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Please.
Please.
Please, God, make her say fifth year.
“Third year.”
Yeah, and that was that.
She was in third year.
And just like that, I watched my five-minute dream float out the window.
Fuck. My. Life.
“What about you?” she asked then, voice soft and sweet.
“I’m in fifth year,” I told her, distracted by the sudden and prominent pang of disappointment churning around inside of me. “I’m seventeen—and two thirds.”
“And two thirds.” She giggled. “Are the thirds important to you or something?”
“They are now,” I muttered under my breath. Sighing in resignation, I looked at her and explained, “I should be in sixth year, but I repeated sixth class when I moved to Cork. I’ll be eighteen in May.”
“Hey—me too!”
“You too what?” I asked cautiously, trying not to get my hopes up, but it was a hard thing to do with her sitting so close.
“I repeated a class in primary school.”
“Yeah?” I straightened up, a sliver of hope sparking to life inside of me. “So that makes you how old?”
Please be seventeen.
Please fucking throw me a bone and tell me you’re seventeen.
“I’m fifteen.”
Fuck my luck.
“I can’t think what the fractions are for turning sixteen in March.” She frowned for a moment before she added, “I’m bad at math, and my head hurts.”
“Ten-twelfths,” I reeled off glumly.
Ugh.
Just fucking ugh.
I would turn eighteen in May and she’d still be sixteen for another ten months.
Nope. No way in hell. Not happening.
Bad fucking plan, Johnny.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Now why in the holy hell did I have to ask that?
You are almost two years older than this girl, asshole!
