Page 73 of The Dark Before Light

I was leaving for Oxford on Monday. Alistair had helped me pack over the last few days, bitching the whole time that I should have enrolled at Galway University with him. It was a great school, but I’d been set on for Oxford for years.

Before I left the flat, I knocked on my brother’s door. He was on the phone with his on-again, off-again girlfriend; I could hear her belligerent yelling from six feet away. I pantomimed a walk and smoking a joint, but he winced and shook his head.

I shrugged and went on my way, extra-glad I was entering university unattached. Girls were great fun for a night or two, but any longer and they became a distraction. With the five-year plan I had, I couldn’t afford distractions.

The rain outside was more mist than downpour, perfect for a stroll. Content to wander, I didn’t have a destination in mind until I came around a corner and saw the graveyard.

It’d been a while since I’d visited Gran, and it seemed fitting to say goodbye before I left for England—and smoke a joint on her behalf.

The girl looked like a wet bird curled up in front of Gran’s headstone. A hummingbird, I decided, because even though she was sitting, she was in perpetual motion. Twitching feet. Jerking shoulders. Repeated swipes of pale hands across her face, smearing wet bangs.

She was making noises like sobs only angrier, and she was mumbling to herself about someone named Olivia. American accent, if my ears weren’t misleading me.

Was she drunk? Crying? Or lost?

I scared the shit out of her when I asked. She jumped up, then almost toppled right over. Drunk, then. Or maybe all three: crying, lost, and drunk. A winning combination. As I contemplated whether or not I was annoyed by this unexpected diversion, the girl stood there, staring at me like I was someone famous. She was cute in a crazy way, with frizzy hair, big eyes, and red cheeks.

Then she giggled out of the blue—a husky sound that made me up her age by a few years—and slapped a hand over her mouth. The abrupt motion almost took her to the ground. It was hard not to laugh, but I managed it.

Resigned to helping her, I killed my joint and tossed it to the ground. The little bird chirped that I shouldn’t litter.

“You shouldn’t be hammered and wandering around a graveyard at dusk, Birdie, but here we are.”

Her eyes got even bigger at my nickname for her. She wobbled sideways, toward the row of headstones.

“My name isn’t Birdie,” she slurred angrily.

“It is now.” I grimaced as she swayed again. It would be a real shame if she fell and cracked her head open on Gran’s final resting place. “You’d better sit back down before you fall, Birdie.”

Like her bones turned to liquid, she melted downward and slumped back against the headstone. Despite the dreamy drunkenness of her expression, to me she still seemed angry. Sad and angry.

I’d always been good at reading people.

Sighing, I trudged along the row of graves. I’d give her a while to sober up, then get her back to the parents who’d pissed her off.

Plopping down next to her, I misjudged my trajectory and ended up closer than intended. My shoulder bumped against hers. I thought about moving but decided against it. Her arm was soft and warm, Gran’s headstone rough and hard, the ground cool and wet. I wasn’t a danger to her—and she was clearly harmless.

She was staring at me again. Smirking, I let her. I didn’t think there was anything special about my face, but I’d figured out a few years ago that girls liked it. Plus, this girl was American; they went crazy for an accent.

I waited to see if she’d be brave enough to talk to me.

“Do you have another joint?” she asked in a weird, forced voice.

Oh, she was brave. Possibly stupid, too. I decided against lecturing her about asking strangers for drugs.

Smothering another laugh, I looked at her. “Not a chance, Birdie.”

She gazed into my eyes, swaying toward me like I was gravity. A vibrating, drunk, sodden bird who didn’t know where the ground was.

Cute. And sad.

“How old are you?” she slurred. At least her voice was normal-sounding this time.

“Eighteen.”

I could tell she wanted me to ask how old she was—probably so she could lie. I didn’t ask. It didn’t really matter. Even if I wasn’t leaving town in two days, she was far too young. An innocent kid. From the way she kept looking at me, all bashful and awed, I doubted she’d ever kissed a boy.

Daylight was fading fast, making it hard for me to see the color of her eyes. Light brown, I thought. They were pretty. Her mouth was nice, too. I had a feeling she’d be a stunner one day.

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