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ARE WE GETTING A NEW MILLENNIUM OR NOT?

Hugh

DECEMBER 31, 1998

“W HO’S READY TO WELCOME THE NEW MILLENNIUM ?” G IBSIE ASKED WHEN HE SAUN tered into my room on New Year’s Eve with a party streamer balanced between his lips. Laden down with a stack of leftover selection boxes containing his favorite chocolate bars and with a party hat perched on his head, he nestled down on my beanbag, armed and ready to ring in the New Year.

“You’re a year early, Gibs,” Feely replied, focusing on the game we were playing.

“Yeah, Feely, I know,” Gibsie huffed, sounding annoyed. “That’s what I meant when I asked who’s ready to welcome it.”

“He means the new millennium begins in 2000, Gibs,” I explained calmly, as I continued to kick Feely’s ass on FIFA . “We’re still in 1998, lad.”

“The how come he said it’s next year?” he argued in a disbelieving tone.

“Because he’s right,” Feely shot back dryly. “It is next year.”

“But how is it next year when you said it’s not next year?” Gibsie complained, sounding skeptical. “Are we getting a new millennium or not?”

Feely shook his head and muttered, “You’ll have to take this one, Hugh.”

“It’s eight o’clock in the evening on the very last day of 1998. When the clock strikes midnight, it’ll be 1999.” Pausing the game, I turned to our friend and continued to explain. “So tonight, as in right now, it’s 1998, and in four hours’ time, it’ll be 1999. The new millennium comes at the end of 1999, not at the start.”

“So next year?” Gibsie asked, brows furrowed.

“Yes, Gibs.” I nodded eagerly. “Exactly.”

“Okay, that makes sense.” He looked thoughtful for a moment before turning to scowl at Feely. “Why didn’t you just say that at the beginning , Patrick.”

Feely opened his mouth to protest, only to think better of it and mutter the words “give me strength” under his breath instead.

It was at that exact moment my bedroom door opened inwards, and my father’s head appeared. Of course, he didn’t look like the father I used to have, with a full, untamed beard and sunken eyes. The parts of his face that weren’t covered in hair were gaunt and hollow. He looked like the definition of a shell of a man. “Are you all settled in for the night, lads?”

“Pete!” Gibsie cheered, looking as thrilled to see my father as Claire did when he made one of his sporadic appearances. “That’s a fancy shirt.”

“I thought I best make an effort given the night.”

Make an effort .

What a fucking joke .

“Are you and Sinead going to Old Hall House for the night?”

“We are, Gibs.” Dad smiled before turning his attention to me. “Are you all set for ringing in the New Year with your friends, son?”

Choosing to ignore him like he did me, I resumed playing FIFA , while my eyes burned holes in the television screen. Feely, sensing my discomfort, nudged my shoulder with his in silent solidarity.

Because he got it.

“Pete! The taxi’s here, love!” I heard my mother call from downstairs, followed by, “Claire! Lizzie’s here with Caoimhe.”

My heart started to gallop almost as loudly as my sister’s heavy footfalls as she thundered out of her room and down the stairs, screaming “Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie!”

Yeah, Baby Sister .

Me, too .

“You know what I just thought?” Feely announced several hours later. “If Caoimhe marries Mark, then Liz and Gibs will be family.”

“Shit, you’re right,” I muttered, brows creasing. “They’d be in-laws.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” Gibs protested, sounding horrified. “Because he is not my brother.”

“Definitely not,” Claire agreed from her perch on my bed, where she was painting her toenails. “Ew, Patrick. Don’t insult the Gibson genes.”

“ Thank you , Claire-Bear,” Gibsie replied, stretching a hand up to high-five my sister. She paused mid-toe to pat his hand. “That shite-hawk will never be my family.”

“His father did marry your mam, lad,” Feely reminded him with a good-natured chuckle. “That makes him your stepbrother.”

“Don’t fucking remind me,” Gibsie groaned, retraining his focus on the game of FIFA 98 we were playing. “Keith Allen.” He sniffed the air like the name offended him. “He should be called Keith Alien because that’s what he is.” He tapped furiously on the PlayStation controller. “A fucking parasitic intruder.”

“What did I miss?” Lizzie asked, returning with an armful of snacks from the kitchen. Dressed in a long-sleeved, flannel shirt and baggy jeans, she looked beautiful. Dropping a packet of Minstrels on my lap, she eyed the beanbag I was sharing with Feely before deciding against it. She then moved for my bed before hilariously recoiling in horror when she eyed the unfolding pampering session.

Backing away from my sister as inconspicuously as she could, Liz found sanctuary with Gibs on a purple, inflatable Groovy Chick armchair. The armchair said sister had traipsed into my room with earlier.

Claire had insisted that we all stay in the same room and have a slumber party. She had grander notions of pillow fights, gossip, and girl talk and was insistent that we stay in her room. However, my room possessed the PlayStation, and the boys held the majority, hence the current setup.

“Who’s a parasitic intruder, Thor?” Liz asked, butting his hip with hers to scoot over. “Who do I need to hurt?”

“You would, wouldn’t ya?” Gibs chuckled, shoving over to let her slide onto the seat next to him. “Little viper.”

“Keith Allen,” Claire chimed in, toenail painting resumed. “And I wholeheartedly agree.”

Oh, here we go .

Stifling a groan, I flopped back on the beanbag and braced myself for trouble.

“I was just saying that if your sister marries Mark, then you and Gibs will be family,” Feely explained, clearly out of the loop when it came to our friend and his feelings toward his stepfamily.

It wasn’t Feely’s fault. He didn’t live on the street, and Gibsie was a master concealer. The worse shit got at home, the more outrageously funny he became. “According to Gibs, that’s not a good thing.”

“It’s not,” Liz agreed, sharing a packet of Tayto with Gibs. “Besides, we don’t need them to get married to be family.”

“Exactly,” he said, wholeheartedly agreeing with her.

“Can we not talk about that creep?” Claire asked, looking almost as disgusted as she sounded. “It’s bad enough he’s in our lounge, sucking face with Caoimhe.” A shudder rolled through her. “Ew.”

“Agreed,” I chimed in, grinning when I scored another goal against Feely’s team. “It’s Christmas, lads, not Halloween.”

“Speaking of Christmas…” With a hearty chuckle, Gibsie hooked a playful arm around Liz’s neck and pulled her close. “I have a present for you.”

“Don’t you dare,” the rest of us started to protest, but it was too late for that when a painfully long and painfully foul-smelling trump ripped through the air.

“Oh my God, Gibs, did you just fart ?” Liz choked out through fits of laughter, as she tried to wrestle her way out of Gibsie’s headlock. “Ah, ah, I think I can taste it.”

“Breathe it in,” Gibsie encouraged, using his foot to fan the air toward her. “That’s my special recipe.”

“Jesus Christ, what did you eat?” Feely demanded, using his T-shirt to cover his nose. “It smells like something died inside of you, lad.”

“You know I like baked beans with my spuds,” Gibs laughed before breaking into song. “ Beans, beans, are good for your heart, the more you eat, the more you fart, the more you fart, the more you eat —”

“ The more you sit on the toilet seat ,” Claire chimed in, pegging her nose with her fingers. “How many tins of beans did you eat , Gerard?”

“Hey, at least it wasn’t spinach,” he laughed back before crooning, “ Popeye the sailor man, he lives in a caravan, he lives with his mammy, she tickles her fanny, he’s Popeye the sailor man…”

“You are sick ,” Feely snickered, shaking his head. “Absolutely vile, lad.”

“I have more,” Gibsie offered, still laughing. “Do ye want to hear them?”

“No!” all four of us chorused.

“Fine,” he huffed before retraining his attention on Liz, who was trying to break free of his hold. “Come here, Liz. Santa forgot to deliver your present, so he asked me to give it to you.”

“If you fart on me again, I will kill you dead,” she squealed, trying and failing to scramble to safety. “Fair warning, Gibs.”

“Too late,” he chuckled, wrestling her onto the floor. “It’s on the way.”

“Gibsie, no!” Laughing hysterically, Liz pushed at his chest when he started making engine noises. “Don’t you dare—ahh!”

“Brmm, brmm, brmm,” he snickered, making engine noises as he slowly lowered his ass onto her face and let out the vilest ripper of a fart. “Merry Christmas!”

“Ahh! I can taste it,” Liz screamed. “I can taste beans on my tongue!”

I wanted to help her, but I was too busy laughing uncontrollably.

Heaving and gagging, Liz scrambled out from beneath him and dove for my bedroom window.

Pushing the window open, she leaned over the sill, gulping for air through fits of laughter. “If I get conjunctivitis from you, I swear to God, Thor, I will make it my life’s mission to torment you.”

“Ooh, fighting words, viper.” Jumping to his feet, Gibs banged on his chest like a gorilla. “I’m ready for ya.”

“Oh yeah?” Challenge accepted, Liz climbed onto the windowsill and took aim at Gibs. “You think you’re hard enough to take me on, do ya?”

“Oh, you better believe it, viper. I’m Matt and Jeff combined,” Gibs goaded, beckoning her with his fingers to go for it. “I’m the third brother of the Hardy Boyz.”

“Yeah, well, get ready for Lita’s moonsault, bitch,” Liz warned and then proceeded to turn her back to him and crouch.

“Liz, no, no, no, there’s no padding!” Gibs tried to protest, hurrying to intercept her. “Wait! You’re going to break your—ahhhh!”

“No fucking way!” I cheered completely mesmerized by the girl who executed the perfect backflip off my bedroom window. Not only that but she managed to flatten Gibs like a pancake.

“I’m dead,” he wailed from beneath her, while my sister squealed from behind a pillow. “I’m dead, I tell ya!”

“Smell that, Thor,” Liz cackled, pinning him to the carpet, wrestling style. “Victory.”

“You are a strange and terrifying female,” he mused. “But an unforgettable one.”

Cackling, she helped him up. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride.”