“Sure,” I said bitterly. “Why? Should I not like them? Are they not authentic enough or something?”
“You’re losing me, Amira.” Darragh paused to look at me straight on. “What’s wrong with you tonight?” The way he said with sounded more like which (typical Dubliner) and it shouldn’t have come off as cute considering how I was feeling at the moment but of course it did. I hated myself with a vengeance.
“Why do you have to keep saying my name every ten seconds?” I snapped. “You’re like Mr. Smooth, always on game.”
Darragh’s mouth fell open. He leaned in towards me with wide eyes, as though he must have misunderstood. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re just so good at saying the right things, aren’t you?” I scowled at him. “And then you move in for the kill. It’s like an art form.” It was too much irritation to point at someone I hardly knew, but I couldn’t stop myself. His stunned expression only seemed to feed my attitude.
“Looks like you’ve got me all figured out.” Anger crammed onto Darragh’s face, his eyes flashing and cheekbones tightening. He stopped in the middle of the Dame Street sidewalk and stared me down. “I’ll try it on with anyone.”
He was turning my feelings on their head so fast that I felt dizzy.
“Fancy a quick shag in the back of the taxi?” he continued. “Or would you sooner start off with a blow job?”
If I’d had one more beer I’d have slapped him. Lucky for him my limit’s two. I turned away and started walking again, as fast as I could in Zoey’s towering slingbacks.
He caught up with me in no time. “That’s exactly what you were expecting, isn’t it?” he said, glaring at me. “I’m just living up to your vision of me.”
I walked on, disappointed in myself for pushing us to a place we never needed to be. But why’d Darragh have to make my head pop and then act like he was some other guy entirely? And why couldn’t I feel disillusioned alone, without him keeping up with me and glowering into my face like we were enraged exes?
My throat ached in frustration. “Why are you still walking with me?” I rasped, anxiously swivelling the beaded bracelet Zoey had lent me around my wrist.
I stopped, folded my arms in front of me and listened to him say, “If something happened to you out here it would be my fault, wouldn’t it?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “So we’re taking the taxi together.”
I bent my chin closer to my chest, wishing one of us would magically disappear. When that didn’t happen I trudged silently towards the taxi rank with him, my throat rawer with every step.
The two of us stood in line behind a young couple who were busy swallowing each other’s sloppy tongues. Neither of us said a word as raindrops began to fall with increasing frequency. It was terrible. I eavesdropped on the two drunken women behind me, avoiding Darragh’s eyes while glitter makeup washed down my face. Sixteen endless minutes later we were finally in a cab, heading towards Raheny via Whitehall.
“The scenic route,” the driver joked but neither of us laughed.
Nobody even opened their mouth to say goodbye.
Chapter 7
You know, let it die a natural death.
It didn’t matter. Who cared that I’d fought with Darragh and that he’d turned out to be a disappointment? It only goes to show that it makes no sense to expect anything from strangers. I should’ve known better. Should’ve, but hadn’t and I almost sent Joss an email proclaiming my many mistakes. Almost, but didn’t. I didn’t want to complain about something so miniscule that it could’ve been considered sub atomic when she was going through such genuine tough times.
Probably I shouldn’t have needed to talk about Darragh at all, but there I was hunched over my notebook post-gig, composing bitter words to my sister. Having written her once recently, it didn’t seem so foreign to do it again. There was a time when I’d written notes to my sister as frequently as some people fill up their tanks with gas.
If she were here, would she be wise enough to see people as they really were, unlike me? Would she have laughed at me for being oblivious or would she have sympathized with my naiveté?
Dear Rana,
I thought I’d met someone here who could be a real friend. Someone I wouldn’t forget in a hurry. I liked talking to him so much that maybe it blinded me to who he really was. I wish I didn’t care. But my eyes are open now. I’m learning.
Amira xo
Certain things are important, others aren’t. I was having trouble distinguishing between the two lately, except when it came to screenwriting. That part of my life was crystal clear. I dropped the note to my sister into a post box on my way to the IFI on Monday and was head over heels for the course from the minute my instructor, a Winnie the Pooh shaped man with rimless glasses and a close-cropped salt and pepper beard, opened his mouth. His name was Dermot O’Shea and his professorial looks made me nervous in the best possible way. I was the youngest person in the room, which shouldn’t have mattered, but everyone else appeared so capable, like some of them had degrees, real jobs, and probably even kids.
Mr. O’Shea wanted us to call him Dermot. He made us introduce ourselves and then handed out a class syllabus and reading list chock-full of famous screenplays like The Apartment, Slumdog Millionaire, The Usual Suspects, and Silver Linings Playbook.
“Before you get started in earnest, please keep in mind that I’d rather break my own nose than read another Hunger Games or Hangover knockoff,” he said. “Tell me something new. If you’re one of these people who likes to insist there’s nothing new under the sun, do your best to tell me something in a new way—and believe me, with the thousands of films and TV shows you’ve all seen that won’t be an easy task. And don’t forget the audience—is there one for your idea? Be honest with yourself and you’ll save us lots of time. I don’t have to tell anyone the KISS principle, do I?”
Keep it simple, stupid. Keep it short and sweet. I like the second version better, but they amounted to the same thing and I jotted down the phrase “originality + KISS” in my notebook.
After class I picked up a copy of Screenwriting Fundamentals from the IFI bookstore and stood in line behind an Italian guy who’d introduced himself as Gianni earlier. He looked about nineteen and he turned to glance back at me and the girl waiting directly behind me, another member of our class. “Are you going into the café?” he asked, his brown eyes shifting their focus between us. “Would you like to have lunch and talk about the course?”
Soon the three of us were chatting over coffee and sandwiches. I’d never met anyone close to my age who liked to talk movies as much as I did, let alone heard of Federico Fellini, and Gianni had seen so many that it would take me a solid year in front of a screen to catch up. The way he and Clare knew their stuff could’ve been intimidating, if they weren’t so down to earth too. Their friendliness coupled with their expertise made them inspirations and, just as importantly, made me feel at home in screenwriting class. For those first couple of classes I was so immersed in the world of movies that it was relatively easy not to think about Darragh and the mess that Saturday night had turned into.
Darragh wasn’t even on my radar when the doorbell rang late Wednesday afternoon following class. I was hanging out in the living room with the latest European MTV reality show unfolding in the background and my head buried in Screenwriting Fundamentals. At the sound of the bell I zipped into the hallway to peek through the front door’s large glass window. Back home in Toronto home invasions were regularly in the news and my family always checked to see who was at the door before answering it.
There were no criminals waiting on the doorstep. No charity canvassers or postal employees either. Just Darragh Leavy. Standing outside with his guitar case, looking amazing. Memories of my argument with him the other night flooded back, making my stomach lurch.
“Is Zoey around?” he said slowly. “She said to come by early for practice.”
I slid my right thumb through the belt loop
of my jeans and stood awkwardly in the doorway. “She’s not home from work yet.”
“What about Rory and Kevin?”
“They’re not here either,” I told him, my face hot.
“Look, about Saturday,” Darragh began. I blinked quickly, afraid to look him in the face. “That was pretty horrible,” he added. “I don’t even understand what happened there.”
“Yeah, I know.” I rubbed my eyes, trying to disappear behind my hand. “I didn’t mean any of it. Honestly. Once it got started I just didn’t know how to stop it.” Part of me wanted to take another step towards him and spill my guts, just to get it over and done with. I’m having this problem with you, I’d announce, and I thought I could keep it under control but apparently not. So if you could just ignore the weird conflicted energy coming from me and try not to take it personally, I’d really appreciate it.
“I know,” Darragh said. “Me too.” He looked different. Not angry like he had that night at Enda Corrigan’s but closed off. The way a stranger on a train looks—like you’re never going to know them. “Can we just forget the whole thing?”
“That’d be great,” I told him, exhaling relief. “Do you want to come in and wait?”
“Sure. Thanks.” He followed me into the living room, set his guitar case on the floor and sat down on the armchair I’d been curled up in half a minute earlier.
I was hovering around the living room deciding where to put myself when the doorbell rang a second time. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I told Darragh, already charging towards the door.
“Take your time,” he advised.
Was that residual tension I detected in his voice? Maybe our fight Saturday had changed things for good, despite what he’d said about forgetting it.
This time Rory was standing outside as I swung the door open. “Hey, Amira,” he said, stepping inside. “Band practice tonight.”
I motioned towards the living room. “I heard. Darragh’s already here. Zoey’s late.”
“So what happened on Saturday?” Rory asked, trailing me down the hall. “Did your aunt and uncle give out?” After nearly three weeks in Dublin I was starting to feel at home with Irishisms. And the weather. And things like the Irish compulsion to jaywalk rather than waiting thirty seconds for a traffic light to change.
“They were so happy about you guys winning that I got away with a warning,” I told him. It’d been closer to one o’clock than midnight by the time I’d walked through the front door on Saturday night, but my aunt and uncle had been fairly understanding about it, maybe because I’d seemed so downcast myself.
“That’s good.” Rory nodded hello to Darragh as we sat down on the couch. “Will they let you out again this Saturday?”
I shook my head. “Not going to happen.” My parents’ one-time only offer had expired and besides, it was time to do the smart thing—keep my distance from Darragh and concentrate on writing.
Rory cocked his head at Darragh. “What’s the craic? I saw you talking to Sophie at Enda Corrigan’s. Are you two back on?”
Darragh glanced from Rory to me with a look that clearly translated as not in front of her. “We were just having a laugh, talking about old times.”
“Ah, yeah,” Rory said emphatically. “The good old days.”
“Exactly.” Darragh’s uncommunicative vibes were hard to miss.
“So what’s up with you, Amira?” Rory asked, aiming to switch the atmosphere back to casual.
“Not much.” I wanted an easy atmosphere back too. I could’ve handled being casual friends with Darragh…maybe. Possibly I could’ve even handled his kiss with the redhead (if he’d been unattached and not making out with someone else behind Ursula’s back), but I couldn’t deal with the thought of the murky vibes between us continuing all summer. I still didn’t know many people in Dublin and having issues with one-quarter of my cousin’s band was a complication I didn’t need. “Just going to class. Next week we start writing screenplay treatments.”
“She’s quite the swot,” Darragh commented.
My gaze shot over to Rory. “What does that mean?”
“You like to study,” Rory replied, eyes lighting up in amusement.
Was it an all-out glare or an acidic smile I gave Darragh? It shouldn’t have made any difference what he said or did; I didn’t want anything about him to register with me anymore.
Zoey breezed through the doorway with a tie-dye hoodie knotted around her waist before I could reply. “No Kevin yet,” she observed. “Sorry I’m late. The bus driver was dire. I’ve never in my life seen anyone under the age of sixty drive so slow.”
I watched the three of them head for the back door and tried to dive back into Screenwriting Fundamentals, rereading the same page four times before giving up. By then my aunt was home and I helped her make roasted cauliflower rigatoni. Full-up on pasta, I shut myself in Jack’s room and Skyped Jocelyn. I didn’t really expect her to be online because it was the middle of the day back home, but she was and as we eyed each other from across the miles it was hard to say who was wearing the more sour expression.
“Just listen and don’t freak out, okay?” she said.
“Tell me,” I demanded.
“I went to the Cheng’s house yesterday.” Jocelyn drew one of her fingers across her eyebrow. “Melanie Cheng got out of the hospital a couple of days ago and I wanted to see her with my own eyes. I know it might seem weird, but I thought I’d be able to tell if she was going to be all right. Not physically maybe, but okay somehow.” She grimaced and clammed up.
“So is she? Did you see her?”
Joss shook her head quickly. “I waited around for a while, but I never saw her, only her husband and the baby for a minute when their car came out of the garage. The baby was in a car seat in the back. He looked out the window when they drove by, and then I saw him put his hand up to wave to me.” Joss fidgeted in her seat, gulping down air. “I waved back automatically but afterwards it felt like I shouldn’t have. That me of all people shouldn’t have been waving to him like there was some friendliness between us.”
“But you didn’t do anything. None of what happened is your fault.” Darragh had told me the same thing and his advice—tell your friend—buzzed in my head, but now wasn’t the time to listen to it. Jocelyn was upset enough already.
“I know. But it still feels that way. Ajay’s my brother.” She stared away from the screen. “When he pleads guilty, he’s going to ask for leniency. That’s the plan. The lawyer wants to bring up the bullying he went through, as though that played some kind of part in what he did and like he’s too fragile to be in prison for long. Everyone’s worried about how Ajay’s going to do in jail. I am too, as much as anyone. But it’s his fault Melanie Cheng can’t walk.” Her gaze flicked towards the screen and bore into mine. “I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say.”
“It’s complicated,” I told her, “and the truth is it doesn’t even matter how you feel about it because the judge will do what the judge is going to do, and Ajay will have to follow through. It’s out of your hands. There’s no choice.”
“No choice,” Jocelyn echoed, blinked heavily. “It’s all going down so soon; I can’t believe it. But that’s not what I was talking about when I asked you to listen and not judge.” Her fingertips restlessly tapped her chin. “Last night after my parents were asleep I went to Noah’s place, almost on instinct. I didn’t even have the full address, didn’t know his suite number. But it’s a tiny two-story building and when a guy his age came out, I asked if he knew which unit was Noah’s. Turned out it was his roommate and he let me in.”
I felt my head tilt with tension and pulled it straight again.
“You said you were going to listen,” Joss reminded me.
“I am. I just—”
“No just, only listening,” she insisted. “So his roommate let me in and went to get Noah who walked into the living room in the shorts and T-shirt he’d been sleeping in. The second the roommate left I
almost tackled Noah. He kept saying I was just a kid and he didn’t want to get in trouble, but then I’d kiss him again.” Joss disappeared halfway behind her hand. “I told him it wasn’t illegal because I was seventeen.” She smiled shyly at the memory. “Then he’d touch me for a bit before stopping again and I don’t know what I would’ve done, or let happen if he hadn’t picked up his phone to open Uber and order me a ride home.”
I stared fixedly into Jocelyn’s familiar eyes, listening and listening like she’d wanted until the silence between us had stretched so thin that I was sure she had finished, and was waiting for me to react. “He sent you home?” I said.
Jocelyn laughed semi-bitterly. “Yep. He said he was in over his head with me. I should be relieved probably, right? But it was so good to let myself be carried away by something else for a change, to have a situation that was just mine, even if it was fucked up.”
Joss had always been certain she didn’t want to sleep with Anthony, that sex wasn’t something she was ready to deal with yet. But that was before Ajay’s crash. It felt like a long, long time ago now, and I struggled to formulate my thoughts. “Is that it?” I asked. Are you going to see him again?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t mad or anything, just confused, I think. And I guess he’ll still be at the dog park with Cosmo.”
“If I tell you to be careful again you’re going to blow up, but isn’t that what you’d tell me?” I asked. There was nothing wrong with having sex. It’s not that we believed we had to stay virgins until marriage or that there was anything the matter with a girl enjoying herself. But I knew how Joss thought, that she was the kind of person who wanted to be prepared, emotionally and physically. Meanwhile she wasn’t even on the pill or the patch. “Don’t do something in a rush just because you’re messed up about Ajay and the things going on with your family,” I continued, the advice feeling strange on my lips, like I was speaking a foreign language and couldn’t get the pronunciation right. “It won’t help.”
Just Like You Said It Would Be Page 9
