Page 10 of Finding Him
“Uh... I’m waiting for the bus? What else would I be doing?”
He clicks his tongue mournfully. “The seven-fifty? Aye, if you want that bus, you’ve to be here ten minutes early. In this town, if you’re not early...”
“You’re late,” the driver, Fitz, finishes. They share a stupid, synchronized grin.Great. An inside joke. How fun!
Kill me.
“We could give you a lift!” JJ offers. “Second kidnapping attempt of the week, I know, but we’re actually headed to Morrigal ourselves. Hop in the back.”
Realistically, I should say no. But I’m staring down the barrel of a disastrous first day. I hop in. Besides, how many people really get kidnapped in Ireland?
I’ll have to google that later.
??` ?? ?´?
JJ BIGGS—WHOis refusing to tell me what the J’s stand for, but has no problem trying to give me his home address—and Joey “Fitzy” Fitzpatrick have turned out to be relatively harmless.
They drop me at the front gates of Morrigal College, an imposing stone building that looks like it belongs in a Harry Potter movie. JJ even insists on walking me to the office, since he knows the way. I accept, only because I have a feeling he wouldn’t take a no for an answer.
Inside, I meet Miss Carrie, the receptionist, and a brown-eyed blonde girl who looks like she’s been brewed from pure sunshine. Her smile makes my own face ache from second-hand strain.
“Molly! You’re here!” the girl chirps. Along with the uniform, she’s wearing this headband with bright yellow daisies on a white background, paired with high socks in the same pattern. “I’m Claire! I’m your buddy!”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I smile, planning to shake her hand but she threw her arms around me.
“Group hug!” JJ promptly shouts. Miss Carrie is quick to shoo us out of the office, telling JJ he better get to class before he ends up being the first student to get a demerit this year.
Claire proves to be a high-speed tour guide. She spends the next hour dragging me through the halls, showing me the art wing and the labs. JJ tags along, despite Miss Carrie’s warning. He snatches my schedule out of my hand.
“Fourth year. TY,” he hums. “Easy street, this.”
“You wouldn’t know,” Claire laughs, currently trying to show me the art wing. I only have one art class, but she’s been telling me about all the different clubs they have. “You skipped it.”
“Skipped it?” I look between them. “Are you a genius or something?”
“Hardly,” JJ rolls his eyes. “TY is optional. You can do the four-year track or skip straight to the Leaving Cert cycle. Iwanted out of this kip as fast as possible, so I went straight to fifth year.”
“And I’m not skipping it,” Claire insists, looking at me. “My Mam wouldn’t have it. She didn’t let my older brother skip, either.”
“Niall didn’t want to anyway, ‘cause he’s a swot,” JJ laughs. “A massive, book-loving nerd. And you’re just the same, Claire Bear.”
“Better a swot than a spanner,” she shoots back. “Come on, Molly. The canteen is just this way...”
??` ?? ?´?
BY THE TIME“Big Lunch” (which is what Claire calls it) rolls around, my head is spinning. The Irish school system involves a lot of acronyms—TY, LC, JC—and I’ve never been good with terminology that isn’t sports related. Or even terminology that’s just not soccer related. Ask me what a tight end is, I’d suggest a boy-scout knot.
At least I don’t have to deal with the embarrassing feat of trying to find a table among a crowd of strangers. Claire invited me to sit with her, and met me in the hallway after my Media Studies class so we could walk together.
Besides Claire, three other girls sit with her at her table. Two other third year (Claire’s gradeforward slashyear group) girls, Marissa and Niamh. The former has long, golden blonde curls, and the other has straight bright red hair, and wispy bangs. And then a timid, dark haired girl, who is in my year, introduces herself as Rory. Claire introduces each of them to me, in the same excited way she has shown me each hallway and classroom all day. I’m just starting to think this girl is never going to run out of energy.
I scan the room, my eyes landing on a cluster of boys a few tables over. Most of them are acting like typical teenage idiots—throwing wads of paper and yelling—but one is perfectly still, so he catches my eye like a lighthouse beam cutting through fog.
He has bleached blonde hair with dark roots poking through, styled in a messy, upward sweep. His tie is loosened, his shirt’s top buttons undone, almost trying too hard to appear casual. He isn't joining in on the chaos happening around him. He’s leaning his chin on his hand, his dark blue eyes locked directly on our table.
Actually, they’re locked on me.
My heart does a weird stutter I’m not used to. I recognize him. It’s the guy from the store. The one who smacked JJ. I can’t remember his name or if I even know it, but the intensity of his gaze makes my skin prickle. It isn't a mean look—just unreadable. Blank. Constant. And like a loose thread on a sweater, now that I’ve seen it, I can’tunnotice it.
