“I’m okay,” I say, even though she didn’t ask me anything. “I mean, hi.”
I peek out from under the blanket, and she gives a sad smile and sits at the end of the bed. I think she’s going to mention the half dozen mugs I left in the sink covered with chocolate powder, but she doesn’t. She just strokes my hair, and I begin to cry.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I went to Paris as an undergrad?” She wipes a tear from my cheek.
I attempt to blow my nose on my sleeve, and she pretends not to be grossed out.
“I was a junior, and I was enrolled in an all-French-language program, even though I could barely speak French. And I wanted to be a writer or a lawyer even then, and I was reading so much that I basically kept to myself the entire time. Other kids in the program were going to bars and parties and making friends, and I stayed in the dorm, trying to read Proust in French and failing terribly. I wasn’t as smart as you are.”
I try to protest, but she puts up a hand to quiet me.
“And then one day, a British author was hanging around the dorms. And he was”—she pauses—“not quite well-known yet, although that’s since changed. He was a few years older than me, and I thought he was charming, like any boy on a motorcycle would have been at the time.”
I struggle to imagine my mother, whom I’ve never seen drive above the speed limit, on the back of a motorcycle.
“And when he took me out, it felt like I was finally getting the real Paris experience. I had been hiding away for two months, scared to go out alone into the city. But this man—boy, really—thought I was worth going out with, so I thought I was worth going out with. Do you understand?”
I nod, but I’m not sure I do.
“I didn’t know who I was yet,” she continues. “And I let someone else try to tell me. Or, rather, I let someone else’s feelings for me affect how I felt about myself.”
Her being here, stroking my hair, reminds me of being in elementary school, home with the flu. I feel guilty and grateful at the same time. “It’s not just Callum,” I say between gasps. “It’s this whole art thing. And Nick. And just everything.”
My mom doesn’t say anything. She keeps stroking my hair. And then, after wiping my nose on the blanket, I manage to get it out. “It is Callum.” I can’t articulate any more. If I don’t say it, it won’t be real, and everything will reset to two days ago, when I had a crush on him and he wanted to spend time with me and everything was filled with possibility. “Tell me how the Paris story ends,” I say.
My mom sits, quiet for another minute before she opens her mouth to speak again. “I spent the summer trying to be what I thought this boy wanted me to be, and in the end, when he moved on, I was heartbroken. But the world kept spinning. Life kept going, and it brought me something more powerful and important than anything else I’ve done. Something that’s defined me and given me purpose. It brought me you.”
My heart feels like it’s swollen like a sponge in water. I have no idea how something the size of a ham fits inside my rib cage. I can’t hold it in anymore. I have to say it out loud. And when I say it, it becomes real. “I saw Callum with another girl.”
She’s quiet for a few moments.
Finally, she clears her throat.
“You’re going to meet so many wonderful people in your life, and travel to so many wonderful places. Paris, and meeting a stranger, and falling in love, however briefly, was all part of the experience that led me here, to you, to being your mother. Forget about Callum for now. Your journey is just beginning, and I promise you, it’s going to be spectacular.”
Instead of responding, I sob, and my mom holds my head in her lap like she did when I was young.
“If you can’t let him go, talk to him. Communicate. But just know this: No one will ever complete you. You need to make sure you’re complete on your own.”
“I used to feel complete when I thought about being an artist. And now I feel like a failure.”
“Do you realize what an honor it is to be selected for this program? Out of every young artist in the world? Here’s the truth: There are no multiple-choice tests in real life to tell you what job you’re supposed to do or whom you’re supposed to date or marry. All you can do is listen to your gut. What makes you happy? Who do you want to be? And the best thing about life is that you don’t need to limit yourself to just one category.”
I can’t smile, but I can turn to see her, and for the first time all trip, I’m genuinely grateful she’s here. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, Bunny.”
She hasn’t called me that since I was little, and I smile in spite of myself, tears dripping into my mouth. It’s all very gross, objectively. If there has been any revelation in all of this, it’s that I am definitely not a pretty crier. I am a very, very ugly crier, and goddammit, I’m okay with that.
I sniff, hard. “Do you maybe want to take a weekend trip to Belfast with me? It’s not far. And I hear it’s really cool.”
“I’d love that,” my mom says. She goes into the bathroom and returns with a wet cloth. “Now let me just get this dried chocolate off your face.”
* * *
That night I dream about taking the SATs again, but the only possible answers are Mother, Artist, Laborer, and—for some reason—Callum. Legolas is leading me through the Brussels city center and saying that since the test was indecisive for me, I need to make a choice for myself now. I keep saying no, no, no, just give me more time. Nick is laughing at me, and my mom is at the top of the town hall, but she’s dressed in one of Declan’s polka-dot suits, and she’s crying and then I’m crying, and when I wake up, my pillow is wet, but I’m not certain whether it’s from tears or drool.
Her advice makes sense. I’m going to talk to Callum and just lay out how I feel and, painful as it might be, how I felt when I saw him with Fiona. And however he feels, I’m not going to let it change how I feel about myself. Already I feel the tear that Nick made in me slowly and painfully filling in. But the fact that he’s dating my best friend and could probably destroy our friendship any minute by telling her the secret I’ve kept for six months is something I can’t deal with now. What I can deal with is Callum. And continuing to work as an artist.
My mom gave me good advice. And yet . . . she’s still here, hiding in a cottage in Ireland, two years after her divorce. Whatever she’s feeling, it’s something that can’t be helped with a pep talk and YA-novel metaphor.
22
RODGER AND TESS have decided that they know how to break into the lighthouse, and they’ve deemed me worthy to join them on their quest.
“I heard there’s relics in there from the revolution, back when they used the lighthouse as an armory,” Rodger says, his face deadly serious.
Tess looks at me and winks. “I hear it’s where they hid the Kennedy Treasure—y’know, the money the Kennedy family made from bootlegging during America’s Prohibition era when they wanted a safe place to store it, far away from suspicion,” Tess says.
“A’ight, but why would the ‘Kennedy Treasure’ be hidden in Donegal when the Kennedys were from down near County Wexford?” Rodger answers, his face gone full smug.
“Exactly!” Tess says. “Even further away from suspicion.” Tess and I laugh, and Rodger rolls his eyes.
“Anyway,” I say, “Rodger, how do you know where the Kennedys are from? You’re from England—they’re not your people!”
“I,” Rodger begins, “am from Wales. How do you not know that information?”
Tess races ahead of us on the beach. “Ooooh, ignorant American at it again!”
“Ignorant American: World’s Lamest Superhero!” I call up to her and run as fast as I can, even though with her long legs she’s already a speck in the distance. Of course, just mentioning superheroes makes me think about Callum, and the laughter catches in my throat.
Rodger catches up to us. “You do know I’m from Wales, right? Not England. I just want to make that very clear. There’s a difference.”
“Okay,” I say and place my hand over my heart. “I promise never to make that mistake again. On Kennedy’s grave.”
“Good,” Rodger says.
“Now that that’s settled,” Tess says, “what are you going to do with your share of the treasure?”
“Campaign for Welsh independence,” Rodger says.
“I want a pet shark,” Tess says. “Nora?”
“Probably pay for college. My grandpa is going to help with it, but I know that puts my mom in a weird position. I mean, I know she wants me just focusing on school so I don’t have to be working two jobs while I’m there, but I don’t like the feeling of owing someone, you know? Even if it’s my mom. Or grandpa.”
Tess and Rodger are both silent for a minute.
“Practical,” Tess says finally.
Rodger pulls out a Swiss Army knife. “All right,” he says. “Let’s do this.”
“We’re not going to get in, like, a colossal amount of trouble for this, are we?” Tess asks.
“Who knows?” Rodger answers.
Like a hallucination, I see Callum up the shore, skipping rocks. Alone.
“Is that Callum?” Rodger asks. “Hey, Callum!” Callum looks over and gives a wave, then goes back to throwing flat rocks into the water and failing spectacularly to get them to skip.
“I’m going to go over and talk with him,” I say. “I’m sorry, I won’t be long.”
Rodger scoffs. “Is this a lovey-dovey thing?”
“No,” I say. “Well, maybe. Probably not.”
“Practice safe sex!” Tess says. “Wait! What about your share of the treasure?”
I’m already walking down the beach toward Callum. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure the real treasure was friendship all along!” I say back.
Callum sees me coming but doesn’t stop throwing rocks. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say. “You’re really, really bad at that.”
“Well, maybe that’s why I need practice.” He tries one more, and it lands in the water with a heavy plunk. I try one, and it skips four times gracefully.
“My grandpa taught me,” I say with a shrug. “Lake Michigan.”
Callum sighs and walks up farther toward the shore. He doesn’t invite me to come along, but I do anyway. He’s acting distant, and it’s making my heart hurt like a physical symptom that I could type into WebMD and learn that the Internet thinks I have a rare tropical disease. I hear a metallic clunk echo from down the beach, followed by cheers.
“Rodger and Tess must’ve gotten into the lighthouse,” I say.
“Oh?”
I’m tempted just to run away, to let Callum walk up the beach and turn around to realize that I’m already gone, I’m back with friends who laugh with me and joke about hidden treasure and don’t cuddle up with their ex-girlfriends in the exact spot where we once spent the night.
But I don’t. I told myself that I was going to talk to Callum, and as awful and awkward and terrifying as it is, I’m going to do it.
I trot up until I’m right at his side. “Hey,” he says again, like he forgot that I was there in the first place.
“Callum,” I say. “I saw you in the cemetery. With—with Fiona.”
He sits down in the sand. “Yeah. I kinda thought you might have.” He rubs the back of his neck and stares at the dirt.
“Yeah,” I say. The only sound I hear is the chattering of birds and the white noise of crashing waves. “Are you guys . . . I mean, are you two back together? Was I wrong about . . . about what I thought I saw?” Please, please say yes. Say that I was wrong, that you were just comforting her because she got a bad grade or you were giving her a hug congratulating her on her new boyfriend that she’s super in love with.
“No,” Callum says. “You weren’t wrong.”
Oh, I hadn’t noticed that the knife in my stomach was also burning hot and covered in spikes. How unpleasant.
“But,” he says, “we’re not back together. I mean, yes. We were there. And we were flirting. And . . . we kissed a bit.”
Did I say burning hot and covered in spikes? Silly me, I meant made of lasers that shock you on an atomic level.
“Oh,” I say. It’s all I can manage to get out.
“But it’s not like that. I mean, yeah, me and Fiona had a thing, and she broke it off with me, but it’s just sort of habit when the two of us are together. We’re actually awful together. Complete rubbish. I didn’t think anything was going to happen, I mean.”
“Oh,” I say again. I am the Oscar Wilde of monosyllables.
“I like you, Nora,” he says finally.
“I like you too, Callum. I mean, I liked you.”
“And I want to hang out with you and spend time with you and get to know you because you’re cool and interesting and talented and have excellent taste in films.” He grins as me, but the smile fades almost immediately. “But, y’know . . . you’re leaving.”
“I get it,” I say. I don’t get it. Is he breaking it off with me? Is he trying to say he wants to be with me while I’m here?
“And, y’know,” he says, looking at his feet, “it’s like I don’t really know you or anything about you. Like, what do you like? What—I don’t know—how many bones have you broken? Who are you?”
The answer: zero. Maybe I’m just as boring as he thinks I am. I begin mentally scrolling through my Rolodex of facts about myself that I use when teachers make us go around and name a fun fact about ourselves on the first day of school. My name is Nora Parker-Holmes. My grandfather is Robert Parker—you know, the famous artist. I have a scar on the back of my wrist from trying to cook SpaghettiOs when I was four. I’m allergic to penicillin. None of that seems very helpful.
“Well, no broken bones,” I say when the silence goes on too long. “And I don’t know. I don’t think I know who I am either. I’m trying to come up with something, but I’m just getting, like, a list of facts about myself.”
Callum puts his arm around me and pulls me tight to his body. “What am I going to do with you?” he says, and I can’t tell whether he’s being playful or serious, but his body touching my body reminds me just how much I want to be near him.
“Well,” I say, letting my lips curl into the tiniest smile for the first time since I saw him, “I’m here for another week. We don’t have to plan for anything longer or more complicated than that. You can try to get to know me.”
“Live for the present, huh,” Callum says, but he doesn’t sound too certain.
“I never could get into Lord of the Rings, and maybe a week is just long enough for you to explain to me what’s so good about it.”
Callum smiles too, a shy, small smile, and then he begins laughing the same big laugh he had the night we first met. “I’ll barely be able get you through The Silmarillion in a week!”
He curls both of his hands around my face and pulls me in, and we’re kissing, and it feels amazing. I let all of my anxiety about Nick and Lena and my mother and my art career fade away, and I think only about how nice it is to have my fingers in Callum’s hair and how tingly I get when he runs his hands across my thighs.
“Hey,” he says, pulling away. “I’m taking you to Galway tomorrow.”
“Is that so?”
“You and I are going to see the Cliffs of Moher. I would not be fulfilling my role as a romantic Irishman if I didn’t take you. Plus, it’s pretty much the greatest make-out spot in the world.”
“It’s a deal,” I say, and this time I’m the one who pulls him in for a long kiss.
* * *
“K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” Tess sings as she bounds up the beach. Callum and I break apart, embarrassed.
“You guys make it int
o the lighthouse?” I ask.
“Boy wonder managed to spring the lock. Aaaaaaaand . . .” With a flourish, she pulls a handful of junk from behind her back. “The Kennedy Treasure. Told you it was real.” She’s holding a broken fishing rod, two empty potato chip bags, a scrap of a tire, and a beaten-up license plate. “Your share of the treasure,” she says, passing me the license plate.
“The American government will never know what we know,” I say. Tess and I both salute.
“You’re not a little disappointed?” Rodger says, huffing, finally making it to us.
“Are you kidding?” Tess says. “A license plate and broken fishing rod are way better than the treasure of ‘friendship.’”
“Oh, definitely,” Callum says. “If there’s one thing that’s overrated, it’s the companionship of people who care about you.”
“Good thing I hate all of you,” Rodger says, but he’s smiling while he says it.
23
PACKING FOR A day trip to the Cliffs of Moher, I’ve decided to bring:
One (1) raincoat, because the weather app seems as indecisive as a girl getting dressed before a first date
My sketchpad and three (3) freshly sharpened pencils
Two (2) Toffee Crisp candy bars, which I will devour as often as I am able until I leave the country and then attempt to illegally smuggle back a lifetime supply to the United States
A bestselling novel about a man struggling to make it on his own in New York City in this complicated post-9/11 world that the blurbs on the cover said was “compelling . . . groundbreaking prose and insight about the millennial psyche” and “the work of the next David Foster Wallace” but that I have yet to be motivated to open. A four-hour bus ride both ways means now’s the time to actually get through it.
One (1) iPhone with which to take a humiliating amount of selfies to post to Instagram
It all fits inside a sleek black backpack that I’ve kept rolled in my main carry-on suitcase the entire trip for this exact purpose. Callum and I have agreed to meet at the bus stop at eight A.M.—just enough time, he said, for us to grab coffee at the shop on the corner and make it back with plenty of time for the eight twenty-four bus to Galway. “I’d drive us there, but Dad can’t go all day without the truck,” he said. “Also, parking is a fucking nightmare.”
And We're Off Page 17
