“Lads and I are goin’ to Mulligan’s. C’mon, you ridin’ with Fitz or Niall?” I don’t have time to answer before he’s dragging me towards the familiar truck I’d ridden in on the first day of school. “Let’s go, we've been waiting for you.”
Fifteen minutes later, I end up squished in a booth seat beside Niall Blue, our bodies pressed together from thigh to shoulder. JJ is on Niall’s other side, and across from us sit Joey, Finn, and his little brother Maxwell. Gerard (who rides over with Niall and JJ) has to steal a chair from another table to pull up in order to fit.
So far I’ve gathered that:
JJ and Gerard are cousins (and Gerard Keane is Niamh Keane’s twin brother).
Finn Marshall is one of the most talkative people I’ve ever met.
Mulligan’s is the pub where the boys like to hang out before matches.
I stare down at the scarred wooden table, trying to focus on a particularly deep carving of someone’s initials—R.B. + J.L. ’81—instead of the fact that Niall is right there.
“You’re awfully quiet, Lockhart,” Finn Marshall chirps from across the table. He’s currently deconstructing a paper coaster like a bored toddler. “Nervous about the Ballymore boys? Or is it just the smell of Gerard’s feet? They’re an acquired taste, really.”
“Oi!” Gerard barks from the end of the table, shifting in his stolen chair. “Fuck off, Marshy—talk about acquired tastes, let’s talk about your bazzer. I’ve seen a better haircut on a bush.”
“I’ve been saying that!” JJ exclaims, and the two share a high-five, while Finn looks terribly unimpressed.
“Just thinking about the game,” I answer Finn. “And trying to figure out why you guys are eating curry sauce on fries.”
“Chips, Molly. They’re chips,” JJ corrects, pointing one at me from across Niall’s chest. Niall swats his hand away, making our shoulders knock together. “Go on, it’s class.”
The bees in my stomach tumble over each other in joy at the contact. My crushes are usually reserved for people who live behind screens or on the pages of books. Legolas? Yes. The guy from that indie band I found on MySpace? Sure. Pete Wentz in the ‘Dance, Dance’ video? Great. But Niall Blue is a real, breathing person. And that’s a problem. Real people can hurt you.
“What’d Coach want to talk to you ‘bout earlier?” Gerard asks around a mouthful of ‘chips.’
I relay what he’s said about ‘mixed-gender volatility’ and not to let them get into my head. When I’m done, they all express their distaste for Ballymore.
Niall turns his head toward me. Because we’re so close, I have to tilt my head back just a little to be able to meet his gaze. His eyes are a startling, clear blue—hence the name, I guess—and they hold a level of intensity that makes me want to either run a mile or stay in this booth forever.
“Don’t let them get in your head,” he says. “They’re going to say things that would make a sailor blush. If they start getting under your skin, find me on the pitch. I’ll sort them.”
“I can handle myself, Niall,” I assure him, my voice stronger than I really feel.
I expect pushback, but instead, he smiles. “‘Course you can. But it doesn’t hurt to have someone in your corner.”
I swallow hard, nodding, unable to trust my voice not to betray me in front of the boys.
“I’m in your corner, Lockhart.”
14
Lucky Number 13
Niall
September, 2007
IFICOULDhave a superpower, I would disappear.
I’ve been trying my whole life. Or at least, since I was thirteen.
I’m just starting to grow into my face then, all the puppy fat melting away and ambushing me with a bone structure that I never asked for. It’s hard not to notice the way I’m starting to look when the shopkeeper in town stops calling me “son” and starts calling me “mate.” Or worse, when the old biddies at church stop me, their eyes bright as they say, “Lord, you’re the spitting image of him, aren’t ye?”
That’s the problem. Every time I look in the mirror, I don't see myself. I see him.
I see Da’s chestnut hair. I see his specific shade of Atlantic Blue in my eyes. I see the slight crookedness in his nose—though mine comes from a footie accident and his came from his father. It’s like walking around with a haunted photograph attached to my face. I can’t live with it. I can’t so much as brush my teeth without seeing the buried man staring back at me, vibrant and alive, while the real version is rotting in a box in St. Jarlath’s.
