My Da was a “Clover”—which was Mayville’s term for the people living in the council estate at the edge of town, Clover Row. Da had been friends with lads on Alderbank (Patrick Fitzpatrick, Bobby Marshall, and Lottie Dempsey—who eventually became Lottie Marshall), and through both them and primary school, he knew my mother. But Ma thought him to be something of a pest until late in secondary school.
“I thought he had eyes for Roisin or Lottie,” Ma recounts for the thousandth time. Da always says this part is not true at all, that he only ever had his eyes on Mam. “He’d tease me relentlessly, pulling my ribbons or putting bugs in my school bug. But, you know, we grew up and things...”
“Spare me those details, Ma. Please,” I shake my head, doing more leaning on the mop handle than I was mopping. I offered to close up with her today so Auntie Ro could go home and cook supper.
“I was only going to say we worked through our differences, Bubba,” she teases. “He admitted he always had a crush on me. And me, well, I was always too stubborn to see it.”
“Right, right,” I say, and that was when that stupid question slipped out: “How did you know?”
Ma’s silence made me antsy, so I blubber on. “I mean... how did you know he wastheone, or whatever? How do you know when it’s not just... lust?”
“Is this about the American girl that’s always over? Molly?”
“No,” I lie. “It’s a general question. Theoretical.”
“Of course, well then,theoretically, you know when... when they’re suddenly everywhere, even when they’re notthere, per se. You can’t stop looking for them in a crowd, and when you’re not looking you’re thinking about them. When you go out of your way to make them happier,” she sighs. “When you know, you know. Trust me.”
I’m afraid I might. “Well that’s disgustingly romantic.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Someday you’ll understand,” she grows quiet, wringing her own hands. “Someday you won’t know what to do when you don’t have it.”
I step closer, letting her wrap her arms around me; like I was just a little boy again and we’d just received the news. “He misses you too, Ma.”
She pulls back, sniffing and wiping her nose on her sleeve. “Well, enough of this sad talk. I’ll finish washing up the pans, you get this mopping done. Best get home before Claire and JJ run Auntie Ro up the wall.”
“Yes, Ma.”
“And Niall?”
I pause, turning back to her. “Yeah?”
“Love is a nice thing. Don’t be afraid to let yourself feel it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I pretend to scoff, though my throat has gone tight. “Get to the pans, woman.”
I go back to mopping, pretending to be super interested in getting the tiles shining, when really I’m letting my mind wander off.
Was I... inlovewith her?
The mere thought feels ridiculous. Love was for songs and movies and my Mam. I’m Niall Blue. I’m supposed to be thinking about scouts and my meniscus and how to not get expelled.
Taking love out of the question, I definitely know that I like her. And I’d like to think she likes me—she has to, right?
I don’t know what I’ll do if she doesn’t.
32
You and Blue
Molly
November, 2007
IRISH SCHOOLS AREdefinitely easier to get used to than I had originally worried they would be.
They were growing on me, really. The people, the teachers, the classes.
One thing they had here that they never had in my high-school at home were common rooms for each year group. Not just like a hall with lockers. They were these rooms that had high tables with stools and couches. Like a waiting room at a car dealership. The walls were covered with student art and posters of Irish mythology—most notably the Morrigan herself, with her dark wings unfurled over a carnage-strewn battlefield.
