by Ciara Smyth
“Right, so imagine a sprint, in a circle,” she says, holding out one hand. She holds out the other hand. “And the brutality of American football and then . . .” She smushes her two hands together.
She looks expectantly from me to Lipstick Girl, waiting for us to exclaim with joy that this is the activities mash-up we’d been waiting for our whole lives.
“Is your ankle broken?” Lipstick Girl peers uncertainly over the table and I see it then too, Roller Derby Girl’s foot in one of those space boots.
“Please,” she scoffs, “that’s nothing. A few pins. I fell funny on the track, but I still finished two more jams on that foot. I’ll be back on eight wheels in no time.”
“Oh my God! Betty,” Lipstick Girl says suddenly, gripping my arm, “we’re late for class,” and she pulls me away from the booth. I wave a conciliatory goodbye to Roller Derby Girl, who narrows her eyes, and I think I see her mouth form the word wuss to herself before she pounces on her next victim.
Around the corner at the Pirate Society, free from the disgust of Roller Derby Girl, we pause to pick up a free Jolly Roger temporary tattoo. It makes me think of Ruby, and I pocket one to send her in the post.
“Should we stay in touch? Instagram or something?” I asked over continental breakfast and secret smiles in our hotel room the morning after the wedding.
Ruby picked at a pastry, flaky bits collecting on her plate though she wasn’t really eating any of it. She toyed with her lip ring and flipped her hair over, making my heart hurt a little.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I don’t want to scour your pictures and comments for clues or wonder every time you add some girl if she’s your new girlfriend. If I can do that, how am I supposed to move on?”
“We could still text?” I said hopefully, but even as it came out of my mouth I knew that was a bad idea too. It would start off with a daily flow of messages back and forth. Then fewer and fewer until one day they stopped coming. It would be like trying to peel off a Band-Aid millimeter by millimeter so it hurt less. It doesn’t really work that way. So I understood when she shook her head.
“We could write letters like ye olden days,” I joked, though my laugh was forced.
Ruby didn’t say anything for a second. Then she nodded, eyes bright.
“Really?” I said, surprised.
“Maybe not letters. I don’t think that’s any better than texts. I don’t need to know the gory details, but send me things. Send me a picture of something pretty you saw or a poem you read that you liked or, I don’t know, it doesn’t have to even be meaningful. Send me a free sample of perfume you get in a magazine. Just things from your life.”
“Life debris,” I said.
“Exactly. What if our story isn’t a romantic comedy after all?” she asked. “This bit doesn’t feel very funny. Maybe it’s an epic romance. Where the heroines separate and years pass but someday when the timing is right they meet again—”
“On top of the Empire State Building?”
“Sure, or, you know, like somewhere a lot cheaper to get to.”
“The ticket line of a Ferris wheel?”
She grinned. “That’s more like it. Ten years from now?”
“Make it five.”
“Deal.”
I lifted the breakfast tray, which was set between us on the bed, and put it on the floor.
“There’s one last thing we didn’t tick off,” I said.
“Are you sure? I think we did it all last night,” Ruby joked.
“We never got to slow dance.”
“You’re right.” She nodded.
I stood on the bed, my feet unsteady on the springy mattress, and held out my hand. She took it, bouncing up on her feet, the momentum of the mattress propelling her into my arms. With my other hand I took my phone out and then pressed play on the first song that came up on my phone.
We turned in circles, swaying gently to the decidedly unromantic music of Survivor.
“I’m Veronica,” Lipstick Girl says.
“Good thinking, Veronica. I really don’t think I would have been able to say no to her.”
“I think she would have asked us to sign up in blood if we didn’t get out of there soon.”
“Very likely.”
“So do you have a name, then?” Veronica prompts me.
“Right. Yes, I do. Saoirse.”
“Like the actress.”
“No! She keeps saying Sur-sha and I know it’s her name too, and technically she’s allowed to say it however she wants, but it’s Seer-sha and she needs to fall in line with the rest of the country.”
Veronica salutes me. “Yes, ma’am. Will never mention she-who-must-not-be-named again.”
“Well, in fairness to her she’s national treasure. It’s just the name thing.”
We come to a stand decked out in rainbow flags and I try not to notice my heart beat a little faster when Veronica marches up and signs her name and email on their clipboard. I add my name and email even though I have no intention of ever going to a meeting. Unless maybe she would be there.
My phone buzzes again.
DAD
Will you pick up some strawberries on the way home for Beth?
DAD
PS internet says sweet cravings are a girl.
He adds a scared-face emoji.
SAOIRSE
Very scientific. PS I’m telling Beth you used emojis to convey sexism.
“So what are you studying?” I ask Veronica, putting my phone on silent as we amble past more stalls. I’m not paying attention to the names of the clubs anymore.
“Drama,” she says with jazz hands.
“So you wanna be an actress or something?”
“There’s more to drama than acting,” she says, and it sounds like it isn’t the first time she’s had to give this speech. “Drama is stories and ritual and performance and theater. It’s a way of understanding the human experience.” Her eyes shine when she speaks and I am almost embarrassed by someone who has so much passion for something and isn’t afraid to show it. “And I want to be a director,” she adds sheepishly. “I have serious problems with authority. It’s either director or dictator.”
“Good to know.”
She looks me up and down.
“Photography?” She points to the camera slung around my neck.
“This is just for fun. I’m making an album. Memories, you know?” I hold my camera up, my expression asking if I can take one of her. She poses like a fifties pinup with one hand behind her head and one on a popped hip.
“What course are you on, then?” she asks.
“History.”
“So you want to read about people who died before you can even remember,” she teases, nudging me in the arm.
I take a moment to think about what it means to me so that the words come out right.
“History is who we are,” I say finally. “The past shapes us. Even the parts you can’t remember.”
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my family: Mum for listening to me say the same things over and over again, like only a mother could. Dad for telling me to write a book since I was about fourteen (I mean I want to make it clear, I didn’t do it because you told me to, but thanks anyway). Thanks to my brothers Rory, Conor, and Barry for existing; I bet you’ll tell people you have a sister now.
Thank you to Steph for everything, including, but not limited to, endless talksabouts, drying my tears, and making fun of me for being so dramatic.
To Darren for tech support, pun supplies, and keeping me alive; you’re alright, I guess.
To my editors, Stephanie Stein and Chloe Sackur, I have endless gratitude. Youse are wonderful and funny and this book would not be what it is without all your skill, insight, and dedication.
Thank you to my agent, Alice Williams, who made my dreams comes true. Thank you to Allison Hellegers for her hard work and Alexandra Devlin for hers. Apologies to each of you for my inability to use the reply a
ll function.
Thank you to everyone at HarperTeen: Louisa, who answers my embarrassing questions; Nicole Moreno and Jessica White for their general wizardry; Jenna Stempel-Lobell and Spiros Halaris for the beautiful design and cover art; and Meghan Pettit and Shannon Cox in production and marketing.
Thank you to the team at Andersen Press: Kate Grove, Jenny Hastings, Alice Moloney, and anyone who Chloe may have asked if they understand the term “getting the shift.”
Of course thank you to all the people at both teams who I may never meet or hear of, but who also had a hand in this book.
To the coven, thank you for the writing chats and Harry Styles appreciation. Special thanks to Izzy for reading my manuscripts and believing in all of them.
Thank you to my fluffy support team Heidi, Harry, and Albus; truly, I don’t know how I would have coped without you all begging for food, needing to sit on me immediately, or barking and meowing when I was trying to write.
To the person reading this who thought I should thank them, and is now mortally offended, my bad. You’re actually my favorite, and I will make it up to you.
Finally, with utmost gratitude to anyone who has read this book, writing a book that no one reads kind of feels like talking to yourself. I mean, that’s fine and all, but it’s not the same as having a conversation with an actual human. So thanks for being an actual human.
About the Author
Photo credit Darren Craig
CIARA SMYTH studied drama, teaching, and then social work at university. She thought she didn’t know what she wanted to be when she grew up. She became a writer so she wouldn’t have to grow up. She enjoys jigging (verb: to complete a jigsaw puzzle), playing the violin badly, and having serious conversations with her pets. Ciara has lived in Belfast for over ten years and still doesn’t really know her way around.
Visit her online at www.ciarasmyth.com.
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Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE FALLING IN LOVE MONTAGE. Copyright © 2020 by Ciara Smyth. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.epicreads.com
Cover art © 2020 by Spiros Halaris
Cover design by Jenna Stempel-Lobell
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Smyth, Ciara, author.
Title: The falling in love montage / Ciara Smyth.
Description: First edition. | New York : HarperTeen, [2020] | Audience: Ages 13 up. | Audience: Grades 10-12. | Summary: “Two girls embark on a summer of montage-worthy dates (with a few strings attached)”— Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019056138 | ISBN 9780062957115 (hardcover)
Subjects: CYAC: Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Remarriage—Fiction. | Family life—Ireland—Fiction. | Ireland—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S65719 Fal 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019056138
Digital Edition JUNE 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-295713-9
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-295711-5
2021222324PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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