Love & Luck(23)

Coach had said that? A flurry of sibling protectiveness roared in my head.

Rowan jumped in. “Ian has a huge following on Twitter. Every time he publishes something, a hashtag goes around—#IndieIanSpeaks. That’s how I found him.”

“It isn’t a huge following,” Ian said modestly, but pride ringed the edges of his voice.

“You have ten thousand followers; how is that not huge?” Rowan said.

Ten thousand? Not bad.

Ian shook his hair into his eyes. “No, it’s never been ten thousand. Every time I get close, I post something in the ‘overhyped’ category that offends people, and there’s a mass exodus. My tombstone’s going to say, ‘Always fifty followers short of ten thousand.’?” Rowan snorted.

I pulled out my phone to verify the Twitter account. The profile photo on @IndieIan11 was an up-close shot of Ian’s eyes, his long hair framing the right side of the square. 9.9K followers. A massive party I hadn’t been invited to. Hadn’t even been told about.

I gripped the phone hard, a herd of feelings galloping across my chest. At least now I knew why Ian had been so distant all summer. He’d been living a secret online life. “Ian, why didn’t you tell me about all this?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Why would I? It’s not like you listen to anything I say anyway.”

Cop-out answer. “Ian, for the last time, this isn’t about Cubby. If Rowan found you a year ago, that means you were music”—I hesitated—“music journaling way before Cubby and I started hanging out.”

“?‘Music journaling.’ I like it.” Rowan might as well have been wearing a referee jersey. He was desperate to stop our fight.

Ian turned back impatiently. “So tell me again, are you planning to tell Mom about Cubby during or after your trip to Florence?”

“Ian, we’ve been through this a dozen times. I am not telling her.” My words vibrated loudly through the car. How had he even jumped to that? “And it’s not my trip to Florence. It’s our trip.”

Even I didn’t sound convinced.



The first time I ever lied to Ian, it was about Cubby. It was surprisingly easy.

It was during our last field trip together, and right away I realized something was different about this excursion from the others. Usually, our trips were to my brother’s newest and most recent discoveries, but not this time.

“I’ve been coming here since I got my license,” he said, as I aimed the flashlight at the troll’s one visible eye, glistening as hard and shiny as a bead. Cars roared above us on the overpass.

Ian climbed up the statue’s gnarled hand, settling into the curve between its head and neck. I let my light wander over the statue. The concrete troll was over twenty feet tall, and one of its plump hands clutched a life-size car in its monstrous grip. “Why have I never been here before?”

Ian stretched out over the arm. “I like to come here after practice. To think.”

“To think about what? How you’re going to dominate at the next game?” I teased.

He made a noise in the back of his throat, quickly changing the subject. “Did you notice how blobby the troll is? It’s because people spray-paint him, and the only way to remove the paint is to cover him up with more cement.”

“Nice segue,” I said. Lately, Ian had been dodging every conversation that had anything to do with football. But tonight I wasn’t going to pry. It was nice just to be with him. I felt like I hadn’t seen much of him lately.

I tucked the flashlight into my sweatshirt pocket and scrambled up to join him. For a while, we listened to the rhythmic rumbling of cars rushing overhead. Their predictable noises were comforting. I could see why Ian liked it here.

“Where were you last night?” he suddenly asked, and my heart raced faster than the cars on the highway.

I avoided looking him in the eye. “I went to bed early.”

He shook his head. “I came into your room to see if you wanted to watch SNL. You were gone on Tuesday night too. How are you getting out? The window? Kind of ballsy to climb out past Mom and Dad’s room.”

Very ballsy. Particularly for a person who was five foot one on a good day trying to descend a tree whose branches were spaced out at least five feet apart.

“I was probably in the kitchen,” I said, surprised by how easily the lie slipped through my mouth. I’d never lied to Ian before, never even really considered it. But then, I guess I’d never had a reason before. A small smile invaded my face. I couldn’t help it.

He raised his eyebrows. “So now that I know how you’re sneaking out, the question is who are you sneaking out with?”

I pressed my lips together, sealing in my secret. Sometimes it felt like everything I owned had once belonged to one of my brothers, and as much as I loved them, I loved the idea of having something all to myself even more.

After a few seconds Ian let out a long and exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Be that way.” He slid off the troll, his sneakers thudding heavily onto the ground. “But you know I’ll find out eventually.”

Taking me to the troll was Ian’s attempt at drawing out my secret: I’ll tell you one of mine, you tell me one of yours.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.