And it was for this reason that one of Nika Geary’s friends brought a bottle of Smirnoff into school, stolen from her parents’ drinks cabinet. But as she was smuggling it from her school bag into her locker, it slipped from her hand and broke on the corridor floor.
Moments later, Maeve came running around the corner, late for class, skidded, slipped and fell flat on her back on what she assumed was a huge puddle of water. Stunned and embarrassed, she lay there for a moment, catching her breath.
Then a voice from somewhere above boomed: “Maeve Khoury!Whatare you doing on the floor?”
Ms. Costello, the vice-principal. This wasnotgood.
She ran over to help Maeve, annoyed for sure, but probably worried too—it’s never good for a school if a student gets hurt on the premises. Then, right at that moment, Nika, Ariana and the rest of their friends arrived on the scene with wads of toilet roll, clearly about to clean up the spill, and the one shard of glass they’d missed.
Ms. Costello was helping Maeve, sniffing as she did. Once Maeve was on her feet, she stepped back to look at her dripping uniform skirt and the cluster of girls with their clumps of toilet roll.
“Right, down to my office, immediately.” This was to Nika, Ariana and the rest of them. Maeve was ordered to go to the bathroom and dry herself off as the girls, chins high, trying to look both unbothered and disgusted at once, sauntered to Ms. Costello’s office.
Bit by bit, word went around about what happened next: the girls claimed they had nothing to do with the smashed vodka. They said they’d noticed a spill and were rushing to mop up before someone slipped. Maeve almost sprained an eyeball when she heard that part.
And according to the grapevine, it was this claim more than anything that got them in trouble—nobody, least of all Ms. Costello, believed they had any interest in keeping the school clean and safe.
Of course, their parents stuck up for their kids, denied their daughters would bring alcohol into the school. They pointed out that there was no proof, and Maeve heard that one of the mums who was a lawyer or solicitor or something had started to talk about legal action. Even at seventeen, Maeve is fairly certain you can’t sue a school for trying to discipline students, but obviously, the board or whoever is in charge of these things decided it wasn’t worth the drama. The school eventually let it go.
But the girls didn’t.
It was all Maeve’s fault, they said. If she hadn’t slipped and caused a fuss, Ms. Costello would never have noticed. And despite the fact that nothing had come of it, they tormented Maeve for the rest of the year. Spreading rumors that she’d ratted them out, turning their backs when she walked into a room, posting about her on social media. It wasn’t just about the slip, of course. Maeve was quiet and a little bit nerdy. Her hair was curly, in a world of glossy waves. Her trainers were last season. She hadn’t quite figured out foundation and concealer. She was an easy target and the vodka incident gave them an excuse to set their sights on her.
Maeve tried to keep her head up. She had her own small group of friends—one best pal at school, plus her GAA team—she didn’t need Nika Geary’s approval. But some days, it was hard. Lots of days, it was hard, not least because she and Nika had once been close friends.
Then in fifth year, Maeve’s best pal moved to Spain, and she was on her own. Facing Nika and her gang every day got tougher and, some days, Maeve couldn’t bring herself to go in. She faked sickness, ate little, stayed in her room. Her mother worried, but Maeve didn’t feel like talking. It was Aoife who told in the end, and then things escalated, because Leesa went to the school. Parents always think going to the school is the answer, and maybe sometimes it is. But for Maeve, everything got worse. It wasonly when school broke up for summer of fifth year that Nika and her group stopped—distracted by holidays in the Algarve and shopping trips to New York. But now,this.
Maeve scrolls and clicks and scrolls and clicks. The screenshot is everywhere, now that she knows where to look. People from her year, sharing it all over social media, surprised and gleeful to see a teacher mess up. Maeve groans, lies back on her bed, and keeps scrolling.
It takes another ten minutes to realize that the focus on Susan’s faux pas is already fading. Overshadowed by something else—the question of Nika’s “boyfriend,” the one mentioned in Susan’s message. Because, as it happens, Nika Geary doesn’t have a boyfriend.
Maeve sits up.Drama.
13
Susan
Thursday
As soon as Jon leaves for his pre-work run on Thursday morning, Greta arrives with takeout coffees, and Leesa soon after with almond croissants, and in spite of everything that’s going on, this makes me feel warm and glowy. Ilovethat my house is where we gather now. For the longest time, Greta’s was where we congregated—understandably, because it was our childhood home. Even after we moved out—Leesa to work in the Middle East for an engineering firm, me a little closer to home at a school in Drumcondra—we always gravitated to what became Greta’s house after Mum died. It went to all three of us, of course, but once Greta knew we were definitely moving on, she bought us out. She’d had a settlement from the county council after an accident left her with a limp, and I suspect she paid over the odds for our portions of the house. That’s Greta though, always quietly looking after us. When Leesa had kids,herhouse became the central point, to save her gathering changing bags and buggies and snacks. And now, for the same reason, everyone comes here. I don’t know how much Jon likes it–Leesa and Greta here every other day, mostly arriving unannounced—but I adore it.
“Anything new in the news?” Leesa asks, shaking the croissants on to a plate.
There is nothing new, I tell her. Half the headlines are taken up with Savannah’s murder and the other half with the couple found dead in Cherrywood, but every article is just a rehash of the one before.
My phone rings, and “Garda Station” flashes onscreen. For some reason, I feel nervous. I stand and pace as I answer.
“Ms. O’Donnell?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Detective Kellerman, about the report you made yesterday. We’d like to call in to you with some further questions—does tomorrow morning at ten suit?”
“Yes, but is there news? Do you think I’m right, it was someone trying to…to hurt me?”
A pause that makes me even more nervous.
“We can’t say anything for now. But we appreciate your help. We’ll see you in the morning.”
