You Again?
Molly
ITHINK AT some point in their life, everyone’s had a day where they don’t want to go to school.
For weeks after Mom left, I didn’t even want to leave my bedroom, much less sit in a classroom. Dad was at home, in a tizzy and not knowing what to do as a newly minted single parent. Lorraine kept trying to get me to play Barbies, but the whole time I just felt so utterly lost and empty.
That’s how I feel right now watching my little sister take the steps of her All-Girls Primary School, in a green and gold pinafore.
My own school uniform feels all wrong. It’s a tweed plaid mini-skirt and a pull-over sweater in a matching navy color that I only loathe because I don’t want to go to school.
When I was little, I always wanted to wear a school uniform, but I’d always gone to public school.
Kamaria, our friend Carson (who lives in Texas now), and I all shared this sentiment, so the summer before sixth grade we bought all sorts of preppy clothes that we would coordinate and wear to school every day.
With the giggly, middle-school joy stripped away, school uniforms really suck.
I make it around the corner from St. Brigets’ to the bus stop on Blackenridge road. After a minute, I check the time on my phone. I was supposed to be here at 7:50, and it’s only a minute past. I don’t even see a bus, or hardly anyone for that matter.
I check left and right.
Come on.
Nothing.
No, no, no.
The familiar mixture of fear and failure that accompanies me wherever I go, ready to rear its ugly head, begins to claw at me, begging me to lose my composure and lay down in the street and let someone run me over or something. Just put me out of my misery.
I dig my nails into my palms, trying to stave off a full-blown meltdown. If I miss the 7:50, the next one isn't until 8:30, and I'll be late for my meeting with the Welcome Buddy the school is setting me up with to show me around.
As I am debating whether to just lay down in the gutter and give up, a gray truck comes roaring around the bend. It speeds past, sending a spray of muddy rainwater toward the curb. I jump back just in time, though a few brown speckles claim the white toe of my red Converse.
The truck screeches to a halt a few feet up, reversing until it is idling right in front of me. A familiar face pops out of the passenger window, with white-blonde hair and a super toothy smile.
My brain stalls, trying to search for any reason someone in this foreign country would be familiar to me. The only people I’ve met are—
“Well, well, well,” the boy drawls, his accent thick and melodic, but all the same as it was the day we “met.” “If it isn't the Yank from the shops. We meet again. Fate’s a fickle mistress, eh?”
Oh great, it’s my kidnapper.
“Hi... again,” I say, social gears grinding as I try to search the street for... what? A cop? Lorraine was right, any nearest adult would also be a stranger. God-dammit.
“So you remember me then?”
“I remember you trying to kill me and my little sister in the grocery store, yes.”
“JJ! I told you if we stopped you weren’t to be harassing the poor girl!
” the driver snaps. It isn't the guy from the store. This guy has a warm, light brown complexion and hazel eyes. Both are wearing the same kind of school sweater I’m wearing, just—you know—bigger. They’re both fairly broad shouldered.
Good kidnapper size.
“I’m not harassing, Fitz,” JJ says, glaring at his friend. “I’m making conversation. God forbid I make conversation. I can’t do a damn thing without everyone making a fuss. Anyway— whatcha doin’ out here, yank? They send ya all the way to Mayville to look pretty at the bus stop?”
“Uh... I’m waiting for the bus? What else would I be doing?”
He clicks his tongue mournfully. “The seven-fifty? Aye, if you want that bus, you’ve to be here ten minutes early. In this town, if you’re not early...”
“You’re late,” the driver, Fitz, finishes. They share a stupid, synchronized grin. Great. An inside joke. How fun!
Kill me.
“We could give you a lift!” JJ offers. “Second kidnapping attempt of the week, I know, but we’re actually headed to Morrigal ourselves. Hop in the back.”
Realistically, I should say no. But I’m staring down the barrel of a disastrous first day. I hop in. Besides, how many people really get kidnapped in Ireland?
I’ll have to google that later.
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
JJ BIGGS—WHO is refusing to tell me what the J’s stand for, but has no problem trying to give me his home address—and Joey “Fitzy” Fitzpatrick have turned out to be relatively harmless.
They drop me at the front gates of Morrigal College, an imposing stone building that looks like it belongs in a Harry Potter movie. JJ even insists on walking me to the office, since he knows the way. I accept, only because I have a feeling he wouldn’t take a no for an answer.
Inside, I meet Miss Carrie, the receptionist, and a brown-eyed blonde girl who looks like she’s been brewed from pure sunshine. Her smile makes my own face ache from second-hand strain.
“Molly! You’re here!” the girl chirps. Along with the uniform, she’s wearing this headband with bright yellow daisies on a white background, paired with high socks in the same pattern. “I’m Claire! I’m your buddy!”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I smile, planning to shake her hand but she threw her arms around me.
“Group hug!” JJ promptly shouts. Miss Carrie is quick to shoo us out of the office, telling JJ he better get to class before he ends up being the first student to get a demerit this year.
Claire proves to be a high-speed tour guide. She spends the next hour dragging me through the halls, showing me the art wing and the labs. JJ tags along, despite Miss Carrie’s warning. He snatches my schedule out of my hand.
“Fourth year. TY,” he hums. “Easy street, this.”
“You wouldn’t know,” Claire laughs, currently trying to show me the art wing. I only have one art class, but she’s been telling me about all the different clubs they have. “You skipped it.”
“Skipped it?” I look between them. “Are you a genius or something?”
“Hardly,” JJ rolls his eyes. “TY is optional. You can do the four-year track or skip straight to the Leaving Cert cycle. I wanted out of this kip as fast as possible, so I went straight to fifth year.”
“And I’m not skipping it,” Claire insists, looking at me. “My Mam wouldn’t have it. She didn’t let my older brother skip, either.”
“Niall didn’t want to anyway, ‘cause he’s a swot,” JJ laughs. “A massive, book-loving nerd. And you’re just the same, Claire Bear.”
“Better a swot than a spanner,” she shoots back. “Come on, Molly. The canteen is just this way...”
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
BY THE TIME “Big Lunch” (which is what Claire calls it) rolls around, my head is spinning.
The Irish school system involves a lot of acronyms—TY, LC, JC—and I’ve never been good with terminology that isn’t sports related.
Or even terminology that’s just not soccer related.
Ask me what a tight end is, I’d suggest a boy-scout knot.
At least I don’t have to deal with the embarrassing feat of trying to find a table among a crowd of strangers. Claire invited me to sit with her, and met me in the hallway after my Media Studies class so we could walk together.
Besides Claire, three other girls sit with her at her table.
Two other third year (Claire’s grade forward slash year group) girls, Marissa and Niamh.
The former has long, golden blonde curls, and the other has straight bright red hair, and wispy bangs.
And then a timid, dark haired girl, who is in my year, introduces herself as Rory.
Claire introduces each of them to me, in the same excited way she has shown me each hallway and classroom all day.
I’m just starting to think this girl is never going to run out of energy.
I scan the room, my eyes landing on a cluster of boys a few tables over. Most of them are acting like typical teenage idiots—throwing wads of paper and yelling—but one is perfectly still, so he catches my eye like a lighthouse beam cutting through fog.
He has bleached blonde hair with dark roots poking through, styled in a messy, upward sweep.
His tie is loosened, his shirt’s top buttons undone, almost trying too hard to appear casual.
He isn't joining in on the chaos happening around him. He’s leaning his chin on his hand, his dark blue eyes locked directly on our table.
Actually, they’re locked on me.
My heart does a weird stutter I’m not used to.
I recognize him. It’s the guy from the store.
The one who smacked JJ. I can’t remember his name or if I even know it, but the intensity of his gaze makes my skin prickle.
It isn't a mean look—just unreadable. Blank. Constant. And like a loose thread on a sweater, now that I’ve seen it, I can’t unnotice it.
“Hello, Claire Bear. Miss me?”
JJ Biggs suddenly materializes, shoving his way into the tiny gap between Claire and me. I have to scoot over so fast I almost fall off the bench.
“Mmm,” Claire says, her eyes lighting up despite her clear efforts to make her face look annoyed. “I don't believe I did.”
“Go back to your own table Jonathan Jarlath, you’re crowding the new girl,” Niamh says, flicking one of her potato chip crumbs off her fingers at him.
So that’s what the J’s stand for. Bit of a mouthful, if you ask me.
Jonathan Jarlath looks around as if the concept of being unwanted has never been upon him. “Crowding? Never. Molly loves me. Don’t you, Yank?”
“I barely kn—”
“In any case, I must be off anyway, and not because you said so, Niamhy-noo. Duty calls.” JJ stands up, plants a lightning-fast kiss on Claire’s cheek—which she turns a bright, matching pink for—and swaggers back to the table of the lighthouse and the storm.
I let Claire giggle herself out before asking the question I’ve been wanting to ask all morning. “So... is he like... your boyfriend?"
Claire chokes on her water, which causes Marissa and Niamh to burst into hysterics, and Rory to smile softly.
“Oh god, no!” Claire splutters, wiping her chin. “No, no, no. JJ is... ugh. He’s my brother’s best friend. He lives next door and we grew up together. He’s just a pest.”
“A pest she wants to shift,” Marissa whispers loudly.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Claire chants, covering her ears and bowing her head.
The other girls laugh, and I feel a little bad for bringing up the topic if it embarrasses her. I used to hate when girls at my lunch table would bring up guys I supposedly ‘liked’ in school—especially if I didn’t like them at all.
“Sorry,” I say genuinely.
“It’s complicated,” Claire huffs, finally looking up. “The point is, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Yet,” Niamh adds.
I feel like a fly on a windscreen, watching this tightly-knit web of relationships spin around me. I glance at Rory, who doesn’t look upset or anything, just quiet and watching the other’s talk. I wonder if she’s new or something too, and feels similar to me.
“They’ve been in love since Claire was in the womb,” Marissa gushes. “He used to pick her flowers every day in primary school, and has always called her “Claire-Bear—”
“Come on,” Claire protests. “He has a nickname for everyone! He calls you Missy, and Niamh is Niamhy-Noo, and Rory’s is Roraborealis—”
“But he didn’t have weddings with us in his treehouse,” Niamh interrupts, and even Rory laughs. “Or kiss us in spin-the-bottle on Marissa’s twelfth birthday.”
Claire groans, clearly realizes she’s fighting a losing battle.
I glance back toward the boys' table. The blonde guy is still watching us/me. Claire notices my gaze. She turns around, sees him, and gives a bright, enthusiastic wave.
He lifts his hand, giving a small wave back.
“You know him?” I ask. At least maybe I can know his name. I don’t know why I feel the need to have it, I just do.
And sidenote, it would make more sense he was staring at Claire, someone he knows, rather than me, someone he met once, barely met, and probably doesn’t remember.
“You’re not in some sort of love triangle, are you? Is that why you’re being so defensive?”
Claire turns back to me, her brown eyes wide and warm.
“Oh, no, ew,” she laughs. “That’s just Niall. He’s my brother.”