Lost in Ireland Page 2

  “I’m feeling anything but lucky today. In fact, I feel like any minute the sky might fall right onto my head.”

  “Don’t pull a Chicken Little on me just yet.” She touched the phone’s screen. I would’ve paced around if I could, but it was cramped in the stall, which was a gross place for our rendezvous.

  “Don’t worry. This thing is faster than lightning,” Carissa said. “It’s got, like, six or eight Gs. Gimme two secs, and I’ll figure out the official way you can reverse the bad luck of a snail-mail–e-mail chain letter sitch.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “A little invention called Google.” She read the screen. “Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . uh-huh.”

  I asked, “What is it?”

  “Easy peasy. You just have to find the people—the links—before you on the letter and ask them to forgive you for e-mailing your letter. If-slash-when they agree, you do a double-handed handshake. Pas de problème.”

  “Can I just call them? Or e-mail them?” I asked. “That would be a lot easier and faster.”

  “If you can figure out how to shake hands over the phone or Internet, that would be a magic trick worthy of the Fab Frank-O.”

  “What’s a double-handed handshake?” I asked.

  She held the phone between her knees. “Like this.” She crossed her arms and reached for my hands, shaking both of my hands at the same time. “You could add a hip bump like this, if you wanted to shake things up.” She swung her hip into mine—a little too hard, because I banged into the metal toilet paper holder.

  “Okay, so hand-shaking the links might be easy if chain letters didn’t travel around the world for hundreds of years. That makes it pretty tough to find the senders, considering they’ve probably been dead and buried for a long time,” I said, rubbing my hip where it had hit the holder.

  She took the letter from me. “See, you are lucky, because you have moi. I’m way more attentive to details than you are when you’re an emotional wreck due to crazy socks.” She took the folded-up letter out of my fist and pointed to the name on the letter. “See here that Clare is link number four. And you’re number five? This is a brand-spanking-new chain letter. That might be a problem for some unlucky suckers, but you’re going to Ireland tomorrow.”

  Carissa was right. Only four links in this shiny new chain.

  We stepped out of the cramped bathroom stall and walked right into the ample gut of Mrs. Swarez-Vincent, whose hand was extended for Carissa’s phone. Carissa placed the phone into Mrs. S-V’s outstretched palm, and it disappeared inside a sea of polyester pants. Mrs. S-V’s hand reemerged with two demerit slips. We didn’t argue.

  With yellow papers and flushed cheeks, we walked to the auditorium for the assembly. Carissa didn’t seem nearly as angry as I was. The yellow paper didn’t upset her, and she’d probably have another cell phone before dinner tonight. I, on the other hand, would be haunted by guilt for hours—if not days. I’d made it to my eighth-grade year without a single demerit, and now I’d gotten two in one morning!

  All because of that STUPID letter.

  5

  I took a seat in the back of the auditorium, trying to keep a low profile. The Fabulous Frank-O ran out to center stage under a majestic purple cloak, trying to give the illusion he was flying. From the “oohs” and “aahs,” I could tell the little kids bought it. It didn’t take me long to figure out I was way too old for this gig.

  I picked at my cuticles and watched Frank-O out of the corner of my eye. He pointed his index fingers at his temples. “I need a volunteer.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Is there a Hayden Posey in the audience?”

  Hayden was friends with Piper and would have loved to be chosen as a volunteer. I looked for her to leap onto the stage, but no Hayden. Guess she’d picked today to stay home sick.

  Frank-O peeked an eye open, and when he saw that no one was approaching the stage, he squeezed his eyes shut again. “How about Meg . . . Meghan McDonal . . . no . . . McGlinchey?”

  “No way.” I sank low in my seat, hoping he would just choose another name.

  I heard Piper yell, “That’s my sister! She’s here! Meghan, THAT’S YOU!”

  “Go.” Carissa nudged me.

  “I don’t wanna.”

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “Go along with it. It’ll be fun. It’s for the kids. It’s very presidential.”

  “Fine.” I got up and walked to the stage with my head down. My face flushed as I went up the steps to meet Frank-O. He moved his hands from his head and held them out for me. They were clammy. From close up I could see he was older than I’d originally thought.

  “You look like the perfect victim—ha-ha, I mean volunteer, of course—to be cut in half.”

  Cut in half?

  I felt sick. Puking on stage was a real possibility. That wouldn’t be very presidential. The way my luck was going today, I wouldn’t have legs in a few minutes.

  Frank-O swooped to the side of the stage and rolled out a case that looked kinda like a coffin on a table. It had a hole at each end—one for my head and one for my feet.

  Frank-O lifted the case’s wooden lid. With a sigh I started to climb in. “Wait,” he said. “Please take off your shoes and socks.” He did a double take when he saw my socks. Using a step stool, I climbed into the box. Frank-O clicked a latch that locked me in. He held up a mirror to show me that my body was, in fact, closed in the box. From this angle my feet looked like a caveman’s. The Fabulous Frank-O spoke with dramatic flair, “This will only hurt for a second.” The elementary kids giggled.

  Frank-O pulled and pushed a fierce-looking saw.

  My heart raced. The blade moved lower and lower. I closed my eyes and wiggled.

  I guess I wiggled a little too much, because the coffin rolled off the table, crashed onto the stage, and broke open, revealing to everyone that the caveman feet were fake! As I lay on the stage I could see an arched slot through which the scary saw was bent—it was made of rubber!

  The older kids laughed while the younger ones’ mouths flew open. The little kids whispered to each other in confusion.

  “It’s not real magic?”

  “He isn’t really a magician?”

  A smattering of “boos” came up from the crowd.

  Frank-O sneered at me and let out a low growl. Then he smiled to the crowd and waved his purple-cloaked arms around. The crowd didn’t give in. To distract them Frank-O stuck a finger into his mouth and pulled out the corner of a scarf, and pulled and pulled and pulled a long row of scarves, all from his mouth.

  No one seemed to care whether I was okay after falling off a table in a coffin. I slid my socks back on—one black, one blue. I stood to return to my seat, with my shoes in hand. But because I was wearing only my socks, the stage was superslippery. And I slid. Right into Fab Frank-O, who fell on his magician’s butt, spilling magic coins, cards, and handcuffs from his pockets. A little pod, which he’d scrunched in his mouth, flew out.

  No magic. Just tricks.

  I offered him my hand to get up, but he didn’t take it. I carefully slid on my feet, like I was wearing ice skates, off the stage and walked to my seat in the back of the auditorium. On my way by, a second grader said to me, “You ruined everything.”

  Her friend added, “You stink, Meghan McGlinchey!”

  I was mad, embarrassed, and, well, having a really bad day, so I yelled back at her. “You stink worse, and there’s no such thing as magic, stupid!”

  The little girls said nothing. They looked over my shoulder at what turned out to be Mrs. S-V.

  “My office,” she said to me.

  I slipped on my super-duper ugly shoes and ran down the aisle, getting nasty looks from every girl under the age of eleven for whom I’d just ruined the Fabulous Frank-O show. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I didn’t want to be a volunteer.

  Eventually, I was in a chair in Mrs. S-V’s office, which, thankfully, was supplied with tissues. I used a lot of them while thinking about
my impending expulsion.

  I wondered if I’d ever be allowed to attend an assembly again. Maybe if I could explain that this wasn’t my fault, it was the chain letter, Mrs. S-V would understand. Probably not. She didn’t really seem like the understanding type.

  She left me waiting for a long time. My stomach growled; it hadn’t gotten any lunch today. When Mrs. S-V finally arrived, she didn’t yell at me like I’d expected. She gave me three more demerits for calling second graders stupid and left me in her office for the remainder of the day.

  That was cinq demerits, which equaled one day’s suspension for unlucky Meghan McGlinchey.

  From the hard wooden seat in Mrs. S-V’s office, I heard the school’s sound system click on.

  “Good afternoon, students,” Principal Jackson’s voice bellowed. “I am pleased to announce the results of the eighth-grade election. The new president is . . .”

  I crossed my fingers, arms, and legs. If I’d been at my locker, I would have also palmed my lucky rabbit’s foot and stood under the horseshoe that hung on the inside. Please say “Meghan McGlinchey.” Please say “Meghan McGlinchey.”

  “Avery Brown.”

  What?

  I’d lost.

  There was no way.

  I thought for sure everyone had walked up and put my name in the ballot box.

  How can this be happening?

  I knew exactly how.

  I’d cheated a chain letter, and now I was—how can I put this delicately?—cursed!

  6

  When I finally came out of school, Carissa was waiting for me, leaning against the brick wall. She tossed me my backpack.

  “Did you hear that announcement?” I asked.

  “I heard it, but I don’t believe it,” Carissa said. “Do you want to protest? Demand a recount? Because I’ll do it. Something smells fishy.”

  “No. I just want to go to Ireland and forget it ever happened.”

  “That Frank-O scene should help you forget about the election. It was très epic. People will be talking about it for years, decades maybe.” She unwrapped a pack of gum and held a piece out for me.

  I shook my head.

  “Come on. School’s over. It’s okay now.”

  I took it, but I didn’t unwrap it until I was outside the front gates, where Shannon would pick up me, Piper, and Eryn, but they weren’t there.

  “Shannon was already here,” Carissa said. “Bigmouth Piper told her everything. She’s waiting across the street at the Donut Hole.” Then, out of the corner of her mouth she said, “You and I both know there’s way better stuff at the Hole than doughnuts.” She was referring to the boys from Chesapeake Academy. They hung out there and played the store’s video games. Carissa added, “Come on. We’ll get your mind off the election and the assembly. Carbs, sugar, and Chesapeake boys will help. I promise.”

  “Is Shannon bringing you home today?”

  Carissa often caught a ride home because she was way too cool for the bus, and she preferred hanging out with the dysfunctional McGlinchey girls to being in her house.

  “You know it. She likes my company.”

  Shannon didn’t particularly care for Carissa or her company.

  Once we were across the street, I put the gum into my mouth. We walked through a small playground, where I hopped over the hopscotch board: two, one, two, one, one, two. I hopped the board every time we cut through there, and now, to skip it would be unlucky. “Wait,” I said to Carissa. I went back and hopped over the painted boxes again.

  “What was that for?”

  “I figured I could use a little extra oomph today, and for some reason that hopscotch board always gives me a good feeling.”

  “Maybe you should draw one on your driveway. That way you can do it every day,” she suggested.

  Carissa wasn’t superstitious the way I was, but she tried to be supportive. For example, if she found a heads-up penny, she’d give it to me. That was the kind of friend she was.

  Shannon was waiting for us outside. Carissa started for the door to the Hole, but Shannon called to her, “We already got some.”

  Carissa’s back slumped at the idea of missing the boys from Chesapeake, and she got into the car.

  At least the doughnuts smelled good.

  “You know,” Carissa said, pouting, “my future husband could be in there right now eating a Boston cream and waiting for me. He’ll never meet me. Poor guy.”

  “Just buckle up.” Shannon tossed her a bag with two chocolate glazed doughnuts.

  Eryn texted silently in the front seat, probably to one of her equally angry friends.

  The ride home was miserable.

  Shannon asked, “What happened with the election?”

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “I really thought everyone was putting my name in the ballot box.”

  “I want to protest. But she won’t let me,” Carissa added.

  As if I didn’t feel bad enough, Piper, who sat between Carissa and me, spoke over Shannon, telling the Frank-O story over and over, louder each time. “And then the coffin crashed to the ground. It dented the wood stage. You know they’ll have to repair it?” In the next version they had to replace a section, and in the next they had to rebuild the whole stage.

  Carissa tried to change the subject to get the heat off me. “How about them Yankees?”

  But Piper said, “Wait till Mom finds out about the suspension.”

  “What?” Shannon shrieked.

  Eryn laughed a little.

  “Look, I had a really bad day. And actually it’s your fault,” I said to Shannon angrily.

  “My fault? How did I get you in all that trouble?”

  “I e-mailed that letter, which you told me to do, and now I’m cursed. Thank you very much.”

  Eryn spoke three words, “Told. You. So.”

  Piper asked, “What are you gonna do? You have to do something. Look at your socks!”

  “According to Google,” I explained, “if I find the links of the chain and ask them to forgive me, I can undo the curse.”

  Shannon said, “Then get on the phone, talk to the links, and undo the curse.”

  “There are a few complications,” I said. “Apparently, I need to shake on it.”

  “What?” Shannon asked. “That doesn’t make sense. I’ve never heard of this.”

  Carissa said, “Um . . . we found it online today. It was a new amendment to the chain letter rules. From 2011, I think. There was a convention or conclave or something.”

  “Another complication is that I don’t know Clare Gallagher,” I said.

  “Hold on!” Piper exclaimed. “I know that name! Gallagher is one of the family people we’re gonna see in Ireland. I’ve heard Dad say that name.” She gasped. “I know what you can do! You can ask Clare where to find the person who sent her the letter. This is a good idea I’m having. Then meet that person and ask them where to find the person who sent them the letter. Then meet that person and ask them—”

  I interrupted, “I get it.”

  Shannon said, “It isn’t a terrible idea.”

  “Did you know we’re staying at the Ballymore Home for Boys, where Dad grew up?” Piper asked. “We might be the first girls they’ve ever seen.”

  “A home for boys?” Carissa asked. “Now, that sounds like my kind of place.”

  Shannon sighed. “A home for orphaned boys.”

  “Oh, joy,” Eryn said sarcastically. “We get to stay with a group of homeless kids. They sound like a blast!”

  “They’re hosting this year’s Spring Fling event, where Dad will finally meet his long-lost sister,” Shannon said.

  Piper chimed in, “That’s Gallagher. It’s the lost sister. She must’ve sent you the letter.”

  Maybe this could work. Provided that I made it to Ireland alive, I could meet Clare at the Spring Fling and get leads on the other links. I’d shake as many hands as they had. I’d shake their feet, if I had to.

  I was going to reverse this cu
rse!

  I couldn’t have another day like today. Not ever.

  7

  I watched the clouds over the Atlantic Ocean and rubbed my fingers over the silver four-leaf clover around my neck. In the seat next to me, Piper talked to the flight attendants whenever they came by, and she pushed the call button when she had something she wanted to say and they weren’t around. My mom told her to stop a hundred times, but she didn’t.

  I ignored her and dozed off, until I woke up somewhere over County Cork, Ireland. From the view out my tiny plane window, it looked like the land was covered by plush, green vegetation. It also looked rainy, which wasn’t going to be kind to my flat-ironed hair.

  But I had a good feeling that my luck would get better once I was officially in Ireland.

  After exiting the plane, I knew that feeling was totally wrong.

  First the rain frizzed my hair.

  Then our luggage was lost—all of it—even the new stuff from Delia’s that I’d just bought for this trip.

  Lastly, our ride that was taking us to Ballymore was late.

  And then the big whopper happened. I saw a coin on the ground and bent to check if it was heads up. Eryn walked right into me, glued to her phone, and knocked me into Shannon, who I bumped down the escalator. Not on purpose, of course, but still, I watched helplessly as she tumbled down the moving stairs.

  CRACK!

  Shannon grabbed her leg and yelled in pain.

  I ran down the steps to her side. “Where does it hurt?” I asked.

  She pointed to her knee, shin, and ankle. That can’t be good, I thought. I looked carefully at her leg. “It looks fine,” I lied. Actually, her calf looked sort of, well . . . It was crooked where it shouldn’t have been.

  My mom took one look at her leg and went deathly white.

  Dad took the baby from Mom and handed her to Eryn, who held Hope out at arm’s length. “It’s all going to be fine,” he said.

  A security guard ran over, pushed a button on the walkie-talkie Velcroed to his shoulder, and mumbled something in a thick Irish accent and told us, “Help’s on the way.”