by Chloe Walsh
"Mam can do whatever the fuck she wants," Joey interrupted, tone hardening. "She made her bed when she took him back last time. She can keep popping out his offspring and put up with his bullshit for the rest of her goddamn life for all I care. But you and me? We stick together." He turned his face to me and said, "When I get out of this shithole, and I will get out, I'm taking you with me."
Chewing on my lip, I asked, "What about the boys?"
Joey exhaled heavily but didn’t respond.
Nanny Murphy, our maternal great-grandmother, picked our younger brothers up from school every day and dropped them home, fed and watered and dressed for bed around 8pm.
Nanny had done the same for Darren, Joey, and me up until we moved on to secondary school.
It was a strange arrangement considering she and my parents barely spoke, and one I had asked Nanny about. I wanted to know why at the age of 81 she continued to help my parents when they clearly didn’t appreciate her.
She had raised my mother and her sister, Alice, when their parents passed away when they were children, but you'd swear Nanny was a stranger the way our mother treated her.
Nanny told me that she didn’t do it for them.
She did it for us.
Because she loved us.
And we were not to suffer for our parents' poor decisions.
She had toilet trained every one of us when our mother was working all the hours god gave her and our father wasn’t interested.
Nanny Murphy had stepped in when our mother and father stepped out.
Nanny made it clear that she would love and nurture every child born out of their fucked-up union because we were her great-grandbabies.
Tadhg, Ollie, and Sean were relatively protected from the tornado that was our father because we were lucky enough to have a great-grandmother who loved us.
The problem was, Nanny was pushing on in life, and she couldn’t do this forever.
She couldn’t keep wading in and saving the day.
Her health was fading, old age was setting in, and money was as tight for her as it was for us. Nanny didn’t have the money to feed us on top of our three younger brothers, and every time we ran to her with another problem, another wrinkle appeared on her face, and another doctor's appointment accrued.
It was for those and many more reasons why Joey and I had scaled back on our visits.
"They're our brothers," I whispered, dragging myself from my thoughts.
"I'm not their father," Joey croaked out. "And who knows, maybe Mam will come to her senses before they completely fuck them up like they did us and Darren. Either way, there's nothing I can do about it. I can't take care of them, Shannon. I can't afford it and I don’t have the time. I'm getting us out of here. That's the best I can do."
"You promise?"
He nodded. "As soon as I'm finished with school and settled in college next year, I'll get a flat. It might take me some time to put together the cash and get on my feet, but I'll get out of here, Shannon. I'll get you out of here. I can fucking promise you that."
"I believe you," I told him.
And I did.
He'd been telling me this plan since Darren walked out the door five years ago and left us to deal with our father's whiskey wrath alone.
I believed that my brother meant every word he was saying, every promise he was making.
Problem was, I could see the unimaginable sacrifices that would have to be made by my brother in order to make this work for us, and knew deep down in my heart that the probability of it actually going to fruition was slim.
Either way, the child inside of me clung to the promise for all it was worth.
And promises like that to girls like me were worth everything.
"Anyway, enough of the parental bullshit talk," Joey said, looking up at my face. "Tell me how you know Johnny Kavanagh."
"What?" I gaped down at him, startled by the sudden change in conversation.
It wasn’t uncommon for us to change the subject after a night like this and talk about ridiculous things. To others, it might seem strange that we were able to switch from serious, meaningful conversation to simple chitchat, but it was the norm for us.
We'd been dealing with our father's bullshit our entire lives.
Changing subjects came naturally to us. It was a coping mechanism we had perfected down through the years; deflection and distraction.
But asking me about Johnny?
That threw me.
"Kavanagh," Joey confirmed, eyes sharp and searching. "How do you know the guy?"
"He goes to Tommen," I explained, grateful for the semi-darkness so my brother couldn’t see how red my face had turned. "He's, uh, in fifth year, I think?" I know. "And I've seen him a few times at school. He's the one who knocked me out on my first day."
Joey's head snapped towards me. "It was Kavanagh who knocked you out?"
"It was an accident." I quickly reeled off the familiar words I'd spoken time and again in the past month or so. "He made a bad pass, or kicked the ball wrong, or something like that – anyways, he apologized like a million times, so it's all good…" I finished with a big sigh, unwilling to provide any further information on the matter. "All over and done with."
"Well, shit," Joey mused, scratching his chest. "You'd think a guy in his position wouldn’t be making mickey mouse mistakes like that."
"A guy in his position?" I remarked. "I'm pretty sure he's not the only person in the world to kick a ball arseways."
"No..." Joey shrugged. "Still though; I didn’t think they made those kind of schoolboy errors in The Academy."
"Academy?" I exhaled a huff. "It's called Tommen College, Joe. Not The Academy."
"I'm not talking about your school, Shan," Joey said. "I'm talking about The Academy – you know; The Institute of Further Progression. The Academy's only a nickname."
"What the hell is the Institute of Further Progression? And how do you know him?"
"Exactly what it sounds like; an institute for further progression," he shot back sarcastically. "And everyone knows who Johnny Kavanagh is."
I didn’t.
I was baffled.
"Then why nickname it The Academy?"
"Because The Academy sounds better than The Institute." Joey barked out a soft laugh. "You really have no clue who he is, do you?"
When I didn’t respond, Joey laughed again.
"That's priceless," he mused, clearly entertained. "You were driving around in his car tonight and you didn’t even know."
"Know what?" I snapped, feeling flustered and annoyed by my lack of comprehension.
Johnny's earlier words floated into my head.
"I play…No, I mean, I play…"
Dammit, I knew I had been making a fool of myself.
"What?" I demanded. "Is he a hotshot rugby player or something?"
Joey snorted loudly. "I can't believe you don't know."
"Tell me!"
"You should have snapped a pic," he added thoughtfully. "Oh, wait – you did. What's the story with you being in the papers with him? The old man practically rammed it in my face."
"I have no idea, Joe." I shook my head and exhaled heavily. "They won some cup last Friday and I got pulled into a picture with him." I shrugged helplessly. "I had no idea it would end up in the papers."
"It ended up in the papers because he's Johnny Kavanagh," my brother stated, enunciating his name like it should mean something to me. "Come on, Shan."
When I came up empty, Joey heaved an impatient sigh.
"He's a big fucking deal on the rugby circuit. Jesus, you only have to turn on a computer or crack open the papers to read all about him," he continued to say. "He was recruited into the rugby academy when he was like fourteen or some insanely young age like that."
"That's the institute place?" I shifted, leaning over to the edge of the bed to take his measure. "Is that a big deal or something?"
"It's a big fucking deal, Shan," Joey confirmed. "You have to be
hand-picked by top Irish rugby scouts to get trials. Money and pull have no factor. Selection is based purely on talent and potential. They teach them everything they need to know about a professional career in rugby, and have the best coaches, physios, nutritionists, and trainers in the country watching over them. They run these insane conditioning programs and camps for their players, and it's the best place to meet potential scouts. It’s like this school of excellence for upcoming professional rugby players – except it's not a school. It's a state of the art sports facility in the city. Actually, it's more like a puppy farm where they produce thoroughbred, high caliber, rugby players instead of dogs."
"Ew." I scrunched my nose up. "Disgusting analogy, Joe."
"That’s what it's like," Joey chuckled. "Only the most promising teenagers in the country get a chance to work with The Academy, and even at that, it's brutal. You have to be made of something fucking special to make it through the trials and get a season with them, never mind getting re-selected. Personally, I can respect the hell out of anyone with that kind of self-discipline. He has to have some huge fucking work ethic to perform at that level in his sport."
"So, he's good?"
"He's better than good, Shan," my brother corrected. "I've seen a few of Kavanagh's games with the u18's squad that were aired on the telly over the summer campaign and I'm telling you now, he's like a loaded gun on the pitch. Give him a slither of opportunity and he'll expose the defense and hit the fucking target every time. Shit, the guy's only seventeen and this is his second season with the Irish under 18 youth team – and he'll move right on up to the under 20's once he turns eighteen. After that, it'll be the senior team."
So, Johnny wasn’t joking around when he said he played.
"I didn’t know any of this," I mumbled, feeling like an idiot.
Why didn’t anyone mention this?
All the girls said at school was that he was amazing at rugby and was captain for the school team.
I never even heard of this academy thingy.
"You're blushing," Joey stated, sounding amused.
It was a completely accurate assessment, one I furtively denied. "I am not."
He snorted. "Yeah, you fucking are."”
"It's too dark to see that, so how do you even know that I'm blushing?"
Joey laughed softly. "So, you admit it?"
"I do not." I bit back a curse. "And I am not."
He scoffed. "Don’t give me that shit."
"What shit?"
"You let him drop you home."
I gaped. "Yeah. So?"
"You don’t even get in the car with Podge, and he's been my best friend since nappies," Joey challenged. "I've never seen or heard about you being friends with fellas."
"That's because I don’t have any friends," I growled. "Or at least I didn’t."
"So, you're friends with him?"
"No, I'm not friends with him," I ground out. "I missed my bus. He overheard me talking to you on the phone and offered to give me a spin home. You know this."
"Yeah, well, word to the wise," he replied breezily. "Don’t get your hopes up with him."
"My hopes?"
"Yeah," Joey yawned lazily. "It won't end well."
"What are you – why would I get my hopes up?" I shot back, flustered. "And hopes for what?"
"Whatever shit teenage girls get their hopes up on," Joey countered, yawning again. "At the risk of sounding like an overprotective brother: he's too old and way too fucking experienced for you."
"I'm not getting my hopes up on anyone," I denied heatedly before quickly adding, "Why are you even telling me all of this?"
"I'm not thick, Shan," Joey replied. "I'm well aware of the way young ones get all hung up and go all fangirly on fellas in his position." He shifted around on his makeshift bed, stretching out. "All I'm saying is, don’t read into him taking a picture with you or giving you a lift home tonight. He more than likely does that with a lot of girls."
"I wasn’t!" I snapped. "I didn’t even know about his position until you just told me." I followed up with, "And I'm well aware that him offering me a lift was an attempt to make amends for the concussion."
"You're sure?"
"Of course."
"Are you sure you know that's all?"
I balked with indignance. "Yes, Joey."
"Well, good," he sighed. "Because from what I've read in the papers, he'll be out of here after the leaving cert, so pining after him would be a bad idea. Clubs are already crying out for him – even in the southern hemisphere. It's only a matter of time before he's contracted out to the highest bidder."
"So?" My tone was defensive. "Why would I care? I don’t even like rugby!"
"Calm your tits, Shannon," Joey huffed. "I was only trying to give you some brotherly advice."
"Well, it's not necessary," I grumbled, face burning. "And for your information, he's actually not that great," I decided to throw out there in a distaining tone.
My earlier altercation with Johnny was still fresh in my mind, and I had an insane urge to take him down a peg or two – even if it was just to my brother.
"He's really moody and he drives like maniac – and his car is a disgrace it's so filthy."
"What does he drive?"
"An Audi A3." I grimaced before reluctantly admitting, "It's so sweet."
"Of course, he does. They practically toss out top of the range cars to their players." Joey blew out a breath and sounded a little fan-girly when he said, "Lucky bastard."
Silence fell around us then, as I quietly staggered through my thoughts.
Reeling, I tried to dissolve the information Joey had given me.
I tried to connect it to the Johnny I had met, but I couldn’t.
He didn’t seem like a superstar rugby player to me.
Okay, sure, physically he looked every inch the description of one, but he wasn’t…he didn’t…
I shook my head, thoughts awry with confusion.
Now that I knew exactly how invested he was in rugby, I could understand his irrational reaction tonight.
He didn’t want anyone to know about his injuries because he was scared.
He hadn't admitted it, but now that I knew what was at stake for him, it made complete sense.
If my future career I'd invested so much time and energy into was up in the air over an injury, I would do whatever it took to get back on track.
But lying about his recovery?
That seemed like a risky move to me.
A dangerous move.
He'd said it himself; he wasn’t healing right.
So why risk his body like that?
"What happens to a boy when he tears his adductor muscle?"
The question was out of my mouth before I had a chance to think it through.
"What – like in the groin?"
"Yeah." I nodded. "What happens?"
"Depends on the severity of the tear," Joey replied without hesitation. "But he'd be sore as fuck for a while. If it was bad, he'd probably need physio and rehab."
"What if it was really bad?" I chewed on my fingernail and asked, "What if it was bad enough that he had to have surgery down there?"
"Shannon, stop!" Joey visibly shuddered and cupped his junk. "I don’t want to think about it."
"Would it be really bad?" I kept pushing. "For a boy, that is? Would it hurt?"
"Put it this way," Joey bit out, still shuddering. "I'd rather break both legs than suffer that kind of trauma to my package."
"Would it hurt to walk and stuff?" I asked. "What about playing sports?"
"Shannon, it would hurt to take a piss," Joey deadpanned. "Never mind running around on a pitch."
Oh, Jesus.
No wonder Johnny was sore.
"Why?" he asked then.
"Oh, I was just wondering because Lizzie said her boyfriend, Pierce, had surgery to repair his adductor muscle back in December." Shrugging, I continued to lie through my teeth. I didn’t know Lizzie's boyfriend's
last name, let alone the condition of his adductor muscles. "Lizzie said he's back playing rug-uh-soccer again, but that he's still in a lot of pain. She asked me if I knew anything about it since you play hurling. I told her I'd ask you."
"Well, you can tell her that I said the poor bastard deserves an unlimited supply of morphine," Joey muttered. "And a bed. And an endless supply of icepacks for his balls."
"His balls?" I swallowed deeply, eyes widening. "Why would he need an icepack for those?"
"Because when the surgeons cut you open for that kind of procedure, they make an incision right below your s –ugh! I can't." Shaking his head, Joey snapped, "I can't even think about it without going out in sympathy with the poor bastard."
"But what if–"
"No!"
"But I just –"
"Goodnight Shannon!" Flopping onto his side with his back to me, Joey grumbled, "Thanks for my future nightmares."
Flopping onto my back, I cradled the top of my head with my hands and released a slow, steadying breath, hoping to calm my tremulous thoughts and make my mind go blank.
When the sound of Joey's deep-sleep snores filled my ears, several hours later, I was still wide awake.
I was tired.
I was chasing sleep, urging it to come, but try as I may, I couldn’t make my brain shut off.
Staring up at the ceiling, I mentally flicked through my own personal catalogue of heartache.
It was a sick form of self-harm because thinking about it did me absolutely no good, but still, I relived every argument, cruel comment, and painful memory I'd endured; ranging from taunts on the school yard at the age of four to the comments made by my father tonight.
It was the ultimate form of masochism, and a ritual I always performed after a bad day.
Closing my eyes didn’t help matters either.
Every time I allowed my eyes to flutter shut, the mental images of Johnny Kavanagh danced across my lids.
I wasn’t sure if I preferred it when he was just the stranger who'd knocked me out and smiled in the hallways, or the moody, overreactive asshole who'd blown hot and cold tonight.
I definitely knew that I regretted learning what I had about him.
Discovering Johnny was an up-and-coming rugby star with a future bright sports career was depressing for several reasons, but one particular one stuck out in my head.