CHAPTER 3
Mick and I grew up just a few cornfields apart, but we didn’t cross
paths until our first day of high school, when seven different
middle schools converged into one massive freshman class at
Arrowhead.
Most of the day unspooled exactly as I’d pictured. Many of the faces
were unfamiliar, but the dynamic felt the same. The hallways still
smelled like floor wax and pencil shavings, and kids clustered in tight
groups that looked the same as middle school, just shuffled into new
combinations.
Then Mick O’Leary walked into advanced algebra.
I was sitting in the front row, surrounded by the usual overachievers,
when I looked up and froze. With his wavy blond hair, bright blue eyes,
and chiseled jaw, he looked like he belonged on the cover of a teen
romance novel, not in the top math track. He wore broken-in Levi’s, a
white henley, and Timberland boots with the laces casually loose. Pure
popular kid central casting.
He scanned the room. I waited for him to stroll to the back of the
class, where his type always sat. Instead, he dropped his backpack on the
floor and slid into the desk next to me.
“Welp. Here goes nothing,” he said, staring right at me.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“This class,” he said. “I hear Ms. Sprinkman’s a hard-ass.”
“Yeah, but she’s a really good teacher,” I blurted out.
I felt my face warm; it sounded more earnest than I meant it to.
He gave me a smile that lit up his whole face. “I’m Mick, by the
way.”
“I’m Billie,” I said, my heart fluttering.
He leaned in slightly, squinting. “Ellie?”
“No. Billie. With a B. Like the boy’s name.”
“Ah. Billie,” he said, smiling. “I like that.”
I smiled back at him, feeling heat in my cheeks, then changed the
subject before he could ask what it was short for. “Where’d you go to
middle school?”
“Swallow,” he said. “You?”
“Richmond,” I said, though technically it ran K–8.
“So you know Will Rader?”
“Yes,” I said, thinking that I knew everyone from Richmond. “How
do you know Will?”
“We’re both on the football team.”
I nodded. That tracked.
He started to say something else, but the bell rang, and
Ms. Sprinkman breezed in, launching straight into roll call. When she got
to Mick, I learned that his full name was Michael O’Leary.
Toward the end of the alphabet, I braced myself.
Sure enough, Ms. Sprinkman paused, then slowly enunciated every
syllable: Wilhelmina Wright.
A few predictable snickers echoed behind me.
“Here,” I mumbled. “But I go by Billie.”
As Ms. Sprinkman made the notation, I could feel Mick’s eyes on me.
When I glanced over, he grinned, one brow lifting.
“Wilhelmina?” he whispered.
I shrugged, both mortified and thrilled, then looked down at my
notebook.
It was time to get serious. At fourteen, I had already mapped out my
path to med school and trained myself to treat boys like background
noise. But all through class, I was hyperaware of Mick beside me—his
restless energy, the way he scribbled notes, the tap of his pencil.
When the bell rang, I calmly gathered my things. Out of the corner of
my eye, I could see Mick slinging his backpack over one shoulder.
“See you tomorrow, Wilhelmina!” he said.
I met his gaze.
He winked.
I melted.
—
A few minutes later, I boarded the school bus, looking for Erin.
Erin Callahan lived down the street from me and had been my best
friend for as long as I could remember. She was more than a friend—she
and I were the sister neither of us had. When my family went on
vacation, Erin came, too, and Erin’s mother, Joan, was like my second
mother—only more fun. When Erin was three, her father had taken off,
never to be heard from again. So it was just Erin and Joan, living
together in a messy, joyful, girly household. I loved sleeping over at
Erin’s house, where there were fewer rules, better snacks, and no boys.
I loved everything about Erin. She had the kind of laugh that warmed
you from within and a way of walking into a room like it already
belonged to her. She made me feel stronger just by being her friend.
Some called her bossy; I saw an efficient leader. She took charge among
our neighborhood friends—twins Sam and Eliot, along with another best
friend duo, Anna and Lucy. The six of us had grown up together, and
Erin was our glue, the one who organized kickball games and staged
elaborate plays on her glassed-in sunporch, assigning us roles with the
authority of a director and making each of us feel that our part mattered.
I knew Erin and I would always be best friends, but that summer, I’d
worried that our group would splinter in high school. When I’d shared
my fear with Erin, her eyes turned fierce.
“I’d never let that happen,” she said.
Now, as I walked down the aisle of the bus, Erin popped up from the
back row, her dark curly hair loose around her face. She waved at me
with a big grin—her default expression—and I smiled back at her. I
couldn’t wait to tell her about the boy I’d just met and was secretly glad
that the rest of our friends were in fall sports and wouldn’t be riding the
bus home with us. I loved having Erin to myself, and matters of the heart
were for her ears only.
Before I could sit, she was off and running, words tumbling out as her
hands flew, buzzing about auditions for Footloose, the school musical.
“We should try out!” she said.
“No, you should try out. I can’t sing or dance.”
“Hello?! What about the Electric Slide and the Macarena?”
“You mean the dances it took you weeks to teach me?” I laughed.
“What do you think rehearsals are for?” she said. “Besides, we need
extracurriculars to get into college.”
She smiled, poking me in the ribs, knowing college was my hot
button.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, knowing it was out of the question. The
mere idea of getting onstage made my stomach clench.
“That’s the spirit!” she said, holding up her hand for a high five.
I attempted a slap, our palms barely connecting. She shook her head
and smiled. I knew the drill—we had to keep going until our hands made
a satisfying clapping sound. She grinned when we finally got it on the
third try.
“I just want to make sure we get out of our comfort zone in high
school,” she said. “Try new things. Live large. These could be the best
days of our lives!”
That was Erin in a nutshell. She made everything lighter and brighter.
With her, anything felt possible.
I twisted the straps of my backpack and gave her a hesitant smile. “So
I have some news.”
“Do tell!” she said, rubbing her hands together.
“I met a boy,” I said. “In math class.”
Erin’s blue eyes grew wide with excitement. “Oh my God! You have
a prospect? Already?”
I shushed her, then lowered my voice to a whisper. “I wouldn’t call
him a prospect. He’s way out of my league. But he’s really nice—”
“Then why isn’t he a prospect?”
“Once you see him, you’ll know.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You have the cutest dimples and the best
smile.”
I rolled my eyes, thinking “best smile” was what people said when
there was nothing else to compliment—right up there with “good skin.”
“Don’t roll your eyes at me! You’re beautiful, Billie.”
It’s what she always told me—and I knew she meant it with all her
heart. But I also knew that my ash-brown bob and pale skin made my
gray-green eyes look washed out, like lake water under clouds. Nothing
striking, nothing unforgettable—just quietly there. It didn’t help matters
that I had the body of a ten-year-old. No hips, flat chest, toothpick legs.
“No. I mean it, Erin. He looks like a movie star.”
“Comp?”
“I don’t know…Heath Ledger, maybe?”
“Wowzer! What’s his name?”
“Mick O’Leary.” My heart fluttered just saying it aloud.
Erin let out a startled laugh. “Billie. Don’t you know who that is?”
I gave her a blank stare.
“He’s a stud football player from Swallow. His family owns Picker’s
Paradise.”
“The orchard?”
“Yes. Remember we went there in the fourth grade?”
I nodded, then said, “How do you know all this?”
“It’s common knowledge. Get your nose out of the books and pay
attention!” She laughed and knocked on my temple.
“So spill the deets. Did he flirt with you?”
“No,” I said. “But he teased me about my name.”
“Nothing says icebreaker like Wilhelmina!”
I smiled. “True.”
“And he has to be smart if he’s in your math class. I know you love
smart.”
I shrugged and smiled, guilty as charged.
“Well, this is an exciting development. He could be your first
boyfriend!”
“I really don’t see that happening,” I said, but I could already feel a
knot of hope beginning to form.
“Yes, it will. Just play the long game,” she said with the easy
certainty of someone who never doubted her place in the world. “Friends
first, lovahs next.”
“Ha!”
“And before you know it, you’ll be doing it in the apple orchard!”
I shook my head, laughing as the bus rumbled on.
—
I took Erin’s advice to heart. Over the next few weeks, Mick and I slowly
became friends. We chatted before and after class and exchanged hellos
in the hallways. Sometimes, he’d saunter over to our lunch table to ask
about homework.
Then one night, out of the blue, he called me. I picked up the phone,
expecting Erin.
Instead, I heard a low voice. “Hi, Billie. It’s Mick.”
His voice was even deeper on the phone, and my heart raced.
“Hello,” I said. “How’d you get my number?”
“From Will Rader. Hope that was okay?”
“Sure. What’s up?” I asked, trying to sound breezy.
He said he had a question about the math homework. He asked it, and
I answered, expecting him to say thanks and goodbye.
Instead, he asked me what I was up to—which segued into a nearly
hour-long conversation about football, random high school gossip, the
Silverado he was saving for by working at the orchard, and my part-time
job at Sugarbell, a candy store in Hartland.
At one point, a piping voice cut in.
“Hold on,” he said.
A muffled exchange followed.
“Sorry,” he said when he came back on. “That was my little sister.”
A few seconds later, her laughter crackled through the line. Instead of
kicking her out of his room the way I did with my brother, he brought her
into the conversation, telling her that I worked at a candy store.
“Can we go?” I heard her ask.
“She’s not there now,” he replied. “But maybe sometime.”
“You’re so sweet to her,” I said.
“She’s my favorite person.”
I’d never heard anyone talk about a sibling like that.
“How old is she?” I asked.
“She’s eight. She has Down syndrome,” he said. “Do you have
siblings?”
“One brother.”
“How old is he?”
“Ten. And he’s very annoying,” I said, thinking that in addition to our
age difference, my brother, Gus, was a complete slob and a constant
source of noise pollution.
Mick laughed. “Yeah. Younger siblings can be tough. But they’re
worth it. Right, Maevie?”
“Right, Mickey!”
“Mickey, huh?” I teased.
“Don’t start, Wilhelmina,” he said, a smile in his voice.
—
After that night, Mick and I had regular phone conversations. We talked
about anything and everything, from religion to movies and music.
On Friday nights, I sat in the bleachers with my friends, the smell of
popcorn and wet leaves drifting through the crisp night air, my eyes
glued to Mick. I held my breath every time he touched the ball. I loved
when he scored a touchdown, but the part I liked best was the way he’d
calmly hand the ref the ball. No swagger or showboating.
We rarely talked on the weekends, so I had to wait until Monday in
math class to congratulate him.
“Great game,” I’d say.
“Thanks,” he’d reply, modest as ever.
I’d follow up with commentary on specific plays. Sometimes he’d
give me the behind-the-scenes scoop: what the coach said in the locker
room, the trash talk on the field.
Later that fall, Arrowhead played in the Division 1 state
championship game. It went down to the wire. Four seconds left. Down
six. Fourth and goal. Mick got the handoff. Gripping Erin’s arm, I
watched as he leapt into the air, over two defensive linemen. For one
second, we celebrated. Then, as he hit the ground, the ball popped out of
his arms. Around me, the crowd fell into stunned silence. Mick stayed
there, sprawled on the ground, clutching his helmet in disbelief.
Later that night, I called to console him.
“Hello,” he answered.
“Hi. It’s me,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“Not really. I can’t believe I lost the game for us.”
“It was only one down,” I said. “What about your sixty-yard run?
That was amazing.”
“Thanks,” he said. “But there’s no excuse to drop the ball like that.”
I didn’t know what to say, so we sat in silence for a few more
seconds. Then he told me he was going to take an Epsom salts bath. “I
feel like a truck drove over me,” he added.
I blushed, picturing him in the tub, his body under suds.
“Okay,” I said. “I hope you feel better soon.”
“Thank you, Billie,” he said. “I appreciate you calling.”
My heart clenched. “You’re welcome,” I said.
—
After that, our phone calls grew longer, and when it got really late, we
spoke in whispers that felt like secrets.
One night, he told me about the day he came home from school to
find his mom catatonic in a rocking chair and his father crying—
something he’d never seen before. They’d just come back from a
doctor’s appointment. There was fluid on the back of Maeve’s neck, a
marker for Down syndrome.
“It was like someone had died,” he said.
“Wow,” I breathed, wishing I could jump through the phone and hug
him. “That must have been a shock.”
“It was. Then, for the rest of the pregnancy, my mother went into
prayer mode. As if she could change Maeve in the womb. Make her
‘normal.’ It was really tough to watch.”
I stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.
“Then she was born, and the moment I held her, I knew she was
perfect.” He paused. “It’s so weird to think back on that now. What were
we so devastated about? How could we have been so clueless?”
“You were just scared,” I said. “And you didn’t know Maeve yet. She
was a diagnosis, not a person.”
“Yes. That’s exactly it,” Mick said. “I’ve never once wanted to
change her, but my mom still gets sad. Or maybe she’s just
overwhelmed. Who knows? But I know one thing—her drinking got
worse after Maeve.”
Mick had mentioned his mother’s drinking before, and I was never
sure how to respond.
“Do you think she’s…” I made myself say the word. “An alcoholic?”
He let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. That’s safe to say.”
He proceeded to tell me a story about coming downstairs the morning
of his thirteenth birthday and discovering that the freezer door had been
left wide open. His customary ice cream cake had melted, spilling down
the front of the refrigerator and all over the kitchen floor.
“Someone left it open?” I asked, not tracking.
“Yeah. Someone who keeps her vodka in the freezer.”
“Oh,” I said, wincing. “I’m sure she felt terrible.”
“She never knew. I cleaned everything up before she came
downstairs.”
“Did you tell your dad?”
“I had to. The cake was gone. But I told him it was my fault—that I’d
left the door open when I came down for a snack in the middle of the
night. He acted like he believed me, but I know he didn’t.”
Mick paused, then lowered his voice. “We both cover for her all the
time.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, picturing him crouched on the kitchen floor,
mopping up melted ice cream, trying to protect his mother.
“Thanks, Billie,” he said, his voice low in my ear.
I stared into the darkness, the phone pressed to my cheek.
My heart was his. He just didn’t know it yet.
