Youth E-Book

Kevin Curran

• Herausgeber: The Lilliput Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 374

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Youth dives into the lives of four teenagers in Ireland's most diverse town, Balbriggan. Angel is about to finish school and discover if Drill music and YouTube fame can deliver on their promises. Princess is battling to escape her claustrophobic surroundings and go to university and Dean is ready to come out from under his famous father's shadow, while Tanya, struggling with the spotlight of internet infamy, is still posting her dream life for all of her faithful followers. Isolated and disorientated by the white noise and seemingly insurmountable expectations of adolescence, our protagonists are desperate to find anything that helps them belong. Oblivious to one another's presence, potential and struggles, they pass each other on the street as strangers. But when their paths cross, the connections they make will change the course of their lives. Twenty-first century life – hyper-sexualized, social media saturated, anxiety-plagued – is here. Living inside its characters' heads, and negotiating their interior landscape, this book is a love song to the possibilities of youth. Using insights gained from the young people he works with, Curran's evocative writing yields the authenticity this novel demands. With instinctive affection and admiration for his characters' strengths and complexities, Youth is a journey through streets less travelled.

Leseprobe

YOUTH

For Sebastien & Fleur

YOUTH

KEVIN CURRAN

First published 2023 by

THE LILLIPUT PRESS

62–63 Arbour Hill

Dublin 7, Ireland

www.lilliputpress.ie

Copyright © 2023 Kevin Curran

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior permission of the publisher.

A CIP record for this publication is available from The British Library.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ISBN 978 1 84351 870 9

eISBN 978 1 84351 876 1

The Lilliput Press gratefully acknowledges the financial support of the Arts Council /An Chomhairle Ealaíon.

Set in 11pt on 16pt Adobe Garamond Pro by Niall McCormack

Printed in Kerry by Walsh Colour Print

Down Mainstreet

Angel, 18

He speaks in your voice, Dublin, and there’s something hopeful in the new edges of his words and phrases that has come through revolutions, generations, and across continents to be witnessed here, on these streets, now.

Angel is shaping down Mainstreet of a Friday afternoon in late March. Traffic is heavy, the footpaths are busy and he is one of three friends bustling through – a blur of hands and fingers at angles making shadow puppets to the uninformed. A simple K for those in the know.

They’re all theatrical eyes, aghast mouths.

—That’s a bar, Isaac, allow.

—That’s a bar? No this is a bar: you Congo boys eat rocks.

—That’s a lie, bro, that’s a lie. All you Ghana boys eat eggs.

—Don’t say nothing bout us Nigerians. Swear down, boys, yous’ll be getting hands!

All three of them are on display. Teenagers – roadmen – giving verbals while widening the aperture of this washed-out world.

The rain has stopped and the pavement is bright and slick. And although it’s Friday and sunny, they know this spring buzz won’t last for long.

Hunger drives them. Luckily, this four-hundred-metre slope of Mainstreet, Balbriggan – from SuperValu to the Square – is the meal-deal capital of County Dublin.

There’s Libero’s Italian pizzas warming in the oven and shielded by dirty netting in the window; Borza with the blue neon signs saying value, value, value; Macari’s high top chrome counter guarding the fryer; SuperValu deli a trek past the fruit and veg, under the always-suspicious eyes of the security guard; Polski Delikatesy hiding its bland meats and sausages behind frosted glass lettering; Deli Burger in its prime location across from the monument, overlooking the Bracken; FLC, Noodle Box, Apache, Domino’s, Moti Mahal, Han Lin Palace, Coffee Pot, Supermac’s, Papa John’s, Mr Wu, the soup kitchen beside the dole office. And Spar.

As tall as the others, Angel is the thinnest of the three. His wide, cat-like eyes are forever scanning for trouble. If he sees it early, he can sidestep it, like a Messi feint. Because that’s what he does as he walks, he feints and shuffles.

His nervous energy is a necessity. His black Nike Air Force runners are worn to a woolly grey where the imitation leather meets the sole. It’s a low-key embarrassment only evading detection by scaring his feet into constant action.

His school trousers are short, tight above the ankle, unable to keep up with this sprint through adolescence. His jacket, the black puffer North Face uniform of all three, is that bit older and looser on him.

On they go, Pelumi spitting out some new bars he’s working on.

—I love my block.

That’s all that I got.

I love my block.

Isaac and Angel support him with loud shouts of encouragement. But being loud doesn’t come natural to Angel. It might seem to fit well, but it weighs heavily, like a wet T-shirt. Be the collective experience when alone. That’s the ambition.

That’s the shame. The lie under this fluid, confident strut. The aggressive disregard for onlookers is a rebuke to himself: the self-aware, self-conscious bitch boy who worries his way through the town when on his ones.

Why does he always need his boys? Why is he always on sketch, ready to dash, so lacking?

For now, Angel commands the street with his friends and, without pausing for permission, they stop traffic and cross, a mixtape of car horns soundtracking their parade.

They own the path and refuse to make way for some guy in shorts coming through the Spar sliding doors with a six-pack of beer. Pelumi blocks him, knocks into him. This wasteman is hench and still he staggers and his bottles clink – one cracks and suddenly there’s a mess of suds.

Pelumi kisses his teeth and sneers:

—What you gonna do?

The lad curses at them but on they go, defiant, without remorse or consequence, striding into encounters Angel would rather dodge.

Tanya, 16

She’s lost in her phone and has that hurried, got-to-attend-to-this-message vibe about her as she steps off the path. The screen exposes her squinting eyes and she groans because she can’t see anything but herself.

It’s the sharp screech of tyres that jolts her out’ve the reflection. The phone flips from her hand with the shock. The scuffed white toe of her black Converse high-top takes the initial impact. She’s full sure she’s only gone and cracked the screen on the road.

—Who you think you are? is spat from the window of a supped up red sports car.

—I’m Tanya fucking Guildea, that’s who I am, she shouts back, refusing to meet his eyes as she crouches in the road.

The fan from his bonnet whirrs at her head. She’s afraid what she’ll find when she turns the phone around so she takes her time to pick it up. It’s grand but, thank fuck.

He starts revving the engine. He wants her to acknowledge him. Most of them do. She’s used to the attention, okay with it. She ignores the taunts, his big boiled head with the oversized Borcrew cap out the car window, shouting:

—Kurwa mac!

She strolls to the path, shoulders back, chest out.

—What ye looking at ye muppet?

—Palant!

Of course, there’s always an audience. Especially now. Always someone passing comment. She’s too young, she’s showing too much skin, she’s a disgrace that one.

She’s a kid, only looks older. And so she behaves like she thinks people who are older should behave. With disdain for those giving her the looks, a snarl for tender approaches, a reproachful smile for those who whistle.

She walks with her head high as if she’s not really on these streets, as if she should be somewhere more glamorous, a catwalk, a red carpet.

Her hair is blonde and brown, glossy, tied up in a bun. Beyond the huge glue-on lashes that constantly give her red eye, her face is stern, serious, self-conscious, always set into a pout as if someone might be recording her. Her bright pink Nike schoolbag flails from her left hand as if she’s about to fling it, underarm style, into the river beside Deli Burger. Her school skirt is short and blows a bit in the wind. She can feel the small gusts travelling up her legs and she sees them looking, random lads, pretending they’re not, but always looking.

They’re quiet and sneaky, from teenagers to aul lads, staring from the tables of the chipper, coming out of the Medical Centre on the corner, tapping their hands on the counter in the vape shop, or loud and jeering, like Lil Pel and his K3P gang across the road going into Spar. She gives them the finger and they love it, but there’s nothing else she can do.

Dean, 17

There’s no queue at the deli in Spar. And into this grey tiled space Dean attempts to swagger. He thinks he has perfected the wavy arms, raised chin, gum-chewing march. To everyone but himself though, he’s just a lanky teenage cartoon. An anime character in a 3D world.

The hot food counter is practically empty. An uninspiring assortment of dried-out wedges, burnt chicken fillets and a handful of chicken poppers are all that’s left. They’re already boxed – but still open – a two-euro sticker stuck on the flap under the spotlights.

His hands feel the warmth of the deli-counter glass and immediately jerk away, recognizing the all-too-familiar burn of the everyday on the greasy surface. He rubs his palms on his worn, silky grey school trousers, stained at the crotch by hurried shakes at the Seniors’ urinals. Always in the school bathroom he stares ahead with a gamer’s determination – until someone steps up, grunts and pisses with a force that both splashes and alarms. And at the end, after the fumble and tuck, Dean turns and catches a glimpse to compare. Always comparing. Because if he’s honest, that’s really why he left the queue at the deli earlier: in among all the other lads, he felt inadequate. With the jeers of his peers burning his ears, he turned away from the deli and left without lunch.

Now, with no queue, and a two-euro coin moist in his hand, Dean is preparing to be served by the girl. She’s out the back, washing utensils. He takes a hairbrush from his school bag and, with practised care, shapes his hair. His right hand brushes right to left while his left pats and buffers.

Without the pressure of the lads at lunchtime, he hopes all redners will stay away and he might have a chance to chat with her. Maybe say something funny. Have her speak to him so he can mould her words into something more for when he’s alone with himself.

She arrives with a smile, her braces catching the light.

—For the Taco Fries? she says in that Spanish accent of hers.

—Eh, are there any left?

She disappears behind the hot counter. He doesn’t know anything about her. Only that she’s going to the Convent as an exchange student and is on work experience for TY. In the gaps between seeing her – using her smile, the way she flicks her hair away from her eyes with her wrist, the way she addresses him – he has started to stare at the ceiling above his bed and begin to know her, or who she might be. And who he might become in her company.

Taco Fries. How does she know that? His brow darkens as he debates with himself the meaning of her remembering his past orders. At least he has made an impression.

—Let me see. Oh, one left. That is a karma.

—Lucky me, Dean says.

—Anything else?

He hesitates. She waits.

—Your name?

She looks into the deli, confused.

—My?

—Name.

—Name?

—Yeah, like, what you’re called.

—Oh, name! Ah, okay …

The lads’ laughing and shouting only registers when it’s on top of him.

—Alright Martina, Lil Pel says, shouldering Dean aside.

Dean stretches out to take the slightly soggy box and she gives him a soft, hopeful smile.

Another lad knocks on the glass.

—Hola Martina babe. Gissa chicken fillet roll there please, yeah?

Dean doesn’t say goodbye to Martina. He retreats, not because he’s physically afraid of them – even though he is – but because their friendship, their togetherness, lessens him. Makes him realize what he doesn’t have.

His redner has taken over. Your name, what was he thinking? He was thinking of creeping.

Princess, 17

The library on a Friday afternoon, like most afternoons – and evenings – is her refuge. The soft silence wraps around her as she moves through the electrical doors, clear of the Town Square’s white noise.

No phone notifying, no baby crying, no shower running, chores waiting, TV droning, speakers playing, toys chiming, dogs barking, neighbours shouting, doors slamming, footsteps pounding. Just a photocopier sweeping out two black and white counterfeits of a passport, while a lady smiles and whispers and the old man behind the counter silently nods along, stamping her books.

Princess sighs and scans the tables. She smells of the cold. School jackets are an expense her mother wasn’t willing to pay for in her final year. Her school jumper is unnecessarily big, lumpy, a bottom-of-the-drawer lost-and-found effort last worn four years ago. Princess has knotted the back with a hair tie to tuck it up and give her some shape. She’s done the same with the skirt. Folded it up twice around the waist, hooked it there to provide some semblance of style.

She walks into the library with a slow, heavy-footed scrape as if her feet are magnetized to the carpet. Her black runners pass as shoes in school, and sometimes, if her sister Becky is going somewhere important, she’ll take a lend of them too. So they’re loose, from two pairs of feet confusing the material. It’s not that Princess likes to walk slow. If ever a runner came off, she couldn’t be sure her sock wasn’t ripped at the heel or a big toe bright with green nail-polish wouldn’t be exposed. Crowded school corridors don’t ever forget. Or libraries.

For some reason, the library is busier than normal. Princess is already growing weary of the struggle to find a small space for herself in this world. This place is becoming a microcosm of her home life. She flicks her purple braids over her shoulder with a subconscious sudden flap and, with what grace she can, sits across from a quiet-looking guy.

When she whips her head, she feels her braids will establish A=πr² and provide a minimum space to exist in. Basketball taught her this in first year. No matter where she’d turn with the ball, some other girl was crowding her, slapping at her, hassling her. If she had braids, a swift turn of the head would clear the space.

She removes her school bag quietly from her back and places it on the table. A faded Tipp-Ex ‘Becky’ is scrawled across the front pocket. The corners of textbooks stick out through the frayed material on the bottom of the bag. The thin strands of material get lighter every day. She doubts there’s enough thread to get her to June.

Her zip is barely open when she sees the Spar deli box, smells the food.

—Like, seriously? she says, her chin dipping into her chest. The guy goes so red she nearly feels sorry for him.

He shrugs an embarrassed:

—What? and almost hugs the box.

—That.

The guy holds up a limp, greasy taco fry like an apology.

—You want one?

She bites her lip and grabs her bag.

The next table has two young teenagers. At least one’s a girl.

That’s something.

Princess has half a page of her Chemistry book highlighted in a strong pink when the teenagers start to giggle. And then there’s the wet slap and suck of a kiss and she looks up and there’s tongues. They’re literally giggling into each other’s mouths. Princess snaps the highlighter down on the desk and slams her cover shut.

Princess is seething, fuming, not just with them, but the library, the librarian who has gone soft after he was tackled to the ground by some lads a few weeks ago, with the school for closing early on a Friday, with her mam, with her sister, little baby Michael, the architect of the apartment block she lives in for making the walls so fucking thin. Everyone and everything is against her.

Her chair falls over with a clatter when she stands up. She smashes her bag onto the table.

—This is such bullshit, she shouts. Is no one here to actually study?

Silence. A few people look at their laps. The young couple at her desk smile as if she’s entertaining them.

—You know he’s just gonna break your heart, she says to the girl.

The librarian, the one attacked a few weeks ago, is shuffling over, hands out.

—Excuse me, excuse me, you cannot behave like that in …

—I can’t behave like that? I’m the problem? Oh my days. The librarian shakes his head and mumbles as she passes.

The doors swish open. Princess, blinded by tears and refusing to blink, searches out the silver rail to guide her down the steps to Mainstreet.

All at Once

Princess

Don’t. Have. Sex.

That’s the one definite way not to get pregnant. I am not gonna have a baby like my sister, Becky. You mad? First sign of a man and she dipped. Gone from the house, leaving me alone with mum and our silences. Only to peg it back home after loverman Oisin pumps her and dumps her.

Crying.

—He broke my heart mum.

—It’s okay baby.

—He told me he loved me mum.

—Hush now. Sshh, it’s okay baby.

—He said he’d be careful.

—Now, come on. It’s okay.

—Look after me. He said he wouldn’t do it.

—What now?

—Oh mum.

—Do what?

—Mum, please.

—Do what?

—Get me pregnant. I’m pregnant mum. The silence. Oh. My. Days. The silence.

I’ve never seen my mum like that before. She put her hands on her head. The stubble from her last close shave scratched under her nails. It was like she was trying to massage her scalp, calm herself.

Me and my friend Iwona got an extra science class a few months ago after school. Miss let us stay back on our own and showed us some supplementary experiments. At the start Miss made us blow up balloons. I was like, I could be at the library studying now instead of being Miss’s party planner. Then she gave us goggles, brought us behind the table and told us to throw our balloon at a couple of milligrams of powder on a different table. When that red balloon landed we were nearly knocked off our feet. I never seen a reaction like it.

Until my mum heard about Becky.

My mum got so angry. It was like Becky’s words were the balloon floating slowly to its destination and mum was nitrogen triiodide waiting all her life for this contact. Her hands left her head and her fingers spread wide. She just exploded, jumped for Becky in a purple rage. Bam, bam, bam, bam.

Poor Becky goes out into the world, gets pregnant and then her boyfriend Oisin disappears to Limerick to milk the cows on his dad’s farm. Now that’s tight. See me, I’ve got two big luminous highlighters and I’ve made note. Yellow is for general observations: Make sure to get an education before leaving home. Pink is for specific life-advancement threats: Have the cop on to steer clear of farmers looking to pump me and dump me.

To help me get into the world I’ve printed out three two-page CVs in Tantine’s Global supermarket. Why only three?

1) There are three independent pharmacies in Balbriggan. 2) The paper was fifteen cent a page and I only had one euro.

I put my CV and cover letter into a plastic sleeve. Then I tie my hair back and put on the skirt and blouse I wore for baby Michael’s dedication. It still fits, so, you know, why not? I take a cardigan from my sister Becky’s room. It’s not like she’ll ever notice. She wears her Nike Tech, like, everywhere she goes. Plus, she takes and ruins enough of my stuff.

The kitten heels hurt my feet. Some of those lads, Pelumi and them, are sitting on the wall at the entrance to my apartment block when I click past. Kids are out on their bikes, some are kicking a ball on the road. Older teenagers are zipping by on electric scooters and there’s one lad with a big muscly pit bull being restrained on a leash. I try to walk natural since I only had a few metres to practise from my apartment to the lift, and then a few metres from the lift to the main door. I try hard not to care cause I know I shouldn’t.

They whistle and shout like they’re Americans and go:

—Mmhh, mmhh, damn gurl, shake that ass.

I can’t help it, stop it. I think, forgive me lord and turn around to them and shout:

—Fuck off you paedo bastards.

This makes them nearly fall off the wall in hysterics. They all point at Pelumi.

—Eeey, that’s a bar! Burnt!

He doesn’t smile, only stares with those heavy lazy eyes, like something interests him behind me. Like I’m in his way. I turn and move off, forgetting about the heels for a second, trip over. It’s enough for them. Their jeers bounce around the estate and I hope Becky hasn’t given Michael his afternoon nap bottle. They’ll wake him up with their Pelumi chanting and howling.

When I look up, Angel, Pelumi’s minion, is beside me. He puts his hand out.

—What you doin? I snap.

—Woah, I was only tryin to help you.

—Don’t.

—It’s calm, it’s calm.

—Really? I say, getting up, looking past him to his crew giving each other slaps and pats.

—Well? he says, standing there with a goofy grin.

—What? Quit making me late.

—One question, just one question.

I stop and I’m like, why am I trying to be this angry girl?

Those big puppy dog eyes, they disarm me.

—What? I say, losing patience, energy – unable to maintain the fake anger.

He points to his head.

—My durag’s fresh, yeah?

—You going bald or something? I say.

I don’t have an opinion, really don’t. He lifts the durag off, pats his waves. In fairness to him, they’re tight.

—My trim’s loud, yeah?

I just shrug, but that doesn’t keep him quiet.

—And the juice, you know it’s fresh, yeah?

I’m in a rush so don’t really have time to be talking and then, what does he do only start chatting about my shoes! I tell him what I’m gonna do with my shoes, walk right out of this town as a qualified pharmacist!

—Take me with you, he whispers with those big eyes, genuine face.

—Whatever, I say.

It’s hard to tell if he’s serious or being sarcastic.

They cheer when he returns. I’m kind of impressed by his endeavour, for sure, though less than enamoured by his academic

application and prospects. He’s different to them, but not that different.

His mam stopped me once in my school uniform outside the apartments, asked me how much I study, how much should her son study.

—It depends on how well you do in the Mocks, I suppose.

—My Angel got 200 points in his Mocks, that’s good, no?

I was lost for words and didn’t want to disrespect her, or her son.

—It’s a solid start.

—He does maybe four hours study, she added, looking at me with hope.

—That’s a good amount to do a day.

—A day? No, a week.

But she wasn’t to know his prospects were totally influenced by the people he hangs around with. They set his goals. They’d only let him reach certain levels, no matter how much he studied.

Grey clouds are like a dark, ominous roof on the evening. Small puddles creep up, jump out of nowhere, and I have to keep a sharp eye on the path in case I slip. Drains are overflowing with the afternoon’s earlier rain, spilling out from the apartments above Spar, adding an extra layer of chance to my already treacherous expedition.

A dog shit, some blue disposable PPE and an FLC wrapper with some chicken skin stuck to it make up the last of the obstacles. If I fall and ruin my outfit it would be a perfect excuse to go home, give up and try another day. Faint drizzle flecks the pavement. The spinning green cross seeps onto the path like a mirage. The orange streetlamps merge with the green, giving an Instagram filter to the evening. I’m hyper focused, in the zone. Double yellow lines and a massive white YIELD marks the end of my expedition.

I don’t yield.

I’m nervous before I enter the pharmacy and then I’m like, wait, why’m I building this up so much?

Because this is the key to getting the course I want.

My pharmacy course is over 500 points. And I need a scholarship.

But if I can’t get the points – and I don’t know if I will anymore, I’m not as certain as I was a year ago – I’ve found a scheme: the Higher Education Access Route. It’s for people like me, from backgrounds like mine. It could offer me a chance – regardless of results – to get into the course I want. But this scheme is super competitive. And if courses are in demand, like Pharmacy in Trinity where I wanna go, there’s interviews. Winner takes all interviews. Like, how am I gonna stand out in an interview? By being proactive, by getting experience in an actual pharmacy.

I’m a scientist. I have three CVs: three opportunities. If nothing else, I can learn from this one.

The hush of the pharmacy, the sense of decorum makes me think of the library. I’m glad I’m here. Classical music is playing low on the radio. Stepping into this place is stepping into another country, one with a deep, lush green carpet.

An old man is talking with the pharmacist in a warm whisper.

—Can I help you?

The voice spins me and an assistant is in my face. It’s a girl who used to be in my school. I don’t really catch what she says the first time cause I’m trying to listen to the pharmacist chatting with the old man.

—Sorry?

—Can I help you?

I’m put off by her orange tan. It’s so loud I can barely gather my thoughts. There’s so much make-up. Even the

hair round her ears is orange. I giggle like a fool. Nerves I suppose.

—I’m sorry, I say, real polite. I was hoping to speak with the pharmacist.

My voice is new and clean.

—He’s busy at the moment, the assistant says, gliding out from behind the counter, her grubby orange hand floating towards me like a paper aeroplane.

She raises her tan fingers to my head.

—I love your hair. God, it’s mental, isn’t it? I’m thinking, wait, is this a hairdressers?

She helps herself, weighing a braid the way she would a necklace on display in Penny’s. I snort like a pig, nervously, stupidly. It’s like I’m a little girl again.

It’s no secret I’m shy. I’m kinda embarrassed – I don’t know why – and I let her do what she wants to do, put her fingers through my braids.

Feeling like I’ve made the adult proud by being polite and obedient, I hold up my CV.

—Oh, we don’t accept walk-ins, she says.

—I don’t want a job.

—We can’t. Sorry. Policy.

Her smile is gone. She has this pressed lips, wide-eyes innocent-of-being-a-total-bitch look. I breathe in, compose myself, and think, like, why get thick?

I’m going to wait for the pharmacist. He has a stern, taffy pink face like he’s been stressing all his life about exams, or qualifications. This skin tone makes him look as if he has either blood pressure or is on the sunbeds. He’s a pharmacist, so I presume he’d have the right tablets for blood pressure. Sunbeds it is. So he’s vain. And would like the attention. I’m gonna make a

point of putting my CV and my cover letter into his hand. This is my future, my life after all. I’m like, why worry about how you look to this girlo with the blonde hair and Fanta skin? I’ve been raised to stick up for myself. Fight for everything.

She lets her powdered chin drop, her hands are on her hips now. How bad do I want this? More than anything. I try to be judicious. Practical. Pragmatic. Yellow highlighter: Don’t let emotion get in the way of progress.

—Everything okay, Nathalie?

His voice is strong, filled with the weight of his learning. It arrives over her shoulder in a nice reassuring tone.

Nathalie gives her best customer service smile. Her polite manner just barely conceals resentment.

—This young lady here, Mike, is looking for a job. As a pharmacist.

There’s way too much surprise in the word. She’s too impressed by my ambition. He laughs and I laugh with him. Why am I laughing?

—Really? he says, all eyebrows now.

—Not really. I mean, like, it’s more of an internship. Work placement kind of thing, without pay of course. And only for a few weeks. Not too long.

—For what exactly?

—Oh, excuse me. Em, college. For interviews. It wouldn’t be for long ...

I don’t tell him it would need to be long enough for me to impress at an interview for the HEAR scheme. If I have to do one. His face on closer inspection is an undercooked-chicken lavender blush. Definitely sunbeds. He smiles through his refusal. Says something like he’d love to but they have a policy of not considering internships, for insurance and customer

confidentiality reasons. And no, they don’t keep CVs on file. And he wishes me all the best in my career as a pharmacist.

—Sure, look at her, Nathalie smiles, relieved now. She’ll only do fabulous so she will.

His eyes try and stay steady on mine, but right at the end they relent and go to the top of my head, the colours, the texture. There are two other independent pharmacies in Balbriggan.

This is simply experiment number one.

*

Me and Iwona are meant to be watching Miss at the top of class while she’s demonstrating how to determine the percentage of ethanoic acid in vinegar. We’re just whispering to each other since we’ve both seen this experiment about a million times on YouTube already.

—You’re doing what? Iwona says. Miss calls down to us.

—Princess and Iwona, stop talking!

I put on my goggles to look like I’m busy. Iwona’s still staring at me.

Normally, I keep things to myself. No one knows my plans, ever. Not even the girls at my old church. They’d be jealous, or if not jealous, suspicious. And then my mum would find out. Iwona is my only real friend in school. She’s white, yeah. But Polish. There’s a difference. The white Irish girls think I’m stuck up. The Black girls think I’m too quiet. I don’t listen to their music. Don’t watch their shows.

Iwona is ambitious. I like that about her. To a point.

I told my mum and sister about Iwona. Told them about that drive she has. They were like:

—You can play with them, play with them and other white people, but when it comes to fighting, stuff like that, an argument or something, stay with your own people cause they’re gonna stay with their own people.

—Oh, you’re just being racist, I said, and Becky was all like:

—I saw it played out, Princess. You’ll see it played out. Watch.

—Hardly. I’ll let it play out, I said.

So I don’t tell them anything more about Iwona. They’re too close-minded. Too bitter. The world has been unkind to them. I’m going to be the educated one. The world will have its arms open for me.

Iwona wants to study medicine and be a doctor, and she’s a genius. H1s in every test, for every subject, every time. There’s no HEAR scheme for her, no interviews or panic about points. So we aren’t in competition. Our relationship wouldn’t be as open if we were. Wait, we probably wouldn’t even have a relationship if we were in competition. Because she’d beat me. I wouldn’t be able to cope with that level of stress every day.

Iwona is titrating the sodium hydroxide against the vinegar, the right wrist action quick and strong in the swirling of the flask. The light lemonade pink churns around easily like a candyfloss machine. Consistently whisking, whirling. Her left hand is steady on the stopcock. She sighs and tuts, goes:

—Konrad would probably love this.

She nods without humour to her hand pumping the flask. I play along and laugh uncomfortably. She knows I’ve never felt the touch of a boy. I think she just says things like this to embarrass me; remind me I don’t have a boyfriend.

Grades. Teacher’s approval. Boyfriends. Ambition, I suppose, makes you want to be the best at everything. And I’m like, wait, why do I put up with it? I put up with it because she drives me to do better.

—Well, show me, she says, with such enthusiasm I wonder if she’s putting it on.

I put down the pipette and pull a CV out of my bag.

—Take over here, she says and nods to the flask.

I take it without stopping the swirl and I’m real self-conscious about how stiff my wrist action is.

Iwona is poring over my CV, and without even looking up she says:

—Wow, Princess …

I’m delighted until she finishes.

—You’ve a spelling mistake.

—Where?

—There. Pharmaceuticals. You spell it right here, but wrong there.

I shrug like it’s no big deal.

Iwona smiles that pretty smile, blonde like summer, so proper and mainstream, like a Ralph Lauren ad.

—Thanks so much, I say and take it from her and turn back to the experiment.

—The solution is turning brown, she moans.

—You never di-ionised the water, I say. That wipes the smile off her face.

Angel

I’m not gonna lie, I never thought Pelumi’s new track, ‘Blazed Boy’, would be banging like that. Yeah, he’s got bare views on YouTube since that English channel with a million subscribers put up his last video, but shitden, the new track is fire. And hearing it booming out’ve Isaac’s JBL Bluetooth speaker on Mainstreet is next level.

We’ve all linked up beside the monument to shoot the video. Gregory and Benni are taking small sips from their balloons and creasing up. Isaac, Mo and Harvey are sitting on the wall doing hand signs to a phone. Their trims look fresh in the light. I nod to myself, gassed cause I did that, went to work with my clippers, shears and curl sponge.

It’s dark and there’s steck elders waiting for their chips in Deli Burger across the road. They’re all staring at us like there’s gonna be some beef and you can tell they’re a bit stressed by the bare heads. I’m not gonna lie, I get high off this. Me with the boys. Owning the streets.

More elders come out’ve the pub, not the burnt out busted one at the Square end, the other one with the red paint and the mad mural thing. Some yutes were murdered on these streets a hundred years ago. No lie, there’s fire painted all over the side of the pub showing how the Briggz was shook when those British boys came and drenched man down on these streets. It’s a mad thing.

It’s calm with all the boys, but I can’t help thinking the feds will be called soon if Pelumi doesn’t show and we start recording quick.

There’s one oyinbo with us and he’s all sweaty and pressured with this HD camera on a small pole thing that must’ve cost serious bags. He’s filming us standing round and chatting shit. He was in my school and he’s sound.

Next thing Isaac shouts at him.

—What you doing, Lorcan? Pelumi’s not even here yet, or can’t ye tell?

All the mandem shout approval and laugh, but Lorcan and his sweaty face keeps the camera up like he’s doing a documentary or something.

—I’ve got to get some casual shots guys, for any fill-ins I might need. Keep talking and don’t look at the camera. Pretend I’m not here.

Swear down, this truck roars by and Lorcan balances on his toes on the edge of the path to stop from falling in front of it.

—Stop looking at me! Don’t look at the camera, guys, just keep chatting.

This guy. He thinks he can control what we do. Chap, allow, I feel like saying, no one, not even the feds, can control us when we link up like this.

Pelumi arrives finally, in his big Canada Goose jacket, zipping down the street on his electric scooter like he’s King Kunta. A bottle of Jack is in one hand and he’s dripped in ice his sister got for him in Claire’s Accessories.

—Wagwan boys! he salutes before swigging from the whiskey, sunglasses on, hood up like a proper driller bout to drop the coldest verse.

Pelumi makes straight for Lorcan and they chat for a bit and then Pelumi calls us like we’re his army or something. Everyone goes quiet.

—Right boys, Pelumi goes. Lorcan says we’re gonna get some shots of all of us walking up Mainstreet, yeah?

It’s a mad thing seeing Pelumi take advice from Lorcan, but swear down, when it comes to his music and shit, Pelumi always listens to the lads that know best.

Lorcan blazes ahead with the camera and speaker. He plays the music and it bounces down the empty road. No lie, Mainstreet on a Thursday night is dry as fuck.

Lorcan waves across the road from the hotel, up beside the bando barbershop.

—Right boys, play it sharp yeah, Pelumi says.

We all walk towards him like we’re roadmen linking up at a scrap. Pelumi’s out front and all the boys are trying to make shapes beside him to be seen in the next video, cause everyone knows the next song is going to take Pelumi clear, and this video is gonna be fire.

Some of the boys are so fake trying to walk and act all hard and tough. Obviously yeah, I don’t get stressed when there’s a camera on cause swear down, I feel like I have to do that shit every time, every day I leave my house and walk through my ends, walk into a shop, walk down these streets. No lie, I am aware, always, of what people see when I walk alone. Only time I never have to act all hench and be Angel the Roadman is when I chat with Princess. She has that effect on me. If yuno, yuno.

When we get to Lorcan he positions us in front of the busted shop fronts, all cracked glass, rotten wooden door frames, black plastic bags in the windows. Pelumi grabs me and moves me right beside him. I am gassed.

—You know the bars, yeah? he says.

I kiss my teeth like I’m vexed he even had to ask.

—Safe, he says. Stay right there, yeah, be my right-hand man. Look to the camera like he’s your opp and shout bars in his face like you’re gonna ching him in his belly!

The track plays and Lorcan shouts action, and it is activ on these streets! Pelumi’s in front of everyone and I’m right by his side.

The two of us start it off:

—Man don’t show, where he go?

And everyone shouts:

—Where man go?

—Paddy done run.

—I fucking know!

And we all go:

—Blazed boy! He’s blazed boy!

It’s a lethal hype.

Lorcan says we should do another verse and chorus down the beach, but this time, Pelumi’s not having it.

—Nah fam, the beach is dry. Mainstreet is popping. Do it here.

Lorcan makes this face.

—Nah, it’s so clichéd.

It’s a mad thing to see someone go head-to-head with Pelumi and not be scared.

—This guy, allow, Pelumi says and he turns to us and goes:

—Yo Isaac, grab some bricks from the bando pub, and we’ll smash this shitty barbershop window and get the feds down and dash. Lorcan, you stall it across the street and record it, yeah?

Swear down, Lorcan’s face in the orange light goes white and his lips look all dry.

—Not this window Pelumi, he says, his voice cracking.

—Why not?

—It’s my brother’s mate’s.

—Allow, Lorcan, this gaff’s a bando.

—He’s not been right the past weeks. He’ll open it again soon, just don’t smash that window, yeah guys?

Swear down, if Pelumi listens to this white boy again I’ll start to wonder. Pelumi turns to the barber’s, looks for a few seconds at the big dusty window like it’s a whip he’s thinking of finessing.

—It’s calm, Lorcan, he says with a flick of his hand and we all murmur like we agree and the beat starts up again.

Lorcan is across the street with the camera and we’re all doing our hand signs, and next thing Isaac is up the front with a red brick in his hand from the burnt-out pub.

He’s holding the brick over his head and no lie, we’re all bumping into each other, shouting the bars when Pelumi takes it and launches it at the blue shop window beside the barber’s.

Everyone cheers but the window only shatters cause of the massive sticker on the inside: ‘The Track, Turf Accountants, Est 1973.’

The music stops. There’s an alarm going off like a mad thing now and Pelumi shouts:

—Yo boys, grab some more bricks, we gotta finish the window for the shots, yeah?

From nowhere the boys all have them scorched red bricks and they’re lined up and firing them. Last time we were like this we were youngers at the fairground near Tesco tryna knock down cans on a shelf. The feds came then, when Pelumi got thick and gave hands to the guy behind the counter. Basically, the elder wouldn’t hand over the big teddy Pelumi wanted for his ma. Pelumi got the teddy, yeah, but we all got barred.

So, obviously, I don’t bother grabbing anything to finish the window. I wanna keep my energy for when the feds arrive and we gotta dip.

It’s a mad thing.

*

Princess is leng, yeah. Can’t remember when we first talked, said alright and that. But now she’s all gassed when I give her a shout if she’s crossing the street or coming out of the blocks. Pelumi’s all:

—She’s butters, man.

But Isaac and the boys be all:

—Dassit Angel, her sister’s gotta little baby, she’s a sket man. And I’d play along, all shy like I don’t wanna say too much, yuno. I’m not gonna lie, it feels lit, yeah, to be in the centre of the boys for something good for once, not having them takin the piss out of me for lacking.

When me and Princess talk it’s calm. Mostly we only talk for a minute or two while she’s passing. Cause she’s always passing, too busy for me. I like that. If I was her, I wouldn’t stop for me neither, yuno. The boys are normally with me, we’re hanging out and I haveta dash after her, make a big effort and all to get her to talk.

I skip beside her when she’s leaving the block and go:

—You see Pelumi’s last track with King Don from London?

It’s a game changer.

She keeps on walking, looking ahead.

—Yo, you gotta have seen it. It’s got like nearly seven hundred K views in three months. Pelumi’s the new king of Irish drill, yeah. Pause it on one minute twenty and you’ll see this mandem spitting out bars!

—Wow, you’re really in his video?

—For real. And wait til ye hear his new track, ‘Blazed Boy’. That’s next level. I’m in that too, yeah, up the front with Pelumi spitting more bars.

—If you think I’m impressed by someone whose sole ambition is to be a bitch boy for a driller and be seen for like, two seconds, holding a bottle of whiskey and a spliff that looks too big for him, then you’re chasing after the wrong girl.

—How’d you know I was holding whiskey if you didn’t see it?

—I’m going to the library, she says. Another time, yeah.

—Allow, I say. Please, come on. I just wanna chat.

She’s chuffed for sure when I chat with her. She pretends she’s not chuffed though, being all, I’m busy, and all that. But I know, yuno. I know.

When I go back to Pelumi and Isaac at the wall, I go:

—Was telling Princess bout me and you, Pelumi, sharing bars on Mainstreet for the new video. Meant to say it to ye bro.

I clasp Pelumi’s hand.

—Nice one for putting me up the front, yeah? Appreciate it. Pelumi looks at me like I’m thick.

—Hardly, bro. You’re a nextman, yeah? There was too many light skins there the other night, especially Isaac. I needed Black boys up front, innit. And God knows, you are waaaay too black bro.

He’s creased up, but Isaac isn’t smiling now and I go:

—Allow.

Pretending it’s all good.

*

Me and Isaac and Pelumi and the boys are just chilling about outside the blocks at the Fire Exit. Pelumi has some new bars about the scrap with Paddy and his boys. Swear down, like, Pelumi is getting more outta that fight than my mam does fufu.

Princess comes out of the entrance and ignores me and goes clicking and clacking by in these cute little heels I never seen no girl wear before. So I ask her bout my durag. What does she do only kiss her teeth and then look at my waves under it like they’re lacking. She’s real sharp like that. And when it comes to my barbering, that hurts. So then I say, just buzzing, yuno:

—Well, what bout them shoes. Oh, my days, they’re dead.

What does she do? She just looks at me like I’ve rocked her and turns and walks off.

—Wait, I call. Wait. Shit, I’m sorry. I’m just playing with ye.

The boys are all laughing behind me. She stops, yeah, but looks over my shoulder back at them like they’re fools.

—You can chat your shit, but I’m busy. I’ve got plans. These shoes and me are dropping a CV into a pharmacy for a work experience role and then I’m gonna do pharmacy studies in college and walk right out of this shithole.

—Allow, I whisper. I’ve got plans too, yuno. Take me with you.