“I’m good,” Connor said. He went to his mom’s side, ignoring the side-eye he got. “Do you know where my stuff ended up? My clothes and all that?” He’d looked this morning, but his old swimming gear that had been in his dresser was replaced by hoodies, stacks of unpainted canvases, and boxes of paints.
“They’re in the cupboard under the stairs,” she said, placid and calm. Without looking at him, she added, “You should eat. We have to go to the city to pick up the material for your probation.”
Ah ha.Shecalled it probation, at least.
“I’ll survive.”
Connor glanced around the kitchen, taking in the tension among them all once more, and directed his attention to his mom. “I’ll be down at the dock. Give me a shout when we’re leaving.”
“I don’t want sand all over the car, Connor.”
“Maybe you should consider moving somewhere else then?” he suggested. He exited the back door and followed the sandy path to their private beach. It wasn’t much of a beach, to be fair. There were a few feet of sand as it led into the water, and by the end of the dock, there was a sharp drop off into water deeper than Connor’s height. He strolled to the end of the dock, going slowly so he didn’t slip on the wet boards. He stood at the edge for a moment, just looking down at the water below, before he gave into his impulse and shrugged off his shoes.
He sat on the damp wood, wincing as his jeans soaked up the moisture, and lowered his feet into the water. He sucked in a sharp breath as the initial cold shocked him, but he quickly got used to the chill. The reason so many flocked to their little seaside town during the summer was the unusual warmth in the waters; there was an abundance of sea creatures that you couldn’t find anywhere else in Ireland, and the warmer waters made snorkelling and other water activities hugely popular. Their hot spot of abundance was the reason for his dad’s job; nobody would have bothered building a high-tech lab in a barren spot on the coast.
They even got sharks here, where most of Ireland never saw even the tip of a fin from one. Nobody had ever been attacked. Not yet, at least. Octopus were the far more deadly foe in these waters.
“Connor!” Her angry voice shredded Connor’s peace.
He twisted around to see her standing halfway down the path, hands at her hips and a scowl on her face. Connor sighed. He stood, snagged his shoes, and approached her. “I’ll be a minute changing. I’m sure you’d like seawater on your seats even less than sand.”
“I won’t play this game with you,” she warned him. “You want those sheets signed off? You do the work. You want to skulk around, get into trouble, and misbehave? You’ll suffer the consequences for it. It’s only by Trevor’s good grace that you’re even allowed in the house, but the moment you step out of line, that’s it. You’re gone.”
Connor laughed. “I wasn’t under any illusions that it was your good grace, mother. And what misbehaviour do you mean? It’s been months since I’ve seen the ocean. Am I not allowed to miss it?”
“We both know that you holding me up and making me late is the very least that you’re capable of.”
She said that as if Connor spent every summer making her life a nightmare. He’d never stolen anything, vandalised anything, done drugs, or anything else severe. He did drink during the summers—though he failed to ever get drunk—but you would be hard-pressed to find a teenager in their town that didn’t. Especially during the summer when the late nights started, the tourists came in, the boat parties kicked off, and the bars down at the beach switched to late hours. Connor knew that they were the only place with beach bars in all of Ireland. It was never warm enough anywhere else to warrant them.
“I cannotchange if you’d like. Then I won’t be holding you up, and we can get off to a positive start.” Connor didn’t even get to finish his sentence before his mom turned her back on him and walked away.
Connor watched her retreating back.Yeah, he thought,business as usual.
With a resigned sigh, he followed.
Chapter Four
Connor’s stack of books towered high enough to wobble. When the judge said he would be completing assignments and reading books to correct his “prejudice,” Connor had not expected to be given half a library. The books required detailed reports with a guardian’s signature as a guarantee. If he didn’t fulfil the terms, then it was back to court for another sentencing that could lead to a harsher punishment than being told to read.
His mom made noise in the kitchen down below; pots and pans clanking together, cutlery scraping and glasses colliding—possibly shattering and cracking—Connor couldn’t tell. It hadn’t been a good day for her. Connor hadn’t had a good one either. She’d thrown the first stone, and he’d responded with a dozen pebbles aimed to kill. Connor had pretended not to be upset under a cold exterior. No. Hewasn’tupset. He’d stopped expecting anything from her; how could she still affect him after that?
Connor looked critically at the stack of books. The pile was composed of novels, instruction books, self-reflection books, and a whole folder of written exercises. They’d even given him empty copybooks and pens to write the reports.
Connor debated coming clean. Just writing the judge an email saying he was gay, and could he please not have to read half of the tomes squishing Laurence’s sketchpads.
He reached for the smallest novel in the pile. Virginia Woolf’sOrlando. He opened it and groaned. The text was tiny. Connor enjoyed reading, but he liked fantasy and adventure and anything that involved swinging a sword or shooting a gun at something bad. Having to slog his way through book after book of something boring and dreadful could kill his enthusiasm for reading.
Tossing Woolf onto the desk, he dragged the binder over next. He had to write three separate essays alongside the book reports, all of which were an academic variation of:Are you a piece of shit? Explain why. Many people thought his punishment was light.
He had agreed with them.
Until now.
*
Connor endeavoured to sit with the family for dinner, too worn down by stupid Woolf to put up any resistance. The introduction to the book was interesting, but the content hadn’t grabbed him. He brought it with him to the table, thinking he could use that to keep himself occupied, but he annoyingly found himself listening to Laurence’s account of his day at school with interest.
“It was awful,” Laurence said to his dad with a stricken look. “I dragged the bow too harshly, and the violin squeaked. Everyone looked at me.”
