Monin, Kathleen 1
The Luck of the Irish
After a year of lonely, sleepless nights, Ben tried summoning a happy memory of Mallory. He
pictured her pale legs kicking as she practiced her dance routine that one time in his backyard. She’d
asked if she could use the large green space to practice for Oireachtas, but he knew she’d been dancing
for him. Ben had shamelessly pulled out a lawn chair and popped a can of coke to watch. She was the
most beautiful thing a guy could know, her eyes laughing, oblivious of the sweat staining her t-shirt, her
shimmery hair flickering. Flickering like fire, bright and warm and suddenly he was imagining her skin
crawling, blackening, her eyes bulging her mouth a dark scream the bright gold not her hair but fire, fire
everywhere, pouring out the windows cloaked in masses of dark smoke and Ben… Ben was standing as if
his legs had dried into the sidewalk’s cement, his mouth slack, his breath short, his ears filled with a
cacophony of crackling and screaming.
He was lying in bed, sheets roped around his legs. Sitting up, Ben ripped their homecoming photo
off the wall and rummaged his Zippo out of a desk drawer. He rolled the wheel on his lighter, dead eyes
watching as sparks then flames leapt in slow motion. Mallory’s shimmery blue skirt at the edge of the
photo began to curl and char brown, he flicked his wrist away before the damage could reach her full
hips. The Zippo spun away to join the chaos of his bedroom. Ben slapped the photo on his desk, curling
into himself like a child—but his eyes never left the lighter, now on the floor next to his SAT prep book.
Could still go camping, he thought, bringing up Mitch’s invitation text on his phone. Actually do
something before school day after tomorrow. And, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. It had been
terrible at first, all the hugs and requests after his health. Several times he had almost cracked and started
bawling on the floor. But he didn’t, not even at the funeral. People still said they missed her, and went out
of their way to act friendly. Ben wondered what they’d say if they knew everything. She shouldn’t have
died hereafter, he told himself.
The clock glowed near his face, the eerie modern light painting his bedroom with the fluorescent
green of 6:13am. Maybe if I leave now, I won’t run into anyone. Pulling his jeans over his sweat
dampened thighs, he picked his way across the mess of laundry, Full Throttle cans, and computer cords in
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his tiny room, looking for a shirt. Ben pried open his closet door, tumbling a pile of overdue library
books. He dragged out his battered backpack and began stuffing in random clothes from the mounds on
his closet floor. He scooped up the Zippo as well.
Several minutes later, Ben was slamming the microwave door, punching the buttons to make
yesterday’s coffee more appealing. His stomach felt as though it were twisted up his throat, but he was
determined to choke down the caffeine to stay sharp. He spluttered on the coffee at the sound of a chair
scraping the floor. Not turning around, Ben took a moment to heave in a deep breath, then fished out a
box of cereal. He shook the rainbow pellets into a bowl that had been slightly disfigured by the
dishwasher. So much for avoiding everyone.
“I like it when I wake up and there’s not just corn flakes left,” a small, nearly musical voice
chirruped behind him. “Corn flakes are boring.”
Erin was sitting at the table, kicking her heels against her chair, toes barely brushing the
yellowing linoleum. Ben spun the bowl toward her across the tabletop, and dug in a drawer for a clean
spoon. “Yeah, totally.”
Twirling a handful of her long, pale hair around her finger, Erin stared off into space, eyes bright
with her dancing thoughts. “Did you know that rabbits are born naked?”
“Just like you?”
“Ew! No I wasn’t! Did you get your letter?”
Ben shut the fridge door, the milk still inside. “What letter?”
“The blue one!” Erin slipped off her chair and pounded into the next room. She reemerged crumpling
an envelope in her hand. Ben snatched it from her.
“Oh, Ben, let me see it too!” his mother appeared around the kitchen door, her purple curlers half
escaping.
Shit. Ben chucked his mug in the sink, causing the ceramic to clatter against the few forks left
over from last night. Doesn’t matter who wakes up now. Without making eye contact with his mother he
Monin, Kathleen 3
rushed from the kitchen. It was a simple step across the hall and into the bathroom. He clicked the lock
behind him.
The mirror almost startled Ben. He combed back his dark, overlong hair with his fingers, but
there was nothing he could do about his bloodshot eyes and declining weight. Mussed hair, a rumpled
shirt and a sleepless expression were not uncommon for a highschool senior, but lately he looked dead.
Not all-night first-person shooter dead, or even AP English paper dead. Something was something
missing from his eyes. Mallory. Mallory is missing.
But I’ll make it up to her. He turned the college letter in his hands. It was the school they’d picked
together, at the end of Junior year, before everything went to hell. University of Virginia. English
literature, studying abroad in Ireland, spring break with Venice. I’ll still go on our adventure.
There was a significant amount of text on the page for such a short message. Ben wasn’t interested in
the University’s mission. He didn’t care about the attention to detail with which they reviewed each
application. He didn’t give a shit about how esteemed they were, about the qualities their students
possessed, or about their dedication to cultivate a specific type of person.
All that mattered was they didn’t want him.
Ben’s fingertips touching the letter felt cold, unreal. Barely thinking about what he was doing, he
fished the lighter from his pocket and flicked it open beneath the thick parchment paper, embossed with
the orange and blue logo. He dropped the leaping flames into the toilet and flushed. Not even bothering to
glance in the kitchen, he slipped into the hall and snatched up his backpack and the heap of his olive
hoodie from below the coat rack. He cursed, struggling with the zipper. His backpack was in the kitchen.
But when he turned, his mother was already standing there holding it.
“What did they say?” she asked, a fake, excited grin on her face.
“I’m going camping with Mitch and Luke.”
The skin on her forehead clenched between her eyebrows.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Ben, honeybear, I’m so sorry.”
Monin, Kathleen 4
“Mom, seriously I’m fine.” He finally managed to zip his hoodie, too distracted to be frustrated
with his mother’s tone.
“Don’t go, hun. Come have breakfast and we’ll figure something else out. What other schools did
you apply to?”
“I didn’t apply to anywhere else!” He hefted his backpack.
“What?” her babying guise dropped for a second. “Why not?”
“I didn’t want to go to any other schools!” Ben pushed open the door, not going to be cajoled into
another stagnant day in his house.
“Benjamin Walsh!” his mother whined. “If you don’t--f”
He cut her off. “I’ll be back tomorrow, I have my phone.”
“Bye, Ben!” Erin waved frantically from behind their mother, whose face was crumpling into
tears. Ben slammed the door, then felt his pockets. No phone, only the Zippo.
The Pennsylvanian air was no longer wintery, but the wind still rushed around him, taking with it
leaves and littered chip bags. Ben wasn’t sure which he wanted to be swept away with it, the sludge of his
mind, or himself entirely.
The lack of future began to slowly settle in as Ben approached his friend’s house. He stomped up
to the dark windows and slumped on the porch swing. In a surge of loyalty he’d knowingly he’d missed
all deadlines for other schools. Mal was gone. He had sucked so much in school he wasn’t going to follow
her dream. And I wasn’t smart enough to have a backup plan. He felt the coffee turn to bile in his
stomach. Failure again, Ben.
“Jesus Christ!”
Ben’s head snapped up to see a lumpy afghan stumbling back from the window screen.
“You scared the shit out of me!” Mitch was untangled himself from the blanket and the Xbox
chords on the floor. “Swinging on that thing like a dead body. I didn’t even know you were coming over.
You okay?”
Ben stood up. “Yeah, fine.”
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“Luke, get up,” Ben heard Mitch rousing their mutual friend. “Come on, Ben’s here.”
“So?” Luke’s voice was muffled, his face probably smashed in a couch cushion.
Ben let himself in the front door and wandered down to the kitchen. He tossed his bag down on
the kitchen floor, then stood, not knowing what to do next. Mitch wandered in and chucked his bag down
too. “How’s everything, Ben?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“Good,” he said, leaning against the counter, looking for something to do with his hands.
“Yeah, sorry, but it looks like it’s really not.”
Ben didn’t look at his friend, his knuckles tight, fingernails biting at the skin of his palms.
knowing if he started talking he’d lose it.
“Things still hitting you kind of hard?” Mitch asked, his soft voice sounding forced. “Everybody
misses her. She and I didn’t even work out, and I still miss her.”
Ben’s jaw ached with the clenching of his teeth. He imagined Mitch rushing into the house,
emerging with Mallory in his arms like a princess, her arms around his neck, her eyes shining. His fists,
hidden behind his back, shook.
“Hey, Ben!” Luke interjected tripping into the room in his baggy tartan pajama pants. He
punched Ben’s arm on his way to the fridge. “Mitch, shut up and get some bacon going.” He threw a
frozen plastic package in the direction of counter. It clattered off the cabinets and fell onto the floor. Luke
ignored it and swiped a book off the counter. “I found that behind Mitchie’s couch last night, I think it’s
yours.”
“Oh, yeah,” Mitch was peeled open the bacon package of ready-cooked bacon, not looking at either
of them.
Ben snatched the book, still fuming. He glanced briefly at the cover. The Poetry of Edgar Allen
Poe.
“So I got us all packed, if you know what I mean,” Luke swung a drawstring bag out from under
the sink. “Best campout that our good Buds and water can give us!” The bag bulged and clanked with
contraband.
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Mitch slid the bacon out of the microwave and into a paper bag. “This can be for the road. Ben,
grab the keys they’re on the end table, let’s load up the SUV.”
Ben found the keys after pushing aside several envelops on the hall table. He could hear Luke and
Mitch’s badly hushed voices from the kitchen.
“What the hell dude, what kind of douchebag are you, bringing up that you dated her.”
“I’m just trying to help, I mean everyone needs to move on!” Mitch snapped. “We’re his friends,
we’re supposed to stick by him.”
“It’s not like they broke up, Mitch. Mallory’s dead.”
Ben’s throat ached with unshedable tears. No one ever said her name. He turned over the book in
his hand, flipping to the page he’d read to her from the night she’d given him the book…
And neither the angels in Heaven above
nor the demons down under the sea
can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.