traders are getting a bunch of free tickets for the opening night,” Dad goes on. “Ballet puts me to sleep, though. Want my seats?”
“Abso-doodle-lutely! Can I bring Mills and Clover?” Mills will probably go with her mum and dad, anyway, but I’m sure she’d be happy to watch it twice, and maybe she could get us backstage to see all the dancers. Clover says male ballet dancers are hot up close and personal (she had a brief dalliance with one before she met Brains), and I want to see if she’s right.
“Sure. You can bring Sylvie along too.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Gracie wakes then and starts to make little mewing noises.
“Better get this little lady home,” Dad says. He checks his watch. “Hopefully Pauline will be at the gym by now. The sooner that woman flies back to Portugal on her broomstick the better. She’s doing my head in. She really stirred things up this morning over breakfast. Asked me why Shelly wasn’t invited to your mum’s bachelorette party! I don’t think it had even occurred to Shelly to be miffed — but she is now.”
“Is Pauline deranged? Shelly’s the last person Mum would want within a million miles of her party.”
“I know that and you know that. Anyway, don’t worry; I set Pauline straight. Told her it was just close friends and family. Shelly still had a puss on her, though, so I had to promise to take her shopping to make up for it.”
Phew! Mum’s bachelorette party is already getting far too complicated for my liking. Dave has invited his prissy sister, Prue, along, and her idea of outlandish is wearing a red velvet hairband instead of her usual navy blue one.
Gracie cries all the way to the exit, where Dad makes a big deal out of maneuvering her buggy out the gate. Honestly, you’d swear he was driving a bus. As we walk toward the car, Gracie finally goes quiet again, and I peer in at her. She’s snoozing peacefully, her nose wriggling like a rabbit’s, her mouth making little sucking motions, like she’s pulling on an imaginary bottle.
“How are the party plans coming along, anyway?” Dad asks. “Is there a theme?”
I worry my lip. I’m a little concerned about Clover’s ideas, to be honest. Mum said simple — but some of it is looking Brains-worthy eccentric.
“The theme is
Sex and the City
, Irish style,” I tell him. “Manhattan meets Dublin.”
Dad laughs. “Sounds brilliant. I’m sure Sylvie will love it.”
I hope he’s right.
“I do love teacher-training days,” I say to Clover on Monday morning. We’re marching across the rugby field at Trinity College, and I’m swinging my arms like a soldier on parade.
“I feel bad about dragging you out of bed so early on a day off, Beanie,” Clover says. She then gives a jaw-cracking yawn. Clover isn’t a morning person. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes!” I say, stepping over a divot. “But everyone else is walking on the path. Are we allowed to walk on the grass?”
And as though in answer to my question, a short man in dark blue overalls waves a rake at us and shouts, “Oy, off the grass!”
“Apparently not.” Clover grabs my arm, and we run toward the path, laughing.
We join the stream of students flowing toward Front Square. It’s day one of Freshers’ Week, and from the excited chatter of a bunch of D4s in flicky mini-kilts and brand-spanking new Uggs in front of us, I’d say it’s a REALLY BIG DEAL!
“What societies are you joining, Amber?” one of them asks a tall girl with long, perfectly straightened mink-colored hair. (The D4s have all gone mink this season — it’s the latest thing, apparently. Smacks of beige to me.)
“Field Hockey Club, obviously — they, like, so need me,” Amber answers, her haughty voice dripping with confidence. “I have been capped for Ireland after all.” It’s clear from the way the others have stopped chattering and are listening to her intently that she’s Queen Bee. “Also Drama Society. And the college
“Abso-doodle-lutely! Can I bring Mills and Clover?” Mills will probably go with her mum and dad, anyway, but I’m sure she’d be happy to watch it twice, and maybe she could get us backstage to see all the dancers. Clover says male ballet dancers are hot up close and personal (she had a brief dalliance with one before she met Brains), and I want to see if she’s right.
“Sure. You can bring Sylvie along too.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Gracie wakes then and starts to make little mewing noises.
“Better get this little lady home,” Dad says. He checks his watch. “Hopefully Pauline will be at the gym by now. The sooner that woman flies back to Portugal on her broomstick the better. She’s doing my head in. She really stirred things up this morning over breakfast. Asked me why Shelly wasn’t invited to your mum’s bachelorette party! I don’t think it had even occurred to Shelly to be miffed — but she is now.”
“Is Pauline deranged? Shelly’s the last person Mum would want within a million miles of her party.”
“I know that and you know that. Anyway, don’t worry; I set Pauline straight. Told her it was just close friends and family. Shelly still had a puss on her, though, so I had to promise to take her shopping to make up for it.”
Phew! Mum’s bachelorette party is already getting far too complicated for my liking. Dave has invited his prissy sister, Prue, along, and her idea of outlandish is wearing a red velvet hairband instead of her usual navy blue one.
Gracie cries all the way to the exit, where Dad makes a big deal out of maneuvering her buggy out the gate. Honestly, you’d swear he was driving a bus. As we walk toward the car, Gracie finally goes quiet again, and I peer in at her. She’s snoozing peacefully, her nose wriggling like a rabbit’s, her mouth making little sucking motions, like she’s pulling on an imaginary bottle.
“How are the party plans coming along, anyway?” Dad asks. “Is there a theme?”
I worry my lip. I’m a little concerned about Clover’s ideas, to be honest. Mum said simple — but some of it is looking Brains-worthy eccentric.
“The theme is
Sex and the City
, Irish style,” I tell him. “Manhattan meets Dublin.”
Dad laughs. “Sounds brilliant. I’m sure Sylvie will love it.”
I hope he’s right.
“I do love teacher-training days,” I say to Clover on Monday morning. We’re marching across the rugby field at Trinity College, and I’m swinging my arms like a soldier on parade.
“I feel bad about dragging you out of bed so early on a day off, Beanie,” Clover says. She then gives a jaw-cracking yawn. Clover isn’t a morning person. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes!” I say, stepping over a divot. “But everyone else is walking on the path. Are we allowed to walk on the grass?”
And as though in answer to my question, a short man in dark blue overalls waves a rake at us and shouts, “Oy, off the grass!”
“Apparently not.” Clover grabs my arm, and we run toward the path, laughing.
We join the stream of students flowing toward Front Square. It’s day one of Freshers’ Week, and from the excited chatter of a bunch of D4s in flicky mini-kilts and brand-spanking new Uggs in front of us, I’d say it’s a REALLY BIG DEAL!
“What societies are you joining, Amber?” one of them asks a tall girl with long, perfectly straightened mink-colored hair. (The D4s have all gone mink this season — it’s the latest thing, apparently. Smacks of beige to me.)
“Field Hockey Club, obviously — they, like, so need me,” Amber answers, her haughty voice dripping with confidence. “I have been capped for Ireland after all.” It’s clear from the way the others have stopped chattering and are listening to her intently that she’s Queen Bee. “Also Drama Society. And the college
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