Page 70 of Merrily Ever After
“Who?” I ask, still picturing Phil Murphy with a fist in his face.
“Colleen. Is that why you’ve been learning? So you can dance with her?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m a bright student with a curious mind.”
“Not a single report card has said that.”
“I read between the lines,” she says breezily. “Anyway, if you need my help, just ask.”
It sounds like something she would joke about, but I know for maybe the first time in her life, my sister is completely serious.
“I will,” I say, and she grins.
“She’s nice. You deserve nice.”
“Do I?” I ask, walking on.
“Of course you do.” She catches up with me, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “You deserve everything, Sean. You’re the only one who thinks otherwise.”
*
Another Friday at the disco. Another night with my back against the wall. I’d debated working up the courage to try a slow song with Colleen, but Dessie barely played anything but hard rock all night. He spent four hours just standing at the record player, nodding his head up and down angrily before ending with Gilbert O’Sullivan and abruptly turning on the lights. Afterward, Rachel said his girlfriend broke up with him, which made a lot of sense.
A part of me was relieved I’d have more time to practice, but a bigger part was growing worried that I’d never feel ready, no matter how good I got. Or that by the time I did, someone else would have swept her off her feet and this would all have been for nothing.
It’s all I can think about as I continue my long list of chores at Mrs Fallon’s the next day, alternating between vowing to try harder and wondering if I should just ask her to go for a walk like every other guy would. But walking involves talking, and I’m not exactly—
“What are you doing?”
I jolt at the annoyed voice below me, making the ladder wobble for one heart-stopping moment, as I glance down to see Mrs Fallon glaring up at me.
“What I said I’d do,” I respond, holding up a pile of mushed, dirty leaves in my gloved hand.
“Still?”
I take a breath, reaching deep within for patience. “The gutters haven’t been done in a while.”
“Well, it’s not like I can climb a ladder, is it? With my arthritis? Is that what you want me to do with my time? Fall to my death?”
“I just meant—”
“Come down from there. It’s too cold and the neighbors will think you’re spying.”
“You don’t have any neighbors.”
But she’s already going back inside. I sigh, throwing down the last handful of gunk as I make my way to the ground.
I’m doing my best to hold up my side of the agreement, but it’s a little hard when every time I go to tighten a leaking pipe or fix the paving, she orders me to stop. At first, I thought I was doing everything wrong, but now I’m starting to suspect that she just likes the company, though she’ll never admit it.
Now, I head into the kitchen, only to find she’s been as busy as me. The table is full of plates. Ham and bread and cheese. Butter and coleslaw. Her interpretation of a sandwich, probably. The fanciest sandwiches I’ll ever have.
“Eat,” she says when she sees me. “Skin and bones. That’s what you are. Doesn’t your mother feed you?” She takes a seat at the table and gestures at me impatiently.
“I need to wash my hands.”
“Then wash them! I’m starting without you.”
