Reluctantly Charmed by Ellie O'Neill

yard who’s just realized she doesn’t hate boys. “He’s a friend. That was a typo in the article. The journalist got it wrong.”
    “Really?” Mam said, never taking her eyes from mine. “Your father and I are going to buy his record and see what kind of a fellow he is. See if he’s good enough for our Kate.”
    “Honestly, he’s just a friend.” Oh my God , I thought. Mam and Dad would probably become Red Horizon groupies. Things were getting weirder by the minute.

    Around nine I cycled home. I lived on the south side of the city center, on the first floor of a converted house. Even though my flat was small, I loved the color and bustle of the neighborhood, which was dotted with settled immigrants and friendly old Dublin families. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
    It was a lovely bright evening, a sign that summer was knocking on the door of spring. And yet the Irish weather never fails to disappoint. It still managed to rain. There were sheets of it crashing off my face, and my sodden jeans were creaking with everyturn of the pedals. I humped my shoulders over the handlebars and went as fast as I could, thinking about how great it was to see my parents so happy. It had been a long time since they’d been so giddy and full of life. Maybe, as Mam said, it was just a bit of gas and these Steps would give us all a bit of a laugh over the next few weeks. I hoped so.
    In spite of the rain and the arthritic damp that was seeping through my clothes, I felt upbeat when I pulled into the front garden of my flat. I got off my bike straight-legged—I’d need a WWF wrestler to help get me out of my jeans—and started to chain my bike to the railings, thinking, as I fumbled for the key, how I’d have to talk to my landlord about cutting back the overgrown creeper. It was coming at me, reaching for me from every angle. Then I felt a spasm in my back. I was being watched. You know the way you just know, the way your primal instinct kicks in?
    Firmly clutching my bike chain in my hand, I swiveled around and manically scanned the overgrown bushes for a shadow. I could hear my own breathing, which was confusing. I heard a rustle in the leaves and, with a fright, jumped backward about twenty feet, straight into the next day’s rubbish collection. Cushioned by the wet, oozing black bags and almost suffocating from the smell of putrid onions, I involuntarily flailed my arms and legs in panic. My kicking split the bags and I saw a packet of pasta and a can of Coke break free.
    “Are you okay?” The quietest voice I’d ever heard whispered from over my head.
    I screamed and tried to kick, liberating some Daz Automatic and Walkers crisps.
    “I’ll just be over here if you want some help,” the voice squeaked before a shadow moved back into the garden.
    I rolled out of the rubbish and with great difficulty attemptedevery yoga position I’d ever read about to try to stand up while still clutching my weapon of mass destruction.
    “I have a weapon,” I shouted into the blackness.
    “Okay,” came the response.
    The shadow moved to the path and into my line of vision. He was tiny, wide-faced and anorak-wearing, with a side parting that must have been the envy of every Ken doll. He didn’t look like a mugger. He was firmly clutching a book with one hand and waving like a three-year-old on a merry-go-round with the other.
    “Hi,” he shouted.
    “What are you doing here? Who are you?”
    I straightened up, confident that with a Chinese burn and some serious ear tugging I could outwit this mouselike mugger.
    “My name’s Simon. It’s a great honor to make your acquaintance,” he shouted from the path with a nervous stutter. “I’m the chairman of the Seven Steps Fan Club.”
    Those last few words hung in the air between us. Silence. “The fan club members have some questions for you that we hope you could answer? For example . . .” He started rummaging through his book, flicking furiously through the