two wee Derry idiots

Michelle was insisting that she hadn’t total botched the glitter nail polish on Clare’s left big toe – “it’s supposed to look like that, Clare” – and Erin was idly braiding and re-braiding the same portion of Orla’s hair, both pairs of their eyes intently watching the film from where they sat at the other end of the sofa.

They could have been at Jenny Joyce’s party instead. But, as they often did these days, they had deferred to Clare and she hadn’t wanted to go.

“I’d rather not think about it being New Year’s that much,” she’d said and he’d immediately understood. He was pretty sure they’d all immediately understood: it was hard to start a new year when it was one that her dad would never be a part of.

So he wasn’t going to say, but as soon as the clock had hit 11:30, he couldn’t help but glance at his watch every few minutes. He just wanted to know when it was going to officially be 1998. He just wanted to know when it was going to be 103 days.

It’d been almost 103 days of a lot of Erin – intentional glances and well-placed hand brushes and sitting next to each other and continually edging the boundary “to wait” ever further. Like when they’d been doing homework at Erin’s kitchen table and he’d reached over to tuck a piece of hair that kept falling out of her clip behind her ear. Or when she’d held his hand at Mr. Devlin’s funeral (but then, so had Orla). And when they’d all parted after the wake, he thought maybe he’d felt a glancing kiss on his cheek as she pulled back from a hug. He wished he’d thought to do the same.

Almost 103 days. Almost 103 days was a long time – a long time of replaying the same moment over and over again in his head. He wanted a new moment to think about for the next 103.

He hadn’t expected to get it coming out of the toilet at 12:08.

“Oh! Sorry, do you need – I was just washing off the face mask,” he said when he opened the door to see Erin waiting outside it in the upper hallway.

“Aye, just…yeah, the toilet,” she said, motioning awkwardly to the open door behind him, but making no movement to go in. She looked at him a long moment and seemed to be chewing at the inside of her lip. “Um – don’t know if you noticed, but…Happy New Year.”

He felt his face relax into a smile. “Happy New Year. Yeah, I noticed. Just…didn’t want to say anything.”

“Right. Same,” she said. “I’m glad we’re here tonight, and not at – but, well, I had sort of wanted to…,” she trailed off. He couldn’t tell if it was the dim light, but her cheeks looked flushed.

“Want to – what?” he asked, eyebrows raised in question.

She shuffled her feet and chewed on her lip for another second, before she darted out on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek and landing somewhere right at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh!” he said, and instinctively, accidentally took a step back. The change on her face was instant.

“Oh my god. Oh shit. Sorry. Oh God. Sorry. I shouldn’t have –” she stammered, eyes wide in sudden embarrassment. “I – I thought we…I thought you still – oh God. Sorry. I’m just…going to –” she said, and tried to maneuver around him to the toilet.

“No! Wait, Erin –” he said, his brain scrambling to catch up. He reached out a hand to grab her; if he could just make her stay – his hand connected, wrapping around her wrist and ensuring that she turned back before she could lock herself in the toilet for the rest of the night. It’s what he figured she’d do; it’s what he would do. “Wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean –”

“It’s ok. I should have – I shouldn’t have thought. You know. It’s been a while. I should have asked or, or –”

James had never heard Michelle be so silent before. From Donegal, to the school, to the Quinns', and then the few blocks home still clad in their pyjamas from the night before – she hadn't uttered a word to him. Not even a noise. Hadn't even so much as looked at him.

At first he hadn’t noticed; he’d been too busy watching the movement of Erin’s hair as she shifted around in the seat in front of him. And then he’d been annoyed – really? It was going to be like that? – and then it’d been a little funny; how far could he push it before she’d say something? He’d even complained pointedly about how bumpy the ride was on the Irish country backroads – surely she’d say something, about rides or the British or whatever. She could have her pick. As long as she said something. But she hadn’t responded. Her face remained turned to the window, though he saw how tense her shoulders got. Oh, so it was going to be like that? That’s when he’d gotten mad.

It wasn’t any of her business, whatever was going on between him and Erin – which, he still wasn’t sure he had a lot of clarity about. Except that she kissed him. She kissed him. Would she always have kissed him? Like, if he had said all those words ages ago, back when he first thought them? And if not then, when? James needed desperately, suddenly to know when Erin knew she would have kissed him.

But that felt a little beside the point right now, when he was mad like this. Because he needed Michelle to talk to him even more.

As soon as he unlocked the front door and she had brushed inside, bumping her shoulder intentionally against his, he decided he was over it. Beyond over it. 

“What’s your problem?” he snapped at her when she was already halfway up the stairs. She froze. Good, he thought darkly, trying to keep the prickle of anxiety at bay at watching her. Michelle could be scary, when she really put her mind to it. And judging by her stillness, James could already anticipate what amount of shit he was in. But he really didn’t fucking care anymore.

She turned back around and slowly descended the stairs until she was on the bottom step. Strategic, James decided, for gaining some height on him. “What’s my problem? Have you lost the fucking run of yourself? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You’re the one not speaking!” he retorted.

“Cause I don’t even know what to fucking say. God, you are such a fucking dick,” she spat. Michelle had called him a dick a lot, but he’d never felt it hit like that one. He took a step backward and felt another surge of indignation at the sneer that crossed her face. “I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t have anything to say. I’ve said everything already. And you haven’t even said sorry.”

James gaped at her. She couldn’t be serious. “Sorry? I’m not sorry. Are you fucking joking?”

“No, I’m not fucking joking. It’s Erin, James. It could have been anyone. Erin? You did it on purpose, you –”

“It wasn’t on purpose! It was very not on purpose, believe me, I just –”

“Oh fuck off,” she said, before turning to bound off up the stairs.