“All done?” I ask, leaning against the door frame of the kitchen.
She glances up at me and nods. “Yeah. Just cleaning up. They’re grand—you’ll love ‘em.”
“I will. Don’t worry.”
She hesitates, her rag pausing on the granite. “Niall?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay? Really?”
I look at her—at the sister who crawled in my bed in the months after Da died, keeping me company in the dark. She was so little then, wiping my eyes and saying it’s alright, Nialler, don’t cry. I'm supposed to be protecting her, not the other way around. I put on my best captain’s face. I give her the smile that convinces the scouts and the teachers and the world that Niall Blue is solid as a rock and not crumbling from the inside out.
“Yeah, Claire-Bear. I’m alright. I’m always alright.”
11
It’s my party...
Molly
September, 2007
“IT’LL BE GRAND, I swear on my life. Proper craic,” Claire insists, her voice trailing behind her like a colorful ribbon as I'm following her out of the school’s side exit.
She says the words as if to convince me, but I’m only half sure what any of them mean.
I’m adjusting—slowly but surely—to Irish Life. I’ve finally gotten my brain to say “Football” on instinct instead of “Soccer.” I’m adjusting to playing on the boys' team (with my nightmares having slowed down a bit). And I’ve made a few friends. Good work for only ten days in this school, I’ll say.
Most of the guys on the team still aren’t entirely thrilled with my presence, but I make it work. Most of them are indifferent, and only a couple are still being dicks about it.
And it isn’t like I’m totally ostracized in school either. Sure, some people give me looks and there are a lot of whispers, but I’m skilled at blocking that kind of thing out. Mostly I hang out with Rory and Claire whenever I can, and this other girl I’ve met—Chloe Holland—who’s in fifth year but still is in a few of my classes. The four of us even have a mixed PE block together.
Right now, Claire and I are headed towards the back parking lot together, where Niall always waits for her in his car to drive them home. She’s telling me that it’s Niall’s birthday today—which I actually already know, since these two girls who sat in front of me in French were talking about the “Footie Captain’s Birthday” and whether or not they’re going to his party tomorrow night. The party tomorrow is what Claire’s currently inviting me to.
I tell her I’ll have to ask my Mom, which is only half true. I’ll probably mention it to her, but not really with the intention of gaining permission. I can tell she’s trying her best to win me over; she’s still been trying to give me and Lorraine “gifts,” making our favorite foods, offering to take us up to Dublin to shop and things. She works up in Dublin, in public relations or something using her law degree. I haven’t taken her up on her offer yet.
“I don’t have anything to wear, either,” I add to Claire, which is the truth. I’ve only packed half of my wardrobe when I’ve left for Ireland, and party clothes don’t really make the bin.
“Oh, that’s fine! You can come over early—I have mountains of clothes, honestly it’s a hoard. We’re practically the same size, give or take an inch. And besides,” Claire turns, walking backwards with effortless grace. “I need a wingwoman. Rory isn’t ever allowed to go out, and Niamh and Marissa are always in their own little world together. Pleeeease, Molly?”
Claire talks at a clip that makes my head spin; going a mile a minute with no pitstops. The girl is a social supernova, yet for all her brightness it seems like she doesn’t really have one core person or group. She floats around and is a friend to everyone, which—as the saying goes—makes her a friend to no one, I guess. I’ve never really understood the phrase until now and I feel a sharp pang of protectiveness for her.
I still talk to my friends in America sometimes—usually over MySpace—and I miss them all a lot; Kamaria, Melinda, Caleb, Carson. Especially Carson, who moved to Texas in eighth grade and my move here only put more distance between us. For Claire, it seems like she’s missing a Carson or Kamaria or someone of her own. A friend who just gets you, and always has.
“Sure, Claire. That’s really nice of you, thanks.”
She beams, squeezing me in a rib-cracking hug. “Class! Text me later!”
She skips across the lot to where a dark green Ford is idling. Niall’s leaning against the driver’s side door, arms folded across his chest. He watches Claire approach with a look that’s one-part fond and one-part exasperated, letting her hug him for about three seconds before prying her off and towards the car. He opens his door, turning to look over his shoulder, and catches my eye, raising his hand in a simple wave.
I can’t help but smile a little.
??` ?? ?´?
ILINGER INthe showers after Friday’s practice, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders until my skin turns pink. Even though most of the guys are indifferent, like I’ve said, a couple of jerks still feel the need to be, well, jerks. Namely, Seamus O’Malley and Mark Corman—a conjoined pair of dumbasses I’ve nicknamed ‘The Ballsack’—who make it their mission that I feel as unwelcome as possible. Purposeful shoves, late tackles, and “accidental” collisions that leave bruises on my arms and legs.
I stand there, eyes closed, talking myself off the ledge.Don’t overthink. Don’t spiral.Overthinking is like my Olympic sport; I’d say I’m even better at it than soccer. It’s almost impossible to turn my brain off. Still, I try.
