Figment (3 page)

He handed me the sketch—it was the fountain in front of us
, but rendered in spiky, harsh lines so that it was transformed from banal into something striking, almost threatening. I drew in a breath in spite of myself. “Cool.”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Though I couldn’t see him very well in the dark, I sensed he was blushing. “I just play around.”

“It’s really good.” The sky to the east was gray now, instead of black, with a wash of pink at the edge. From beyond the buildings, I could hear the faint hum of traffic beginning.

“So, what brings you across the pond?” Oliver asked.

“My dad has business here. We’ll be here all summer.”

Oliver’s eyes lingered on my crutch and the side of my head where the hair was missing, but he must have sensed something in my tone, because he merely nodded and was quiet.

The sky was getting lighter. The pink had been replaced by streaks of a gorgeous coral red. A man in a uniform propped open one of the glass lobby doors.

“I should probably get back. My parents will be up soon.” I reached for my crutch, which had fallen to the ground.

“Yeah, me too. Work and all.” Oliver slid a strong hand under my elbow and helped me to my feet. It could have been a weird moment, but he was so calm and casual that it didn’t bother me. Just as gracefully, he handed me my crutch.

I glanced at his face, more visible now in the growing sunlight. He had high cheekbones. “Is it a summer job? Or are you done with school?” He couldn’t be more than eighteen.

Oliver laughed a little. “I wish. I’m going to the Royal College of Art in the autumn.”

“Oh, that’s cool. Are you going be an artist?” I felt my ears flush. That sounded stupid, like he was five and I was asking about his dream to be a firefighter.

“Or some kind of designer. Maybe a graphic designer.” Oliver rolled his eyes ruefully. “According to my parents, though, I’m going to be working at a chip shop, with my new fine arts degree.”

“You could design T-shirts for the chip shop, maybe,” I offered, laughing.

He snorted, his face breaking into a grin. “That’s brilliant. My bright future.”

Through the open glass doors, I could see the lobby of our building starting to fill up with
tired-looking men and women in suits, expensive briefcases in hand. Outside the courtyard, a garbage truck blatted, followed by the racket of a Dumpster being emptied. “I really should go,” I said again. “It was nice meeting you.” As I spoke, I realized it was actually true. For one instant, the horror of the last few weeks had receded, and I was just myself again, laughing with someone in a courtyard.

“Hey, wait.” Oliver fidgeted with one of the pearl snaps on his shirt. “I’m going to check out a concert at the Enterprise tonight—it’s a great pub. Maybe you want to come, too?”

I shook my head immediately, Davis’s image swimming up before my eyes. There was no way I could go on a date. I opened my mouth to say as much, but then I remembered I hadn’t told Oliver I had a boyfriend.

He must have noticed my face, though. “It’s not a date,” he said quickly. “I’m meeting a few people there. I thought you might be lonely, being away from home.”

I relaxed a little and studied his open, friendly face. Then I nodded slowly. He was right. I was lonely—horribly lonely, actually. Davis wouldn’t want me not to make friends. “All right.”

“Fantastic. It’s in Camden, on Haverstock Hill. Right across from the Chalk Farm Tube station.
I’ll come pick you up at seven. What’s your flat number?”

“Fourteen B.” I watched as he wrote it on the back of his hand with his charcoal pencil.

“I’ll see you then.” He waved and turned back toward his brownstone.

I watched him disappear through a small iron gate, then hopped back into the bustling lobby. As I waited for the elevator, I realized I was smiling.

I set the lip gloss down on my dresser and stared into the mirror. A pale girl with
dark circles under her eyes and long, wavy brown hair stared back. I brushed on a little silver eye shadow, but it just made me look bruised. I reminded myself not to care too much, though. I wasn’t dressing up for anyone here.

I pulled a gray tank top over my head and, opening the drawer in my bedside table, took out the infinity charm. I pressed it briefly to my lips before slipping it into my pocket. I picked up my bag, automatically checking for my phone. Not there, of course. It was probably sitting in a landfill somewhere right now. Crutch over my forearm, I hobbled to the kitchen.

Mom was hovering over the stove, which was splashed liberally with batter. A stained cookbook was propped on the counter next to her. She dolloped several blobs of something tan and studded with raisins onto a cookie sheet, then looked up.

“Oh, Zoe, are you going out?” She sounded surprised, probably because I was wearing something other than sweatpants for the first time since our arrival.

“Mom, what are those?” I indicated the tan blobs.

She sighed. “Scones. Probably lousy scones. The butter doesn’t quite taste like it does at home.”

“I’m going to listen to a band with this guy from next door. Oliver. Okay?” My words sounded abrupt, I knew, but it was still hard for me to say anything to my parents without the anger bubbling up again.

“That’s wonderful!” She beamed, then dropped the smile. “I mean, I’m glad you’re going out. You need a little activity after sitting around the flat all week.”

“Yeah, maybe . . .” I pulled out a chair at the cold metal kitchen table and sat down. Maybe this concert would be even better for me than I thought. If I could fake it long enough with Oliver—make them think it was him I was interested in—then maybe my parents would relax a little and let me call Davis. Or even let him visit. My heart thumped at the thought, but I kept my face pleasantly neutral.

“This guy is really nice,” I said casually, playing with a napkin. “He’s English. Going to art college in the fall.”

My mom dropped a few more spoonfuls of batter onto the cookie sheet and slid the scones into the oven. “I’m sure he’s lovely. I can’t wait to meet him.” She was smiling again, possibly because this was also the closest we’d come to an actual conversation since the accident.

The flat bell buzzed loudly in the kitchen. “That’s him.” I left my mother fiddling with the oven dials and went down the hall to answer the door.

After an embarrassingly long time fumbling with the locks, I finally wrenched open the door.

“Hello.” Oliver was wearing another plaid shirt with snaps and what looked like the same jeans.

“Hi.” I tried to sound enthusiastic, in case Mom was listening from the kitchen.

“Close your eyes and hold out your hand,” he said.

I obeyed but then jerked my hand back. “Is this going to be alive?”

“Possibly.”

I felt him take my hand and drop something solid and oblong into my palm. I opened my eyes to see a candy bar in a gold wrapper.
Crunchie
was written across the top. I laughed. “Is it better than a Hershey bar?”

“Oh, you have no idea. You haven’t lived until you’ve had a Crunchie.” He opened the wrapper and handed it back to me.

“Is that Oliver, Zoe?” my mother called from the kitchen. Like she didn’t know.

I rolled my eyes at him. “Come meet my mom.” I led him through to the kitchen, taking a bite of the Crunchie. There was some kind of honey-tasting toffee inside. Sort of like a Butterfinger, but not as peanut-buttery.

“Oliver, I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Zoe’s mom, Mary.” She wiped her hands on a dishcloth. Her gaze drifted to his tattooed forearms.

Oliver shook her hand. “Delighted to meet you.” He offered her a charming smile. “We’ll be going on the Tube tonight. I hope that’s all right. It’s very safe.”

I could see that my mother was impressed. “Yes, that’s fine. Zoe’s experienced with the New York subway.” She paused. “You certainly have a lot of tattoos!”

“Ah, yes.” Oliver cleared his throat. “I design them myself. When
ever something important happens to me, I get another one.”

“Well, they certainly are
. . . colorful!” Mom tried.

I groaned inwardly, just as the timer on the stove beeped.

“Oh, the first batch of scones is done.” She leapt up and pulled the hot pan from the oven. “Would you two like to try them?”

“How about having one for takeaway?” Oliver suggested. “Wouldn’t want to miss the start of the show.”

“No, of course not.” Mom smiled.

Oliver accepted a hot scone balanced on a paper towel.

Waiting for the elevator out in the hall, he took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Not bad for a first attempt. There’s an off flavor, though—something . . .” The elevator doors opened, and we stepped on, edging to one side to avoid several men in suits staring at their phones. The car hummed downward.

I leaned over and sniffed. “She said maybe the butter was
weird.”

“Ah.” He nodded and offered me the paper towel, just as the doors opened onto the lobby. “Scone?”

“Thanks.” I laughed in spite of myself as we stepped off, accepted the scone, and dumped it into a nearby trash can.

A small group was clustered around the Tube entrance as we approached. “There they are.” Oliver waved.

“Oh, great.” I tried to feign pleasant anticipation, but the thought of meeting a bunch of people I didn’t know and didn’t care about felt like too much just then. My stomach muscles hurt from just the short walk to the Tube stop, and my arm was aching from leaning on my crutch. But Oliver was already helping me over the curb onto the sidewalk, so I pasted a smile onto my face.

“—three boys with mandolins, so obvious—” a girl with a crown of braids was saying as we walked up.

“Elisa, you’re such a snob,” said a tall, bearded guy.

“Don’t be too hard on her, Max.” A shorter, squarer boy was standing to the side, his hands thrust into his pockets. “She can’t help being from Knightsbridge.” He spotted us. “Hi, Oliver.” His eyes darted to me.

“This is Zoe, everyone,” Oliver introduced me. “She’s visiting from the States for the summer. Needed to get out of the house a little.”

“Maxwell.” The bearded guy transferred a hand-rolled cigarette to the corner of his mouth and shook my hand. “Welcome across the pond.”

“Thanks.” I balanced on my crutch, swaying, and awkwardly shook his hand. Their eyes lingered on my crutch and scarred face. I saw Maxwell notice the missing hair at the side of my head and then pretend he hadn’t.

The girl pushed forward. “Hi, Zoe. I’m Elisa, and this is Liam.” She indicated the shorter guy, who nodded at me.

“Who’s the band tonight?” I asked as we all headed into the Tube station and down the long escalator to the train.

“Gentle Sarah,” Maxwell said, taking Elisa’s hand. “They’re good—old-timey kind of sound, with banjos.”

Everyone was happy and talking on the train ride over. The car was otherwise empty, so Liam entertained us by doing a monkey-bars act using the hand loops hanging from the ceiling. By the time we arrived at the Chalk Farm stop, I felt almost cheerful.

“Here, it’s right across the street.” Oliver steered me through the glass doors of the Tube exit into the balmy London night. He pointed to a black building across the street on the corner.
the enterprise
was spelled out across the front in lowercase white letters.

“Are you okay walking there on your crutch?” Elisa asked.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I said, just as I stepped off the curb and practically into the path of a motor scooter. I stumbled, snaring my crutch in a sewer grate. Oliver and Liam caught me by the upper arms before I face-planted in the gutter.

I smiled sheepishly at them. “Thanks. I still haven’t gotten used to looking the other way.”

My eyes met Oliver’s briefly, and he dropped his hand from my arm. Guilt zinged through me for an instant, and I averted my gaze.
Davis.
Oliver’s eyes were soft and brown. So different from Davis’s icy-blue ones. I felt a pang twist my gut and limped across the street.

A line of people stood outside the pub doors, snaking along the sidewalk and around the corner. Lots of scruffy beards, elaborate sideburns, retro mustaches. Lots of vintage plaid shirts like Oliver’s. The girls had heavy, blunt-cut bangs, long curtains of hair, or dangling braids. A chalkboard to one side of the door read
live music here tonight
. A second chalkboard on the other side said,
happy birthday, noodle.

As we walked up, a guy in a checkered vest opened the door, and people started to shuffle in. Inside, the pub was little and dark, with an elaborate series of beer taps behind the carved wooden bar. Scratched-up mirrors glinted on the walls, and old, dusty oil portraits hung everywhere. A few boys with early Beatles haircuts and shirts buttoned right up to their chins were setting up on the minuscule stage.

We found seats off to one side, and Oliver ordered a pitcher of Stella. Maxwell and Liam started talking about Paris, where Liam was apparently going to college, and Elisa was texting on her phone. Oliver smiled at me and stretched his legs out under the table, linking his hands behind his head.