Two Guys in Kilts
-Chapter 1-
"Crack in the Wall"
By: Pluviophobian Night Rain (PNR)
This is the re-done TGiK story because the other one I wrote was moving WAY to fast. I, Mellon Head, now part of PNR, got seasick from it. Meh.
Everyone always tells us to stay away from the O'Reilly boys. They're always spouting bad things about the family and such. "They're nothing but trouble," or, "They'll get you into a fine mess, they will." So if that's the story, then why am I going to live there from now until whenever? Why send a bad seed over to some full-grown trees?
Well, that I will never know, or understand. All I know is that I'm standing on the porch of the O'Reilly's mansion and am regretting every moment I back talked my parents. I even take back all the cusswords that I've spoken—to parent and pedestrian alike (tried to feel sorry for the teachers, but it wasn't in the cards). I just can't believe that I'm going to live at some crackpots' house for basically eternity.
My parents must be up to something really big again, like taking over the White House. Either that or they've finally gotten their hands on some marihuana . . .
The doorbell echoed throughout the entire gigantic house. The footsteps on the other side count down the remaining moments of my—slightly—sane life. I find myself holding my breath, but that only makes me breathe harder. The door opens slowly, like a Hitchcock film, where you just know the bad one's on the other side or somewhere within, just waiting. Waiting for the unsuspecting victim. Only, it's not a film, and I am very aware of the danger. I feel like Ned Beaumont from the Danshiell Hammett book, The Glass Key.
"Hello, dearie! How about coming inside with all your bags?" asked a short and stout redheaded woman. She kept yanking on my hand, making me come inside. My wrist felt like it was on fire (on the brink of falling/snapping off) and for a while there, it was almost like I should scream something like, 'Lay your hands off my, lady! Can't you see my wrist doesn't bend that way?' or yell, 'Jack! Take the cab and save yourself!'
Actually by the way the woman's looking at me now, I suppose I just said the latter.
"What did you mean by that, dearie?" she asked, letting go of my hand while I silently prayed. Now, I'm not the type who usually goes to church—heck, I can't remember the last time I prayed—but, I don't see why the Big Man Upstairs can't give me a break every once in a while. Looks like He did, anyways. But, He shouldn't get used to it; He's a big man. He can take it.
Just then, I heard all these voices coming down the stairs, pounding down the circling steps. This made it echo eerily in the house, and for a second I actually believed that God had spared me an awful ending and was sending a herd of wild animals to come and mull me over. It turned out I had no such luck—probably because of my 'He can take it' crack—because the stampede turned out to be three little kids running down the stairs to, hopefully, kill me on the spot. Again, no such luck.
"Mammy!" they called her, screeching with laughter when the woman pulled out three lollypops from nowhere. I stared, feeling that God and I would have to have another little chat soon, when three others, way older than the smaller three, appeared from what I assumed to be the TV room.
The girl took one look at me and said to the woman, "Fa th' heel is she?"
The woman looked shocked at the girl and said, hands on her hips, "That's th' quinie 'at is stayin' haur until 'er parents say sae. Watch yer leid, tay, wee missy, ur they'll be some punishments aroond haur!"
"Whatever, mam," the girl said, staring inquisitively at me through unbelievably dark eyes. It looked to me, honestly, like she hadn't ever put on makeup before and was trying out everything in black for the first time (in a dark room). Happened to me before my mother informed me that I was supposed to put it on my eyelashes—minus the room.
"If she's American, shooldnae we spick Béarla arobond 'er?" asked what looked like the oldest boy. He looked at me indifferently. I almost laughed. It sounded like they were actually speaking Scottish like the other sympathetic people in the real world said they would.
"Och aye."
Obviously, they spoke Irish here, too, because I've heard my grandma—ironically the O'Reilly kid's grandma's sister—say that we shouldn't have even started to speak 'Béarla,' let alone move from Ireland to America. Somehow, she hates Georgia, too.
"Um," I started, looking at all of them. "Hi." I felt like a sponge that was run over with a steam roller, only to be used again and again and again, until I finally stopped working altogether. Or fell apart.
"Hey," the other boy said, smiling. "We're not always like this," he reassured me (or tried to). All I could do was nod my head and utter some kind of sound of agreement. They were all purely crazy. Crack heads, just like everyone else had warned me.
"Oh, let me introduce myself, dearie! I'm Mrs. O'Reilly, but you may call me Bonnie," it was then that I realized how accented she was. She didn't seem Irish, so she must have been the Scottish one. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need me." And with that, she left, leading the little devil children away from me.
I tore my gaze away from their receding backs and saw that the girl was going up the stairs.
"Where do I go?" I asked, looking down to my bags and purse.
"Um, I'll take you to one of the guest rooms," said the younger of the two boys. I noticed that they looked almost identical, despite their hair color and size difference. Like the woman, the older one's hair was auburn. I was mad because I always had a lot of pride in being the 'only' one with auburn hair. Well, at least my eyes were green. His are kind of brown . . . I think they clash with his hair. Wait—can your eyes even clash with your hair? Brown eyes don't clash with black hair, and they do with clothing, so maybe not. His brother, the younger one, had red—and by red, I mean flaming (think Harry Potter)—hair and blue eyes, just like the girl. Looks like my grandma's younger pictures in boy form. Weird. Or not, considering I'm related to them.
"Have fun carrying the luggage," the older boy said as he waved us goodbye. How sweet.
The younger boy grunted not because my baggage was heavy—I don't have many clothing items because of my stinkin', grovelin', loathsome parents—but because the older boy was making fun of him.
"Um, sorry if I just screwed up your street-cred." I looked up the stairs. "That's a long way up."
"Ah, don't worry. Alan always thinks less of me and we're taking the elevator," the guy said, smiling at me.
I muttered an "Oh," feeling completely and utterly idiotic because I hadn't noticed the elevator the entire time I had been staring at it. But, that's ok because I hadn't told him that I didn't notice it, right? . . . Right? The elevator door closed and I was no longer staring at the rich, wooden floors of the entrance hall/house, but at the fluffy blue carpeting of the elevator. The walls matched, but not too badly because it was lighter.
"So, what's your name?" the boy asked.
I looked up in shock. "You're parents didn't tell you?" I asked, unable to mask my confusion.
"Well, they have been kind of busy with their jobs. Mam's a writer-slash-painter and daid's a journalist. It's amazing they can't speak the language well, but they can write it," he explained, laughing a little.
"Well, uhm, I'm Logan Rodal. My friend Else calls me Lyse, though. I don't know why. She's cracked. She really has, you know. On the last day of school . . . two days ago, right?" the boy nodded. I continued, "Well, she came up to me and said something along the lines of: 'What's up, Logan-sometimes-Lyse? Summer's a long time coming. My sister, Noel, thinks you head is shaped like a heart.' Now tell me that's not crazy."
The boy laughed. "OK, Logan-sometimes-Lyse, I'm Neil."
Neil O'Reilly, eh? So that's who I've been talking to the whole time. It's amazing how many times I have actually blocked out their names at the family meetings. Didn't even bother to look at their clothing, let alone faces and hair color or even size.
It was quiet as we got out of the slow elevator. The floor was engulfed in white, fluffy carpeting much like the one in the elevator. The walls were a stained and glossed redwood. "This is where my twin Finn and I have our room," he said, pointing to the fourth room on the left. "You'll be staying one room down across from us. My sisters Skye and Lesley live up here, too, but they're both in college."
"Oh," I said, but then the line 'my twin Finn' was repeated in my head four times (not because it rhymes, but because I'm just slow like that) before I remembered what he had said. "Oh! You have a twin?"
There you go, wannabe-blondie, good job. Neil looked at me. "Yeah. Why? That strange?" I shook my head vigorously, embarrassed. Since I came here, I haven't had as many sinister thoughts. Maybe being away from my idiotic parents is good for me? Hell, it probably always has been. I just don't pay attention.
"Here," Neil said, opening the room's door. The room was large with two yellow twin beds. The walls were a light pink, as was the carpet.
"Pink lemonade," I said.
Neil looked at me like I was Else. "What?"
"Looks like pink lemonade in here," I said, wondering if I would start to have those dreams where I'm suffocated by teddy bears that are addicted to pink lemonade like a moth to a light, or my parents to money . . . .
Neil laughed, "Never thought about it. You like it?"
I looked around the room, said: "The room or the drink?"
"Both."
I honestly don't like either—or, I hadn't tried to drink pink lemonade because it was, well, pink. "Love 'em both."
"Frae whit I've heard, she hates baith," said a voice from the doorway. "Dornt blam th' quinie, thocht. Eh'd crack if Ah hud tae bide haur."
"Eh? But she said 'at she liked it, divit," Neil responded, frowning at what I assumed to be his twin. They both looked the same. Mirrors, of course.
"Yoo're th' divit, divit," Finn said, coming into the room all the way. He walked over to me and pointed at, well, me. No, it was the chicken to the left (the song echoing in my head). Just joking. "If ye didne pressure th' quinie, mebbe she'd hae tauld ye th' truth. Ah cannae believe 'at Ah caa a gimp loch ye mah brither, lit aloyn mah twin!"
I couldn't understand much, but I think that Finn just called Neil a gimp.
"Ah, hey, guys. Mercy," I said, giving up. I got their attention mostly with my waving arms, but I think they heard me.
"Huh?" Finn and Neil said at the same time. That's creepy. Like that La Pirrilla commercial thing on the radio.
"Uhm, yeah. Can't speak . . . eh . . . Scottish?" I said/asked. Now I feel like a gimp. Not that that's a bad thing . . . it's just, I don't know . . . .
"Oh, right, right, right."
"Shut up, Finn."
"You first, Neil."
"Idiot!"
"Retard!"
OK, so far, I gather that: A) Idiot probably is that 'divit' word; B) Retard is probably the 'gimp' one; and C) My life went down the tubes again. At least I won't be bored.
"OK, fellas! Shut it!" I screamed.
They stared at me. I got their attention. The way things are going now, it probably won't last very long. Wait, now I need something to say. Oh! Got it!
"What's quinie?" They stared. I stared back.
"Girl," Finn said.
"Huh?" I asked, wondering if that meant the word, or me. If he meant me, then we'd just have to give him the world's highest rank in the Inspector business.
"The word, it means girl," Neil said. So Finn's no Clouseau.
"Oh." Awkward silence. My stomach growled.
"Hungry?" Finn asked, smiling dangerously.
I smiled. "Yeah, my parents don't believe in breakfast." Finn started to lead my out of the room at a sprint. We were right next to the elevator, but he turned a sharp left, then stopped, and I fell into his back, and Neil into mine.
There was a group 'ouch.' Actually, what I thought would actually be a wall, which we all would have actually fallen into, was actually a tiny gap in the actual wall.
"What's this?" I asked, quite loudly, apparently, because they both shushed me like I was an annoying baby. I don't know. Maybe I am.
"What's this?" I repeated in a softer voice. This time, my question wasn't answered with a rude 'shh!' but with a question.
"You mean," Finn started, whispering.
"What isn't this?" Neil finished for Finn. Ok, they would have to stop doing that some time or another. Either that or I'd make them. Wee jimmies.
"Oh, God!" I had just said something my grandma says to my little boy cousins!
There was a tap on each of my shoulders. "Huh?" I asked, looking at them both somehow.
"That's what we should be asking you," Finn laughed.
"Gone crazy, Ace?" Neil asked, laughing with his annoying brother.
"Ace?" I asked, wondering if that was a bad thing.
"Yeah, you slammed right into Finn's back. Great aim—an 'ace' job," Neil explained. Yep, it was bad. Loony. A mockery, even. Or . . . a complement? In a weird sort of way?
"And that caused Neil to slam right into you, too!" Finn exclaimed. It was hard to think that the entire time we had been whispering. I gave up—if they were going to call me that the whole time, it'd be a hell of a lot better than 'Lyse.'
"Never mind," I said, shaking my head. "Just tell me why we're looking at a crack in the wall."
The boys stared at me incredulously.
"Heh, I give," I said, frowning. "What's with it?"
"That's not a crack in the wall," Finn said.
Neil spoke up: "Yeah, besides; it's at least a foot!"
"You see, we just walk right through it and . . ." Finn already started to walk. I followed because it seemed to be the right thing to do, and Neil followed me. We walked through the largest small place I've ever been into, and right into a room. It was small, about the size of my room (or old room), and smelled faintly of sausage. It was all black and grey and white, and I couldn't help but feel a little depressed. That was when I noticed the really, really, really big book in the corner of the room with a window. The funny-yet-slightly-weird part about that was the window portrayed a rainy atmosphere, but it was really sunny outside.
"Umm," I said, unsure of anything at the moment, "Olly olly oxen free."
It was all I could come up with to show my confusion. Unfortunately, I only spread mine to the twins.
A/Ns that I left out of the chapter:
For the clueless - mam is mom and daid is dad.
Sorry for the inconvenience, but 'Else' is pronounced "ell-sie."
This language is mostly something called 'Shelta,' and if that's wrong, blame my mom. She wrote what I wanted her to!
A/N:
For Future Reference (or just a disclaimer): We own no Bleach or Naruto anything. Meh.