JUNE 8, 1997
“THIS IS THE BEST BIRTHDAY WEEKEND EVER,” LIZZIE DECLARED EXCITEDLY AS WE wandered through the crowds at the county fair on Sunday afternoon.
She was turning nine tomorrow, and we couldn’t have asked for a better day to celebrate. The sun was splitting the stones, her mother was looking healthier than she had in months, and the girl holding my hand was glowing. I meant that in the literal sense. Lizzie was glowing.
Keeping a firm hold on her hand, I weaved through the crowd at the ice-cream van, with our two 99 ice-cream cones secured. Our families were at the other side of the fairground, waiting on the feis to start.
“You should have asked for the mint syrup on yours,” she said, licking the green slime trickling down her cone. “It’s so good.”
“No thanks. I’ll stick to plain old vanilla,” I tossed back, looking over my shoulder to smile at her.
Liz looked nothing like the other girls at the fair. She wasn’t wearing a poufy dress or pink Boyzone shorts—which, apparently, were all the style considering the number of girls wearing them—and she didn’t wear fancy bows in her hair.
Clad in her statement oversized denim dungarees, white T-shirt, and high-tops, she looked better than every other girl at the fair. She had her hair pulled back in a single plait that fell to the middle of her back. Her blond hair was a lot darker now, streaked with flecks of honey and golden brown. I’d never seen hair like hers, with so many different shades going through it, and thought it suited her better than the white it used to be.
My sister labeled the color as dirty blond once, and while I had no clue about hair shades, I was sure Lizzie’s one was my favorite.
But the very best thing about Lizzie had to be her fearlessness. She didn’t scream when we got stuck at the top on the Ferris wheel or bawl like a baby when someone crashed into her on the bumper cars. Instead, she laughed and went hell for leather right back at whoever bumped her. She had zero fear of heights, just like me, and that made her the ultimate companion at the fun fair.
We’d spent most of the afternoon running back and forth to our parents to scavenge money and went on every single ride at the fair.
“What time are Gibs and Claire onstage?” Liz asked, dragging me from my thoughts. “It has to be soon, right?”
“Yeah, it should be any minute now,” I replied, craning my neck to get a better look at where the feis was being held.
The feis was an Irish-dancing competition, and they held one every year at the county fair on the bed of an articulated lorry. I’d been dragged along to countless feis competitions over the years and wasn’t that excited, but this was Lizzie’s first time attending. She was buzzing with excitement to see Gibs and Claire take the stage, while I was just happy to see her smile.
Pushing through the crowds, we skipped past the fairground rides and stall sellers until we reached the stage. Weaving through the rows of chairs and picnic blankets, we found our families near the front.
They were sitting near each other on a few blankets strewn over the recently harvested ground. All too familiar with how those prickly straw spikes the farmers left in the fields after baling felt on bare skin, I quickly scoped out room on her sister’s blanket. While I detested the asshole sitting next to my babysitter, I was wearing shorts today and had no intention of spending the rest of the day itching and tearing my skin raw.
Ignoring Mark and Caoimhe, who were eating the faces off each other, I settled down on the blanket with Liz and steered her attention to the stage and pointed. “Look, Liz, they’re coming onstage.”
“Woo!” Lizzie cheered, clapping and squealing in delight when Gibsie took to the outdoor stage with my baby sister in tow. “Yes, guys!”
I felt a surge of pride when the people around us started to whisper and point them out. It always happened when Claire and Gibs took to the stage, and I often wondered why the other dancers bothered competing against them.
“They’re all older than them,” Liz noted, pointing to the other competing couples lined up beside them, with all the male dancers standing behind their female counterparts. “They look so small next to them.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, eyeing the older teenagers onstage. “Don’t worry, though,” I added, knowing that none of them could take the shine off our guys. “It’s in the bag.”
Claire’s curls were pinned to the top of her head, and she wore a green velvet, traditional Irish-dancing dress. Standing behind her, Gibs wore black trousers with suspender straps and a white shirt. His hair was combed smartly to the side, and his shoes were black and shiny with a clicky heel, while Claire had the black ones with the laces that went up her shins.
Even though she was smiling, I could tell my sister was nervous. Not Gibs, though. Nope, he looked as proud as punch as he stood slightly behind my sister, hands in position with hers.
When the Ceili band on site kicked off with their own lively, traditional version of “Glasgow Reel,” the couples onstage started to move.
“Whoa,” Liz breathed, attention glued to Gibsie and Claire. “They dance like they’re floating.”
“I know,” I agreed. Floating was the only way to describe the way these two moved their bodies around the stage.
My sister looked like a swan, with her limbs in perfect symmetrical poise, while Gibsie danced like he was born to dance this very dance with her.
Usually, the girls were the stars onstage and the boys danced awkwardly in the background, but not this boy.
Not our Gibs.
He took ahold of that stage like he was the headlining show. He could move his body like nothing I’d ever seen. His coordination was phenomenal, and he seemed to feel the rhythm in his bones.
He didn’t put a foot wrong throughout, and even when Claire faltered on her solo, he was right there to spin her back into the rhythm, taking on the lead in a dance that would see them win the entire tournament.
It was a complicated pattern, one way more advanced than their age, but they nailed it. Not only did they nail it but they nailed it with smiles on their faces.
Ignoring their much older competition, Gibs and Claire glided across the floor, taking on the complicated dance routine like it was second nature to them. They kept their eyes on each other the whole time, dancing for each other and not the judges. I thought their dedication to one another on the stage might be why the cabinets at home were bursting to the seams with trophies and medals.
When the song ended and the dancers froze in their final positions, the cheers from the crowd were deafening. Everyone was on their feet, clapping and whistling their approval, and as I predicted, Claire and Gibsie were quickly crowned the winners.
“Yes, Thor!” Lizzie screamed at the top of her lungs when one of the judges placed a medal around Gibsie’s neck, while another thrust an enormous trophy into his hands. “You’re the champion!” Hooting and hollering like a maniac for her friend, she bounced on her feet before flicking her attention to my sister, who was receiving her matching silverware and screamed, “You’re the best, Claire!”
When they finally left the stage and Liz flopped back down on the blanket, she had a smile on her face as big as the moon. “I’m so proud of them.” Her eyes were sparkling with excitement. “That was the best thing I’ve ever seen.” With her legs sprawled out in front of her, Liz planted her hands on the blanket behind her to support her weight as she continued to speak to me.
I tried to listen, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything except the way Mark kept playing with her braid.
Lizzie didn’t seem to notice, she was too engrossed in whatever she was saying, but I did.
I noticed, and I didn’t like it.
Not one bit.
I tried to keep smiling and ignore it, because he’d been in Lizzie’s life so long that he was practically her brother, and I, myself, often ruffled my sister’s curls with playful affection. But I couldn’t seem to shake off the protective feeling roaring to life inside of me. Maybe it was because I knew just how badly Mark bullied Gibsie and seeing him near Liz made me feel protective, or maybe it was something else, but I couldn’t shake off the bad feeling.
When he pushed her braid aside and placed his hand at the nape of her neck, I felt myself snap. “What are you doing to my friend?”
My voice was loud enough to startle both Caoimhe and Liz, who looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Meanwhile, Mark arched a brow at me. “What?”
“With your hand,” I argued, voice rising right along with my temper. “You’re touching her.”
“What are you talking about?” Mark shot back, looking taken aback. His gaze flicked to Liz who had a blank expression on her face before returning to me. “I’m not doing anything.”
“I’m not blind, asshole,” I instructed, gesturing to where he was still gripping Lizzie’s neck. “Take your hand off my friend now.”
His brows shot up in surprise and he quickly dropped his hand. “Relax, Biggs. I was only playing with her.” He nudged Lizzie’s shoulder before adding, “Isn’t that right, munchkin?”
“Yep,” Liz replied, looking at me like she didn’t understand why I was annoyed. “Mark always plays games with me.”
“Aw, look at you, getting all protective and jealous over my baby sister,” Caoimhe cooed, clearly thinking this was hilarious. “Don’t worry, Hugo Boss-Man, the whole of Ballylaggin knows Lizzie’s heart belongs to you.”
Ignoring them both, I looked at Lizzie. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she replied, looking up at me with confusion. “Are you?”
“Yeah,” I muttered, attention flicking back to Caoimhe and Mark, who were both laughing at me like I was a stupid child.
I wasn’t.
I knew all about Mark Allen and how he liked to hit kids. Kids younger and weaker than him. I also knew if he even thought about pushing Liz around like he did Gibs, I was going to lose my mind.
I saw the bruises he’d left on my friend when he beat him up. He might have had everyone else tricked into thinking he was the golden boy of Ballylaggin, but he couldn’t fool me. And unlike Gibsie, I had no problem calling him out on his bullshit. I had done just that on countless occasions but to no avail, because he was a clever bastard who had managed to pull the wool over his stepmother’s eyes.
Thing was, I didn’t care if anyone believed me; I was more than willing to keep screaming his indiscretions from the rooftops.
Narrowing my eyes, I glared at Mark, while mentally promising, One of these days, the grown-ups are going to see your true colors, and when that day comes, I’ll be right there to watch your fall from grace.
