by Lily Velez
“Do you not like it? If you’d prefer to bring a packed lunch from now on, we can make a stop at the grocer’s later today. I know we haven’t gotten around to fully stocking up just yet, have we? Perhaps some deli meats for sandwiches? Is that something you’d like?
It was something a parent wouldn’t normally have to ask their child, but there was hardly anything normal about our situation. The truth was, though we were unmistakably related given our matching brown hair and eyes and similar facial features, we were practically strangers to each other. My dad had visited Colorado two or three times when I was little, and he’d sent me a birthday card with money and a kind, handwritten message inside every year, but I still barely knew anything about him, the type of things you’d know from living with a person all your life. Like what their favorite foods were.
Still, he was trying. I had to give him that. I forced a smile. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
His shoulders relaxed, his face brightening. He felt he’d made headway, the gestures said, and he was happy about it, which only made me feel guilty. He obviously wanted me to be as comfortable as possible here. I hadn’t told him of my plan to return to Colorado eventually, but for the time being, I could at least make a better effort at trying to build a relationship with him. Or at least the semblance of one.
“I nearly forgot to mention it,” my dad said. “I’m afraid I have a faculty meeting this afternoon. You’re welcome to wait for me in here if you’d like, but the meeting may potentially run long. You might have a better time enjoying today’s rugby game instead. St. Andrew’s will be playing one of its heated rivals: Xavier.”
“Is it true you used to play rugby in college?” I suddenly remembered my mom telling me something of the sort years ago.
My dad’s face slightly reddened. “Not at the collegiate level. It was a simple, recreational team, one a friend of mine insisted I join. I didn’t last very long either. I sprained my ankle in our very first game. It was the beginning and end of any athletic hopes I might’ve entertained. I’m far more at home with my books.”
This time, my smile, though faint, was genuine. That was one thing we had in common at least.
The classroom door swung open, and a curly-haired boy stepped inside. “Professor Monroe?” His accent was distinctly English, clipped and posh. Almost half the students at St. Andrew’s were from outside of Ireland, hailing from all parts of the world.
“Ah, Thomas. Thank you for coming. Scarlet, this is Thomas Mooney. He’s a student ambassador for St. Andrew’s as well as a senior warden for one of our dorms. I’ve asked him to show you around the campus.”
“Miss Monroe.” Thomas strode over to where I sat and shook my hand in greeting as if we were closing on a business deal. “Shall we begin?”
I cast a final look at my pasta, which was already turning cold. “Sure,” I said. “Lead the way.”
It had stopped raining about half an hour ago, but the trees and awnings of St. Andrew’s were still dripping. Despite it being the site of my captivity, even I had to confess the school was breathtaking to behold. It had the majestic façade of a medieval church with flying buttresses and stained glass windows, its gray stones masked with ivy. At every topmost corner, gargoyles were stationed, their fanged mouths gaping and their eyes trained skyward, as if awaiting a signal from heaven, and heavily ornamented spires punctured the sky like the lances wielded by brave knights. Arches towered above each doorway and passage, boasting decorative moldings covered with sculptures of angels and saints.
“St. Andrew’s used to be a monastery,” Thomas explained. “Most classes are still held in the Gothic-styled buildings. In the early twentieth century, when the school opened, new buildings were added to accommodate boarders and meet other needs.”
We eventually made our way to a second-story balcony, where the entire campus unfolded before us. The neatly manicured, emerald lawns were separated into quads. The grass was still damp, glistening with beads of rain so that each quad looked like a field of pearls, but the wet grounds didn’t stop any boys from enjoying their break from class.
Some used their blazers as blankets and sat on the grass with loosened ties to quietly eat their lunch and catch up on homework. Some played Frisbee, the ends of their striped scarves trailing behind them as they ran. Others talked and joked around in small groups under the canopies of oak trees that looked tall and wide enough to hold up the slate-gray sky, their dripping leaves as bright as peaches. Overall, the scene was something you’d expect to see in a school’s full-color catalogue. Happy, rich students luxuriating in their happy, rich lives.
Thomas continued to intone a speech about campus history and which classes were where and so on and so forth. I could tell he’d given this tour probably a million times before because he recited everything as easily as breathing. Unfortunately, his delivery was in complete monotone. He was efficient, no doubt, but he wasn’t exactly a storyteller. I found myself hoping this was the final stop in the welcome tour.
As Thomas segued into a lengthy monologue about faculty members, I spotted a boy coming down one of the walkways that weaved between the quads, a priest beside him. The priest was perhaps in his sixties, red-faced, round, and bespectacled. The perfect candidate to play the town Santa come December. But I didn’t focus too much on him. It was the boy who stole my attention.
Because he was unbelievably, breathtakingly, heart-wrenchingly beautiful. Leave-you-speechless beautiful. Momentarily-forget-your-name beautiful. He was tall, just over six feet I guessed, and he was athletically built, with short, dark brown hair done up in a messy quiff and a long, masterfully carved face that could’ve graced the posters of cologne ads.
I’d seen the St. Andrew’s uniform on countless boys today, but on this boy, it was like the blazer and pants and crimson-and-gold-striped tie had been tailored just for him. It made him look elegant and stately, and he radiated power. I watched as those gathered on the quads immediately quieted down at the sight of him, turning to watch him pass and then whispering amongst themselves once he did. The boy, however, engaged only with the priest, nodding along with something the older man was saying, one hand at rest against the messenger bag slung over his shoulder, its brown leather well-worn.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was quite possibly the most stunning boy I’d ever seen. If Rory had looked like an angel, then this boy most assuredly looked like a god.
But there was something else, something I couldn’t quite place until he was nearly beneath the balcony. There were dark patches under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept for days. Though he spoke with the priest, he was also somewhere else, his thoughts faraway. He almost looked haunted. Beautiful and broken all at once.
Beside me, Thomas dragged a sigh out of his lungs. “Of course. Why am I not surprised?” Disapproval sat on his face, though I didn’t know if it was because I’d gotten distracted or because of whom I’d gotten distracted by.
“His name’s Jack Connelly.” I guessed it was the latter. “St. Andrew’s royalty. It seems the prince has finally returned to the plebeians.”
“He’s a prince?”
“God, no. But he might as well be with the way these mindless sycophants flock around him.”
As he said it, the priest gave Jack a comforting pat on the shoulder before leaving. Almost immediately, those on the quads drifted over to Jack to greet him.
“You don’t seem too thrilled about his return.”
Thomas shrugged. “It’s nothing personal really. We simply don’t swim in the same circles. Jack is captain of the varsity rugby team, which I suspect he’ll lead to finals once again this year. He’s the quintessential boarding school student. Smart, athletic, richer than God, and all but worshipped by those who want to be just like him.”
The way he said that last bit, it was like the words left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“He and his brothers have got virtually all of St. Andrew’s wrapped around their fingers,” he went
on. “It’s a disgrace, if you ask me. In my opinion, most of the tossers here could stand to muster up a bit more dignity.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t like it when people put others down, especially behind their backs. Besides, Thomas’s acerbic tone seemed to stem from nothing but envy.
“Why are so many people coming up to comfort him?” Several of the boys below were putting a consoling hand to Jack’s shoulder or arm just as the priest had done, their faces sympathetic, and though some had been boisterous just minutes ago, in Jack’s presence, they were muted versions of themselves.
“Jack’s been out of class for some two or three weeks now,” Thomas explained. “There was a tragedy in the family.”
My heart grew sore at the words. “What kind of tragedy? Do you know?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone in Rosalyn Bay does. Maurice Connelly, the family patriarch and Jack’s grandfather, was found dead at the rocky bottom of one of our famous coastal cliffs.”
I whipped my head in his direction, my stomach flipping as if I’d missed a step on a staircase. “What happened?”
Thomas shrugged. “All evidence seems to point to it being a deliberate act on Maurice’s part. It certainly is the explanation that makes the most sense. At least where the Connellys are concerned.”
Deliberate. Now my stomach twisted. Good thing I hadn’t eaten. “What do you mean it’s what makes the most sense?”
“There’s a train of whispers about the Connellys that has traveled throughout Rosalyn Bay for years. In short, people say they’re cursed.”
I stared at him. “Cursed.”
“It sounds positively primeval, I know, but Rosalyn Bay has always been a bit behind the times when it comes to superstitions. Nonetheless, it’s hard to ignore the stories.”
“And what are the stories exactly?”
“The more popular ones? That madness runs in their blood, that trouble follows them wherever they go, that they’re all doomed to meet an early end.”
I almost laughed. Was he serious, or was he just trying to scare me? I’d known people who held superstitions before, of course. People who didn’t like the number thirteen or opening umbrellas indoors or being anywhere near a black cat. This, however, seemed a bit excessive. Hyperbolic even. A little too doomsday for me. Besides, I didn’t believe in curses, just bad luck.
“Why would anyone say things like that?”
“Let’s just say the matter of Maurice is far from being the first tragedy to come their way.”
“If people legitimately think they’re cursed,” I challenged, “then why are so many boys expressing their sympathies?” Even now, boys continued to swarm around Jack and offer their condolences as opposed to outright avoiding him like the plague.
Thomas continued watching the scene below, the set of his mouth clearly indicating he found the sight repugnant. “The students here rarely commune with the locals, so most haven’t fallen privy to the stories. Instead, they run to the Connellys like obedient spaniels. How very much like the moth drawn to the flame, wouldn’t you agree? But a word of warning if I may, Miss Monroe. Steer clear of the Connelly boys, yes? It can only end badly for you if you don’t.”
3
I’d never seen a rugby game before, so I was far from prepared for what I witnessed. First of all, I hadn’t anticipated the zealous displays of team pride. The bleachers across the way, which had to be forty or fifty feet high, overflowed with St. Andrew’s students, and now out of class and out of their proper gentleman jackets, they looked every bit the part of boisterous and rambunctious teen boys.
They hollered at the top of their lungs whenever St. Andrew’s scored a goal, booed whenever Xavier did, laughed, name-called, made gestures unbecoming of Catholic schoolboys, and more or less made a circus of their spectating. Some of them had even painted their faces in the school colors: one half crimson, one half gold.
A student band taking up the first few center rows merrily belted out popular songs throughout the game, but during tense moments of play, they filled the air with what was unmistakably traditional Irish fighting music, spirited and dynamic and filled with enough explosive energy to probably fuel an atomic bomb. And then the boys in the bleachers would really lose it, jumping to their feet and roaring as a lion mascot with sharp fans and a regal mane ran up and down the side of the field, waving its paws to hype them up even further. With faces painted as they were, and with the pounding drumbeat from the band, which I could feel pulsating around my heart, I might’ve thought I was watching a battle between Viking warriors.
The chaos was part of the reason I elected to watch the game from the away team side, which was empty save for a few Xavier coaches and benched players. That, and I’d crossed paths with Mr. Movie Star from pre-calculus when I’d arrived at the rugby field. He clearly hadn’t gotten the message this morning because he’d smirked at me and started to close the distance between us in an overconfident saunter, his eyes combing over the tights I wore under my plaid skirt. A real class act, that one. I’d turned around and headed straight for enemy lines before I had to endure whatever pickup line he’d prepared for me.
But what most surprised me about rugby? That calling it a contact sport was clearly an understatement. These boys were out for blood. I cringed with every smack as the boys recklessly threw themselves against each other. Some players donned mouth guards, but with the exception of light padding on the shoulders of each shirt, there was nothing to protect the players from injuries. No one even wore a helmet.
Oddly enough, no one seemed to care either. Back in the United States, it wasn’t unusual to see athletes feign the extent of their injuries during televised games. Here, it was more about pretending you weren’t hurt, as boys would insist on continuing to play the game in spite of blood, cuts, and bruises.
Nevermind the trash-talk. The referees constantly had to pull boys apart in the midst of burgeoning, foul-mouthed arguments. The guiltiest among them was Number 22, a boy with short, dirty blond hair and fire in his veins. His rough-around-the-edges attitude clearly warned in red flashing lights that you’d better not cross him if you knew what was good for you. My best friend Natalie back in Colorado would’ve called his bad-boy vibe “hot as hell.”
If it was true what they said about Irish tempers, he was clearly the poster child for them. When an Xavier player tackled him down at one point, Number 22, practically baring his teeth, shot up to his feet, balled a fist in his opponent’s shirt to yank him up, and then shoved him so hard the Xavier boy tripped over himself and fell. Number 22, not even done, not even having begun, went for him again.
“Connor!” Jack yelled, roughly grabbing the crook of Number 22’s elbow to firmly turn him around.
It didn’t take very many words from Jack to get Connor’s head back in the game, who stormed away from his victim muttering something under his breath. Probably a string of obscenities. Jack pinched the bridge of his nose as if to keep an incoming migraine at bay before offering a hand to help the Xavier boy to his feet.
It was clearly a familiar dance between Jack and Connor, as was the way they played on the field. Connor was almost always at Jack’s side, ready for a pass, ready to defend his captain. More than once, they’d exchange a look, and one would nod, knowing exactly what his teammate was communicating.
Jack was definitely in his element on the field. He was faster than any of the other boys, dodging his opponents with flawless grace. The movement of the muscles in his well-toned thighs was like poetry in motion, like gears in an impeccably designed machine turning and shifting in perfect harmony. He looked so different out of his school uniform. In the rugby team’s crimson jersey, black shorts, and black, knee-high socks, he’d gone from looking like a prince to now looking like a soldier. And still with that commanding presence about him.
More than once, my heart leapt as if jumping hurdles. I mentally chided myself but ultimately excused my heart its betrayal. It wasn’t the poor thing’s fault Jack was devast
atingly attractive.
In the second half of the game, with St. Andrew’s in the lead, Xavier apparently decided to turn up the heat, ramming into their opponents with both anger and relish whenever possible. Three of their players went for Connor during one play, slamming into him like wrecking balls. I winced at the impact. It would’ve been enough to have me seeing stars for days. I didn’t expect Connor to rise as quickly as he did, lip bleeding and all.
“Ah, hard luck, mate,” one of the Xavier boys called out, grinning.
Connor leapt for him, but a referee intervened right on time, awarding the guilty parties a foul and St. Andrew’s a penalty kick.
By the next play, Connor had reined in his anger, a decision clearly made in his dark eyes. Xavier had the ball now, and one of the boys who’d charged into Connor earlier was breaking for the goal line. Connor was on him like a fuming bull after a red flag.
At the speeds they were going, they abandoned all their teammates and the referees behind. It seemed to be a part of Connor’s strategy, as did the way he gradually coaxed the Xavier boy toward my side of the field, completely isolating him from not just his teammates but pretty much everyone else. When they were just about to zip right past me, the Xavier player still a few feet out of Connor’s reach, Connor brought his hand low in front of him, palm facing down, and did a strange flicking motion with two of his fingers. Immediately, the Xavier boy cried out and dropped to the grass fast like a boneless doll.
Connor stepped back as referees, having finally caught up, rushed to the fallen player and tried to make sense of what had happened. One toed at a shallow depression in the ground, which the Xavier boy had apparently stepped into, causing his injury and fall. I hadn’t noticed it there before.