Love & Luck

by Jenna Evans Welch

  “But Ian doesn’t need a college admissions essay,” Walt said, unconsciously flexing his left biceps. “He could fail his whole senior year and still get into any sports program in Washington. Why is he wasting time writing a paper?”

  I automatically jumped to Ian’s defense, my voice coming out in a snarl. “Maybe he likes writing.” This is what Ian meant. Any time the subject of his future came up, it was automatically wrapped in a helmet and shoulder pads. Suddenly, a new idea popped into my head. One that might actually work. I quickly softened my voice. “Ian’s trying to get into Notre Dame or Penn State. They have stricter admissions rules, so the paper matters.”

  “Penn State?” Walt whistled admiringly. “You’re right, he might need something a little extra to get admitted there.”

  “Exactly!” My voice was way too amped-up.

  “So . . . why is this a secret?” Walt asked, doubt edging its way back into his voice. He looked Rowan up and down, and Rowan straightened, lifting his chin slightly, maybe in an attempt to look more professional.

  “He really wants to surprise Mom and Dad,” I added quickly. “Can you imagine how excited Dad would be if Ian played for Penn State? And it was so hard for Ian to get matched up with a good . . . student adviser. He was really lucky to get Rowan.”

  Walt still looked a little unsure, but he nodded slowly. “All right, I’ve got you, sis. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Thanks, Walt, I really appreciate it. Now, I think you’d better get back to the group; we don’t want them to notice that you’re gone.”

  He sighed wearily. “Remind me to never travel with Aunt Mel again. The last two days have been a nightmare.” He tilted his head at Rowan. “Nice to meet you, man. Take good care of my brother and little sis.”

  “She’s pretty good at taking care of herself, but I will,” Rowan said.

  Walt gave me a quick, strong-smelling hug, then ducked back out of the room.

  “That wasn’t so bad, right, Maeve?” Rowan collapsed back against the cave.

  I fell back next to him. “Thanks for jumping in with the college admissions story. I think it may have worked.”

  It may have worked short-term, but it definitely wouldn’t work long-term. Secret keeping simply wasn’t a part of Walt’s chemical makeup. I’d just activated a ticking time bomb.

  We waited as long as my adrenaline would allow—about seven minutes—while Rowan texted Ian and then traded me his hoodie for the navy sweater so I could cinch it around my face. Under the circumstances, it was the best disguise we could muster. We crept carefully out of the cave and then ran full speed, me praying fervently that no one from the group was watching the grounds too closely.

  Back at the car, Ian was a solid mess of nerves, so bouncy that he could barely get the window down. We both ducked low, Rowan attempting to tear out of the parking lot. “They weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow,” Ian said. “I checked the itinerary.”

  “Sounds like they aren’t following the itinerary.”

  “I can’t believe you saw Walt,” he moaned. “Of all people, Walt.” My thoughts exactly.

  “Maybe it will be okay.” I was trying to emulate the yoga instructor who sometimes came to our pregame practices to help us with visualization. Her voice was smooth and melodic and always worked to calm my nerves. “Rowan came up with a great story about you staying in Ireland to work on a college admissions essay. Plus, he promised to not tell Mom.”

  “Addie, he’s Walter.”

  I abandoned the yoga teacher voice. “I know he’s Walter. What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Guys, remember the sibling treaty? No fighting?” Rowan hunched over the steering wheel, looking anxiously at the road. We were stopped at a crosswalk, a flood of people blocking our exit.

  “I just can’t believe this happened.” Ian’s leg bouncing slowed, and he slumped dejectedly against the side of the car. Suddenly, my phone chimed and he whipped back around. “It’s Mom, isn’t it? Walt lasted a whole ten minutes.”

  “It’s not Mom,” I said, my relief quickly replaced with confusion. It was from one of my soccer teammates, Olive, and was in her signature all caps.

  DID IAN REALLY GET KICKED OFF THE TEAM????

  EVERYONE IS TALKING ABOUT IT AND FREAKING OUT!!!!

  What?

  I looked up, meeting Ian’s nervous gaze. “Who is it?” he asked, his voice drum-tight.

  “It’s . . . Lina,” I said, making a split-second decision to lie. Olive prided herself on always knowing what was going on, but this text couldn’t be true. And bringing up some stupid rumor would probably just make Ian angrier. “She’s just confirming her flight.”

  The crosswalk finally cleared and Rowan surged forward. “Tomorrow evening, right? And they’re going to take the train to the festival?”

  I nodded, my head too cloudy to form words. What had kicked off this rumor? And of course people were freaking out. Ian was the star player—the MVP. If he got kicked off, there’d be riots in the street.

  I rubbed my thumb over the screen, and an uncomfortable thought popped into my head. One of my parents’ favorite phrases: Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

  Something had started this rumor. What was it?

  Once we cleared Blarney, the road became extra twisty, relegating Ian to his balled-up position against the car door. I’d been studying him carefully since Olive’s text. Part of me wanted to shove my phone under his nose and ask him what it was all about, but the other part was afraid of opening another door—who knew what kind of ugliness was on the other side?

  Rowan’s voice pierced the silence. “Addie, do you know what this light on the dashboard means? It just turned on.”

  I set the guidebook down and scrambled forward to get a look. The temperature gauge was all the way up to the red H, and a small orange indicator light glowed next to it. I almost wished I didn’t know what it meant.

  “It’s bad news, isn’t it?” Ian said, watching my face.

  “The car is overheating.” I rose to look at the hood. At least there was no steam. Yet.

  “Is that a big deal?” Rowan asked, tapping his thumb nervously on the steering wheel.

  “Only if you want to keep your engine.” His complete lack of car knowledge was almost endearing. “Almost” because it kept getting us into trouble. “Pull over, but don’t kill the ignition.”

  Ian spun his carsick face away from the window, his voice wobbly. “Addie, we don’t have time to pull over. My interview appointment is in an hour.”

  “Then we definitely don’t have time to break down on the side of the road. We need to stop. Now.”

  “Just do it.” Ian sighed, admitting defeat. I was the final word in car maintenance, and he knew it. Even our car-ogling dad had started asking me for advice on his old BMW.

  Rowan pulled up alongside a line of trees. I crouched down near the hood, coming face-to-face with a small, steady trickle of liquid. I stuck my hand under, and a drop of green goo landed in my palm. “Great,” I muttered, wiping my hand on my shorts. The guys squatted down on either side of me.

  Ian clenched his fists nervously. “What is it? What’s that green stuff?”

  “It’s antifreeze. Max probably overfilled the radiator, which causes too much pressure, and then you end up with leaks and your engine can’t cool itself.”

  “I’m going to kill him.” Rowan punched his fist into his hand. “And then I’m going to get my money back and kill him again.”

  “So now what? We tie up the radiator with a hanger? Plug it with bubble gum?” Ian asked, tugging anxiously at the ends of his hair. “Because missing the interview is not an option. Miriam is a huge deal in the music world. The fact that she agreed to see me was a complete—”

  “Ian, I get it,” I interrupted, trying to think up a quick solution. I’d once seen a car show host crack an egg into a steaming radiator, allowing the heat to cook the egg and plug up the hole. But we didn’t have any
eggs, and it would probably gum up the engine anyway. “How far are we from Cobh?”

  Rowan shielded his eyes to look up the road. “Maybe twenty kilometers?”

  I jumped to my feet. It was never a good idea to drive on an overheating engine, but if we sat around waiting for a tow truck, we would definitely miss Ian’s appointment. Was it worth the risk?

  I looked down at Ian’s still-clenched fists. It was either Clover or Ian. One of them was going to blow. I mentally flipped through the Auto Repair for Dummies book I kept on my nightstand. It was the only book that simultaneously stuck to my brain and made me feel calm. Something was clearly wrong with me.

  “Ian, go turn on the heat. We’re going to idle for a few minutes. Rowan, I need you to pop the hood and find me some water. I’ll refill the radiator and we’ll watch the gauge the whole time. And, Ian, find us a mechanic shop in Cobh. We need to drive directly there.”

  His smile filled up the entire road. “Done.”

  Cobh

  Cobh, pronounced COVE. Or as I like to call it, the town of LISTEN TO YOUR UNCLE. NO, REALLY, LISTEN TO HIM.

  Yes, there is a story, honey bun. But first, context.

  Cobh is a good-bye kind of place. See that dock down by the water? It was the stepping-off point for 2.5 million Irish emigrants. It was also the site of one rather famous good-bye: the Titanic. You’ve heard of it? The Unsinkable Ship made its final stop in Cobh, adding and subtracting a few passengers before slipping off into the icy Atlantic and infamy. I’m going to tell you about one of the lucky passengers.

  Francis Browne was a young Jesuit seminarian with an uncle who had a flair for gift giving. His uncle Robert (bishop of the spiky cathedral you see in the center of town) sent him a ticket for a two-day birthday cruise aboard the Titanic. The plan was to start in Southampton and end in Cobh, where he’d disembark, enjoy a slice of chocolate cake, and spend some quality time with good old Uncle Rob.

  It was a great plan. And a thrilling ride. Along with snapping more than a thousand photographs, Francis did a good deal of schmoozing. One wealthy American family was so taken with him that they offered to pay his full voyage to America in exchange for his company at dinner. Hurray! Ever the dutiful nephew, Francis sent a message to his uncle asking for permission to stay aboard and received this rather terse reply: GET OFF THAT SHIP.

  Francis and his iconic photographs got off that ship. Arguably, it was the most important decision he ever made.

  All this in preparation for the rather terse and important message I have for you, my jaunty little sailor: GET OFF THAT SHIP.

  What ship? You know what ship, love. It’s the one you built back before the water got cold and the sailing treacherous. The one you stocked full of optimism and excitement and look what’s up ahead—this is so thrilling! When hearts get involved, heads like to join in too, creating hypothetical futures full of sparkling water and favorable tides. And when those futures don’t work out? Well, those ships don’t just drift away on their own. We have to make a conscious effort to pull up anchor and let them go.

  So get off the ship, dove, and send it out sea. Otherwise, you run the risk of allowing the thing that once carried you to become the thing that weighs you down. Solid land isn’t so bad. Promise.

  HEARTACHE HOMEWORK: Find some reasonably sturdy paper and draw your ship, pet. The plans, the dreams, all of it. I don’t care how bad you are at drawing. Just get it all down. Now we’re going to have ourselves a little send-off party. Use the PAPER BOAT FOLDING 101 instructions at the end of the book to create a tiny vessel. Fold that future of yours into a boat, and then put it in the water. Let the water do the rest.

  —Excerpt from Ireland for the Heartbroken: An Unconventional Guide to the Emerald Isle, third edition

  WE PULLED INTO COBH A hot, sweaty mess. To draw heat from the engine, we’d had to keep the car’s heater on full blast, and by the time we made it to the auto shop, we were all dripping in sweat. And I only got hotter when the mechanic—a vaguely tuna-fish-smelling man named Connor—took one look at me and predecided that I couldn’t have any idea what I was talking about. “I’ll just have a look myself,” he said.

  “There’s a hole in the radiator,” I insisted. “I already found it.”

  His mouth twisted into a patronizing smile. “We’ll see.”

  Before I could blow up, Ian yanked me toward the door. “We’ll be in touch.”

  We hustled down the waterfront streets, carrying our bags past candy-colored row houses with lines of laundry out back. Ships bobbed against the wooden docks like massive rubber ducks, and a spiky stone cathedral stood tall and commanding, its steeple piercing the clouds.

  The church was surrounded by visitors, and as we approached, bells suddenly split the air, their song surprisingly cheerful for such a grim-looking structure. “Wow.” I skidded to a stop, my neck craning up toward the bell tower.

  “Man down,” Ian called over the clanging, circling back to grab my elbow. “Those bells mean we’re supposed to be there by now. You can stare at churches later.”

  “We have to come back for our homework anyway,” Rowan said, pointing to the harbor.

  “Fine.” I sighed, slinging my backpack up higher on my shoulder and breaking into a run.

  Au Bohair Pub was hard to miss. The two-story structure had been painted a startling robin’s-egg blue and was sandwiched between a lime-colored hat shop and a cranberry-colored bakery. Even this early in the day, it had a festive, game-day feel, music and people spilling out onto the sidewalk in front of it, a collective cloud of cigarette smoke hovering in the air. When we got to the edge of the crowd, Ian ran up to a man standing near the doorway wearing worn denim overalls. “Do you know where I can find Miriam?”

  “Miriam Kelly?” He smiled wide, revealing corncob-yellow teeth. “Stage left. She’s always stage left. Just make sure you don’t bother her during a set. I made that mistake once.”

  Ian nodded nervously, shoving the handle of his suitcase into my hand. “Addie, could you just . . . ?” He shot through the doorway, disappearing in a crush of people.

  “Nope, don’t mind at all,” I called after him. It wasn’t like I already had my suitcase to deal with. The man gave me an amused smile.

  “Here, let me help you,” Rowan said, absentmindedly shuffling the guidebook from under my arm and disappearing just as quickly as Ian had.

  “Really?” I muttered, grabbing hold of the bags. I bumped clumsily through the entryway, running over toes and sloshing people’s drinks as I went. It was only when I’d squeezed into the middle of the room that I took a moment to look around. Wooden tables littered the floor, and the walls were almost completely eclipsed by music posters. A well-stocked bar stood in one corner of the room, customers filling every inch of remaining space.

  “Ian!” I called. He and Rowan stood on tiptoe, staring hungrily at the stage. “Stage” was a bit too grand of a word for it. It was actually a small wooden platform, just a foot or two off the ground, that was somehow managing to accommodate a large tangle of musicians, their various instruments belting out a decidedly Irish tune.

  I mashed my way over to them. “Could have used a little help.”

  Neither of them acknowledged me. They were too busy fanboying. Hard.

  “That’s Titletrack’s first stage,” Rowan was saying, his glasses practically fogging up with excitement. “This place is lethal. So, so lethal.”

  “I can’t believe we’re here,” Ian said. “We are standing in the first place Titletrack ever performed.”

  I wriggled between them to get their attention. “Remember when you left me with all the bags?”

  “Is that my baby music journalist?” a raspy voice boomed from behind us.

  We all spun around, coming face-to-face with a short, round woman wearing thick spectacles and a shapeless brown dress, her hair pulled back into a tight knot.

  “Um . . . are you . . . ?”  Ian managed.

  “Miriam Kelly.” S
he yanked him in for a hug, patting him enthusiastically on the back. “You made it! I was worried you’d stood me up.”

  Ian cleared his throat, trying and failing to get over the shock of the most important woman in Irish music looking like the kind of person who baked banana bread and crocheted afghans in her spare time. “Um . . . ,” he said again.

  Suddenly, she dropped her smile, pointing a finger at him seriously. “So, tell me, Ian, is the garage band really dead?”

  “You read his article!” I crowed, recognizing the title from when I’d read it back at the Rainbow’s End.

  She turned her bright eyes on me. “Of course I have. This young man left me five voice mails and sent an ungodly number of e-mails. I either had to turn him over to the guards or arrange a meeting. You must be the little sister.”

  “I’m Addie,” I said, accepting her firm handshake. “And this is our friend Rowan. He’s a huge fan of Titletrack too.”

  “So, so nice to meet you.” Rowan pumped her arm, his face splitting into a smile. “Such an honor.”

  “An Irishman amongst the Americans. I like it.” She turned back to me. “Addie, your brother here is quite the writer. I was very impressed.”

  “You—you were?” Ian’s face lit up like a birthday cake, and he stumbled back a few steps. I’d never seen a compliment hit him so hard, and on the field they rained down on him constantly. “Thank you,” he choked out.

  Miriam slapped him heartily on the back. “And I love that you’re so young. When you get to be my age, you realize that age has nothing to do with what you can accomplish—if you’ve got it, you’ve got it. Why wait until you grow up? And then once you’re all grown-up, why stop? Or at least that’s my motto.”

  Forget Titletrack. We should start a fan club about her.

  She kept going. “I want all of you to find a table. I’ve been on the road all summer, but they let me back in the kitchen today and I made my famous Guinness beef stew. Bruce Springsteen claims it changed his life.”