Now a Major Motion Picture

by Cori McCarthy

  Shoshanna screamed his name from the bar, making me smile.

  Afterward, Brian gave Eamon a side hug, and he came back to me. “Who’s shy now?”

  “You’ve proved me wrong,” I said, kissing his cheek and making him blush.

  Shoshanna swaggered over. “You! Hiding those pipes!” She rocked into Eamon bodily, but I wasn’t jealous; I was grateful because she ended up pressing him against my side, his arm slipping around my waist. “All right, kiddos. What do we do? I’m not going back to that set if things are going to continue to be a god-awful mess.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said. “We need Julian to do more on his social media. It’s too bad he’s not here right now.”

  “Are you kidding? If he were here, we’d be mobbed. And everyone would see your pretty, redacted face.” Shoshanna pinched my nose.

  “Hey! I’m not a five-year-old,” I said, squeezing her nose right back.

  A brown-haired girl came over, her eyes glued to Eamon. “Can I have your autograph?” She held out a pen and bar coaster. Eamon turned a brand-new shade of fire, but he took the pen, signed, and handed it back. She thanked him and left. Shoshanna and I looked at each other.

  “First time?” Shoshanna asked.

  “Yeah,” he squeaked.

  “You’re all grown up now, son. Next time I see you, you’ll be in a bar in LA with three girls on each arm.” She patted his shoulder and returned to the bar.

  Eamon leaned toward my ear. “I’m not that kind of guy.”

  I almost said, I know. That’s why I like you. But I chickened out. “I can’t believe you sang in front of all these people!”

  He pressed his cheek against mine, and I felt slight stubble. “You say you’re not brave, but you’re always helping, which is amazing considering how much you’re not into fantasy.”

  But I had been into it. I still hadn’t worked up the courage to tell him. And I might have been helping out when Cate asked, but I’d still wanted the film to be canceled.

  Coward.

  It wasn’t my dad’s or Cate’s voice this time. It was mine.

  I pulled away from Eamon and pushed through the crowd. My heart slammed at my ribs, but I made it to the front. Brian was playing “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” on the electric guitar—the acoustic one he’d been wailing on earlier sitting in its stand.

  I reached for it. He smiled and moved over like he had for Eamon. I looped the strap over my head. Felt my chest about to burst. His chords pulled away as the song ended, and I leaned into his ear. “Coldplay? ‘Yellow’?” My voice was terrified. My fingers were terrified. But I knew this song; it was pretty and easy. If I couldn’t play this, I couldn’t play anything.

  Brian grinned like a maniac and held out his hand for me to start. I stepped toward the mic, but then immediately stepped back. I couldn’t look in Shoshanna and Eamon’s direction, so I stared at the crowd. They were ready, waiting. Hooting with anticipation. It made me smile to think of them as owls, and I fell into the opening chords.

  Just like that.

  It took me a full progression to adjust to the dislocation of the amp and a new guitar, but then Brian came in with the electric guitar part, and I felt like I was a better guitarist simply by standing with him. I realized—with a minor coronary—that one of us needed to start singing soon. Brian looked to me, one eyebrow lifted high, and I closed my eyes. Leaned into the mic.

  And I sang.

  The words came out in that way I adored. Like I was speaking unfathomable truths or casting a spell or pulling poetry up from some deep well. This was why I loved music, why lyrics lit me up. At one point, I opened my eyes, and the crowd was singing with me so loudly it didn’t matter if I was a good. I sang louder. I played more strongly. Brian kept the whole melody alive with the electric accent, and when I got to that “bleed yourself dry” line, we both let the guitars fall away and only our voices rose up.

  • • •

  Shoshanna dragged me out of the pub and into the stunning quiet of the street.

  “Look at you, Iris Thorne! Look at you!” She danced on the sidewalk and hugged me. We sort of jumped in a circle.

  “I did it!” I said.

  “You fucking did!” Shoshanna crowed.

  “Language, young lady,” the doorman said, but he was smiling. “Nicely done.”

  It took me a whole series of beats to realize he was giving me a compliment.

  “Thank you.”

  Eamon came out of the pub, and my nerves spun out of control all over again. I couldn’t look at him, and Shoshanna didn’t wait for me to. She hooked both of us by the elbows and skipped up the red brick of Grafton Street, pulling us along, whooping in triumph.

  The sky was full of stars, which was strange for a city. No light pollution, but then, there weren’t towering skyscrapers here. I snuck a look at Eamon and caught him looking at me.

  Shoshanna was lit up as well, delighted with everything in her tipsy way. “You know, I feel like singing an Irish tune,” she yelled. “‘Oh Danny b—’”

  “No, no.” Eamon clapped a hand over her mouth. “You’re in the republic, Shoshanna. That’s the Northern Ireland anthem, girl.”

  Shoshanna licked her lips and grimaced. “Salty. Why are boys’ palms so salty? Do you guys ever wash your hands? You know who has great hands? Roxy.”

  “Roxanne?” I blurted. “The makeup artist?”

  “The one and only. You guys don’t think twenty-five is out of my age range, do you? Wait, don’t answer. She’s out of my league. She’s probably in the same dating pool as Ellen Page. And then there’s queer, little me.”

  “There’s nothing little about you, Shoshanna,” I said.

  “Especially your interest in girls,” Eamon finished.

  Shoshanna roared with laughter. I didn’t know a person could actually do that. “Do you know what we need?” she asked. “We need to bring our fourth wheel into this little triumph.” She got out her phone and made a FaceTime call.

  Julian picked up right away, his face looking all weird in the camera’s intense close up.

  “Shosh! You better still be in Ireland!”

  “I am!” she said. “And you know what happened? This girl”—she shoved the phone in my face—“played guitar and sang for a whole crowd of people! She nailed it.”

  Julian got closer, frowning. “Iris? What’s going on over there?”

  “Shoshanna’s drunk,” I said. “We’re going to bring her back to set.” I was so happy to see him it took a moment to realize, the last time we’d texted, he’d been pissed. “She was going to quit, but Eamon and I talked her out of it.”

  “I never should have left you three.”

  “You had business, you heartthrob,” Shoshanna said.

  Julian looked off camera and said something.

  “Hey! Let us see her! Elora, come to the phone! We want to see if you’re real!” Shoshanna yelled.

  Someone laughed off camera, and Julian held his arm out farther, showing off the prettiest, most petite girl I’ve ever seen. She had her knees up to her chin and a smile that seemed…well, peaceful. “Hi,” Elora said. “I’m real!”

  “Oh, Jules. She is the cutest. You were not kidding. Wow.”

  I snatched the phone from Shoshanna, worried for Elora who might not have enough context to appreciate our drunk heroine. “We’re going to get Shoshanna in a bed. You guys have a nice night!”

  “Iris?” Julian held the camera close again. “Things are…all right over there?”

  “They’re getting better,” I said. “And we’re going to come up with a plan to turn things around.” I pressed end, and Shoshanna skipped ahead of us, singing an improvised song about the beauty of Elora, or was it Roxy?

  I turned to Eamon for the first time since I’d charged onto that stage.

&nb
sp; He stood, hands in his pockets, his expression mightily shy. “You were amazing, Iris.”

  “I think I’ll die if we talk about it.”

  “Just so you know.”

  I spun around to face the gorgeous night. “What should be our plan to save the movie?”

  “Step one, get Shoshanna off the streets. Step two, figure out a step two.”

  “Good. I like a two-pronged approach. Where are we going?” I asked.

  “To my flat,” he said. “It’s a short walk that way.”

  “Tell me you’ve got an awesome bachelor pad with three flat mates, a few lava lamps, and nothing but a brick of cheese in the fridge!” Shoshanna yelled.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, not quite.”

  Twenty minutes later, we were walking along a row of old stone houses with brilliantly colored doors. Eamon stopped before a vibrant-blue door with a lion’s head knob. He tried to turn his key quietly, but his mom yanked open the apartment door. I would have known she was Eamon’s mom out of a casting call of a hundred Irish moms. Mainly because she had the same crystal eyes and curly hair that was likely part of an underground fight club.

  “What are you doing in town?” She wrapped him in a huge hug that was no small part wrestling maneuver. Shoshanna took this as her cue to join the hug. Eamon’s mom let go of her son and took a good look at her. “Well, come in. I’d say this one is in need of some Digestives.”

  We entered the house, and I couldn’t believe I was meeting Eamon’s mom smelling like a pub, wearing a stretched out T-shirt, and accompanying a drunk Shoshanna. “You could have warned me,” I muttered at Eamon as we filed into the kitchen. Eamon’s mom wasted no time in giving Shoshanna a sleeve of chocolate biscuits.

  “Don’t worry,” he murmured before turning to his mom. “Mam, this is Shoshanna Reyes, our Sevyn. Shoshanna, this is Gráinne. If you call her Mrs. anything, she’ll make you pay for it.”

  “Mrs. O’Brien is my mother-in-law. How would you like to be called by your mother-in-law’s name?” Gráinne took Shoshanna’s chin, giving her a hard stare. “So this is Sevyn, is she? Yes, I see it. Leave no pints behind. That’s definitely the girl I read in those stories.”

  Shoshanna smirked and crunched into a biscuit.

  Eamon touched my shoulder and time jerked to a halt as I waited for my inevitable title of M. E. Thorne’s granddaughter.

  “This is Iris, my girlfriend,” he said.

  “What?” I blurted.

  He cocked his head. “This morning you said we should skip to a better part in the story, right?”

  “But I was talking about…” Making out. “I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to force you into titles,” I said, painfully aware of our audience. “Can we talk about this later?”

  “If you want to shift some more, I want to be your boyfriend.” He crossed his arms.

  Was this actually happening? In front of his mom? Out of the corner of my eye, Shoshanna offered the sleeve of biscuits to Eamon’s mom. She took one. Now they were both snacking while they watched us like we were some romantic comedy.

  “Do you not want to be my girlfriend?” Eamon asked, hurt slipping in his tone.

  “No, but you can’t say someone is your girlfriend without asking her first.”

  Eamon’s eyes were a tad fierier than usual, and I sort of liked it. “Oh Jesus, will you be my girlfriend, Iris?” Eamon’s mom cleared her throat, and he added, “Please?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  We stared at each other. Shoshanna started a slow clap.

  Gráinne reached for another biscuit. “I should have read more Jane Austen to him when he was a boy,” she said. “He’s not a great romantic, is he?”

  “They’re just puppies,” Shoshanna said, and Eamon and I grumbled.

  “Excellent performance, but it’s late, and you’ll all be too knackered to make movies if you don’t get some sleep.” Gráinne filled a glass with water and handed it to Shoshanna. “You’re going to sleep in Eamon’s sister’s room. Last door on the right.” She turned to me. “You get Eamon’s room. Lucky you. Have fun poking in your boyfriend’s things.” She winked, and I now I knew where Eamon got his sass.

  Lastly, she put an arm around Eamon. “You, dearest son, get the sofa.”

  “I could sleep on the floor in my room,” he said. “I’ll leave Iris be.”

  His mom squeezed his shoulders and kissed the side of his head. “Beautiful try. Gorgeous. Winning. Sofa.”

  BOY BEDROOMS AND OTHER UNSOLVED MYSTERIES

  Gráinne wasn’t wrong. I used the moonlight streaming through the window to investigate Eamon’s room. It wasn’t like American boys’ rooms. He had a lot of books, a neat closet, and a pile of soccer paraphernalia that looked long neglected. His ancient brass bed was tiny, and his furniture was wooden and timeless, like maybe it had belonged to his great-grandmother.

  The bookshelf seemed like it had been loved the most, and I ran my fingers down the spines. Mostly fantasy, but some literature in there too. He didn’t have Jane Eyre; I’d have to get him a copy. When I reached a paperback, cracked-spine copy of Elementia, I pulled it out.

  I wasn’t used to seeing the first book in the trilogy on its own. It wasn’t terribly long, only an inch thick, and I’d never seen this UK cover before; it was way more interesting than the elf-crazy covers of the North American editions. There were no blurbs, no ridiculous taglines. Only a stark lightning bolt splitting an elemental compass. The title and author’s name were stamped in black letters with silver embossing. It felt ominous and alluring all at once.

  What had Shoshanna meant when she said I didn’t know what happens at the end of the trilogy? Could it be so surprising? Maybe she meant the end of the first book, when Evyn kills the king, his own father. That was fairly common knowledge; my dad made a lot of jokes about it.

  I’d never heard a joke about the end of the trilogy.

  I placed the book on Eamon’s bed and let it fall open to wherever the binding was most worn through. I wasn’t terribly surprised to find the scene by the river—Cate’s favorite moment. I skimmed to the morning after Nolan saved Sevyn from her fever and read on.

  Sevyn awoke to a small fire crackling next to her. The dampness of her clothes brought back memories of the river and her fever. Her mouth tasted foul.

  Before her, a boy leaned against the great, white tree she had surrendered to in despair. His arms were folded across his bare chest, and he watched her with narrowed eyes. At first, Sevyn could only remember the feel of his skin over his ribs. His lips parting when she touched them.

  Sevyn bolstered herself on her elbows. “Who are you?”

  “Be still.” His voice held the wind. Her father’s voice had done that when he spoke lovingly with her brother. Sevyn bristled and examined him. He was slim yet strong. He wore only thin trousers that fell below the knee and appeared to be woven of fallen leaves. His features were angled as if the wind had sculpted him over a millennia of seasons from the finest stone imaginable. His ears fell into a slender slant, ending in dramatic points.

  Sevyn balanced on her trembling arms, determined to force her savior to answer. “Who are you, elf?”

  “You need not know who I am. Be satisfied you have recognized my true image.” His tone hinted at caution.

  “You should not have touched me.” Sevyn’s unexpected emotion choked. The fire swelled in her eyes, blurred bright orange by her tears.

  I paused to look around the room. I could picture this story now. Eamon was Nolan. But Sevyn? She wasn’t Shoshanna. She was me. Sick. Afraid. Desperate for anything that felt like hope.

  The elf’s demeanor eased. He sat beside her, his age indecipherable, his maturity fluctuating with the shift of his eyes. He was close enough that she could have reached out, but she didn’t trust it. Her earlier ability to touch him had somethin
g to do with that veil of calm. It had quieted the lightning, but how she’d achieved such serenity eluded her. Instead she reached out with an even rustier tool of her character: a soft voice.

  “My name is Sevyn. Daughter of…” Her words drifted as she decided against sharing her royal birth. “Daughter of Cerul. It’s an island kingdom not far from the coast. Do you know it?”

  The elf gave a small nod.

  “May I know your name? I have never met an elf before. There are rumors your kind no longer exist.”

  “A name is not trivial,” he said, his deliberation etched across his face. “I am Nolandriav. You may know me as Nolan. Please do not use it against me.”

  “Iris?” Eamon crept through the door and shut it behind him.

  I closed the book. “Your mom will kill you if she catches you in here with me.”

  “Worth the risk.” He sat on the edge of the bed, folding his legs beneath him in a way that made him seem fourteen instead of eighteen. “You know”—he picked up the book—“this is the second time I’ve caught you reading Elementia. What would your father say?” He was teasing, but his words filled my chest with lead.

  I crossed to the bookshelf and put the book back. “He’d say, ‘I raised you to be on my team. What’s wrong with you, Iris?’”

  Eamon frowned. “Say, I know that pressure. My da went all the way to the final tryouts for the Green Army when he was my age.” He pointed to the abandoned soccer gear. “Irish national football team. He didn’t make the cut and tried to rectify the situation with a football star of a son. When I didn’t have the talent, he lost interest in me.”

  I leaned against the bookshelf, weary. “Why do people think they can mold their kids into whatever they want? Don’t they realize how stupid that is?”

  “I got used to feeling disappointed a long time ago.” Eamon smiled sadly. “But I got over it. My da’s the sort of guy who swims the English Channel but forgets to call his kids at Christmas. I don’t need his approval, but I wish he didn’t mess my mam around. He hasn’t lived here in years, but they’re still married. Every so often they try again, but he always gives up.”