—Ian
Was he serious? I heaved myself forward again, thrusting the paper under Ian’s nose. “This was your note? Your big explanation? This doesn’t even look like your handwriting! I would have thought you were kidnapped!”
Ian startled, like he’d forgotten I was back there. He probably had. He snatched the note from me. “I was going for brevity.”
“Nailed it,” I said.
“Let me see it.” Rowan took the note and read it aloud, his musical voice making it sound even more cryptic. “Wow, that is bad.”
Ian grabbed the paper, stuffing it into his backpack. “I wanted it to be like in war movies where people only have the information they need. That way, when they get captured by the enemy, they can’t have the information tortured out of them.”
“Tortured out of them?” I said incredulously.
He hunched his shoulders sheepishly. “You know what I mean. I just thought it would be better for you if you didn’t have all the facts.”
“I still don’t have all the facts.” I yanked at my right leg, managing to free it from the crevice. If Ian wouldn’t tell me what was going on, maybe Rowan would. I fixed my eyes on the back of his neck. His hair was slightly longer at the nape.
“So who are you exactly?” I asked, using my friendliest Catarina-approved voice. She was big on curiosity as a means of persuasion. Start by acting interested.
I don’t know if it was my question or sparkly tone, but his eyes flicked toward me warily. “Rowan. We met back at the hotel? You told me my bumper was sagging?”
“That sounds dirty,” Ian said.
“It was your tailpipe,” I wailed, dropping the act. “Never mind. That part doesn’t matter. What I want to know is why you”—I pointed at him—“clearly Irish, and my brother”—I pointed at Ian—“clearly American, are acting like best friends. And don’t just say ‘online’ again. People who only know each other online don’t complete each other’s sentences.”
“Isn’t this a violation of the terms and conditions?” Rowan asked, calling upon what Ian had said earlier. Ian gave him a smirk equivalent to a fist bump.
“True, it is a clear violation . . . ,” I started, but I paused to think. What I needed was a cohesive argument. It had worked before in persuading Rowan to give me the keys. “Rowan, the thing is that I’m much more likely to be supportive of Ian’s plans if I know what is going on.”
“Riiiiight,” Ian said, dragging out the word.
“I am,” I insisted. “I didn’t come with you on your first stop just so I could sit back here listening to you guys dissect the music industry.” Saying “first stop” felt like a dangerous concession. It suggested the possibility of the road trip.
Rowan took both hands off the wheel to adjust his glasses. “She’s right. This is why she’s came with us in the first place—to give her some time to get used to the idea.”
Or talk you out of the idea, I added silently.
“Fine. Fall for her evil tactics. But don’t come crying to me when she makes your life a living hell.” Ian fell into a heap against his window. I’d always thought he’d missed his calling by not signing up for drama club.
Rowan lifted his chin curiously in the rearview mirror.
I shrugged. “By all means, continue. I’ll let you know when my evil tactics kick in.”
His dimple winked at me. “Right. Well, Ian and I talk a lot. Like most days. And we’ve known each other since last summer. Well, I guess ‘known’ isn’t quite the right word, is it?” No comment from Ian. Rowan continued nervously. “At first I was just familiar with his work. I read his first series of articles, and we started e-mailing from there. And then—”
“You read his first series of what?” I interrupted.
Ian made a barely audible groan, and Rowan’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “I’m sorry, but I was under the impression that you two had met? Addie, meet Ian Bennett, esteemed teen music journalist. Ian, meet Addie, parking lot tackler extraordinaire.”
Music journalist? I jammed my knees into the back of Ian’s seat. “This is a joke, right?”
Rowan cleared his throat. “Um, sorry, but is this a joke?”
“Addie, I write articles, okay?” Ian propped his feet up on the dashboard and yanked irritably at his shoelaces. “I used to have a blog, but now I get paid to write articles for online publications.”
“Ha ha,” I said. “And you also love My Little Pony, right?”
“What are those guys called?” Rowan asked. “Bronies?”
Ian shot me a dirty-as-mud look, and I flinched. He was serious—and hurt. I could see it in the way he jutted his chin out. “Wait. You really do have a blog? Like online?”
“Yes, it’s online. Where else would it be?” He scowled.
“But . . .” I hesitated, waiting for the pieces to fall into place, like they usually did. They didn’t. “You have a blog blog? Like the kind you add entries to?”
“Yeah . . . like a website run by an individual? They’re usually pretty informal,” Rowan said helpfully, his voice kind. “It’s pretty easy to sign up for one.”
I blinked a couple of times. Anyone else would have made fun of me. He was too nice for his own good. “Thanks, Rowan, but it’s not the idea of a blog that’s tripping me up. I’m just having a hard time believing that Ian has one.” The thought of Ian coming home from practice to pour his feelings out in an online diary was so far in the realm of not possible that it technically didn’t exist.
“Why can’t you believe it?” Ian demanded, his mouth pressed into a tight line. He sounded exactly the way I had when talking to Archie last night. Why, you think it’s impossible that a popular football player would like someone like me? “Because jocks aren’t allowed to do anything but play sports? Thanks for stereotyping me.”
“Ugh. Ian, no one’s stereotyping you.” Lately, Ian had had a huge chip on his shoulder about being seen as The Jock—impossible when he worked so hard to look alternative. And why did he mind the role anyway? It raised him to the level of high school god. “I just don’t get how you’d even have time to write. During the school year you’re either doing homework or playing sports.”
“I make time,” Ian said. “And what do you think I’ve been doing all summer?”
Finally, something clicked into place. Except for when he was at practice, Ian had spent most of the summer stationed at his computer. “Mom said you were working on college admissions essays.”
He let out one of those harsh noises that sometimes passes as a laugh. “I have definitely not been working on college admissions essays. Unless you count creating a portfolio for journalism schools as a college application. If so, then yes.”
“Journalism school? Does Washington State even have a journalism program?”
Ian slammed his hands on the dashboard, making Rowan and me jump. “I’m not going to Washington State.”
“Whoa. Ian, you okay there?” Rowan asked. Ian lifted his chin slightly, as if he was rearing for a fight.
“What do you mean you’re not going to Washington State? They scouted you earlier this summer. They’re going to offer you a full-ride scholarship,” I reminded him. And if this scholarship didn’t work out, then another one would. Great grades plus incredible player equals money.
“I don’t care about the football scholarship,” Ian said, lowering his voice to a simmer.
“Why, because you won the lottery?”
“So fill me in here,” Rowan broke in, his voice confused. “You two are obviously brother and sister, but were you separated at birth? Mom took one, Dad took the other? Or did one of you only recently learn English so that’s why you’ve never communicated before?”
The tips of Ian’s ears suddenly turned red. “It’s pretty hard to communicate with someone who spent their whole summer lying to you.”
I grabbed the back of his seat, my ears as red as his. They were our ultimate anger indicators. “Don’t try to make this about Cubby.
And besides, you’re one to talk. You apparently have a whole secret life.”
“It’s not a ‘whole secret life,’ ” he snapped, imitating my tone. “It was just this summer. And I would have told you if you weren’t so busy sneaking around with Cubby.”
“You have to stop bringing him up,” I yelled.
Rowan tapped Clover’s brakes firmly, lurching both of us forward. If we hadn’t been the only ones on the road, we would have been rear-ended for sure. “Look, guys,” Rowan began, “I get that you’re dealing with some issues here, but I’ve been around enough arguing to last a lifetime. So, Ian, how about you bring Addie up to speed on what is apparently your dual life? I’m pretty curious myself how you’ve managed to keep this a secret from your family.”
“It isn’t that hard to keep it a secret. Unless it’s about football, no one cares what I do.” Ian dropped his shoulders, tension framing his eyes. “Fine. Addie, what do you want to know?”
Where to begin? “What’s your blog’s name?”
“My Lexicon,” Ian said.
“How do you spell that?” I pulled out my phone and typed it in as Rowan spelled. Not only did the blog exist, but it looked way more professional than a seventeen-year-old’s blog should, with a sleek monochromatic theme and MY LEXICON spelled out in all caps across the top.
“It’s a reference to a Bob Dylan quote,” Rowan explained before I could ask. “ ‘The songs are my lexicon. I believe the songs.’ ”
Ian crossed his arms angrily. “My blog is how I got my gig with IndieBlurb. I do a weekly column with them.”
“It’s called Indie Ian’s Week in Five,” Rowan said.
“Indie Ian? That’s, like, your handle?” I kept waiting for one of them to crack a smile, but neither of them did. “Fine. What are the five?”
“They’re music categories.” Ian listed them off on his fingers. “Worth the hype, overhyped, covered, classic, and obscure. Every week I choose a song to fit into each.” He exhaled loudly. “Why are you having such a hard time believing this? I’ve always liked writing. And music. I tried to be on the school newspaper last year, but Coach wouldn’t let me do it. He said he didn’t want me to lose my focus.”
Coach had said that? A flurry of sibling protectiveness roared in my head.
Rowan jumped in. “Ian has a huge following on Twitter. Every time he publishes something, a hashtag goes around—#IndieIanSpeaks. That’s how I found him.”
“It isn’t a huge following,” Ian said modestly, but pride ringed the edges of his voice.
“You have ten thousand followers; how is that not huge?” Rowan said.
Ten thousand? Not bad.
Ian shook his hair into his eyes. “No, it’s never been ten thousand. Every time I get close, I post something in the ‘overhyped’ category that offends people, and there’s a mass exodus. My tombstone’s going to say, ‘Always fifty followers short of ten thousand.’ ” Rowan snorted.
I pulled out my phone to verify the Twitter account. The profile photo on @IndieIan11 was an up-close shot of Ian’s eyes, his long hair framing the right side of the square. 9.9K followers. A massive party I hadn’t been invited to. Hadn’t even been told about.
I gripped the phone hard, a herd of feelings galloping across my chest. At least now I knew why Ian had been so distant all summer. He’d been living a secret online life. “Ian, why didn’t you tell me about all this?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Why would I? It’s not like you listen to anything I say anyway.”
Cop-out answer. “Ian, for the last time, this isn’t about Cubby. If Rowan found you a year ago, that means you were music”—I hesitated—“music journaling way before Cubby and I started hanging out.”
“ ‘Music journaling.’ I like it.” Rowan might as well have been wearing a referee jersey. He was desperate to stop our fight.
Ian turned back impatiently. “So tell me again, are you planning to tell Mom about Cubby during or after your trip to Florence?”
“Ian, we’ve been through this a dozen times. I am not telling her.” My words vibrated loudly through the car. How had he even jumped to that? “And it’s not my trip to Florence. It’s our trip.”
Even I didn’t sound convinced.
The first time I ever lied to Ian, it was about Cubby. It was surprisingly easy.
It was during our last field trip together, and right away I realized something was different about this excursion from the others. Usually, our trips were to my brother’s newest and most recent discoveries, but not this time.
“I’ve been coming here since I got my license,” he said, as I aimed the flashlight at the troll’s one visible eye, glistening as hard and shiny as a bead. Cars roared above us on the overpass.
Ian climbed up the statue’s gnarled hand, settling into the curve between its head and neck. I let my light wander over the statue. The concrete troll was over twenty feet tall, and one of its plump hands clutched a life-size car in its monstrous grip. “Why have I never been here before?”
Ian stretched out over the arm. “I like to come here after practice. To think.”
“To think about what? How you’re going to dominate at the next game?” I teased.
He made a noise in the back of his throat, quickly changing the subject. “Did you notice how blobby the troll is? It’s because people spray-paint him, and the only way to remove the paint is to cover him up with more cement.”
“Nice segue,” I said. Lately, Ian had been dodging every conversation that had anything to do with football. But tonight I wasn’t going to pry. It was nice just to be with him. I felt like I hadn’t seen much of him lately.
I tucked the flashlight into my sweatshirt pocket and scrambled up to join him. For a while, we listened to the rhythmic rumbling of cars rushing overhead. Their predictable noises were comforting. I could see why Ian liked it here.
“Where were you last night?” he suddenly asked, and my heart raced faster than the cars on the highway.
I avoided looking him in the eye. “I went to bed early.”
He shook his head. “I came into your room to see if you wanted to watch SNL. You were gone on Tuesday night too. How are you getting out? The window? Kind of ballsy to climb out past Mom and Dad’s room.”
Very ballsy. Particularly for a person who was five foot one on a good day trying to descend a tree whose branches were spaced out at least five feet apart.
“I was probably in the kitchen,” I said, surprised by how easily the lie slipped through my mouth. I’d never lied to Ian before, never even really considered it. But then, I guess I’d never had a reason before. A small smile invaded my face. I couldn’t help it.
He raised his eyebrows. “So now that I know how you’re sneaking out, the question is who are you sneaking out with?”
I pressed my lips together, sealing in my secret. Sometimes it felt like everything I owned had once belonged to one of my brothers, and as much as I loved them, I loved the idea of having something all to myself even more.
After a few seconds Ian let out a long and exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Be that way.” He slid off the troll, his sneakers thudding heavily onto the ground. “But you know I’ll find out eventually.”
Taking me to the troll was Ian’s attempt at drawing out my secret: I’ll tell you one of mine, you tell me one of yours.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.
Rowan’s car raced down the twisted road as I watched Ireland suddenly morph into something remote and ferocious. Roofless stone structures lined the narrow roads, moss blanketing them softly in green. Everything looked abandoned, which for some reason made my internal clock tick even louder. I had less than an hour to convince Ian to abandon his plan.
Luckily, I had a secret weapon. Two weeks ago, my mom and I had driven over an hour north to visit her aunt, and I’d gotten stuck listening to a new Catarina Hayford recording called “Modes of Persuasion.” Back then I hadn’t thought I wou
ld ever need it. But now I needed to draw on the experts. Step one: act curious. “So what exactly does the Burren have to do with Titletrack?”
The bruise under Ian’s eye looked at me accusingly. “Listen, Catarina. We’re working on a strictly need-to-know basis here. Also, no one invited you, so quit asking questions.”
“I was not being Catarina,” I snapped. I guess he’d listened to that one too.
“Yes, you were. Rule number one,” he said in a surprisingly good impression of Catarina’s throaty voice, “act curious.”
“I’d ask who Catarina is, but you’d probably both rip my head off,” Rowan said.
“You’re safe on this one,” Ian assured him. “She’s a real estate guru who spends all of her free time getting spray tans. She turned our mom into a Seattle real estate mogul.”
“I didn’t know your mom was in real estate.” Rowan slid his eyes curiously at Ian. For someone who was so close to my brother, he knew surprisingly little about him. He hadn’t even known Walt’s name.
“Rule number two: Never meet the client halfway. Meet them all the way.” Ian flicked his hair behind his shoulder and pursed his lips convincingly. “Rule number three: Be realistic and optimistic. The future belongs to the hopeful.”
I flicked him on the shoulder. “Ian, stop.”
He snorted and dropped the pose, ducking down to look out the windshield. “Rowan, is this Corofin?”
“No. That was the first town. This is Killinaboy. Also, I’m overruling your terms and conditions.” Rowan’s gaze fell on me, light as a butterfly. “Your sister needs to know what we’re doing.”
“What? Why?” he asked.
“Because if she knows why you’re taking off without her, maybe she’ll retaliate less.”
“Rowan, believe me. She won’t retaliate less,” Ian said.
“She can hear you,” I reminded them, my gaze snagged on yet another attempt by Rowan to adjust his glasses. The way he pushed them up was the perfect combination of endearing and nerdy. If he didn’t seem so clueless about it, I’d think he was doing it on purpose. “And, Ian, I’m starting to like your friend here. Unlike you, he actually considers other people’s feelings.”
Love & Luck Page 7
