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“What am I going to do, Erin?” Michelle asks, scrubbing her arms in the parking lot, “I’m down seventy pound for the frock, and they won’t take it back now.”
“I think we have bigger issues, Michelle,” Erin hisses, smacking at Michelle's arm. “Would you stop? You look like you’re scratching in withdraw.”
“I wish I had something to be in withdraw from,” she scoffs, stamping her foot. It makes her hair shake, and tomato juice drips wildly off the end.
“I found a towel in sister Michael's office,” Orla says, walking towards them with James and Clare in tow. “Aye, Erin, you look right delicious right now.”
Erin makes a face. “What?”
“I could dip a toasted cheese sandwich right into you.”
“Right. Well… don’t,” Erin says, unsure of what else to say, before grabbing the towel from Orla’s hands. She wipes off her face and her neck, then passes the towel to Michelle. “Leave one side of it clean, at least—we have to sit on it in Granda’s car.”
“Don’t boss me, Erin,” Michelle snaps, crabby, and snatches the towel from Erin’s hands. “Didn’t your Granda have his license suspended?”
“Yes,” Erin answers, shooting a nervous look at Clare. “Don’t say it too loud, Clare’ll hear you.”
“Oh? Clare’ll hear what? That your Granda’s license is suspended, but he’s driving anyway?” Michelle says, louder this time, and Clare’s head snaps up.
“Jesus, Michelle,” Erin hisses, running a hand through her hair. She had tugged the pins out in the school bathroom and left them there, too defeated to try to stash them in her bra.
“Your Granda is driving on a suspended license?” Clare asks, her mouth turned down at the corners.
“It’s not that big a deal, Clare,” Erin says, trying to make her voice sound soothing.
“Aye, you’re just riding in a car with an unlicensed driver,” Michelle says, crossing her arms over her chest.
“What is wrong with you?” Erin asks, whirling on Michelle. A piece of tomato flies from her hair, hitting Michelle in the face. Orla snickers.
“You got something just there,” Granda Joe says, gesturing vaguely at Michelle’s cheekbone. “Looks like a chunk of tomato.”
“Aye, no shit it looks like a chunk of tomato,” Michelle says.
“Would it be alright if I used the towel for a moment?” James asks, reaching for it. Michelle snatches it away,
“You’ve only got some on your trousers,” Michelle says, “Erin and I are in a much more dire situation.”
“Right, but it’s uncomfortable—”
“—I didn’t ask you to try to make me give a shit, James,” Michelle says, making a face.
Erin sighs. “Give him the towel, Michelle,” she says, rolling her eyes. When Michelle does not give it up, she reaches for it, fighting with her for a moment, before she finally gives in, letting go. Erin stumbles backwards with the sudden momentum, but rights herself.
“Here,” Erin says, handing the towel to James. He looks at her gratefully, and—
—not for the first time tonight—
—she gets butterflies under the weight of his eyes.
“Thank you, Erin,” he says, and bends down to swipe the towel over his trousers.
“Aye, any time,” she says, nodding once.
“When are we to be out of here?” Granda Joe asks, looking at his watch. “Gerry’s overdue on an ass kicking.”
“Granda,” Erin hisses, “ease it up.”
“You ease it up, Erin, you’re half Gerry,” Orla says, tilting her head down. “You can really see it in your face.”
“Thank you, that’s helpful,” Erin snaps, furrowing her brows and looking at Orla critically. “You’re all Sarah.”
Orla nods. “Thank you,” she says, as if she misses the biting tone of Erin’s remark.
“Right,” Granda Joe says, scrubbing his hands up and down the front of his thighs, “you lot ready to go?”
Erin sighs, and tries not to think about all the tomato juice in her hair and on her dress, and the fact that explaining it to her Ma will be nigh on impossible.
Instead, she slips into the backseat beside James, their knees pressed together and a shiver arching up her spine, and closes her eyes from the entire car ride.
“Erin,” someone says softly. The car is making soft, wind heavy whooshing noises as it rolls down the street. “Erin, you’ve gotta wake up.”
“What?” Erin asks, lifting her head up. Her cheek feels sticky, and she raises her hand to touch it. When her fingers come away red, she almost panics, but everything comes back to her suddenly; John Paul, the dress, Jenny and Mai and the tomato juice.
And, in the center of it all and around the edges, James. James with his bowtie and his knit scarf and his hair styled perfectly. Their James. Her James.
“We’re almost to Auntie Deirdre’s,” James says, his hand on her knee. Erin registers dimly that he does not call it home, just Auntie Deirdre’s, and the thought of it lodges heavy in her chest.
“How long’ve I been asleep?” Erin asks, looking around in the darkness. The streetlights glow in a pale yellow sheen, casting light over James’ face in four second intervals. It makes him look more fine, his features better refined, cheeks hollowed and brow pronounced.
“Not long,” he answers, smiling at her. For a moment, she wants to tip back into him. Wants to sleep on his shoulder again. Wants to think of him like her home.
But, then she blinks and her mind clears, and she nods. “Tonight must’ve took a lot out of me,” she says, tearing her eyes away from his face, studying the palms of her hands. There is tomato juice caught beneath her fingernails, hardening to a dry crust.
“Tonight took a lot out of all of us,” James says. His hand is resting on his knee, and his pinkie is brushing the skin beneath the hem of her dress. He taps her, twice. “It wasn’t exactly a normal night.”
Michelle snorts. “That’s a fucking understatement if I’ve ever heard one, James,” she says, turning to look at them, leaning over Orla. “Do we need to recap?”
“No,” Erin says immediately, working her shoulders in circles, pressing them against the vinyl seat back. “No, we really, actually don’t, Michelle.”
Michelle holds up her hands. “First of all, Erin betrayed Clare for John Paul, and in a twist everyone saw coming, got stood up—”
“—you aren’t telling it in order, Michelle—”
“—be quiet, Orla—”
“—if you don’t care about journalistic integrity—”
“—how do you even know that term?—”
“—right,” Granda Joe interrupts, jerking the steering wheel. Erin lurches into Orla, and James lurches into her, pressing his palm against her knee to steady himself. “We’re here.”
For a moment Erin is sure she imagines, his hand lingers against her skin. Then, just as suddenly as it arrived, it is gone again, and Erin feels suddenly and ridiculously cold.
“Thank you, Granda,” Erin says, leaning forward and tugging twice on his earlobe. He makes a soft sighing noise, then shoos them out of the car. Orla leans up from the floor of the backseat—
—she sat there, her head resting in Michelle’s lap, even despite all the tomato juice—
—and kisses him on the cheek. “Thank you for being the most cracker date.”
“Anytime, love,” he says. When Erin looks at him in the rear view mirror, he is smiling.
They file out of the car, Clare fidgeting nervously, her hands balled into fists. Erin is sure her fingernails are carving red half moons into her palms, and she is also sure that Clare could not care less.
Michelle lets them into her house with a key hidden under a pale green ceramic frog, and they slowly creep upstairs, jumping over the stair that creaks.
Deirdre is working the night shift and Martin is asleep on the sofa, snoring with an empty beer can on the side table and the television playing static.
“Orla,” Michelle hisses in a whisper a little too loud for Erin’s comfort, “why in the fresh hell are you holding onto my waist?”
“So I don’t get lost,” she says it like it is obvious, “it’s the first rule of making movements in the dark.”
“You’ve been here a thousand times, Orla,” Clare whispers, leaning her head past Erin’s arm, trying to get within view of Orla and Michelle. “You won’t get lost. You shouldn’t worry about getting lost. You should worry about Michelle’s Ma killing us in the morning.”
“She isn’t going to kill anyone,” Michelle says, then makes a hmpf noise. “Well, maybe me. But she’ll leave the killing of the rest of you to your own mothers.”
A nervous shiver runs down Erin’s spine. She is more scared of Deirdre than she is of her Ma, but she is still scared of her regardless. She shakes off the nerves, and straightens out her back, following Michelle up the sharp turn in the staircase.
“Orla, if you do not let go of me in three seconds…” Michelle warns, and Erin starts to tune her out, focusing instead on making it up the stairs safely in the dark, and Clare’s nervous breathing coming from behind her.
Finally, they reach the landing, and they file into Michelle’s room, waiting as she grabs clothes from her dresser and tosses them vaguely in the direction of the girls.
“Michelle,” Erin says, holding up the pajama set Michelle threw at her. It is lacy and thin and entirely too small for her, not to mention wrong for the night they are having. “There’s no way I can wear this.”
Michelle whirls on her. “Then find clothes on your own, Erin,” she snaps, turning back to her dresser, rifling through it.
Erin opens and closes her mouth, and suddenly, the enormity of the night slams into her. John Paul standing her up, Mai spilling the tomato juice all over them, Jenny Joyce and Aisling blaming them for it, the trouble that is awaiting her from her Ma tomorrow, and Sister Michael on Monday. Suddenly, all she wants to do is cry. Suddenly, all she wants is to sleep.
She feels a hand on her arm, and she turns, meeting James’ eye. He jerks his head backwards, towards the door, then winks at her. She does not have to ask to get his message; she simply leaves Michelle’s room and walks towards James’, flicking on his light and being careful not to lean her weight against his bedroom walls.
“I can get you something of mine,” James says, now that they are away from Michelle’s impenetrable cloud of anger and vitriol. “If you’re alright with that?”
Erin nods; she would take anything right now, as long as it leads to clean clothes and washed hair. “Please, and thank you.”
James smiles, and tugs open his dresser drawer. He rifles through it, then comes out with a pair of sweatpants and a worn t-shirt. Erin takes it, unfolding the t-shirt.
She snorts. “Doctor Who?” she asks, holding the shirt tense by the sleeves and turning it so he can see. “Isn’t that the show for your creep convention?”
James nods, and despite the fact that she is poking fun at him, he smiles. “Yeah, it is, actually,” he says, “though technically, it’s not a creep convention.”
Erin gives him a look that effectively says I-do-not-believe-you, but then drops it in favour of a nervous smile.
She makes a split second decision. “Turn around,” she says, already feeling heat rise to her cheeks.
James makes a face. “Why?”
“So I can change,” This feels out of character for her, something someone else would do. Someone like Michelle, a deliberate choice made in front of a boy she liked, done on purpose, in an attempt to impress him.
It is not something Erin does, especially not in front of James—
—because she does not like him, not like that—
—and yet, he gives her butterflies with something as simple as his eyes locked onto her face—
—But, the words are already out, and she does not feel like going back into Michelle’s room or fighting Orla for the bathroom, and it does not occur to her to ask him to leave the room until it is too late.
James turns red, and his mouth opens and closes, but he turns regardless, stumbling in his movements and catching himself on the end of his bed frame. His fingers curl in on it until his knuckles turn white, and Erin does not miss it.
She undoes the buttons on her dress quickly, her hands shaking wildly, then tugs it up over her head, dropping it on the ground in a dull, wet thump. She cringes at the sound of it.
She does not take off her bra, not when the thought of doing so feels like crossing a line, like blurring the edges, like a vulnerability so acute and pointed that the end of it feels like a sharpened blade.
She pulls his shirt over her head, and feels completely wrapped up in the scent of him, washing soap and cheap cologne, something generic and certainly not name brand. And yet, the thought of him wearing Calvin Klein or Dior Fahrenheit feels off. Not right for him, not exactly.
She steps into the sweatpants, tugging them up her legs and jumping once, making sure they are as far up her body as they will go. Then, she tugs the drawstrings tight as she can, and ties them into a neat bow, tucking it into the waistband, out of sight.
She reaches up into the back of the shirt and unclasps her bra, snaking it down her arms and balling it up in her dress once it it completely off of her. She lets a shiver of relief pass through her body, the tension released from her ribs, then she straightens up and faces James’ back. She knows in her heart and her mind that he did not peek, not even a little bit.
“Right,” she says, “I’m decent.”
James turns, and if his eyes sweep over her for a long, drawn out moment, head to feet to head again, she chooses not to think about it.
Because thinking about it feels tantamount to hoping for it, and hoping for it is not a possibility. Not when it involves James. Their James—
—her James—
—the glue that holds them all together, with his curls and his accent and the beautiful tilt to his lips that she is realizing she very much wants to memorize.
“What do you think?” she asks despite herself, and because the silence in the room is buzzing, and she cannot sit in it any longer without doing something reckless or illogical or both. “Does Doctor Who suit me?”
One of his hands rises to the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he says, his voice thick and somehow, his accent more pronounced. “Yeah, it—it definitely doesn’t do you poorly.”
Erin smiles, and runs a hand through her hair. Her fingers snag halfway through, and she realizes that the tomato juice is slowly drying into a crust that makes her hair feel like straw.
She looks up at James, a joke about her hair already coming to life in her mind, but then she catches the look in his eye, and something shifts.
She stammers out an excuse about the bathroom, and practically runs out of the room, tugging open the bathroom door and darting inside, then closing it just as quickly. She leans against the door, head tipped back, trying to catch her breath.
She has never been looked at like that before. Like a problem and an answer all at once. Like the physical embodiment of the feeling of hearing your favourite song. Like the axis that the world spins on.
She swipes her hands through the air like she is wiping off a chalkboard, then turns to the sink, looking at herself in the mirror. The dry crust of tomato juice is stuck to her neck, and her hair is hardening into something resembling reddened straw. She looks like a scarecrow, too big clothes and hay for hair. All she needs is a hat with a patch on it.
She turns on the tap, and dips her head, submerging her hair in the water. It softens, and she scrubs at it with lemony smelling hand soap until the water that swirls down the drain is clear again.
She stares at herself in the mirror, then points at her reflection, the tip of her finger pressed against the glass. “You do not fancy James,” she says to herself in a whisper, “you do not fancy him.”
“You fancy James?”
Erin whirls around, and Orla is in the doorway, staring at her with her eyebrows raised. She produced a lollipop from somewhere, and she is using it to point at Erin.
“No,” Erin says, and it sounds like a lie. “I do not fancy James.”
“It would make sense,” Orla says, her voice deep, “he did bring you to the prom tonight, and he did his hair and everything. It’s all gelled down, he looks like one of those wee plastic dolls.”
“Right, thank you for the recap, Orla,” Erin says, the pinnacle of sarcasm, her mouth turned down dramatically at the corners. “I really, really appreciate you exposing to me why it would make sense for me to fancy James.”
Orla puts the lollipop back in her mouth and salutes. “Anytime,” she says, speaking around the candy.
“It was sarcasm, Orla.”
“Was it?” She asks it with a sincerity that shakes Erin, none of her usual airy attitude floating behind the words. “I dunno.”
She walks away, leaving Erin in the bathroom by herself, her hair dripping wet circles onto the shoulders of James’ shirt.
She grabs a towel from the rack and dries her hair off as good as she can, practically wringing it out, and then pulls it into a ponytail on top of her head, and looks at herself in the mirror again. The tomato juice is gone, but she still feels a little bit messy, like the night is hanging over her.
She walks out of the bathroom, and Michelle storms in, slamming the door shut behind her, an almost ridiculous amount of anger in all her movements.
“Michelle…” Erin says, and tries knocking on the door. Michelle must throw something, or punch the door in retaliation, because all she hears is a loud slamming noise that makes her jump.
Erin shakes her head, and turns around, then makes the split second choice to walk into James’ room instead of Michelles.
“She’s being a bit of a bitch,” Erin says, pushing his door open and leaning against the doorframe. “I tried to talk to her, and I think she threw a shoe at the door.”
James exhales a snorting laugh, looking up at her from his place on his bed. “Sounds right,” he says, “I think she’s really worried about what Auntie Dierdre will do to her, seeing as it was her credit card that Michelle used.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t look good for her, I’ll be honest,” Erin says, and walks into his room. She never really comes in here; usually, when she comes over to James and Michelle’s, she sticks to Michelle’s room, and James eventually floats over, or they all sit in the living room watching TV.
James’ room was the guest room before he came, and it still largely looks that way, but now, there are pieces of him throughout it all. Pictures and the products that he uses on his hair and a big Doctor Who poster on the back of his door. The flowery bedspread was traded out for something more masculine—or, not masculine exactly, but just, not as feminine—a geometric white and blue and black pattern that makes Erins eyes hurt just a little bit.
“Do you really think Dierdre’s gonna be too mad?” Erin asks, making a face. She already knows the answer, but there is a part of her that is looking for reassurance that they will all be fine after this, and she does not know if she is going to find it.
“I don’t think she’ll be happy, but, really, Michelle has done worse,” James says, “I’m sure Auntie Dierdre won’t, well…kill her.”
Erin sits down on the foot of his bed, and then pulls her knees up to her chest, tapping her feet on top of his bedspread. “Is it bad that I’m still just a wee bit upset that John Paul stood me up?”
Something flashes in James’ eyes. “No,” he finally says, then shakes his head, “you fancy him. Of course you’re upset that he didn’t show.”
She bites the inside of her cheeks. “No, it’s not that I’m—I’m upset that he didn’t show, it’s more…” she trails off, and sighs. “It’s a little bit that I just—it makes me wonder what’s wrong with me. What my problem is that made him not want to show up.” She shrugs. “I dunno, it’s stupid.”
“Erin, there’s nothing wrong with you, John Paul is just—an idiot,” James says, the tips of his ears a little bit pink, “I mean, you’re lovely, and you’re smart and wonderful and-and you’re quite beautiful, actually. So, no, it isn’t you. It’s him.”
Erin looks at him for a long moment, her mouth just a little bit open, and—
—this rarely ever happens to her—
—she cannot think of what to say. Thank you seems insufficient and she does not want to say something that implies she does not believe him, and all that is coming to mind is an inexplicable urge to kiss him.
“Erin?” Clare says, then pushes open the door, poking her head in. “Orla’s doing that thing we all hate, with the safety pins, and every time we try to stop her, she just wiggles her fingers and tries to t-touch us with the safety pins, and we—well, we voted you as the negotiator.”
Erin looks at her for a long moment, then back at James—
—he looks sheepish, a little bit, but he is also frowning, no doubt with the mental image of Orla with the safety pins through her fingers—
—and she stands up, sighing. “I’ll get her,” she says, and Clare nods, then ducks out of James' room.
Erin turns to look at him, and leans over, squeezing his hand. “Thank you, James,” she says, and smiles as brightly as she knows how, “you’re…really great.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a smile, and he turns his hand, squeezing back. “You’re welcome, Erin,” he says, “and thank you.”
She lets go of his hand and ducks out of his room and thinks about kissing him in the morning.