Narvla's Celtic New Year

By Therese Gilardi

Narvla’s life is as precisely choreographed as the routines that have made her a national step-dancing champion. She has a loyal best friend, a devoted boyfriend, and a lock on admission to her dream college, the University of Notre Dame. Until her mother is named U.S. Ambassador to Ireland, and her life unravels. First Narvla receives a disturbing picture of her boyfriend and her best friend. Then she struggles to qualify for the Irish elite step-dancing squad, and her grades plummet. But the biggest obstacle in Narvla’s new life is Dublin Boy, a cheeky musician with a disdain for academics and a distrust of Americans. Although Narvla is upset when she’s paired with Dublin Boy for the most important semester of her life, her real concern is the growing attraction she feels toward him. As the Celtic New Year unfolds, Narvla is pushed to abandon her lifelong need for control and embrace the charm of the unexpected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Therese Gilardi
• Release date: Apr 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9780986281112

Therese Gilardi

Therese Gilardi is a novelist, poet and essayist who lives with her Irish Man, fluffy dogs and Viennese hare in the hills above Los Angeles.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

As you slide down the banister of life

May the splinters never point

In the wrong direction.

~Irish Proverb

The plane hits the ground so hard I’m not sure the pilot’s going to be able to stick the landing. As my seatbelt cuts into my stomach, he says, Cead mile failte. A hundred thousand welcomes to Ireland. Everyone around me claps.

On the edge of the runway the limousine the embassy sent is waiting for us. My mother is the new U.S. Ambassador to Ireland. That’s why I’m here in Dublin instead of back home in Connecticut, hanging out with Derek and Gabby when I’m not practicing for another step dancing competition.

I follow Mom to the limo. I stretch out across the leather seats as we ride along narrow, curvy roads, past tiny pubs and squat houses whose front doors open onto the sidewalk. Every few minutes our driver stops at a traffic light, and people peer into the car. Mom opens her window and waves. Most people wave back or smile, although a few just stare. Finally we arrive at an enormous park in the middle of the city, where we pass under an archway, through a black iron gate, and up a long driveway.

The U.S. Ambassador’s Residence looks like The White House. Tall French windows open onto a long terrace and a lawn that could double as a golf course. There are lots of chimneys, which I hope means lots of fireplaces, and dozens of rose bushes in large white planters. I wonder if I’m going to need a map to find my way around, since the house is the type of building that doesn’t just have floors, it has wings. An American flag so big it can probably be seen from the United States flutters on the roof.

Is it true the president of Ireland is our only neighbor?

The president and all the animals of the Phoenix Park Zoo, Mom says.

Seriously? We’re living next to a zoo?

I promised you the experience of a lifetime, didn’t I? Mom straightens her emerald velvet beret, which is one of her bestsellers. Mom owns Mad Maeve’s Magnificent Millinery, the company that makes those one of a kind lace hats that celebrities and fashion designers love. Mom has to take a leave of absence from Mad Maeve’s now that she’s the new ambassador, just like I’ve got to withdraw from Conrad Hill High School. Although I’m unhappy about missing senior year in Connecticut, Mom says attending an Irish school will cinch my admission to Notre Dame, which is my dream college. Plus she’s promised I can return home to go to prom with Derek, and for the occasional visit with Dad. He can’t move to Ireland full-time because he’s working on several architecture projects in California.

There he is, Mom says as our driver stops in front of a massive wooden door. My Irish right hand man.

A thin guy in a lime green, pink and black leather kilt opens the car door. Mom steps out of the limo and gives him a hug. He kisses her once on each cheek.

Sorry we’re so late, Malcolm, Mom says. Weather delay.

Ah, no Irish journey’s complete without a bit of turbulence, Malcolm says. Why else do you think Aer Lingus paint the names of saints on the sides of their planes?

Mom laughs but I don’t think it’s very funny. She spent the flight sleeping. I spent the entire seven-hour trip strapped into my seat, my hands wrapped around the armrests so tight my fingers are still cramped. I never knew before today that there are so many shades of lightening. Although when I look up at the sky there’s no hint of the storms that shook our plane, just a bunch of cotton ball clouds and a pale sun.

You must be Miss Narvla. Welcome to Dublin, Malcolm says, sticking out his hand. He smiles. He’s got fat lips, a slight overbite, pointy ears and a sleek blond Mohawk. He reminds me of a horse.

Tell me that’s not the time, Mom says, staring at the gold pocket watch hanging from Malcolm’s wool jacket. Narvla, I’m sorry but I have an appointment.

I’ll show you around, Malcolm says, nodding at me. Best to keep moving anyway, so the jet lag can’t catch you. You can unpack later, if that’s all right?

I nod. Sure.

Come on then, we’ll take the light rail. It’s a bit of a walk through the park to the station. Good exercise after your long voyage.

Phoenix Park is its own walled world. A medieval tower stands watch over carved monuments. Dozens of wild deer and freakishly long legged rabbits roam weedy meadows. Blacktopped paths crisscross wispy grass then disappear below the shadows of stone statues. Grungy backpackers, thickly wrapped babies, and far too many pigeons for my liking rest on wide benches. Near the tall gate that separates the park from the street, a small crowd stands beneath a leafy tree. Many of the people are leaning forward. As we get closer I see the reason why.

A guy about my age is playing guitar and singing about a girl who believes she was born without a voice. He has wavy black hair that hangs over his forehead and the type of skin that looks like it never freckles or burns. His eyes are closed.

That’s Dublin Boy, Malcolm whispers. He’s positively legend.

Dublin Boy finishes his song and opens his eyes. They’re that deep brown shade tree trunks get after they’ve been soaked in a rainstorm. He runs his hand along the length of his guitar then pushes his hair from his face.

Three girls clap. An old man in a torn coat whistles. Dublin Boy smiles at him then closes his eyes and sings Danny Boy. I’ve heard Danny Boy many times. Nana says it’s the unofficial Irish national anthem. But I’ve never heard it like this, with acoustic guitar riffs and a rhythm Dublin Boys stomps out with his black boots. Malcolm and I cheer with everyone as Dublin Boy opens his eyes and sings the final chorus.

Thanks a mil, he says. His voice is very low.

As the crowd walks away I step forward and say, You’re really good.

Dublin Boy looks at me. He doesn’t blink.

Especially your ‘Danny Boy.’ That was the best version I’ve ever heard.

Dublin Boy runs his dark eyes from my face to my violet raincoat, down the front of my black jeans, to my black patent leather boots, and back up my body. He gazes over my shoulder, in the direction of the American ambassador’s residence, and frowns. He tightens his fingers on his guitar then looks at me again.

So you think you know Irish music? He shakes his head. You Yanks. Presume you’re an authority on everything.

My whole body is hot. My scarf feels like it’s strangling me. I try to pull it from my neck but it’s all twisted, which only makes me madder.

Dublin Boy raises his eyebrows then walks away.

Are you all right? Malcolm asks. What was that about?

Nothing. I’m fine.

I smile, although I don’t feel so well. My skin is clammy and my right foot feels like it’s wet. I look down. I’ve managed to step into the only puddle on the pavement.

Come on, you need a cuppa.

Malcolm takes me for a cup of tea at a café near the LUAS station. We eat greasy fish-n-chips then go to Moore Street for notebooks, pens, and a calculator. I’m beyond tired. My body still feels like it’s somewhere over the Atlantic. Between trying to remember to look right-left-right every time I cross the street and realizing I forgot to pack the CD I use to create new step dance routines, I’m ready for bed even though it’s only afternoon in Ireland. At least it’s finally morning in Connecticut so I can talk to Derek.

As soon as we get back to the ambassador’s residence Malcolm gives me a quick tour of the first floor, which is drop dead elegant. There are loads of crystal chandeliers, high ceilinged reception rooms, and huge fireplaces. There are so many paintings they’re even lining the staircase near the end of the main hall. My favorite spot is a small sitting room near the front door, where I collapse on a plump couch and pull out my phone. I’ve got two texts from Gabby, asking about my flight and telling me I’m lucky I’m not going to have Ms. Gregainou for math this year. I check my missed calls. Nothing. I’m sure Derek’s just thinking about the football game tonight. There’s a rumor the Indiana University scout will be there. I need to call and wish him good luck.

Right before his phone goes to voice mail he picks up and says, Hey.

Hey back.

Hey man, stop it! he says, laughing.

Derek?

Sorry, someone’s pinching me.

He laughs again. I close my eyes. I can see his wide shoulders shaking. I pull the phone closer to my ear.

I just wanted to wish you luck. With the scout tonight.

Thanks. How’s Ireland?

All the buildings are low, like six or seven stories. They have double decker buses. And the fish and chips are really salty.

Cool. Listen I gotta go, Narv, I’ll call you after the game.

No! That’s the middle of the night here.

Later then, he says.

He’s still laughing when the phone goes dead. I know it’s nothing. Everyone says Derek and I are the kind of couple who will last. But I didn’t realize until today that he’s literally a world away now that I’m in Ireland. The thought makes me even more exhausted. I need to go to my room for a nap.

I force myself up off of the couch, down the long hallway, to the staircase. My legs are so heavy I have to wrap my hands around the wooden banister so I can pull myself up the stairs. When I’m near the top step I feel something stab me. I look down at my hand. There’s a jagged splinter sticking out of my left palm.

CHAPTER TWO

In Ireland the inevitable never happens

And the unexpected constantly occurs.

~Sir John Pentland Mahaffy

What happened to your hair?

I sit up against my yellow pillow mountain. I feel like I didn’t sleep at all but I know that’s not true, since I remember dreaming Derek led the football team to the state championship. He was even named MVP. But when I ran up to kiss him after the game like I always do, he pretended not to know me.

Seriously, what’s going on there? Mom asks. She leans over my sleigh bed with a plate of pancakes shaped like shamrocks. It’s my first day of school breakfast. She’s made it every year since kindergarten. Dad’s afraid she’s going to follow me to college so she can keep up the tradition.

I reach up to my head. A big clump of hair is practically glued to the side of my face. I must have been crying in my sleep. I try to peel it away from my cheek as Mom walks across the room. She reaches past the table holding my step dancing trophies and wigs, my collection of Marian Keyes books and my University of Notre Dame mug, and opens the lemony silk curtains.

It’s windy today so be sure you wear a scarf. And I have good news. Malcolm’s cousin’s sister-in-law has a daughter your age at St. Gibrian’s. She’s agreed to show you around.

At least I’ll know someone. Although I wish I was at home.

You’ll be back soon enough. Now come on, get up. You don’t have all day.

Mom fluffs my hair into place then kisses me on top of my head. I reach over to my nightstand and run my hand across the picture of Derek and me at last year’s spring formal. I lie back on the pillows and smile at his reflection.

By the time I get downstairs Mom’s already gone to some meeting. Malcolm is waiting for me in the kitchen, with a big blue umbrella and my lunch in a brown paper bag. I feel like I’m eight.

I hold my breath as we head into the park, since the last thing I want to do is see that Dublin Boy again. The old man with the torn coat is leaning against a bench, smoking the same kind of pipe as Grandda. But the spot near the gate is empty.

The DART is jammed and it smells like sausage. People cram onto our train car and I’m stuck against the back door. I spend the whole ride hoping it doesn’t fly open and hurl me onto the tracks. As soon as we get to our station I see other people on the sidewalk wearing the same crested blue blazer and V-neck sweater as me. The girls are all wearing plaid skirts and starched white cotton blouses, while the guys wear navy pants, white shirts and dark blue ties. Two of the guys are hunched over, even though they’re both about six feet tall. I think it must be because their backpacks are loaded with heavy books.

This worries me. The first thing my English teacher in Connecticut said when I told her I was moving to Ireland was that she pitied me because the schools here are so much harder. When I heard that, I asked Mom if I could go to an American or international school. She just laughed and said that if she wanted me to go to school with a bunch of Americans we’d have stayed in New England.

Nobody’s talking as they walk towards the massive stone buildings, which are connected by covered walkways. St. Gibrian’s Secondary School sits on a hill overlooking Dublin Bay, surrounded by a tall black wrought iron fence that looks like it will impale anyone who tries to climb over its pointy tips. The long lawn leading up to the school smells like pine needles, even though the ground is dotted with short, fat palm trees.

Malcolm! A girl with a scarf make out of Pokemon cards sewn together with aqua thread comes running across the grass towards us.

Leenie McNair, aren’t you the sight for sore eyes, Malcolm says as he kisses her pale cheek. I love the hair.

Leenie reaches up and strokes the spiky ends of her gelled black hair. She looks like an extra in an 80’s music video. Thanks. You know you’re my inspiration.

Malcolm smiles. His cousin turns to me and sticks out her hand. Her wrist jingles from all of the charms hanging from her thin leather bracelets. She stretches her left hand across her arm and pushes the bracelets under the sleeve of her sweater.

Sister Mary Rita’ll be havin’ my head if she gets a load of these, she says, smiling at me.

Well now that the introductions are over, best of luck to you on your first day Narvla and hello to your mam, Leenie, Malcolm says. Tell her I’ll be stopping by next week to return her biscuit pan.

Leenie nods at Malcolm then takes a step backward and looks at my clothes. Best pull that skirt down or you’ll be lookin’ at an honor points violation. Hemlines must be touchin’ the knee, Narvla, trust me on that one. Our Sister Mary Rita takes no prisoners. She carries a ruler in her habit, just for measurin’ the skirts of anyone she thinks isn’t complying with the dress code.

Seriously?

Leenie shakes her head. Even though there’s a strong wind not a strand of her hair moves. You get marks on your honor card for every violation.

She pulls a small piece of cardboard with her name on it from her book bag, which is covered with stickers of anime characters.

We have to carry these everywhere on campus. Any violations, any wee thing at all, and you’ve got any member of staff stampin’ your card. Five points, detention. Ten stamps, you’re wipin’ blackboards after school for a week. Twenty points … you don’t want to know, Narvla, you don’t want to know. I swear, they’d have us Hooverin’ the place if they thought they could get away with it.

I reach under my sweater and unroll the waistband of my skirt. Instead of landing in the middle of my thigh, my hem now falls to the end of my knee. My skirt is longer than anything my grandmother wears.

That’s better, Leenie says.

She waves at a blond guy with so many freckles it would be easier to connect the white spots on his face. He smiles as he walks toward us.

That’s Jeremy. He knows you’re coming today. Everybody knows. We haven’t had a new student in over three years. We’re gonna have a welcome to Dublin party for you tonight at O’Hearney’s Pub, in Temple Bar. Everyone’s coming, except Colin McPherson of course, she says, narrowing her eyes as she says the name.

So this is Narvla, future Riverdancer. Jeremy smiles at me. He’s got a dimple on his left cheek that looks like a thumbprint. He stands next to Leenie and pulls her to his chest.

Jeremy! Leenie hisses. She laughs then tilts her face up to his mouth.

I miss Derek. I’d like to turn on my phone and text him but I’m sure using a cell phone must be one of these honor code violations. Plus it’s the middle of the night in Connecticut. I squeeze my hands together and look past Leenie and Jeremy, at the army of blazer wearing students coming up the hill with the sea at their backs.

Sorry for this eejit, Leenie says as she pulls herself free. I told Jeremy that Malcolm says you’re one of the best step dancers in America. Don’t worry, I didn’t mention it to anyone else.

’Specially not Win Squared, Jeremy says.

They’re known for the secrets they can’t keep, Leenie says as she looks at me. Jeremy’s talkin’ about those two over there, the redhead with the cast and the short girl next to her. They’re the two Wins.

What did they win?

Leenie and Jeremy laugh.

No, no. They didn’t win anything. They’re both named Winona. If you can imagine both their mams fancied Winona Ryder when they were pregnant. Win One, that’s the one with her arm in a cast, Winona Feenihan, is named for Winona’s ‘Beetlejuice’ period. Winona Jackban’s mother was payin’ tribute to Miss Ryder’s later works.

Jeremy slides his arm around Leenie’s waist and kisses her again.

Stop it or we’ll both be losing honor points, she says, laughing.

Worth it if I can get you alone in one of those dark classrooms on a rainy afternoon, Jeremy sighs. Leenie digs her elbow into his ribs.

Fair enough, I’m off, He says, kissing Leenie on the back of her neck. Be seeing you at the party tonight, Narvla, if not sooner.

A bell that sounds like the church bell on the town green back home in Connecticut rings.

We’ve got to hurry. Lit class is clear across campus. Sure Malcolm told you, we’re in most of the same classes.

He didn’t mention it. Or maybe he did. It was really loud on the DART.

We walk across the lawn and through an enormous arched doorway, into St. Gibrian’s Secondary School. The main hallway is long, with wooden paneled walls and a slick floor that feels it’s going to be slippery each time it rains. The ceilings are really high. Even though there are lots of heavy metal chandeliers it’s still dim. People rush past us as Leenie grabs my arm, and swings me through a partly open door.

The classroom looks like it hasn’t changed since the last time a member of my family went to school in Ireland, which was about a hundred years ago, before my great-grandparents left for New York. There’s a blackboard, completely covered in white chalk, row after row after row of dark wooden desks that have their seats attached to them, and a tall carved podium I suppose is for the teacher.

Almost every seat is full. I follow Leenie into the middle of the room and we sit at adjoining desks. One of the Winonas — Win Two maybe? I can’t remember — slips into the seat in front of me. There’s only one empty chair in the room, to my left, when the teacher walks into the room. She’s a tall, thin nun in a black and white habit pulled so tight the collar looks like it might choke her if she’s not careful. She’s wearing a large red crucifix hanging from fat white beads. The room goes totally quiet as she looks out at us. She doesn’t smile.

Sister Mary Rita, Leenie whispers. As the final bell rings, I feel a swoosh of air on my left side. I turn to see who has just slid into the chair next to me.

It’s Dublin Boy.

CHAPTER THREE

We have really everything in common

With America nowadays,

Except, of course, language.

~Oscar Wilde

Maybe he won’t recognize me. After all, he’s not expecting to see me here, and I look totally different in this uniform than I did in the park.

Of course I know that’s absurd. Leenie told me St. Gibrian’s hasn’t had a new student in years. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he pulls several books from his faded brown leather bag. He doesn’t even glance in my direction as he slaps a volume of Irish fairy tales down on his desk. He just looks straight ahead. He’s got a perfect profile, like one of those Greek or Roman statues we studied in art class.

I turn away from Dublin Boy as I reach up and touch the slight bump on my nose. Lulu Mikelowski broke it when we were ten. Not on purpose. We were at this step dancing competition in Litchfield, and we were about to go onstage, when I noticed a small white wad of tape on the ground. It was the kind of tape girls put on the bottom of their step shoes when the stage is too slick. It keeps you from falling down. However, if the stage is dry then that same tape will make you stick to the floor like glue. That’s why I bent down, to pick it up so no one would step on it and twist or break an ankle. As I stood up with the tape, Lulu was stretching out her right arm. She clipped me right in the nose with her elbow. At least I won the competition. I danced with an ice pack strapped to my face then Mom took me to the hospital to have my nose straightened.

Narvla! Leenie hisses. She nods towards the front of the room.

I follow her gaze. Thanks, I whisper.

Sister Mary Rita is standing behind the wooden podium. She clears her throat before she holds up a copy of The Great Gatsby.

Tell me, Mr. McPherson, what does the green light on the end of Jay Gatsby’s dock mean?

They only stock colored bulbs at the local dry goods, Dublin Boy says.

A chill runs up my back at the sound of his low voice.

Sister Mary Rita smacks The Great

Reviews for Narvla's Celtic New Year

[rubyandthetwins · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Narvla believes that she has everything going for her back home in Connecticut. Her life has always been as precisely choreographed as one of the routines that has made her a national step-dancing champion. Actually, Narvla's life is as close to perfection as it gets; and she wouldn't have it any other way. She has a loyal best friend named Gabby, a devoted boyfriend named Derek, and a definite lock on admission to her dream college - the University of Notre Dame.Everything is perfect - until her mother is named United States Ambassador to Ireland, and then Narvla's life slowly begins to unravel. First her father has to stay in Connecticut for work, so just she and her mother move to Dublin. Then she receives a disturbing picture of Derek and Gabby; from someone who wants to remain anonymous. Next she struggles to qualify for the Irish elite step-dancing squad, and her grades plummet.Narvla isn't quite sure if her life could possibly get much worse than it has already; and then she meets Colin McPherson. Known on the local music scene as Dublin Boy, he presents perhaps the biggest obstacle in Narvla's young life. While Colin loves to play the guitar, he disdains academics and has an obvious distrust of Americans - a feeling that borders on downright animosity. So, Narvla is utterly devastated when she is unexpectedly paired with Dublin Boy for the most important semester of her life.Although she is genuinely upset with this particular situation, she knows that she can't really do anything much to change it. However, Narvla is truly alarmed by her burgeoning attraction to Dublin Boy. In reality after all, Dublin Boy is most definitely not her type: he has a reputation for being a 'lady's man'; he obviously has no desire to focus on his studies; and of course, there is his deep resentment of Americans. Yet Narvla can't seem to help her growing feelings for him...So as the Celtic New Year unfolds for her, Narvla slowly begins to discover the true charm of embracing the unexpected. She will come to understand that not everything in life can be organized quite so perfectly as one of her dance routines. Soon she will learn that not everything in life should go as planned, and that she can abandon her lifelong need for control in every single aspect of her future.This book has actually been on my TBR pile for a little over two years and I have just gotten around to reading it. I must say that I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book. In my opinion, this was a fast-paced and intriguing story. I have always enjoyed reading books about Ireland and Irish culture and I look forward to reading more from this author in the future. I would give the book a definite A!