Flynn Meaney - Bloodthirsty

Copyright 2010 by Flynn Meaney

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Poppy

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First eBook Edition: October 2010

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN: 978-0-316-13274-9

chapter 3

Id been rejected by a vicious Frenchwoman and sniffed out like an Italian sausage by hungry tourists. How could it get any worse?

Finn! Is that you?

This is how it could get worse. My mother. She would need a post-game wrap-up of the worst first date since Adam and Eve got caught trespassing. She emerged from the living room, where shed been fighting with our new air filter. Shed bought it because our house in Pelham was older than our house in Alexandria and she was convinced it was lined in asbestos.

Finbar! She began fluttering around me like a hummingbird after a Starbucks Doubleshot. How was your date?

Oh. I pulled the door shut behind me. It was good.

Did Celine like dinner? You smell like something delicious; it must have been good.

I smell like humiliation , I thought. As I took off my shoes, my mother followed me. I was accustomed to this. But, for once, she didnt whip out her brush and pan to sweep up the invisible but deadly molecules of dirt.

Dinner? I said. Well, she ordered a lot of food.

My mother clapped her hands together rapturously. That meant she liked it! And what about the book?

Uh I tried to avoid this question and escape her entirely by going up the stairs, whose banisters were now cloaked in toilet-seat covers. Look what happens when I leave this woman home alone on a Friday night.

My mother followed me shamelessly, up the stairs and into the first room, which Luke and I shared. Wed had separate rooms since the days we rocked out to Raffi songs, but here in Pelham, we shared a room. Luke was rarely here, between his football practices and all the friends hed made in five freakin days. But he left a stench of sweat and overenthusiasm to keep me company, as well as enough cleat-dirt to AstroTurf our bedroom.

Since we were sharing a room, it was a lot harder to avoid Luke than it was in the days when I could refuse his invitation to a Swedish dented-beer-can orgy (or whatever weird event hed concocted). Nowadays when my mother found a warm bottle of Killians Irish Red beer inside a loafer in our closet, I was there for her interrogation (Finbar, is this yours? I dont drink beer. Luke, is this yours? I think it came with the shoes. Theyre, like, Irish leather.); I was there when she placed the empty bottle on our dresser and filled it with fresh flowers and a little note shed written about the dangers of alcohol poisoning. I was there when Luke frowned at the bottle and said, Hey, I think I recognize that vase. Is that from Grandpas house? And when he spit his gum into the note about alcohol poisoning. But where was Luke when I needed him?

Did she like the book? my mother prodded.

I thought for a second. It certainly caused a scene, I told her truthfully.

Great! My mother curled up on my bedspread and didnt even pick off the lint balls. She was in her element. She loved hearing about love.

When are you going to see her again? she asked eagerly.

Im not really sure.

You didnt make another date?

Nah. I tried to sound casual. I think were better as friends.

When I turned around, my mother was giving me puppy dog eyes.

Oh, Finbar, she said. Im so sorry.

I was glad when my father interrupted. Popping his receding hairline in the door, he said, Hey, Finn! You gotta come downstairs and check out the new TV. This high-def is really something. You can see the sweat on the

Paul! My mother was offended.

What?

My father looked a little scared. We were all scared of my mother.

You didnt ask Finbar about his date!

Oh. Sorry, my father said. Finn, how was your date?

Paul! Dont ask him about his date! my mother interrupted. Then she scurried over to my father and lowered her voice, but not enough. It didnt go well.

Finbar, my father preached suddenly, putting his hands on his hips and taking up the whole doorway. You will never understand women.

Dont tell him that! My mother swatted his shoulder. You understand me.

No I dont, my father said. I just pissed you off!

Language, Paul.

But anyway, I didnt mean Finbar wont understand women, my father explained. I said you. I meant a general you. A collective you. You, as in, all the male

Enough, Paul, my mother snapped.

Well, Finn, come downstairs if

Not with the TV again! My mother spoke for me. He doesnt want that kind of radiation

And my mother followed my father out of the room. Well, despite her best efforts, shed actually made me feel a little bit better about losing Celine. Maybe I didnt need another crazy girl in my life.

My mother had a long-term plan to comfort me and rebuild my self-esteem. She hid notes in my laundry and in my pillowcase that complimented me. For example, the first note I found pinned to my boxers told me: Any girl would be lucky to have you. Other notes reassured me about my physique and, disturbingly, my sex appeal. Whoever taught my mother the phrase stud muffin should be prosecuted.

My mothers short-term plan was that on Saturday we would all get together for a family beach day. We would bask in the sun, swim, restore my sense of masculinity, and eat turkey sandwiches out of a cooler. The plan rapidly deflated. Luke bailed because he had a preseason Fordham football game that afternoon. He would be spending the morning at practice, leaving just Maud, Paul, and me.

My bedroom door swung open at 9 AM. Lifting myself on my sore right shoulder, I squinted across the room. Luke had already left. My mother appeared over me like a prison guard with orange juice.

Wake up! she said. Beach day!

When I finished the juice, my mother threw me in the car along with the collapsible umbrella, cooler of caffeine-free Diet Coke, and jug of SPF 89. On the way, my parents started arguing about my dads new toythe GPS in the car. When I hear them argue about mundane things like telephone poles and the validity of the expiration date on a package of raisins (They were always wrinkled, Maud! Not this wrinkled, Paul. Theyre geriatric!), I forget that they once fell in love. But they did. In fact, my mother claims it was love at first sight.

Picture it: Chesnut Hill, Massachussetts, 1978. My mother was a nerdy college freshman squinting through inch-thick lenses at the Boston College hockey game. She was giggling and pointing at the cute players with her two roommates. It was hard to determine attractiveness, my mother told me, considering the guys were in full masks, pads, jerseys, and glovesand the girls had nosebleed seats. But somehow she fell in love with my father, a freshman scholarship left wing on the hockey team. Actually, she fell in love with the FRAME in white stick-on letters on the back of his jersey.

I couldnt see his face, my mother would remember dreamily. But I loved him. Right then. Through his mask and gloves and everything. Actually

(At this point she always looked around to see if my father was there.)

Actually, to be honest, I thought he had about twenty pounds more muscle on him. The chest pads, you know.