It’s my party.
It’s my party...
Molly
“IT’LL BE GRAND, I swear on my life. Proper craic,” Claire insists, her voice trailing behind her like a colorful ribbon as I'm following her out of the school’s side exit.
She says the words as if to convince me, but I’m only half sure what any of them mean.
I’m adjusting—slowly but surely—to Irish Life. I’ve finally gotten my brain to say “Football” on instinct instead of “Soccer.” I’m adjusting to playing on the boys' team (with my nightmares having slowed down a bit). And I’ve made a few friends. Good work for only ten days in this school, I’ll say.
Most of the guys on the team still aren’t entirely thrilled with my presence, but I make it work. Most of them are indifferent, and only a couple are still being dicks about it.
And it isn’t like I’m totally ostracized in school either.
Sure, some people give me looks and there are a lot of whispers, but I’m skilled at blocking that kind of thing out.
Mostly I hang out with Rory and Claire whenever I can, and this other girl I’ve met—Chloe Holland—who’s in fifth year but still is in a few of my classes.
The four of us even have a mixed PE block together.
Right now, Claire and I are headed towards the back parking lot together, where Niall always waits for her in his car to drive them home.
She’s telling me that it’s Niall’s birthday today—which I actually already know, since these two girls who sat in front of me in French were talking about the “Footie Captain’s Birthday” and whether or not they’re going to his party tomorrow night.
The party tomorrow is what Claire’s currently inviting me to.
I tell her I’ll have to ask my Mom, which is only half true.
I’ll probably mention it to her, but not really with the intention of gaining permission.
I can tell she’s trying her best to win me over; she’s still been trying to give me and Lorraine “gifts,” making our favorite foods, offering to take us up to Dublin to shop and things.
She works up in Dublin, in public relations or something using her law degree.
I haven’t taken her up on her offer yet.
“I don’t have anything to wear, either,” I add to Claire, which is the truth. I’ve only packed half of my wardrobe when I’ve left for Ireland, and party clothes don’t really make the bin.
“Oh, that’s fine! You can come over early—I have mountains of clothes, honestly it’s a hoard.
We’re practically the same size, give or take an inch.
And besides,” Claire turns, walking backwards with effortless grace.
“I need a wingwoman. Rory isn’t ever allowed to go out, and Niamh and Marissa are always in their own little world together. Pleeeease, Molly?”
Claire talks at a clip that makes my head spin; going a mile a minute with no pitstops.
The girl is a social supernova, yet for all her brightness it seems like she doesn’t really have one core person or group.
She floats around and is a friend to everyone, which—as the saying goes—makes her a friend to no one, I guess.
I’ve never really understood the phrase until now and I feel a sharp pang of protectiveness for her.
I still talk to my friends in America sometimes—usually over MySpace—and I miss them all a lot; Kamaria, Melinda, Caleb, Carson.
Especially Carson, who moved to Texas in eighth grade and my move here only put more distance between us.
For Claire, it seems like she’s missing a Carson or Kamaria or someone of her own.
A friend who just gets you, and always has.
“Sure, Claire. That’s really nice of you, thanks.”
She beams, squeezing me in a rib-cracking hug. “Class! Text me later!”
She skips across the lot to where a dark green Ford is idling.
Niall’s leaning against the driver’s side door, arms folded across his chest. He watches Claire approach with a look that’s one-part fond and one-part exasperated, letting her hug him for about three seconds before prying her off and towards the car.
He opens his door, turning to look over his shoulder, and catches my eye, raising his hand in a simple wave.
I can’t help but smile a little.
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I LINGER IN the showers after Friday’s practice, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders until my skin turns pink.
Even though most of the guys are indifferent, like I’ve said, a couple of jerks still feel the need to be, well, jerks.
Namely, Seamus O’Malley and Mark Corman—a conjoined pair of dumbasses I’ve nicknamed ‘The Ballsack’—who make it their mission that I feel as unwelcome as possible.
Purposeful shoves, late tackles, and “accidental” collisions that leave bruises on my arms and legs.
I stand there, eyes closed, talking myself off the ledge. Don’t overthink. Don’t spiral. Overthinking is like my Olympic sport; I’d say I’m even better at it than soccer. It’s almost impossible to turn my brain off. Still, I try.
When I finally emerge from the changing rooms, bag slung low over my shoulder, one lone car is still sitting in the back lot with the engine running. And there, leaning against it, is the birthday boy himself. Or post-birthday boy, I suppose.
He’s in normal street clothes—dark denim jeans and a crisp grey t-shirt with M??s????s A??? B??? stamped in faded orange letters on the front—and his hair is swept to the side and starting to curl over his forehead. My feet hit the gravel, and I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. Boom-fucking-boom.
“You’re awfully slow,” he remarks as I’m closing in, sliding his phone into his pocket.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans, pulling them up slightly—giving me a heart-stopping glimpse of the dark band of his underwear and the lean, tanned line of his lower torso before he settles his shirt.
Get a grip, Molly. Breathe.
“Didn’t realize shower-time management is a part of the captain’s duties,” I shoot back, hitching my backpack higher.
My voice sounds remarkably steady for someone whose pulse is currently doing a drum solo.
“What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be home blowing out candles on a keg or whatever? ”
“I’ve been sent out on a job.”
“A job?”
“I’m supposed to be escorting one of my guests,” Niall says simply, pushing off the car and walking around to the passenger side door, pulling it open. “So. Hop in. Party’s waitin’ on ya, Molly.”
His smirk is driving me mad, the flutter in my stomach undeniable. I relent to just getting in the car, not trusting my own mouth’s ability to form words.
My reward for getting into his car is a ten-minute silent ride in Niall’s car.
It’s hard for me to believe he and Claire are related.
Where she’s an ever-rushing waterfall of words, Niall is a still pool—you never know how deep it goes or what’s lurking at the bottom.
Not a word comes out of him for the next eight minutes it takes us to get to their estate.
In Ireland, I’ve gathered, an estate is basically like a neighborhood. Alderbank Estate has two streets, and Niall’s house is on the first one.
When we pull into the driveway, he leads me inside and points up the stairs. “Claire’s upstairs. Waiting to turn you into a doll or whatever it is she plans to do. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need to be rescued.”
I climb the stairs slowly as he retreats, my eyes lingering on the framed photos lining the hallway.
There are so many of them. A younger Niall with a gap-toothed grin; Claire in a tutu; and a man who looks so much like Niall it’s almost jarring.
The same jawline. The same steady gaze. Just a much wider smile than I’ve ever seen on Niall, and chestnut brown hair where Niall's is dyed blonde.
I reach the landing and I’m immediately ambushed by a flurry of golden fur.
“Comet! Down, you eejit!” Claire yells, darting out of a room that looks like a glitter bomb’s exploded in it. She grabs the collar of the massive, wiggly golden retriever who’s currently trying to taste my kneecaps. That or push me down the stairs. It’s unclear.
“You must smell like Niall,” Claire giggles, wrestling the dog into a sit. “He’s obsessed with him. Come on—let’s get ready!”
Comet follows us into Claire’s overly bright room. It’s got pink walls, and strings of fairy lights stretching around her bedframe and the ceiling. The closet’s open, clothes literally bursting out; some spread on the floor and others thrown over her chair or bed.
“You’re a bit taller than me,” she muses, digging through a pile of fabric. “So the dresses might be a bit... scandalous. Hope you don't mind showing some leg.”
“That’s fine,” I murmur, still looking around the room.
She holds up two options: a shimmering emerald green and a sleek, minimalist black. “Ma says these are too low cut for me, but you’ve got the chest to pull them off. Green or black?”
“Hm, green?”
I take the dress and retreat to the bathroom off Claire’s room.
It fits well enough—spaghetti straps, a nipped-in waist, and a skirt that hits dangerously high on my thighs.
I smooth it over my hips, looking at myself in the mirror.
I’m reaching for the zipper when the other bathroom door—it’s a Jack-and-Jill style room—swings open.
Niall’s holding a stack of towels, his eyes widening as they sweep over me. The air in the tiny bathroom suddenly feels ten degrees hotter. His gaze drops to my legs, then travels slowly, agonizingly back up to my face. His throat bobs as he swallows.
“Shit—” I jerk back, clutching the fabric of the dress.
“Sorry—I didn't—I thought you were in Claire’s room,” he stammers, his face having turned a spectacular shade of crimson. He backs out so fast he nearly trips over his own feet, slamming the door shut.
I hear Claire’s muffled shriek from the bedroom: “NIALL! STAY OUT OF THE LOO!”
I stand here, my heart hammering against my ribs, staring at the space he’s just been.
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