The most infuriating part about it is watching them together. My mother and Jamie were suddenly acting like the Gilmore Girls, best friends forever, each other's ride or dies. They made dinner together, giggling over things I wasn't privy to, acting like the last six years of silence hadn't happened. How does that work? Mom drives her away with her drama, and now they just get to be a perfect, happy family? It makes my blood simmer watching it all unfold.
Everywhere else besides my house, things are sunny. We’ve won the first two games of our season so far, and within the team it seems like no one is actively trying to force me out anymore. They pass to me during scrimmages, they make small talk if weend up beside each other, some even nod in the halls. Seamus O’Malley mostly just ignores me now, which is a huge plus.
And Claire told me what a ride means here and, gross.
After school I hung out with Claire sometimes, other times with Chloe at her dad’s house in this estate called Oakfield. Chloe and I had a lot in common—she was a dancer, and shared a similar work ethic for her sport as me. Her parents were divorced. She had a complicated relationship with her mom.
At Claire’s house, she’s always coming up with things for us to do. Baking, scrapbooking, you name it. And most of the time when I’m over there, I end up running into Niall.
If I have to make a list of things I refuse to acknowledge,How I Feel About Niall Bluewould go right on top, just underMy Sister’s Existence. It makes my head spin, worse than anything going on with Jamie and I.
Do I like him? Does he like me? Do I want him to?
I have decided after careful dwelling that, yes, I liked Niall. But that didn’t tell me whether or not he liked me. If there was one thing I knew about him, it was that he had walls higher than mine, which was certainly saying something. He was the kind of guy who would pick me up in celebration one night, and then feel like he was oceans away the next time I saw him. He was unpredictable, and mysterious, and gorgeous, and I hated him for all of it.
What would Lorelai Gilmore tell me to do in this situation? Probably advise me to stop thinking about him so much.
But I can’t. He’s everywhere I look.
It’s like he’s the ocean—deep, vast, impossible to navigate, and impossible to ignore. And I was sinking.
Fast.
18
Cross My Heart
Molly
October, 2007
WE'RE WATCHINGTHESnapper next,” Marissa announces, holding up a disc.
I’m in a pajama set Claire let me borrow for the night when I said I didn’t have any cute PJ’s—they’re white and dotted with little blue whales—and curled into the couch cushions at Niamh Keane’s ginormous house in Glen Alder. This girl has acouchin her bedroom.
A loveseat, she called it, but still.
Niamh groans from her spot on her bed, throwing a piece of popcorn Marissa’s way. “We watched that last time! Let’s watchMean Girls. Oh—Molly, you’re American, can you tell us—are they really like that over there?”
“Oh, yeah, totally,” I nod. “Except we don't wear pink on Wednesdays. We wear it every day and we’re all incredibly mean. It's a requirement for citizenship.”
All the girls’ laugh, clearly getting that I’m only joking (I mean, partially, depending on who you are). Claire and I are sharing a blanket on the loveseat, Marissa has her own spot on a bean-bag, and Niamh was set up on the bed.
Marissa relents to watching Mean Girls, and Claire says she'll go refill the popcorn before it starts. She's been a little quieter than I’ve grown used to, which was to say that her normal150words said per minute was resting at a humble145.
“I’ll come,” I offer, tossing the blanket back onto the loveseat.
The Keane’s kitchen is cavernous—dark cabinets with copper hardware, a sink that I swear is the size of a bathtub, and a fridge that looks like it belonged in a restaurant. Claire’s humming some Westlife song—this band that she is totally in love with, and introduced me to—while scooping popcorn into a bowl.
“You okay?” I ask, hopping onto the counter beside her.
“Yeah,” she nods, “just tired.”
I watch her for a moment. Claire has an expressive face—you could tell how she was feeling just by looking at her—but right now, she’s giving nothing away.
“Claire,” I press, tilting my head. “C’mon. Tell me what’s bugging you.”
She sighs, setting the popcorn bowl down on the counter. “It’s stupid.”
