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He slid in next to her on the right, like always.
Áine pushed the book into the middle of the rocking desk. Fionn had lost his copy before Christmas break. He said he “wasn’t arsed”getting a new one, but she knew he couldn’t afford it. She’d used similar excuses. Her own copy had lost its sheen. Had cracks running across the cardboard cover where her sister had writtenDeirdre luvs Chris 4ever.
“Please open to the poemSad Minuteson page seventy-six,” Mr Walsh instructed while scribbling words like depression and juxtaposition onto the board that had been glistening white before someone (everyone knew who) drew a penis on it with a permanent marker.
In her periphery she borderline abused in Fionn’s company, Áine found he’d become terribly rigid in himself. He had even loosened his tie, which could get him detention.
“Are you alright?” she whispered.
He offered a slight nod before taking to chewing his thumb where the habit had already removed some layers of skin.
It came to her then, for his habit.
“Your mam, is it?” At times—not all the time, because they were seldom together—but at times, Áine believed she could understand Fionn’s thoughts before even he could. Not finishing his sentences like some quirky passing girlfriend. It was closer to her being a seer for his mind alone, forming the sentences he needed before he even spoke them.
He nodded, slighter again.
Not to press the wound, she left it at that. Instead, she offered comfort how her dad would, oranyIrish Dad would. A hand on the thigh, two squeezes and a hasty smile—the national gesture that everything will be grand.
Drawn from his thumb chewing, Fionn’s head swivelled to the secret touch, and his eyes—a slight golden-brown—met hers.
Áine had never touched him before, not so much as a handshake or hug.
Feeling foolish in herself for breaking the physical barrier, she snatched back her hand, hoping he wouldn’t go telling people. And if he didn’t, she hoped he didn’t hate her for making him keep it to himself.
“Sorry,” she said, rubbing the lines out of her palm. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
He pretended to keep his attention on Mr Walsh’s gesticulated ramblings. “You’re not the first to grab my leg under the table, Áine Meaher.”
“Oh, Jesus. I didn’t mean it like that. You know . . . sexually.” Warmth found her, making her wish she hadn’t tied her mane up that morning, so the mortification could be hidden.
Fionn leaned in closer, but in a way that outsiders would think it was the shared book he was inspecting. “I’m joking. It was . . . nice.”
“Nice?” she whispered back.
Deep down, a spark of orange flame rose in her, igniting the hope that he hadn’t thought nothing of her after all. That instead, he really did think her to be nice. Maybe she deserved at least that.
His eyes skimmed her lips.
She took the top one into her mouth, between her teeth.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you you’re nice before, no?” he asked.
“Not . . . not that I recall. I suppose that makes me a bit of a sad case.” Pathetic was what she really wanted to say. Áine had been called many things over the years; smart, quiet, not bad looking if she filled out, but never nice. And the noticeable absence of being told this by even her parents made her presume she wasn’t. That this was an extension of what made her faulty.
Fionn wet his lips as he took a pausing, hushed breath before speaking, “Well, I think you are.”
The aching in her back suddenly came loose. “Well, I think you are too.”
The regifting of the compliment seemed to unsettle Fionn and draw him away. But before Áine managed to apologise, he tapped the book’s open page just loud enough to pull them out of the moment she wanted to seal, so that it might take the shape of a vivarium she could enter by night to reminisce.
“Have you read it before?” he asked.
Taking his offer to free them of their candid embarrassment, she answered quickly and quietly: “Mmhm. I think it might be one of my favourites. I know it’s popular, but popularity can be caused for lovely reasons.” Judging from his uneven smile he had to cover with a rigid hand, her hope that he understood the indirect meaning materialised.
“It’s actually one of my favourites too, but when I think of my mother—when I think of grief, I see it opposite of this poet—Callahan.”
“How so?” Áine was delighted to engage in a debate about poetry, but pre-emptively chose to agree with his view if it gave him any means of comfort.
