"I don't know,” I sighed and rolled the white cylinder between my fingers. “What's the point?" The point, at least to me, was to impress Brandon. To show him, I could be just as bad as he was.
His gaze lifted to mine on a shrug. "Because it's what grown-ups do.” He passed the lighter to Hope. "It’s just badass, poss."
"Yeah.” Hope pointed at Connor and snort-laughed under her breath. “Milkybar looks like a real badass."
After a hesitant second, Connor halfway lifted a middle finger. "Shut it, McGrath." His eyes watered the instant he took another puff, and the attempt he made to hold his breath lasted less than two seconds before he went into a coughing fit.
Hope nudged my shoulder. “Total badass,” she mumbled, then lit hers before handing the lighter to me.
I stared at the black piece of plastic with a picture of a girl in a bikini, thinking that Brandon must have nicked it from his Uncle Darren…
Hope blew out a cloud of smoke on a hard wheeze. “It’s not that bad.”
Not that bad. I wanted to roll my eyes because the disgusted look on Hope’s face when she glanced back at the cigarette told me it was nothing short of awful. But, at our age, we wanted nothing more than to be grown. To be taken seriously and not told what we should and shouldn’t do, so she took another drag, visibly fighting the urge to cough.
“I swear, Poppy. It kind of makes you tingly.”
“Come on, poss.” Brandon stepped closer to me and dipped his head so that his eyes were level with mine. “Do it.”
The tiny lighter felt like a lead weight in my damp palm. Brandon inched closer, his nose almost touching mine. The scent of soap and something absolutely Brandon almost swallowed me whole. I wanted him to stay right there, and maybe that was why I pressed my thumb to the striker and paused, holding his gaze. So he’d stay close to me like that. Just a little longer.
"You don't have to do it," Connor managed between coughs.
Brandon’s gaze tore from mine, and he took a sudden step back, running a hand over his messy hair.
"I know I don't have to, Connor,” I snipped, angry he’d distracted Brandon.
Connor held up his hands, palms out while directing his attention to an invisible, loose thread on the sleeve of his shirt. He mouthed sorry, then grabbed his cigarette and took a small puff.
Guilt twisted my insides. I was tired of Connor attempting to be the angel on my shoulder while it was so painfully obvious that all he wanted to do was wear Brandon’s horns.
I pressed my thumb over the wheel. A flame sparked to life, and I inhaled, watching in horror when the end of the cigarette went from white to orange to bright red, and a taste similar to burnt popcorn coated my tongue. I blew out a thick stream of smoke, triumphantly, because I—Poppy Turner—wasn’t coughing like everyone else in the caravan. "Not that bad.” I shot the smuggest grin I could muster to Brandon, while I took another drag like a champ.
He shook his head on a cough-laced laugh.
"What?"
"Poss, you ain't even inhaling."
"What? Am too!"
He kept laughing, Hope was fighting a laugh, and Connor was staring down at the table. Brandon moved toward me, placing his cigarette to his mouth. He inhaled a deep breath and held it before allowing the smoke to slowly creep between his lips like fog rolling through a cemetery. "Act like you're about to go under water. Take a breath like that, poss."
I took a hefty drag, sucking the smoke deep inside my lungs. My throat and chest burned, my stomach rolled, and the smoke came out in a fit of coughs that had me bent at the waist and desperate to drag in fresh air.
Howling, Brandon slapped his hand on his thigh, then wiped tears from his face. Heat stung my cheeks. All that, and he would still see me as the good girl.
Still choking on the smoke, I dropped the cigarette into a soda can in front of Connor. The ember hissed, and I flopped down onto the floor beside the table topper Christmas tree, dejected and angry at myself for even trying to do something so stupid to impress Brandon.
“Do you have things to do in this…” Hope glanced around, a slight snarl of disgust on her lips. “Caravan.”
Brandon grabbed a box from the corner and dumped a pile of DVDs out on the seat beside Connor. Several of the plastic cases clattered to the floor.
Hope and Connor sifted through the pile while I sulked. "Die Hard. Monty Python. Oh!” She held one up. “Titanic."
“Oh, that’s my favorite!”
Brandon snatched the DVD from her hand and hurled it across the room. "I'm not watching anything with Leonardo DiCaprio in it. Even if he does die at the end." Gripping the cigarette between his lips, he grabbed a case. "Die Hard, it is."
Hope crossed her arms over her chest with a roll of her eyes, and we both groaned in unison.
Brandon was already crouched in front of the ancient box TV when Connor took a movie and flipped it over in his hands. "Deep Throat?" His brows pinched together. “What's that?"
"Don't know. It's my dad's. He says not to touch it." Brandon tossed Die Hard down reached across the table to snatch the one from Connor’s hand. "Which means it's probably something we should watch."
Brandon switched on the TV, then shoved the disc into the DVD player, and took a seat next to Connor.
Hope crouched beside me, pressing a hand to the carpet before inspected her palm. "Is it safe to sit?" she whispered.
I grabbed her arm and yanked her down.
The beginning of the movie was full of permed hair and men with thick mustaches. Brandon had already popped open Die Hard and started to the TV but stopped midstride when some weird 80s music started, and the woman on the screen slowly pulled her shirt over her head. Brandon inched closer to the screen. Connor pulled a Milkybar from his pocket, peeled back the wrapper, and took a bite, his eyes glued to the movie. Brandon raked his teeth over his lip, and all I could think about was how I wanted him to look at me with that same intensity.
The woman stripped down to nothing, then the man touched her in ways that brought a strange, fluttering sensation to my stomach and between my legs. I wanted to look away, but as ashamed as I was to think it, I liked it. I liked watching Brandon’s reaction to it until he turned and glanced at me. Then embarrassment bled through me, and I slammed a hand over my face.
A long moan came from the screen, and I peeked through the slit in my fingers.
Hope was right beside Brandon, and she’d lit another cigarette. “Your dad’s a pervert,” she said, taking a puff.
“You’re watching it, too.”
She shrugged, then whacked him on the back. “So I am, pikey. So I am…”
10
Brandon
January 2002
It was almost five, and Uncle Darren said he’d be here by a quarter to four. He was always late.
Sighing, I picked a wide blade of grass and held it to my lips, blowing it until it sounded like a mini trumpet, then leaned against the side of Uncle Darren’s caravan. From here, I could see the whole camp and Old Man passed out in his lawn chair. A rare glimpse of sunshine peeked through the trees, bathing the leaf-strewn grass in golden light. When I was seven, I asked Uncle Darren why his caravan was out in the middle of the field, well away from the others. He said it was so he didn’t wake everyone up when he brought his lady friends back.
Old Man’s goat came bleating around the side of the caravan, followed by Uncle Darren’s heavy footfalls. Excitement darted through me like an electrical current. I had been waiting for this for what seemed like an eternity. Ever since Dad took me to my first fight, I had been counting down the days, waiting for my first lesson with Uncle Darren.
He finally stumbled around the corner of the caravan, then slumped sideways against it with a thud. His jeans weren’t even done up properly, and his bright, ginger hair stuck up in every direction. The stout smell of Guinness permeated the air when he exhaled a hard breath.
“First thing you need to know…” He placed his feet a shou
lders width apart and twisted his body. His stained, white vest strained over the bulging muscles of his chest. Unlike my dad, Uncle Darren still fought. “You need to stand like this.” He raised his fists in front of his face, swaying on the spot. When he flexed his biceps, the tattoos that covered his skin stretched and bulged.
I mimicked his stance, and a crooked smile worked over his lips.
“Good. Now punch me.” He tapped his jaw. “Right here.”
“But—”
“Hit me, you little pussy!”
I swung. My fist smacked against his face. Though a painful crack radiated through my knuckles, Uncle Darren didn’t even flinch.
A deep belly laugh rumbled from his chest. His hands clapped together like a performing seal as he threw his head back. “Again. This time, don’t hit like a girl.” He stared right at me, one ginger eyebrow arching high over mischievous eyes.
I must have hit him a hundred times while he drank three more tins of Guinness. By the time I threw my last punch, the sun had all but sank below the horizon. Uncle Darren’s cheeks and jaw were bright red—not that he seemed to care—and my hand was swollen and throbbing.
I held up my fist, barely able to open my fingers. “I think I broke my hand.”
“Good. It’ll heal stronger.”
“But, I can’t straighten my fingers.”
“What do you need to be doing that for?” He burped. “You need fists, lad.” He tipped up the last of his can.
I glanced at the marks on his face. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
Through a snort, he choked on his mouthful of Guinness, then finally wheezed out a breath. “I once fought Billy Big Bollocks. Got my nose, my eye socket, and my jaw broken. And then we went out in Dublin, partied until the wee hours. The trick is…” He tapped his temple, and I waited with bated breath, expecting some revolutionary tactic worthy of the Dalai Lama to be revealed. “To get shit faced. Then you can’t feel a damn thing.”
I wanted to learn how to fight, but at the same time, something uncomfortable sat in my gut at the thought of being like Uncle Darren. Like my Dad.
“Right, off with ya. I have a pool game to get to.” Uncle Darren turned and strolled back toward the gate, hefting himself up and teetering dangerously at the top, finally descending the gate on the other side before he staggered out of sight. I’d probably find him passed out outside his caravan the next day. He never seemed to quite make it inside.
I walked back across the field, toward the other caravans. The closer I got to home, the more acid burned up the back of my throat. It was Saturday, and the sun was down, which meant Dad would be drunk.
My hand trembled as I reached for the door. I stepped inside to Dad holding Ma against the wall, his hand around her throat. My flight or fight response kicked in, the problem was I wanted to both run and fight. Anger washed over me, tightening my chest. Red tinted my vision, and before I knew what I was doing, I balled my fist the same way Uncle Darren had taught me. I threw one, solid punch at Dad’s kidney, and his hand unwound from Ma’s neck. For one amazing moment, I felt triumphant. I didn’t feel powerless—then came the blow.
His knuckles collided with my face with a harsh smack. I went from standing to sprawled out, flat on my back with no in-between.
“Des!”
My vision cleared enough to see Ma standing between Dad and her back in my direction.
“Leave him alone!” There was a strength in her voice I’d never heard.
Dad peeked around Ma, pointing a finger. “Try to hit me, you little shit. You get the feck out of my house.”
I scrambled to my feet and dove for the door while Ma’s cries blended and mixed with the ruckus shout of my father. He would hurt her, but I couldn’t do a damn thing to save her, and it seemed I only made things worse. That internal battle of a child who could do nothing in an adult situation had been a constant in my life. I asked her once why she stayed with him. Her answer: my Dad was a complicated man. He had demons, but she loved him. In the same breath, she told me that we don’t give up on people.
She needed to, though, because my dad was a lost cause and a horrible person. Let the Devil have him.
A sea of anger and worry swam inside me while I made my way from the camp into town. Before long, I was outside Connor’s bedroom window, banging. He hurried across the room and shoved up the pane of glass, his gaze darting over his shoulder. The second his eyes met mine, they bugged wide. “Bran! Are you okay?”
I threw my leg through the gap, climbing over the ledge and dropping to his carpet. “Yeah, I’m fine.” My words were thick and awkward, even to my own ears.
Frowning, he said, “Your face doesn’t look fine,” on his way out of the room. He rushed back with a mirror and held it up to reveal my father’s handiwork. The left side of my face was swollen like a chipmunk storing nuts, and the bruise was already setting in. Even I was shocked at how bad it appeared. Dad had never hit me that hard before.
“Can I stay here tonight?”
“Sure. I’ll go get you some ice.” Connor retrieved some frozen peas, then made up a bed on the floor for me from a bundle of old blankets.
I was happy that he was right there next to me, but as darkness engulfed us, I realized how utterly alone I felt. Connor was like a brother to me, but he was a good boy from a good family. When I told him I was fine, he believed me, and even if he hadn’t, he couldn’t have done anything to change it.
While he was my best friend, he wasn’t the friend I needed—not at that moment. His breaths finally evened out into a deep sleep, and I silently crept to the window and left.
It was well past midnight by the time I made it to Poppy’s, but when I knocked on her window, she got up immediately. In her half-asleep state, she slid the glass up and let me in. She didn’t say a word, simply crawled back into bed and lifted the duvet, waiting for me to climb in beside her.
As soon as my head hit the pillow, her arms came around me, and that peace I only felt with her washed over me. Poppy gave me a sense of safety that no one else could.
I would never admit it, but she made me feel loved. That simple fact instilled in me the belief that I could take on this shitty world for one more day.
11
Connor
March 2002
Sighing, I plopped onto the empty park swing between Poppy and Hope. The chains creaked and groaned when I pushed back, then stopped.
I was in the purgatory between childhood and adolescence. The time of life where I sometimes didn’t do things I wanted to—like swing—for the simple fact that I felt too old.
Brandon came from the tree line, zipping his pants before he took a seat in the grass. No sooner had his butt hit the ground than Poppy hopped from the swing and went straight to him, sitting down behind him and picking a dandelion. I kicked up a cloud of dust with the toe of my shoe and exhaled.
“He’s such a pikey.” Hope spun in circles, knotting the chain until her toes barely touched the dirt. When she lifted her feet, the swing whirled around like a carnival ride. Her red hair fanned out behind her like a soft flame.
I dug into my pocket for my candy bar, holding the smooshed, melted bar in my palm while watching Poppy stick a field’s worth of yellow weeds in Brandon’s hair. It bothered me that she did things like that with him. That she gave him all those little touches… Jealousy swelled in my chest, and I chucked the stupid candy bar across the playground, then gripped the chain until it dug into my palm.
“What gives, Milkybar?” Hope had already twisted up the swing again.
“Nothing.”
“If you like her, you should just tell her.”
Embarrassment heated my cheeks. “I don’t like her.”
“Whatever.” The swing spun again, and when it stopped, Hope jumped down and went to sit beside Poppy. Which, I guessed, was why Brandon shot right to his feet. He said the sound of her voice made him want to bang his head against a rock.
He swatted the flowers from his h
air on his way toward the swing set, stopping to pick up my melted Milkybar and cram it into his pocket.
He took the swing that Hope had vacated. The chains creaked under his weight when he gently swayed back and forth. “So, I heard that Suzie Brady’ll show you her girly bits for two quid."
I’d seen plenty of girly bits in nudey magazines, thanks to Brandon. And I’d gone to plenty of confessions for it, too. But taking a peek at a naked girl in real life had a certain…sinful allure to it. "No way?"
There was a good chance Brandon was lying. And I hoped for my soul’s sake that he was.
"Yeah.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “For a fiver, she'll show you that and her titties. And she's fifteen, Con. She's got real ones." Brandon smiled before he fished five quid from one of his pockets, eyebrows waggling. "Fancy a walk over to ole' Suzie's house?" He clicked his tongue.
My gaze drifted to Poppy, who, of course, was watching Brandon. Hope was watching her watch Brandon with a displeased snarl.
Deep down, I felt that Poppy liked him the same way Neive did, and it bothered me. Even though I prayed time and time again for it not to, it did, and something inside of me snapped. Having Suzie give us a peek for money was nothing short of adolescent prostitution, and while I knew it would send me straight to hell, I didn’t care.
Poppy liked Brandon.
The rebel.
The pikey.
The guy who nicked “shit” and wanted to hand over five quid to stare at a pair of boobs he couldn’t even touch. Maybe if I toughened up…
I slid out of the swing, yanked my nice, clean shirt out from the waist of my trousers, and ran a hand through my hair, hoping it looked half as disheveled as Brandon’s. "Let's go to Suzie's," I said, glaring at the girls.
“Our lives are about to change, Con.” Brandon slapped a hand on my back. "We're about to cross over into manhood.”
"Right."
We crossed the playground with determined strides. Brandon went on and on about some speech his Uncle Darren had given him about becoming a man, but I couldn’t listen. I was too busy convincing myself all sins were equal in the eyes of God, and that this would be no worse than the time I held Davie Logan’s dog while Brandon spray painted it. Three hail Mary’s and I should be good.
The Beginning and End of Everything Page 6
