard and sad eyes.

This one’s called ‘That Last Night,’ he says, and then fingerpicks the opening notes. When he strums the first chord and begins to sing, the lyrics could easily be mistaken for a breakup song, but I can tell it’s an elegy.

That last night, that last time, that last look I can’t erase/I should have said more, should have done more, found a way to take your place.

He’s finally hit his stride and there’s something about the combination of his voice—raspy and vulnerable—and the lyrics that trips a wire in my brain. Not now, not now, not now, I tell myself. But the flashes come so fast, I can’t tamp them down. I see Lynn’s face. A dark SUV. A helmet rolling toward the curb. My hands fumbling to dial 911. My skull tingles and my breath gets shallow. The mantras and phrases that usually help me keep these memories at bay aren’t working. I’ve got to get out of here.

I plop my tray on the nearest table, twist my leather cuff bracelet, and scan the bar for the quickest escape route. I plunge into the crush of people. The next thing I know, I’m slamming open the front door and tumbling into the balmy July night.

Gasping, I reach into my pocket for the small, white pill wrapped in foil that I keep with me for emergencies and wait for the urge to swallow it to subside. I try not to take the Xanax unless I absolutely need it. Usually I can talk myself down. But tonight, the heavy air envelops me, making it hard to take deep breaths. Traffic swishes by; the warm breeze delivers the bay’s briny scent. I press my back against the building, slide to the ground, count backward from one hundred, and wait.

Hold your shit together, Quinn, I admonish myself, even though every nerve ending in my body is poised for a release. I don’t have time for this. I need to get back inside. I unwrap the pill, snap it in half, and swallow it. I pinch the bridge of my nose, wait for it to work, and will myself not to cry. Because even though it doesn’t happen often, once I start crying, I can’t stop.

THREE

The door bangs open, jolting me back.

Malcolm steps outside, looking up at the sky, and lights a cigarette. He takes a deep inhale and does a double take when he sees me sitting there.

Had to escape, huh? Was I that bad?

I push myself to standing and dust off my butt.

I wasn’t escaping. You were great. That last song especially. The lyrics…the mood…it affected me.

He squints.

Let me guess. Because you just broke up with your boyfriend?

His slight condescension ignites anger inside me.

Because my best friend died and it was my fault.

The force of my words causes him to flinch and me to take a step back. My heart beats so hard, the skin around my sternum pulses. I’ve never said that out loud to anyone. I’m not sure why I did now, except that I am Quinn Gallo, queen of the inappropriate and destroyer of casual conversation. If the cat-eye glasses didn’t send him running, this will.

We lock eyes and I can’t quite read his expression. My temple pulses, ticking off the seconds until I implode. And when I think I actually might shatter here in front of him, he drops his cigarette to the ground and crushes it with his heel. Wait here. I’ll be right back.

I lean back against the building, close my eyes, and let the calming effects of the Xanax wash over me. My breath slows and the tingling sensation abates.

Quinn? Malcolm’s voice rouses me. Are you okay?

I’m good.

I breathe in

Reviews for August and Everything After

[kbranfield-837433 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

4.5 stars.

August and Everything After by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski is a charming young adult novel about forgiveness and healing.

Recent high school grad Quinn Gallo's life forever changed after the death of her best friend Lynn three years ago. Quinn has never forgiven herself for her self-perceived role in Lynn's death and she has made one bad decision after another in the intervening years. Following her latest mortifying choice that landed her in the local news, her mom lets her spend the rest of the summer with her Aunt Annie on the Jersey Shore.  Quinn's mom wants her to use this time away to come up with a plan for what she wants to do with her life. Will a chance meeting with singer/songwriter Malcolm Trent  help her figure out a direction her future?

Although on the surface he appears to have his life together, in many ways Malcolm is a bigger mess than Quinn. He is dealing with his own issues from a tragic accident that left two of his band mates dead.  Six months into recovery from an addiction to painkillers, Malcolm is hoping a few original songs will jumpstart his musical career. A relationship is nowhere in his plans but will the time he and Quinn spend together lead to a romance that lasts beyond the summer?

Quinn and Malcolm unexpectedly bond over their respective tragedies since they both struggle with survivors' guilt and their misplaced belief they are unworthy of happiness. However their friendship  is firmly cemented when Quinn and her co-worker Liam become Malcolm's band mates on his upcoming album.  Quinn does not have the best track record in choosing boyfriends so she is content with the slow development of their surprising romance. Their relationship has a shelf life since Quinn may not be staying in town past August and Malcolm is going to embark on a three month tour. He would like nothing better than for her to go on tour with him, but is leaving with Malcolm the right choice for Quinn?

With an appealing cast of characters, a picturesque setting and realistic issues to overcome, August and Everything After is well-written, engaging young adult novel. Although both Malcolm and Quinn grow and change throughout the story, Quinn undergoes the biggest transformation as she makes peace with her past and begins to figure out what she wants for her future.  Jennifer Salvato Doktorski brings this redemptive novel to a somewhat surprising conclusion that will definitely take readers off guard.  A fantastic read that I absolutely loved and highly recommend to readers of all ages.