look of sorrow that spread across Ronan’s face. “And don’t make that face. You know I’m right.”
Ronan held Ciaran’s gaze for as long as he could, then shifted to watch a patch of water develop into a puddle on the gym floor. “Well, just ’cause I’m immortal doesn’t mean I don’t still need my mum,” Ronan said quietly. Instantly he realized he didn’t sound as flip as he had wanted. It wasn’t that he was ashamed to speak so truthfully to his brother; he just didn’t feel like having a heart-to-heart in the middle of St. Sebastian’s, so before Ciaran could respond, Ronan made sure he got in the next word. “And if you repeat that to anyone, I’ll deny it ’til my dying day,” he quipped. “Which you know won’t be coming round anytime soon.”
Yes, Ciaran knew all too well that most of his relatives would outlive him by centuries at the very least. Unless, of course, something about his DNA changed, which he knew was a distinct possibility.
Not one that he spent much time dwelling on, but one that offered him solace when he woke up in the middle of the night wondering what his future was going to be like. But at the moment, he didn’t want to think about the future. Pressing a towel into his face, Ciaran stifled a sudden laugh when he remembered the recent past. “The only nice thing to come out of Mum’s absence was that we all got to spend the holidays together,” Ciaran remarked.
“A jolly good time was had by all,” Ronan said, smiling and nodding his head in agreement. “I think the best part was seeing you razz up your guts after drinking too much whiskey.”
Just the thought of it made Ciaran’s head spin all over again. “Don’t remind me!” he pleaded. He buried his face in the towel, which was not the wisest thing to do since the towel reeked of bleach and the smell, added to the memory of throwing up, made him cough fiercely. “Damn that Fritz for introducing me to the stuff.”
Bending over again, but this time because he was laughing so hard, Ronan said, “I don’t think you’re supposed to wolf down three helpings of bangers and mash
Ciaran snapped the towel at Ronan playfully. “I didn’t drink the
“Well, no, not at once!”
“Aw stuff it,” Ciaran said, now laughing just as hard as Ronan.
They could have spent the remainder of the practice session laughing over the dumb things they had done over their break—Ronan singing every single Christmas carol too loudly and disastrously off-key; Michael screwing up his mother’s recipe for plum pudding so badly that even the deer in The Forest refused to eat it; or Saoirse, who proved she wasn’t completely over Morgandy by making a snowman, putting a curly blond wig on its head, and then decimating her creation with a shovel until it was nothing but a small mound of snow and curls—but then they’d have to deal with Blakeley’s wrath, since he didn’t consider lollygagging a laughing matter. Like Michael and Fritz, who were sitting in the bleachers taking an unofficial break, were about to.
“You ladies want to have tea or do you want to win Nationals?” Blakeley bellowed.
Just as Fritz opened his mouth to speak, Michael kicked him hard in the shin. “Ow!” Fritz cried, clutching his leg.
Extending his own leg, Michael replied, “Just stretching out a cramp, sir.”
Blakeley eyed them suspiciously. He knew they were lying, but they were also two of his best swimmers, so he was willing to cut them some slack the first day back. But just some. “Ya got five minutes,” he shouted. “And I don’t care if you’re cramping so bad you need Dr. Sutton to make a house call. I want you both back in the water.”
Still rubbing his leg where Michael had kicked him, Fritz exclaimed, “What’d you do that for?”
“A preventive strike,” Michael said. “I know you were about to say that you could go for a spot of Earl Grey.”
“Umbrage, Nebraska! I take umbrage!” Fritz protested, acting as if he was highly insulted before breaking out into a huge grin. “I was actually going to ask for a spot of orange pekoe,” he clarified.
“My grandmum makes it for me with the best homemade scones and clotted cream.”
Michael just knew the basics about Fritz’s family background, so he wasn’t sure if Fritz was joking.
“And would that be your grandmum on your German side or your Ethiopian side?”
“Grandmum Zara from Ethiopia,” Fritz replied, as if it were the most normal response in the world.
Noticing Michael’s perplexed expression, Fritz filled in the blanks of his family tree. “She came to England when she was seven and worked as sort of an indentured servant in the house of some duke, at least I think it was a duke.” Fritz thought for a moment, but it didn’t help; he still couldn’t remember.
“Well, the bloody chap had some kind of a title, and she went on to become his head chef,” Fritz explained. “She wrote a cookbook, and on the day it was published, the duke, or whatever he was, hung himself in the kitchen from one of those hooks they use to hold really big pots, because he had lost his fortune in a poker game.”
“That’s horrible!”
“For the duke, maybe, not his finest moment, for sure,” Fritz granted. “But the timing helped turn Grandmum’s book into a bestseller, and she made a couple million pounds.”
No reason to be surprised. Of course a character like Fritz would have an ancestor who was just as colorful and entertaining as he was; that was expected. Michael had never expected Fritz to be insightful as well. “So fess up. What’s going on with you and Morgandy?”
Startled, Michael wasn’t sure how to answer the question. Ever since finding out that Morgandy was both Saoirse’s and Ronan’s ex-boyfriend and what his true identity was, they had all agreed to keep the complicated matter confidential. Clearly, Fritz had picked up on some of the tension. “Nothing’s up between us. I don’t even know the guy that well,” Michael replied, unconvincingly trying to sound nonchalant.
“Nebraska, you lie!” Fritz accused. “Just like you lied when you told me my idea to give Double P super stretchy arms and legs was brill.”
Thankful to be given a topic that would steer them away from Fritz’s original question, Michael stomped his foot in a perfect imitation of Saoirse when she didn’t get her way. “I did not lie,” Michael protested. “I still say rubberized limbs are great powers that any superhero would kill to have.” Turns out the idea was also perfect fodder for almost every Double A student seeking revenge on Fritz, the consummate prankster, and wanting to make
“Tell that to my mum!” Fritz yelled. “I had to listen to her effing and blinding at me for almost a month when she saw all the rubbers everybody sent me.”
Recalling the fiasco and the crazy amount of condoms the kids had stuffed in Fritz’s schoolbag and flung through his bedroom window, all of which were found by Fritz’s mother when she picked him up before the holiday break, Michael laughed harder than ever, stopping only when Fritz reminded him how they had stumbled onto the subject in the first place. “Don’t think I forgot,” he said smugly.
“What’s your beef with Morgandy? Did you guys tell him to sod off ’cause he was seeing Saoirse on the sly?”
Suddenly, laughing was the furthest thing from Michael’s mind. He had to think. If Fritz knew about Morgandy’s involvement with Saoirse, what else did he know about the guy? Unable to focus, Michael glanced across the gym and saw Morgandy chatting with Alexei and wished he could use his enhanced hearing to listen to what they were saying to each other instead of continuing his conversation with Fritz. But he didn’t want to give his friend any more reason to be suspicious.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“My girl, Ruby, told me,” Fritz replied, deliberately putting extra emphasis on Ruby’s name.
“Your girl?”
“That’s right,” Fritz declared. “You’re not the only one with a love life, Nebraska.”
As much as Michael was happy that Fritz was experiencing what it felt like to be romantically involved with someone, he couldn’t give the relationship his blessing; he knew too much, about Ruby and about the other girl in Fritz’s life. “That’s great,” Michael said, hoping he sounded more enthusiastic than he felt. “I just wish, you know, that things could’ve worked out between you and Phaedra.”
Surprisingly, Fritz didn’t make a joke or come back with a quick retort. He simply responded to Michael’s observation honestly. “So do I, mate, but what’s the bloody phrase? Just not meant to be.”
Staring at Morgandy and then at Ronan, Michael was thrilled that in their case that cliche had been accurate. If not, well, Michael didn’t want to think about that.
“Maybe he’ll just up and drop out too.”
