The night before the first day of secondary school—middle school in America—I couldn’t sleep. My fingers constantly twiddled while my mind refused to go quiet. Tomorrow would be the first time the three of us had been in different classes. We’d be in a bigger school with a lot of people we didn’t know. And I hated that.
Exhaling, I rolled onto my side and forced my eyes shut for the hundredth time. Just when I reached the fuzzy, borderline realm between the conscious and unconscious, something tapped my window.
Once.
Twice.
Followed by a knock that forced me upright in bed. A scream threatened my throat when I saw a silhouette at my window, but I slapped a hand over my mouth when it was Brandon’s face plastered to the glass and not some stranger’s.
“Open up, poss.”
Swallowing hard, I crawled out of bed and quietly shut my door, then locked it before tiptoeing to the window. The worn springs creaked when I lifted it, and I prayed the noise didn’t wake my dad. The window was barely halfway open before Brandon threw one leg over the ledge, followed by the other.
A nervous heat washed throughout me when he hopped into my room, and I took an unsteady step back. Boys had no business in a girl’s room at night. I knew that, but it was Brandon.
The soft glow from my nightlight was just enough that I could make out the dried blood caked to his swollen lip. I knew that split lip was compliments of Mr. O’Kieffe. Tears welled in my eyes, and I spun around because I didn’t want the wounded to console the able.
Brandon tucked his chin to his chest while rubbing a hand over his arm. “Connor was already asleep…”
“It’s okay,” I said, although I knew my daddy would kill me if he found out Brandon was in here. Forcing a smile to hide my worry, I sank to my bed. “Are you okay?”
He gave a curt nod. One that caused a crumpled feeling to travel through my chest. Brandon always tried so hard to come across as tough. To act like nothing bothered him. But I didn’t want him to feel like he had to be tough around me.
I wiggled down beneath the covers, pulling the comforter over my chest, then flattening it out. “You can tell me anything, Brandon. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, poss. I know.”
Silence passed between us. Eventually, he lifted his head, and I could just make out the glisten of tears that begged to fall. Tears I knew he never would set free. Everything I had been taught about right and wrong flew straight out the same window Brandon had crawled through.
I patted the mattress, knowing that boys and girls shouldn’t be in the same bed but also knowing that friends took care of one another. Brandon took a single step, then hesitated.
“There’s nowhere else for you to sleep if you’re going to stay here.” I had a pink sleeping bag in my closet that Daddy had bought for my last birthday, but that lie slipped through my lips easily. I couldn’t stand the thought of Brandon sleeping all alone on the floor when I was certain he already felt alone enough.
I tossed the comforter back, and he shuffled out of his shoes, then crawled in beside me. His head hit the pillow. I didn’t understand why, but it felt exciting to have him so close in the dark quiet.
“Thanks, poss.”
“Yep.”
We laid rigid and unnaturally still like we were afraid to brush against one another as though something about this bed made it worse. The covers shifted when Brandon moved an arm behind his head.
“Brandon…” I turned onto my side, and he rolled to face me. I touched a gentle finger to his swollen cheek because I couldn’t force the next words out: Why does your father hit you? So, I settled with a simple, “Why?”
A small line sunk between his brows. “My dad just gets mad.” He shrugged one shoulder like that was a good enough reason, and for the first time, I realized just how broken Brandon’s life was. “And I can’t let him hit Ma all the time.”
Something in my chest twisted like a rubber band winding tighter and tighter. “It’s not right.”
“It is what it is, poss.”
I shook my head, and the tears I’d been holding back broke free, soaking my pillowcase. “I don’t want him to hurt you, Brandon.”
“Hey.” He swiped a thumb beneath my eye. “Don’t cry, poss.”
“I just…” I sucked in a ragged breath. “My daddy could help you. If you needed to live here for a little while I’m sure—”
“No. It won’t change anything. And I can’t leave my ma.”
“Just let me tell—”
“It’ll make it worse.”
I gnawed at my lip for a second, knowing deep down that I should tell my father. Brandon held out his pinky, and his eyes narrowed. “Promise me you won’t.”
I reluctantly hooked my finger around his in a solemn oath not to tell. A promise that broke my heart.
Minutes of silence passed between us. “I won’t be a kid forever, Poppy.” It was like that simple fact offered him relief.
Most kids wanted to grow up so they could be a fireman or a teacher. Brandon—he wanted to grow up so he wouldn’t get beat on anymore.
“I’m going to learn how to fight. Then he won’t be able to hurt Ma or me again.”
I studied him, noting the way his jaw ticced as he stared at the ceiling. The deep swells his chest made every time he drew in a hard breath. He was hurting, that much was obvious, so I did what my mother always did that made my world right. I threw my arms around him and hugged him, holding him tight. The smell of soap and dirt filled my nose—a smell that was so undeniably Brandon O’Kieffe. I held that scent deep in my lungs until I drifted off to sleep.
The annoying buzz of my alarm woke me. Grumbling, I swatted the snooze and turned on my side with every intention of going back to sleep until I remembered I wasn’t alone. My eyes shot open, and I sat straight up, ready to shake Brandon awake and get him out before my dad came in. But the bed was empty.
A gust of wind fluttered the curtains, and a folded piece of paper skipped across the worn, wood floors. I leaned over and snatched it, opening it with a smile when I saw the note from Brandon: SEE YOU AT SCHOOL. A tiny, round blob, I assumed, was meant to be a possum, was drawn in glittery pink pen. A heart beside it.
I pulled on a T-shirt and jeans, then shoved the note into my pocket for safekeeping.
After a dry piece of toast and a hug from my dad, I grabbed my backpack and met Connor at the street corner. He nudged me. “Are you scared?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Not really.” But I could tell he was nervous from the way he rocked back and forth on his heels. Connor checked his shiny new watch. “He’s gonna be late.”
Just then, Brandon strutted around Mrs. O’Malley’s overgrown rose bush, whistling. Connor mumbled, “What in the…”
Not only had Brandon combed his hair, but his clean shirt was tucked into his jeans. The bruise on his jaw gave him a certain bad boy vibe I knew the girls at school would find appealing—because, at that very moment, I found it appealing.
He whacked Connor on the back, then glanced at me with a wry smirk. “Why are you looking at me all funny, poss?”
A sting of heat swept over my cheeks and chest, and I swallowed. I hated that my best friend could fluster me in ways a best friend shouldn’t, and it seemed to be becoming a regular occurrence.
Brandon talked about the new Star Wars movie on the way to school while I barely managed three words before we reached the schoolyard and stopped. Older kids brushed passed us with confident strides and backpacks slung over their shoulders while we stared at the massive, red-brick building looming in front of us.
Connor touched a hand to my shoulder, ducking his chin to come eye level with me; I hated that they were both getting taller than me. “It’ll be okay, Poppy,” he said.
“Yeah, poss. It’ll be grand just like…” Brandon’s voice trailed off. His gaze honed in on a group of girls in short skirts prancing past.
The thing was, their eyes were on Brandon,
too. They grinned, then giggled with blushing cheeks before they walked off. The way they kept glancing over their shoulders to catch another glimpse of him made me mad.
“Told you, Con.” Brandon nudged Connor with a grin. “Short skirts.”
“Gross,” I muttered under my breath.
“Hey! I’m not wearing a skirt. Don’t mind looking up them, though.” He laughed and strolled backward toward the building. “Have a good first day, possum. I gotta go see cousin Billy, but I’ll see you at lunch.”
Something inside my chest crumpled when Brandon turned and disappear among the other students. I was nervous—or maybe scared of what new friends may mean for the three of us.
Connor walked me to my class, promising everything would be fine and that I would see him and Brandon at lunch.
I took a seat at the front of the classroom and pulled a notebook from my bag, placing it on the desk. The kids in the class were already grouped in their clichés, whispering and talking, and I slouched a little in my chair.
I’d just scribbled the date at the top of my paper when a girl walked past. All I could see was a bare leg. Davie Logan whistled, and I glanced up from my paper just in time to catch the leggy redhead shoot an angry glare at Davie. She dumped her bag onto the desk a few seats over from me, then rolled the waist of her skirt over once more, making the skirt dangerously short.
Her gaze met mine, and I instantly looked away. Girls like that—I’d learned not to mess with.
Other kids entered. Some I knew, others I’d never seen. Then, Neive Kirkpatrick and her minions of friends strutted in. She stopped beside my desk and cocked her hip. “If it isn’t the mankie measch.”
“Go to hell, Neive.” I glared at her, a little swell of pride rising in my chest at the thought of how proud Brandon would be at me for cussing at Neive.
Her jaw dropped for a second before her shocked expression was replaced with a nasty smirk. She swatted my notebook to the floor, stomping on it before she pranced to her desk.
I snatched it with a grumble. The redhead pushed her chair back, the metal legs screeching across the tile when she rose to her feet. She smoothed a hand over her skirt, then made a beeline toward the back of the room.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said. “I’m Hope McGrath.”
Of course, she was. I almost rolled my eyes. An heiress to McGrath Whiskey, the girl was every bit as loaded as she looked, which meant her and Neive would most likely join forces in ruining the lives of those of us who weren’t as fortunate.
“I know who you are,” Neive said, and Hope laughed.
“You may have been Queen Bee at whatever crappy little school you went to before, but you sure as shit aren’t now. Don’t make me ruin your life.” I found the certain cheer to her tone more than amusing. “And, I’m taking this, cunt.”
The class gasped at her crass choice of words.
Seconds later, Hope dropped into the chair beside me, and a glittery, purple notebook skidded across the desk. “For you. Since yours has cheap shoe prints on it.” She turned in her seat, glaring back in Neive’s direction.
I stared at her, eventually mumbling a very confused thanks. Hope wore expensive-looking clothes. Her hair was perfectly styled, her nails manicured, and her face caked in more make-up than I would ever be allowed to wear. Which meant, she was the kind of girl I would expect to befriend Neive, not me.
Brandon, Connor, and I had always been the outcasts, but for whatever reason, Hope had picked me—the measch—over the popular girl.
Later in the day, Hope and I trudged into the crowded, noisy cafeteria and fell into line with the other students. She shot death glares at Neive while we made our way through the line.
“Do you have some personal vendetta against Neive or something?” I asked Hope, taking my tray from the cafeteria worker.
“No. I just don’t like girls like her.”
We found an empty table and set down our food. Hope dropped into the seat across from me, grabbing her apple and taking a bite. “So, do football players really shove kids into lockers in America?”
I shrugged a shoulder. “I guess.”
A tray clattered to the table. “Hey, poss.” Brandon sank to the stool beside me, his eyes locked on Hope, and a smile crossed his face that made it hard to breathe. Connor plopped down on the other side of me, already shoving half a slice of pizza into his mouth.
Hope paid no attention to Connor, she was too busy giving Brandon a once over. Her nose wrinkled. “I can smell pikey a mile away.”
Brandon thumbed at Hope. “Who’s this bitch?”
“Hope.” I swallowed down her last name because I knew Brandon would lose it if he figured out who she really was, but an arrogant grin had already twisted Hope’s glossed lips.
“McGrath,” she finished the introduction, and Brandon’s eyes rolled back in his head on a hard huff.
“Hey.” Connor paused to lick grease from his fingers. “Doesn’t your family own McGrath Whiskey?”
“Yeah.”
He flashed an innocent, wholesome smile that marked him as the good boy. “Nice to meet you. I’m Connor.” He held out a grease-covered hand, but Hope just eyed it until he finally dropped it to the table and went back to his food with a hint of a shrug.
“Tell me you aren’t trying to be friends with her, poss.” Brandon nudged my shoulder. “She’s a redheaded, rich snot.”
I shoved him, and he nearly toppled off the stool. “She’s nice.”
“She’s a bitch.”
Hope’s eyes narrowed. “Only to pikeys.”
Brandon’s stare hardened on her. It was almost like watching two dogs circling a bone, foaming at the mouth. Then Brandon scooped mashed potatoes onto his fork and turned the utensil around. A deep smirk settled on his face.
“Brandon.” I grabbed at his arm, but he yanked away. “Don’t you—”
The fork pinged back, and a glob of food hurdled toward Hope, splattering her shirt. On a gasp, she scraped off the potato with her fingers, then hurled an entire apple at Brandon. It made a distinct crack when it nailed him on the forehead, and a hush fell over the cafeteria—except for the slurp from Connor’s downing his milkshake, eyes trained on the catastrophe at hand.
“Oh, that’s it.” Brandon snatched up his tray, nostrils flaring.
I wasn’t sure whether he intended to throw the whole tray at her or just sling every scrape of food off.
“Brandon,” I shouted. “Stop!”
The tray was still raised by his head when he faced me, brows knitted together. “You’re defending her? She’s a soulless ginger, poss.” He pointed an accusing finger at her with his free hand. “She’s not one of us.”
But I wanted her to be. Which meant I needed to play at Brandon’s weaknesses, and the only weakness I’d ever seen him have was for me…
“Neive called me a mankie measch this morning.” I tugged at his sleeve, and he dropped the tray a little, his attention directed at me. “She knocked my notebook to the floor, then stepped on it. Hope called her names, snatched Neive’s notebook, and gave it to me.”
Brandon tossed the tray to the table, sending mashed potatoes and peas into the air. He huffed before dropping into his seat. “Still soulless,” he mumbled under his breath.
9
Poppy
December 2001
It had been three months since we’d started secondary school, and Brandon and Hope still had a battle of wills going. Like there was some unspoken law that wouldn’t allow them to be civil to one another, but I figured, given enough time, they would eventually warm up to each other. Which is one of the many reasons why I didn’t tell Hope whose house—or rather caravan—we were going to.
We stopped outside the gate, our breath turning to puffs of fog the second it met the cold air. I climbed over the rickety metal, but Hope stayed on the other side. Her gaze drifted over the caravans dotted haphazardly around the overgrown field. "You brought me to a Gypo camp?”
I hated the term Gypo. “It’s a gypsy camp. And yeah”
“And why, exactly, are we here?” Her arms folded over her chest.
“Brandon lives here.”
"Of course, he does.” She gave a flippant roll of her eyes before she hoisted herself over the gate and fell in step behind me.
We wove through the maze of make-shift homes, right past Old Man bundled up in wool blankets and passed out in his tattered lawn chair.
“Is he dead?” Hope nudged his foot with the toe of her shoe like he was an animal left on the side of the road.
“He’s just drunk.”
She shrugged and followed me to Brandon’s door. As soon as I knocked, Brandon peeked out from the side of the curtain. The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Brandon’s ever-growing frame blocked most of the doorway. His gaze darted over my shoulder, and he tossed his head back on a groan. “Ah, poss. What’d you bring her for?”
"Because I like her." I placed my palms against his chest to shove him out of the way, letting them linger a touch too long before I shouldered past him with Hope in tow.
Connor greeted us from the plastic-covered couch, never looking up from the smoldering cigarette gripped between his fingers. Over the past year and a half, Connor had begun untucking his shirts, swearing—doing little things that emulated Brandon, so I wasn’t as shocked by the cigarette as Hope seemed to be. She gasped, clutching a dramatic hand to her chest. “Milkybar. Don’t let the pikey taint you.”
“It’s just a cigarette.” He grinned when his gaze trailed to me.
“Want one, poss?” Brandon stepped between us, already handing over one of the thin sticks.
In my gut, I knew it was a bad idea, but… Brandon handed one to Hope, then took one for himself and placed it to his mouth, drawing my attention to his lips. His eyes locked on me when he lit it.
As much as I hated it, I liked the way my stomach kinked when smoke crawled between his lips. Something about Brandon had always made my heart do a stupid tap dance in my chest. Always.
The Beginning and End of Everything Page 5
