My, how the mighty had fallen.
It helped that Lina and Titletrack were already pinpoints of light on the road ahead. My stomach twisted in anticipation.
“I still say Walter isn’t going to tell on you,” Rowan offered. He was driving a solid twenty kilometers over the speed limit, cutting straight through turns, but now that we were on day three I didn’t even bat an eye. He was actually a very alert driver, and the safe feelings I had around him transferred to being in his car. Ian, on the other hand, was channeling his inner Kermit the Frog, his face a dusky green.
I gestured to Ian. “Better ease up. This one isn’t looking good.”
“I’m fine,” Ian insisted, but then in a rare moment of honesty he backtracked. “Nope, you’re right. Not fine.” He glanced over at Rowan. “I still don’t get what this guidebook stop has to do with Titletrack.”
Rowan beamed. “You’ll see.” Whatever the connection, he was very proud of himself over it. Sunlight kept blasting on and off and through our windows, and every time it hit his face, a constellation of freckles lit up on the bridge of his nose. It was oddly mesmerizing.
Finding the fairy ring was not a terribly straightforward process. Instead of regular directions, Guidebook Lady’s map used landmarks like “rock that looks like David Bowie in 1998” and “barn the color of sin” to guide us. We had to circle around the road a few times and google David Bowie just to get within striking distance.
Finally, we pulled over, crossing the road to a clump of trees that looked incredibly unpromising. By this point, Ian was a bundle of nerves. Pukey nerves. Hopefully, all the U-turns would be worth it.
“What is a fairy ring anyway?” Ian asked, stepping off the road and into the mud.
“Fairy rings are actually ring forts,” Rowan said. “They’re the remains of medieval farms. People used to dig moats and then use the earth to make circular barriers. Their remains are all over Ireland. But for a long time people didn’t know what they were, so they came up with magical explanations.”
I didn’t need any more convincing. “Let’s go.” I marched for the forest like I knew what I was doing. I hesitated for a moment before plunging into the mud. It had the consistency of extra-sloppy peanut butter. My Converse were not going to survive this trip. Ian groaned, sludging his way forward.
Rowan slogged up next to me. “You know what we’re looking for, right? It’s a raised circular wall, either made of stone or—”
“Like that?” I pointed to a rounded bank draped with patches of grass and moss, and we all hurried over.
But finding the fairy ring and getting into the fairy ring were two very different situations. The bank was about five feet tall and reminded me of a vertical Slip ’N Slide.
“How should we . . . ?” Rowan started, but Ian charged up behind us, summiting the ledge in four big steps. “I guess like that.”
“Whoa. What is this place?” Ian shouted once he’d made it over the bank.
“Ian, no yelling!” I said, breaking my own rule. “You’ll make the fairies mad.”
“You think I’m scared of fairies when Mom is out there?” He hesitated, his voice settling reverently. “Seriously, though. What is this place?”
Rowan and I exchanged a look, then hauled ourselves up as quickly as possible. But as usual, Ian had made it look easier than it actually was. I fell backward twice, both times losing my balance and tumbling into the mud.
“Need a little help, Maeve?” I glanced up to see Rowan biting his cheeks.
“Are you laughing?” I demanded.
“No way. I’m much too scared of you for that. I was just standing here wondering if I’ve ever seen anyone fail so badly at climbing a five-foot hill.”
“It’s my shoes. I’m supposed to be riding around Italy on a scooter, not hiking through mud.” I attacked the hill again, this time allowing Rowan to help haul me up.
Once I had my balance I leaned in close. “Okay, tell me the truth: Is this really a Titletrack site, or were you just trying ease Ian’s devastation?”
“It really is.” Rowan was one of those rare people who was even cuter up close. His gray eyes were flecked with blue, and a constellation of freckles danced across his nose, lit up by the sun.
“Guys! Look at this.”
I tore my gaze from Rowan, instantly forgetting about the freckles. All around us, tall, beautiful trees echoed the circle, their branches reaching over to form a protective umbrella over the ring. But it was the light that got me. Sunlight had to filter through so many layers of leaves that by the time it reached the ring, it cast a warm, lucky glow.
If fairies lived anywhere, it had to be here.
Without breaking the silence, Rowan and I slipped carefully down the bank and into the ring. At ground level, everything was a notch or two quieter, the wind moving silkily through the grass. Small, shiny trinkets covered a gray stump in the circle’s center: three gold thimbles, a silver lighter, two pearl-inlaid bobby pins, and a lot of coins.
“Wow,” Rowan whispered quietly. He reached into his pocket, coming up with a handful of coins and a foil-wrapped stick of gum.
Real-life fairies act less as dream granters and more as dream guiders—helping you to figure out what it is your heart truly wants and then nudging you all along the way toward it. So listen closely, pet. You may hear something that surprises you.
I shuffled through my pocket, emerging with a handful of coins left over from paying for our spilled eggs at the coffee shop. I handed one to Ian. “We have to make wishes, and then place these on the stump as an offering.”
“Just like Jared did,” Rowan said triumphantly.
Ian’s eyes grew wide, and not because Rowan’s voice was over the fairy-approved decibels. “Jared came here?”
Rowan nodded, finally letting his smile break loose. “This morning I was reading more about Titletrack’s early days, and I came across this old interview where Jared told a story about stopping at a fairy ring near Cobh. He was actually on his way to Kinsale, which is farther south, but he happened to stop at Au Bohair for lunch, and he met Miriam.”
I bounced happily on my feet. “He stopped to make a wish, and the rest is history. You really think this is the fairy ring he stopped at?”
Rowan shrugged. “I can’t really know, but he said it was close to Cobh, and this is pretty much the only main road from Dublin. And here’s the part I really liked about the story. Instead of wishing to become a famous musician, he said he asked the fairies for ‘the next thing he needed.’ A few hours later he met Miriam, and then the rest was history.”
“Rowan, this is perfect!” Ian yelled, disregarding the fairies’ delicate ears. He pointed to the stump. “This is the real beginning of Titletrack. Right here.”
Rowan splayed his arms out proudly. “Didn’t I say I’d deliver?”
I squeezed his arm. “Nice work, Rowan.”
“All right, then, time for wishes,” Ian announced. “If it worked for Jared, it’ll work for us. Rowan, you found this place, so you go first.”
Rowan strode over to the stump and carefully placed his gum next to a bobby pin. As he set it down, something about his posture changed. Opened up. There was a long, quiet pause, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet and clear. “I wish my mom and dad would let go of each other.”
I suddenly felt like a trespasser, stumbling upon a private moment. Ian and I exchanged a quick glance. Did Rowan need a moment alone? I began edging backward, but Rowan’s voice held me in place.
“My entire life they’ve always fought.” He turned back toward us, his face even. “Bad fights. Even in public. Once we were out to dinner and their fighting got so bad that someone called the guards.” He shuddered lightly. “I was so relieved on New Year’s when they told me they were getting a divorce, because I thought, Finally. It’s over.
“But it isn’t over. They don’t live in the same house anymore, but in some ways they’re just as connected to each other by anger as they
were by marriage. And now I’m always in the middle—I can’t get away from it.” He gestured toward the car. “They want me to choose who to live with for the school year. That’s why all my stuff is packed into Clover. I still don’t know which one. Both places sound miserable.”
My heart thickened. “Rowan . . . ,” I started, but I didn’t know where to go from there. Sunlight spilled over him, highlighting all the layers of his sadness. I’d never thought of connection that way—that hatred could be just as binding as love. My chest ached for him.
“I’m so sorry,” Ian said. “I didn’t know you were going through all this. I would have tried to help.”
“You did help; you just didn’t know it.” Rowan dug the toe of his sneaker into the ground. “I needed someone who knew me outside of my family context. And I’m sorry I kept harping on you guys about your arguing—it just kept triggering me. I know your mom can be hard on you, but you look out for each other, and I can tell your family is the real deal.” He looked up, his eyes open and vulnerable. “I just wish I had what you have.”
My feet carried me to him, my arm slipping around his back. “Rowan, you do have us. We’re here with you, and we’ll be here as long as you need us.”
Ian flanked his other side, the three of us looking down at the stump. I carefully set a coin down. “My wish is for Rowan,” I said, measuring my words. “I wish that Rowan will be happy, and that he’ll know he’s not alone.”
“Me too,” Ian said, setting his coin next to mine. “My wish is for Rowan.”
Rowan didn’t thank us. He didn’t have to. Over the past three ridiculous days, Rowan had been carrying us, holding steady through our fights and bitter remarks. This was about thanking him.
Finally, Rowan broke the silence. “I think that helped. Anyone feel like going to Electric Picnic?”
“I guess,” I said nonchalantly, and Ian grinned. “I don’t really have any other plans.”
We were exiting the muddy bank when my phone chimed. Ian stiffened. “Oh, no. Did Walt spill?”
I lifted the screen to my face. It was Olive.
ADDIE, ARE YOU OK? NOW EVERYONE IS
TALKING ABOUT CUBBY AND A PHOTO OF YOU.
No. I froze, willing the letters to rearrange, willing the message to mean something other than what it meant. My breath turned shallow, my hands clammy.
Olive’s “everyone” was bigger than most people’s. She was one of those rare people who managed to fit in with every social group on the high school spectrum, as comfortable with the other soccer players as she was the debate team. If she said everyone, she meant everyone.
Ian’s face flushed as he studied my expression. “Addie, what? Is it Mom?”
I managed to hand him the phone, and his face tightened as he read the text. “Oh, no.”
I cried for a solid twenty-five minutes. The tears just wouldn’t stop coming. Rowan and Ian took turns giving me concerned looks, but I could barely register them.
Everyone knew. Everyone.
Worse, what if everyone had seen?
Ian and Rowan kept trying to ask me if I was okay, but I was inside a bubble, completely separate from them. Finally, Ian put his energy into texting one of his teammates.
“My coach found out, Addie,” he said nervously. He was looking at me like I was something brittle. Breakable. Did he not realize I was already shattered?
“How?” My voice didn’t sound like mine.
“I don’t know how. I didn’t tell him. Not even when he cornered Cubby and me about what the fight was about. But now he’s found out. And . . .”
“And what?” My throat felt stuffed full of cotton. I couldn’t even swallow.
Ian’s knee ricocheted off the seat. “And there’s talk that Cubby will be suspended from the team. Maybe more. It’s still just rumors, but I think that’s how this thing got out.”
This thing.
This thing that was me. And my heart, and my body, all on display for anyone to throw rocks at. How big was it going to get? How long until Mom found out? Dad? I huddled in the corner of Clover, so miserable that my tears dried up. Both Ian and Rowan tried consoling me, but it was no use. I could already hear the whispers in the hallways. Feel the glances of boys who’d seen more of me than I’d ever show them. Teachers would know. My coaches would know. I wanted to throw up. Especially when my phone started dinging with messages from my teammates, some concerned, some just curious. Did that really happen?
Finally, I silenced my phone and stuffed it under Rowan’s pile. What else could I do?
The closer we got to Stradbally, the tighter my body crunched into a ball. I knew we were just about there when traffic turned bumper-to-bumper and small white arrows directed us to a dirt road lit with fairy lights.
We filed slowly onto the fairgrounds in a long parade of cars, people yelling to one another and music pumping loudly from every car stereo. It reminded me of the high school parking lot every morning before the first bell rang. Home suddenly pressed in on me so tightly that I could barely breathe.
“We made it,” Rowan said, meeting my eyes. His enthusiasm was a solid 98 percent lower than it should have been. Even Ian looked docile, his body remarkably still.
Ian glanced back at me and then pointed to an open field blooming with makeshift shelters—tents, caravans, teepees—all crammed together like one giant circus. “Pretty cool, right?” he asked, his voice soft. “And think, Lina will be here soon. It will all be better then.”
Or worse, I silently added, my stomach twisting. Just a couple of hours ago I’d felt good about telling Lina, but hearing from everyone back home had changed that.
Names of the designated camping sites glinted in the dimming sunlight. They were all accompanied by cartoon drawings of famous people: Oscar Wilde, Janis Joplin, Andy Warhol, and Jimi Hendrix. A man with a bright red vest ushered us into our parking spot, and Ian sprang out, stretching his arms. “I can’t believe we’re finally here.”
“It does seem like it took us a lot longer than three days to get here,” Rowan added. That I had to agree with. The Rainbow’s End Hostel and Inch Beach felt like a lifetime ago.
I climbed out too and numbly followed the guys to the will call booth to pick up my ticket. Inside the gates, my first thought was chaos. The grounds were packed to the brim, people walking and riding and cruising around in some of the strangest outfits I’d ever seen. Lots of face paint and costumes ranging from leather capes to tutus. And music was everywhere, the separate melodies twisting together into a tight braid. Even the guys looked overwhelmed.
Finally, Ian turned to smile at us. “I say we do a big sweep, take it all in, and figure out where Titletrack is playing. Sound good?” He looked at me hopefully. What he was really saying was, Let’s distract Addie.
“Sounds great,” I said, attempting to match the glimmer of hope in his voice. I’d been through a lot to get here; the least I could do was try to enjoy it.
Even with the costumes and overcrowding, Electric Picnic started out fairly normal, with all the usual festival ingredients: stages, food stands, eight billion porta-potties, kids screaming on carnival rides, tarot card readers . . . but the longer we walked, the more I began to feel like I’d stepped into a carnival fun house.
The first truly strange sight we stumbled upon was the sunken bus. A bright red double-decker bus angled into the mud, its bottom half almost completely submerged in a ditch. Next was a human jukebox, an elevator-size structure housing an entire band taking requests. Then a trio of college-age guys ran by wearing muddy sumo wrestler costumes.
“Did that just happen?” Rowan asked, watching them in disbelief. The one in the back wore a glittery tutu fastened around his waist.
“Did that?” Ian asked as a man rode by on a bicycle made out of a piano.
“I feel like I just fell down a rabbit hole,” I said, wishing it were enough to distract me from the phone buzzing in my pocket.
The smell of cinnamon wafted over toward
us, and Rowan sniffed the air. “I’m starving. Whatever that is, I want it. Anyone else hungry?”
“Me,” I said, surprising myself. Normally, when I was this upset, I had no appetite, but carnival food did sound good. Plus, my mom claimed that most of life’s struggles could be cured with butter and sugar. I was willing to give it a try.
“You guys go ahead and eat,” Ian offered, pulling his notebook out of his backpack. “I’m going to try to find the stage Titletrack will be performing on. See if I can get some pictures.”
“Want me to get you something?” I asked.
“Nah. Meet you back here,” Ian hollered, taking off, he and his man bun blending in with the herd of music lovers.
Rowan and I wandered the food trucks, finally settling on a waffle truck that put my waffle attempts to shame. I ordered the Chocolate Cloud—a Belgian waffle drizzled with a mixture of white and dark chocolate—and Rowan ordered the Flying Pig, a combination involving bacon, caramel, and fluffy crème fraîche.
Our order took a long time, and when it was finally ready, we posted up at a mostly empty picnic table and ate slowly, in a silence that I was grateful for. Most people would probably try to talk me out of how bad I was feeling, but not Rowan; he just sat next to me, occasionally offering me bites of bacon. By the time our plates were scraped clean, the day was starting to look worn-out, the edges of the sky taking on a gold hue.
I drummed my fingers on the table. “Where is he?”
“Ian?” Rowan asked, licking some crème off his fingers.
“It’s been a while. I thought he’d be back by now.” I squinted into the crowd. The direction he’d gone in was dark and fairly empty, clearly not where Titletrack’s stage would be.
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