A Greyhound of a Girl Read Free Page B

how to use their iPods. They had to show her how to put in the earphones. She tried to sit up straight. She held an iPod in both her hands.
    â€œGive me a listen to these lads here,” she shouted—she read the name. “Kings of Leon.”
    She’d listened to about thirty seconds of one song.
    â€œNot too bad,” she shouted. “But they’re not a patch on Elvis.”
    â€œD’you like Elvis, Granny?” said Dommo.
    â€œWhat?!”
    â€œD’you like Elvis?”
    â€œLove him!” she shouted.
    â€œDid you ever see him?” Killer asked.
    â€œNo, I did not,” she shouted. “He never came to our parish. But, sure, boys, I’ll be meeting him soon enough.”
    They’d laughed, because she’d wanted them to, even though she’d been talking about her own death. But it was nothing new, really. She’d always made them laugh. Just like Mary, they hated the hospital, and they hated the fact that they almost never went. They refused to go, because theyhated it so much. They felt like cowards, although they’d never spoken about it. They missed their granny; they felt sorry for their mother, and for themselves. But they didn’t know what to say, and they were too old for hugging. They were too old for everything.
    But they stayed downstairs after dinner with Mary and their parents, and they all watched
Ireland’s Got Talent
.
    â€œWell,” said Paddy during the ads. “All I can say is, Ireland’s got absolutely no talent.”
    The boys didn’t laugh.
    â€œI think it’s good!” said Scarlett.
    The boys laughed.
    â€œThe guy with the singing toothbrush was quite funny!”
    The boys laughed.
    â€œBut did you see his teeth?” said Paddy. “They were rotten.”
    The boys didn’t laugh.
    â€œWhy isn’t that funny?” Paddy asked.
    The boys shrugged.
    â€œJust,” said Killer.
    â€œJust what?”
    Killer shrugged.
    They watched the rest of the show, three more acts: awoman who juggled three knives and left the stage early, whimpering and clutching her shoulder; a boy who spun on his head until he got sick, and a nun with a baseball cap who sang “Don’t Stop Believin’,” in Irish.
    When it was over, Paddy stretched his legs and arms. He yawned.
    â€œTime for bed,” he said. “What’s so funny?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œIt’s too early for bed,” said Killer.
    â€œIt’s never too early for bed,” said their father.
    â€œThat’s just sad,” said Dommo.
    â€œI agree,” said Paddy.
    He stood up and handed the remote control to Dommo.
    â€œMake sure you don’t watch anything educational,” he said.
    They didn’t laugh.
    â€œIt was
so
nice you watched telly with us, boys!” said Scarlett.
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œTelly off in half an hour, okay?”
    â€œAn hour.”
    â€œThree-quarters.”
    â€œGood night!” said Scarlett. “I love you both!”
    Dommo muttered something that sounded a little like “Uv U2,” but Killer said nothing.
    Mary didn’t say good night to her brothers. She didn’t know how. She didn’t know them. She used to, but not anymore. They’d changed into aliens. It worried her sometimes—a lot of the time. She worried that she’d turn into one of them. Dommo was only two years older than Mary, so she only had two years of normal life left before she’d start grunting and laughing at nothing. Unless the weird stuff only happened to boys. She knew all about her own body and what was going to be happening soon, but that didn’t worry her—at all. It excited her, all the changes just around the corner. It wasn’t the changes to her body that scared or worried Mary. It was the stranger ones, the ones that had turned her brothers into strangers. She didn’t want to be like them. She thought they were