Page 2 of The Beginning and End of Everything
"Gypo camp?” I asked on our way through the hallway. “What’s a Gypo camp?”
“It’s a place with a bunch of caravans. Brandon lives there.”
“Okay.”
Brandon tossed his head back on a groan. He didn’t want me coming, but I didn’t care. I liked Connor.
* * *
The gateinto the campsite hung at an angle, chained on both sides. Brandon said it was to stop people from “nicking” their caravans while they slept. I nodded when he nimbly jumped the fence, even though I had no idea what it meant to nick something.
Connor struggled to hoist himself over, then tumbled to the dry ground with an oomph. I slipped between the posts and gave him my hand to help him to his feet, his cheeks blushing.
We followed Brandon across the field to where a messy collection of travel trailers sat, some silver, some white, and some with fabric awnings pitched over the entrance. I took in my surroundings, thinking about how much it reminded me of a traveling circus while the boys rounded a rusted truck a few feet ahead. Weeds and tall grass covered most of the fender, but I didn’t stop to linger. I followed them between the trailers—or caravans, as Connor had called them—until Brandon started up a set of steps.
A white dog, covered in dirt and grease, shot out from the underpinning, yapping. He made it a few feet before the frayed piece of rope tethering him to the trailer caught, yanking him back.
"Shut up, Sean!" Brandon said, reaching for the door, but Sean kept barking. When Brandon opened the door, it dropped on its hinges with a thump, and the dog howled.
"Brandon?" a woman shouted.
"Yeah, I'm here.” He stepped inside, then stopped, leaving Connor and me on the steps. “Where's Dad?"
"At the pub."
Brandon’s shoulders sagged—the same way they did when he was blamed for something in class—before he moved inside. Connor went straight to a plastic-covered, floral couch and flopped down, looking right at home. But I lingered in the doorway. A woman I assumed was Brandon’s mother stood in front of a tiny sink, her hands in dishwater. Her dark hair was pulled into a messy bun, and an apron was tied around her cinched waist. If I squinted just enough, she could have looked like my mom. I rubbed at the dull ache in my chest, hoping Brandon knew how lucky he was.
"You and Connor want a snack?" She wiped her hands on her apron and grabbed a plate of cookies. The second she turned, her gaze landed on me, and her steps faltered. She smiled the kind of smile that I’d only seen my mother give. One that caused tiny dimples to pop in her cheeks. She held out the plate of cookies, and both boys snatched two. "Who's this?"
Brandon shoved the treat into his mouth, then yanked his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the sofa. "Poppy. Connor likes her, but I think she talks funny.”
His mother’s eyes strayed from me to the crumpled shirt on the plastic-covered couch before she dug her fists into her hips and pointed across the small room. "Boy, that shirt was clean this morning! What did you do? Roll around in the mulch?” She swatted his head, then gave me a smile. "Don't mind him. Boy thinks he was raised in a barn."
After our snack, his mom sent us outside to play. Brandon took off through the maze of caravans while Connor straggled behind, next to me. “His ma’s nice.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. As much as the jealousy that coursed through me made a knot of guilt settle in my stomach, I couldn’t help it.
“I’m sure yours is, too,” he said. A simple, casual comment, but it hurt.
The kind of pain that stops a child dead in their tracks. I swatted at the tears stinging my eyes, and Connor’s brow furrowed. Before he could say a word, I huffed.
“Stupid gnat.”
“Yeah. They’re bad this time of year.”
I lied. I didn’t want Connor to feel sorry for me, but most importantly, I didn’t want to think about it.
I forced my thoughts elsewhere and followed Connor around a white trailer. It had fallen off three of its wheels, which meant one end sat higher than the others. An old man sat in front of it, slumped over in a ratty lawn chair. A hat covered half of his face, and an empty bottle of whiskey laid propped in his lap.
“That’s Old Man McGinty,” Connor leaned in to whisper, thumbing back at the sleeping man. “My ma says he’s a drunk.”
Eventually, the caravans opened to a field where, unlike most of Ireland, the grass was brown and dead. A black pony stood tied to a metal post, munching on what little green was left. The horse lifted its head, snorting when we approached.
“Hey, Shegar.” Brandon patted the pony’s mane, then unfastened the harness from the rope before glancing at me. "Wanna ride him?”
The only pony I had ever ridden had been one at the Georgia State Fair. The kind someone led around in a circle. My gaze shifted from the pony to Brandon
“Come on.” He jerked his chin toward the horse and smiled.
