At last, I hear Shannon flush. When she walks out of the cubicle, I sigh exasperated. “I thought you were stuck in there.”
She replies vaguely, “Monthlies.”
I groan, feeling sorry for her.
We walk to our lockers to collect our books for class and Dermot and the new boy is already standing there waiting for us.
Dermot says excitedly as he steps in behind Shannon and wraps his arms around her waist. “Have you met Kieran, yet?”
I look at the new boy and I smile friendly. Even if love has gone lost, there is no need not to have manners. I say pleasantly, “Hiya.” I bring my hand up to my chest as if to point me out to him, as I say, “I am Heather.”
He smiles faintly and there is a gleam in his eyes. He looks at me as if he knows me and this makes me feel awkward, so I turn away from him and reach up to my locker to get my books.
It turns out Kieran is in almost all my classes with me. He slouches in his chair in every class, twirling his pen through his fingers. He must be clever because he seems not to make any effort to pay attention. Whenever I glance in his direction, I see him staring at me absorbed. Either he is psycho, or he likes me. These days it is hard to tell, and I hope, against my will, because of the love thing, it might be the latter.
When we walk into our History class, Mr. Hittler instructs Kieran in his clipped words to, “Please wait. Here. Young Mr. Fitzgerald.”
As I walk past Kieran on my way to my desk, I glance at him sideways, amused.
Mr. Hittler is not related to the Hitler from Germany, although my history teacher did adopt some of the historical tyrant’s mannerisms and fashion sense. Mr. Hittler combs his short black hair in a severe middle path and he has a moustache. I surmise he is not brave enough to have only the little square to underline his nose, so his is a little bit longer.
Usually when we take too long to settle down, he knocks his heels together and I always have the urge to jump up and point my fingers, palm face-down, into the distant horizon and exclaim, “Yawhol,” but I never have enough courage. If I ever did it though, I am positive Mr. Hittler will confine me to life detention without parole.
I can see Mr. Hittler is starting to get itchy and then he brings his heels together with a loud knocking sound. Often, I wonder if this hurts, but if it did, he never shows the pain.
The class falls silent immediately and all eyes are focused on Mr. Hittler. He swishes his leather whip through the air like a magic wand. This is where his power lies. Although all hell will break loose if he ever did hit any of us with it, we are too scared to push him over the edge. Even if he is fired and our parents came to school, threatening to sue every living person associated with the school for every penny they own or ever will own, it just is not worth the pain we would have to endure first to set this chain of events into motion.
Mr. Hittler turns to Kieran. “Mr. Fitzgerald. Tell us. A little. About your history.”
Kieran raises his eyebrows amused. He looks across the faces of the students seated in front of him and he shrugs. “I don’t really know what to say.” He adds unsure, “My history?”
Mr. Hittler looks agitated. “Yes. What is. Your Christian Name?” He looks down at a piece of paper in his hand. When he looks up, he says, “Kieran?”
Kieran looks at Mr. Hittler questioningly.
Mr. Hittler continues, “For instance. Your history. Are you perhaps. Related to the Fitzgerald’s. From Kildare?”
Kieran shakes his head in denial. “I don’t think so.”
“You are not. Irish?”
“No,” Kieran says unsure.
Mr. Hittler mutters impatiently and then tell him, “Take a seat. Lad.”
Kieran walks away from him and then sits down in the only vacant seat behind me. I feel every muscle in my body go rigid.
I feel his breath on my neck as he leans across his desk. I hear his voice say close to my ear, “Relax Heather, I won’t bite you.”
I keep my eyes on Mr. Hittler and I hear Mr. Hittler say, “In fourteen seventy-seven. Géaroid Mór Fitzgerald. Became the. Chief Deputy of Ireland. In fact. He was so. Powerful. He was looked upon. As the uncrowned. King of Ireland.”
After that, everything goes blank as I zone out.
At lunch break, Shannon and I wait for Dermot in smoker’s alley. I lean against the brick wall, annoyed, because I am hungry and I want to run across the road to get a warm chicken and mayo baguette, but Shannon wants to wait for Dermot.
When Shannon stops mid-sentence and stares past me, I turn to look around as well.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kieran smiles as he walks toward us casually. His hands are deep in his school pants pockets. The sleeves of his navy jumper are pulled up to his elbows and the white of his collar looks brilliant against his tanned neck. His jumper hangs loosely on him, but I can actually imagine his shoulders and biceps under the fabric. I remind myself that a rush of hormones does not constitute love, probably the main reason why love never lasts, because it is too often misjudged as love.
Shannon calls out to Kieran, “Kieran, what’s your hi-story.” She starts to laugh hysterically at her own joke, and I start laughing as well.
Kieran grins as he comes to stand next to me. He glances at me again as if he knows me, and I stop laughing self-consciously.
Dermot blows smoke up into the air. “Yeah, Kieran, what is your history?”
Kieran pulls his shoulders back. “Well. In sixteen ninety-two, I lived in a small town called Salem.”
Shannon interrupts him, “You are so full of it. What is your real history? Where are you from?”
Seriously, he says, “Before moving here, I lived in South America for a while.”
Dermot throws the cigarette stub onto the ground and grinds it to death with the toe of his shoe.
“Thank goodness,” I exclaim. “I thought you would never finish that. Can we get lunch now?”
I move forward just as Kieran takes a step. I move into him by accident and I bump up against him. My face is close to his and he looks into my eyes, he looks at me as if I am his whole world, which causes me a moment of panic. This is the first time a boy has looked at me so intensely, so deeply, it actually stirs my soul. I feel a hot flush push up my face. He smiles charmingly, and then he gestures for me to walk ahead of him.
I move away from him and for the entire break and the rest of the day, I make sure Shannon and Dermot are walking between him and me. I successfully avoid looking at him for the rest of the day.
After school, I say goodbye to Shannon and Dermot and I walk to the train station alone, as I do every day. Just another normal day, except it is not normal because in twenty-four hours from now my dad will technically no longer be a part of my family unit.
His sudden voice next to me startles me, “Hi, Heather. Mind if I walk with you.”
“Which direction do you go?” He looks at me puzzled, so I smile. “On the train. Do you go South or North?”
Understanding brightens his eyes.
Although love scares me a little now, I cannot help it when I feel a small twinge in the pit of my stomach. He is absolutely gorgeous and the way he looks at me makes me feel wanted and loved. Obviously, this whole divorce thing is playing havoc with my emotions because I met this boy only a few hours ago and already my mind is telling me he wants and loves me.
He says, “North. I saw you on the train this morning.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. You were sitting a few seats ahead of me.”
I nod my head as I say, “Okay?” I wonder if my previous prediction is correct and he is not looking at me with want and love, but with psychotic needs and desires.
As if he can read my mind, he declares, “Don’t worry, I am not a psycho. I recognized your school uniform.”
I smile, hiding my relief.
He continues, “I didn’t see you at school yesterday.”
“I know. I was feeling a little off.”
H
e frowns briefly. “Hope you are feeling better today.”
“I’m okay.” I grin sheepishly.
We reach the station and wait on the platform together.
He is looking out across the railway lines, across the stonewall on the other side, toward the blue, motionless ocean. He asks interested, “Do you go to the beach often.”
“In summer, we go regularly. Not now though, it gets too cold.”
The train rumbles into the station and then we walk a little forward. The doors swoosh open and I step up into the carriage while Kieran follows me in. I find a seat and he sits down across from me. There is not a whole lot of leg space, especially when he slouches down into his seat. The fabric of his grey school pants rubs against my leg and I am not sure where to put my legs. For the first time ever, in all of my sixteen years, I am feeling shy and uncertain in the presence of a boy.
He stares out of the window at a point just beyond my face and I feel unsure of myself.
I do not know where to look, so I look up and read the boring advertisements pasted across the light fittings near the roof of the carriage.
I have memorized the importance of brushing my teeth when he breaks the silence between us. “Almost there.”
I sit up, feeling uncomfortable with his warm leg pressed against mine. Not uncomfortable in a weird way, but a nice way. I cross my legs at the ankles, slide them in under my seat and look out the window.
The houses on the outskirts of Drogheda are flashing past.
As he stands up, he scoops his hand through the handles of his satchel.
I get up as well and follow him to the standing area by the door. The train stops with a jerk and I knock into him. He takes a deep breath as his arms come around my waist to steady me.
Smiling shyly, I move away from him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After we get off the train, we walk through the ticket office together. He walks with me across the parking lot to the steps that would lead me to the road in the direction of where my home is.
When we get there, before I open my mouth to say goodbye, he stops walking and he asks, “What are you doing tomorrow? We should meet and you can show me around.” He smiles faintly. “I am new to the town and have not yet seen the sights.”
I turn toward him, and I wonder if I should. I know I do not want to be at home when my dad fetches his things. I do not want to live through another fight. I do not want to see him walk out with all his worldly possessions and be left behind like an unwanted carpet. I say, “Okay, where do you live, north side or south side?” Here everything is determined by north or south.
“On the north side.”
I think for a moment where I should meet him. “We could meet at the mall. It is about halfway in between, I suppose.”
He smiles a pleased smile and it dazzles me. “At ten?”
“Ten is perfect. I better be off then.”
He turns away from me, hesitates and then turns back. He says, “Heather.” His voice sounds imploring, almost like a prayer.
I look back at him curiously.
“Your hair suits you. You are beautiful.”
I gulp and smile widely. Turning away from him, I can feel his eyes burning into my back as I walk away feeling elated. Why would a boy telling me I am beautiful bring such blissful ecstasy to my being? I have had many boyfriends. Some I have pursued and caught, and others have made their advances at me first and I had fallen for them. This is not the first boy who has shown an interest in me, but I have never told a boy I love him, and I have never gone all the way. Boys think I am easy because I am usually so happy go lucky, but they discover soon enough there is no pot of gold waiting for them at the end of my rainbow. I am waiting for that boy where I will feel the love bubble out of me. Where I will be able to say I love you spontaneously, without having to wonder if I should. Now, though, with me realizing there is no such thing as everlasting, forever love, this will never happen. For-never will I find true love.
That evening when I walk into the kitchen, my mom looks up to greet me with her usual, “Hi. How was your day?”
She looks back down at the newspaper, not expecting a reply. I actually see her hesitate and her mind rewind. She looks up again and pulls her eyes together as if the harsh kitchen light is playing tricks on her eyes. A deep frown furrows her brow, as she asks carefully, “Your hair?”
My hand comes up to my hair. I love the way the ends brush across my fingertips. I say nothing though, as I wait for the explosion of fury.
The night before, I was already in my room when she got home and the one time when she looked into the room to ask me if I already had dinner, my room was dimly lit, so she did not notice my drastic hair transformation.
She stands up from her chair and walks closer to me. She lifts her hand and takes a strand of my hair between her fingers. As if touching it will confirm her suspicions it has gone from light brown to midnight black.
“Why Heather? You had the most beautiful hair. You cut it as well!” She exclaims as if she just notices it.
“I felt like a change. Black suits my mood now.”
She clicks her tongue. “Silly girl. Do you know how difficult it is to get black out of your hair again? I’ll have to take you to see Anna tomorrow.”
Anna is her hairdresser and gossip buddy. They meet every second weekend so my mom can get a touch-up on her roots and a catch-up on her gossip.
Trying to avoid going to see Anna and have her change my hair, which I have grown to love, I say without thinking, “Dad is coming tomorrow.”
Her face drops instantaneously. Her eyes cloud over with sadness, as she pulls her shoulders square and steps away from me. “Oh, yes. I forgot about that. How hungry are you?”
She dishes up our dinner and then for the next few hours I pretend this Friday is still the same as it always used to be. My mom and I are watching Gossip Girl, our dinner plates balancing precariously on our laps while we eat silently. My dad is working late as usual.
IT IS STILL DARK OUTSIDE when I wake up. I turn onto my back and notice a dark shadow hanging in the top corner of my room. Opening and closing my eyelids rapidly, clearing the sleep from my eyes, I squint my eyes and look up at the corner again. The shadow is still there.
I reach my hand toward my bedside lamp, not moving my eyes away from the dark gloom. I click the light on, and the shadow disappears. I sigh with relief. Probably just the dark in the room playing tricks on my eyes or the tension and stress from my parents getting a divorce is making me see things.
I slide out of bed and tiptoe to the bathroom. I take a quick, hot shower, washing my hair as well and I wonder if I will be able to dry it as dead straight as Angie did.
When I am back in my room, I pull on a pair of black jeans and a black sweater, with a sharp V-neck. I sit down in front of my dressing table and then I start the process of drying and styling my hair. It takes me forever and when I finally give up, I realize hairdressers must have a magic wand or wrist. My hair is as straight as I will ever get it. I will have to invest in a decent hair-straightener.
I clasp my new necklace around my neck and when I look back at myself in the mirror, I finger the cross softly. The symbol of the Celtic cross dates back to pagan times. Thousands and thousands of years before the establishment of Christian churches. It is a cosmic symbol, a tree of life, connecting heaven and earth. The vertical arm symbolizes spirituality while the horizontal arm signifies the earthly dimension. The cross is often placed within a circle, which represents the sun and eternity. Together they symbolize the earth and the revolution of the four seasons. The Celtic cross is often used for luck and as protection against many forms of natural magic. I need luck right now.
Looking back at the clock next to my bed, it broadcasts the hour is nine. If I did not leave soon, I will never make it to the mall before ten o’clock.
At the front door, I unhook my new black coat from the coat hanger. It feels warm and luxurious. It was an extra
vagant purchase, but in my opinion well deserved.
My mom calls from her room, “Heather?”
I call back, “Yeah?”
“Are you not staying for when your dad gets here?”
“No. I have to meet a friend at the mall.” I hesitate and then say, “Sorry.” I really am feeling sorry suddenly for leaving her to deal with it all on her own.
Pulling the door open, I call up to her, “Okay, bye. I’ll see you later.”
I wait for a few seconds, but she does not reply. I pull the door closed until the latch catches and push once to make sure it is locked tightly.
It is a bright day, but there is a nippy chill in the air, so I pull the belt of my jacket tightly around my waist.
When I get to the mall, Kieran is waiting for me at the entrance to the mall on the main road. He is wearing a dark cobalt pair of jeans with a very light grey, almost white sweater. It fits snugly around his shoulders and chest and then hangs loosely around his waist. He is staring deep in thought at the church across the road.
I touch his forearm briefly and say, “Hey. Sorry I am late.”
He looks down at me startled, and then a smile lights up his face when our eyes meet.
Casually he takes my hand into his. This gesture surprises me, but his hand feels warm and holding it does not mean I am making a commitment to him. It feels nice anyway.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We walk past the village and follow the road along the Boyne River. We walk past the old Flour Mill, and under the traffic bridge, we stop to read the graffiti on the walls. We walk past the park. It is a clear, bright day and I notice a family with a kite. The dad is trying hard to keep the kite in the air with his cheering children running a-muck around him.
Timeless (ForNever) Page 4
