There You'll Find Me (5 page)

I picked an envelope from the top and handed the stack to the girl behind me and tried to smile.

“I’m Beatrice Plummer,” she whispered. “You may have heard of me.”

“I don’t think so.”

She ran a manicured nail under her envelope. “My dad is the principal. Mr. Plummer.”

“Must be hard to have your dad as principal.”

“Actually I find it quite useful. Do you know Taylor Risdale?”

“The actress?”

“My third cousin, she is.” Her braggish tone scrubbed over my nerves. “She’s filming a movie here.”

“I believe I did hear something about that.”

“I’m in it.” Her pleased grin let me know that it was an honor she was even talking to me. “So you’re the new girl. The American?”

I nodded.

“Would you like to sit with me and my friends for lunch?” It came out with enough confidence to be more of a statement than a question.

We girls can sometimes be like wild animals, able to sniff out the strongest among us. Within seconds, I took in the total picture of Beatrice—her black sequined headband, the way her dark hair fell with perfect symmetry over her shoulder, diamond studs twinkling in her ears. Even her regulation socks somehow looked cooler than the rest of ours.

I’d just met Sacred Heart’s queen bee.

“Thank you. But I’m eating with Erin.” I gestured to where my host sister sat on the opposite side of the room. “Want to join us?”

Beatrice’s glossy lips curved into a facsimile of a smile. “A word of advice?”

“Um, okay.”

“You could aim a little higher.” She delivered her sales pitch with all the finesse of a used car salesman. “With some guidance you could be one of the cool girls here, so.”

“Like you.”

She flipped her hair. “Of course.”

“Thanks for the offer. I’ll give it some thought.” I might’ve been born privileged, but my momma hadn’t raised no snob. Well, just when it came to egomaniacal actors.

I turned back around as Mrs. Campbell cleared her throat for attention.

“Students, please open your envelopes.”

I peeled open the flap and reached inside.

Cathleen Sweeney
.

“On your paper is the identity of a person you will be spending a lot of time with.” Mrs. Campbell clasped her hands together, her eyes alight with excitement. “Each one of you will be adopting a grandparent from one of our nearby nursing homes.”

Okay, I could do this. A chance to cheer up an elderly person? How hard could that be?

“You will be expected to see your grandparent at least twenty hours by the term’s end. You will read to them, talk to them, get to know them, become a part of their lives. And before our Christmas holiday, you will turn in a portfolio to me.” Mrs. Campbell passed out a pack of papers, and the classroom filled with the sound of thirty girls flipping through the stapled pages.

Mrs. Campbell explained each assignment and how we’d be graded. “My plan is that this experience teaches you more than any textbook ever could.” She paused and her eyes panned the room. “My hope is that when you walk away from this . . . you are not the same.”

An assignment that could change my life?

Sign me up.

Chapter Four

The people here are so nice. They do hospitality better than any Southerner back home, and that’s saying something. Haven’t met an unkind soul yet.

—Travel Journal of Will Sinclair, Abbeyglen, Ireland

N
o cafeteria.

What kind of school was Ireland running here?

Erin bit into her sandwich. “Why is that weird?” “You’re missing the joys of healthy cafeteria fare like fries, cold pizza, and mystery meat.” Not that I ate that trash. The last few months I had really cleaned up my diet, but school food was a teenage right of passage. Of course, so was driving, and they didn’t get that one either.

“We either bring our own lunch or go off school grounds,” Erin said.

Off-campus lunch. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Ugh, there goes Beatrice and the Poshes.” Erin’s friend Orla pointed to the group of girls crossing the street.

“Where are they going?”

Orla took out a compact and covered the shine on her forehead where her blond bangs swung. “That’s the boys’ school. St. Raphael’s.”

“What did you call them? The Poshes?” I ate my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, scraping off some of the strawberry jam, ripping away the crusts.

“Posh,” Orla said. “Like fancy. Think they’re better than the rest of us, sure they do.”

“We used to be friends,” Erin said. “That was before they got so uppity and . . . daring. We don’t mind a bit of fun, but we’re not party girls.”

“Yeah.” Orla opened her brown paper bag and peeked inside. “We know fun. Like two weekends ago we stayed up all night watching a documentary marathon on the brain.” She rolled her eyes toward Erin. “We’re positively wild.”

“You forgot to tell me Beckett Rush was staying at your house.” I was quite proud of how casual my voice sounded. As if it were every day I was sleeping under the same roof as a teenage phenomenon.

Erin craned her neck and looked all around before speaking in a hush. “Mam has made me promise not to so much as open my mouth one peep about him. Something about a contract she had to sign when he checked in. The whole town knows, but our family still can’t say a word. It’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. You can’t talk about him either. We don’t know who could be press in disguise. One word to them, and we lose the B and B, our possessions, and our life savings.”

“Wow.”

“I know. Isn’t it awesome?” Erin gave an airy sigh. “Beckett’s lovely, don’t you think?”

“I guess.” I took a drink of water. “If you’re into his type.”

She smiled. “The tall, blond, and ruggedly good-looking type?”

“I’d be careful with him, Erin.”

“Oh, I know. My mam’s already warned me. But he’s been at our house for three weeks and been nothing but a gentleman.

Hasn’t made one single overture toward me.” She sighed. “It’s been a total disappointment.”

“Bea’s one of the locals the
Fangs in the Night
crew hired, don’t you know,” Orla said.

Erin nodded. “She has a small speaking part.”

Orla took out a package of cookies. “But you’d think she was Scarlett Johansson.”

“It is something to be proud of,” Erin said.

Orla snorted. “And proud that one is. Her cousin got her the gig. Bea has all sorts of connections, and believe me, she uses them. She’ll run over anyone to get what she wants. Best keep your eye on her. I’ve seen the way she looks at you, Finley. Like you’re new competition.”

I lined my bread crusts up neatly in a row on the table. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t want anything she has.”

Erin looked toward St. Raphael’s. “Just make sure you keep it that way.”

That night I woke up. Sweat glued my shirt to my skin, my heart pounded loud enough to wake the whole village, and tears coursed down my cheeks. Another dream where I saw Will. Yet I couldn’t get to him. And he couldn’t get to me.

One thirty a.m.

I rolled over and sighed, realizing that I was starving. Dinner had been some sausage concoction, and I couldn’t swallow more than a few bites. Sometimes meat just grossed me out. Maybe this was God telling me to be a vegetarian.

Deciding to take my mind off of my growling stomach, I flicked on the bedside lamp and opened my brother’s travel journal. I’d read this thing from cover to cover. Yet I still felt so drawn to it, as if it had something more it wanted to say.

I had to find a way to get out into the countryside and really see Ireland. The O’Callaghans were so busy, there was no telling when there would be a chance to get away. Patience had never been my strongest suit.

Or rolling my
r
’s.

God, I know we haven’t talked in a long time, and you seem to be playing the quiet game, but if you could open some doors for me to get a car. I want to see the land my brother fell in love with. Talk to the people he never forgot. View the world as he saw it. He believed this was the most beautiful place ever. And I could definitely stand some beauty
.

My tummy rumbled again, and I knew I had to do something about it. Last year I would occasionally forget to eat. My counselor called me depressed.

I called me devastated.

I slipped on a sweatshirt to go with my Mickey Mouse pajama bottoms and fuzzy bunny slippers and made my way down the two flights of stairs, straight for the kitchen.

The room came to life as I flipped the switch and investigated the refrigerator.

I spied the milk and remembered the impressive cereal collection in the closet-sized pantry. Just as I reached in to grab the container, a low whine came from behind me.

I turned and listened.

Nothing.

Going back to the fridge, I pulled out the milk.

And heard the whine again. A pitiful sound, desperate and mournful, as if an animal writhed in pain just outside the back door.

I went to the door and my heart clenched at the lonesome wails. Turning the knob, I stepped outside and onto the back deck.

The kitchen light shone like a spotlight on the chocolate Lab I’d spotted on the front step the day I arrived.

“Hi, boy.” I moved slowly, just in case the thing was crying over a new rabies diagnosis. “What’s wrong, huh?”

The Lab remained at attention, but wagged its happy tail.

“Are you lonely? Do you need someone to talk to?” I reached out a tentative hand and scratched his head. “Because I totally relate.”

“Do you now?”

I jumped at the voice behind me.

There in the corner, holding a small book light and a script, sat Beckett Rush.

“You scared me.” My heart thumped wildly in my chest.

“I can see that.” He closed his script. “Were you going to brain me with that?”

His gaze traveled over my head, and I realized I was holding the milk like a weapon. “I apologize for my catlike reflexes,” I said, lowering the jug. “Clearly you were milliseconds from devastating pain.”

He smiled. “Death by dairy products.”

“The dog was crying. I . . .” I was standing there in my pajamas.

In front of Beckett Rush. The Hollywood movie star. “I wanted to check it out. See if he was hurting.”

“The only thing Bob’s hurting for is food.” Beckett held up a plate. “I made myself a sandwich. Bob’s a big promoter of sharing.”

“He should’ve been around at dinnertime. I would’ve gladly shared.”

“That bad? I have half a sandwich here.”

I eyed him warily, as if the space between us were littered with land mines.

“I’m just going to throw it away.” Beckett tapped the seat beside him. “Sit. Eat. I promise you’re safe. I’m too tired to tick you off.”