The Dead Boy's Guide To Second Chances

5. cautionary tale

THIRTEEN MONTHS AND THREE WEEKS PRIOR TO THE DEATH OF OLIVER SALLOW

Finn didn't always use to panic in Oliver Sallow's presence. For a while there, being with him actually made him feel the calmest he could imagine.

Five days after the Bathroom Breakdown Incident, he went back to the library. Even then, he still felt it in his bones. It had been the first time he had a panic attack at school. Naturally, it also had to be the first time that someone walked in on him.

Like all his panic attacks before—seven, if he had counted them right—it had come out of nowhere. One moment he'd been revising a section on glycolysis for his Bio A-Levels, the next he felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. He'd barely made it to the restroom in time before the shaking started.

Re-entering the library that Thursday, Finn felt his heartbeat stutter, but he quickly tamped down on the feeling. He knew by now that the panic attacks didn't have anything to do with the location he was in. They were all him.

And besides—it wasn't like he could avoid the library forever. He loved that place. It didn't have anything to do with reading, and more with the fact that he liked libraries as a general concept. He liked being alone without feeling lonely. Even more than that, he liked not being home.

The third reason was currently sat behind the large mahogany desk at the front of the library, his lace-up boots propped on the worn surface as he flipped through a tiny book.

Finn was sitting closer to the librarian's desk than he usually did, the edge of it visible if he scooted just a tiny inch to the left and craned his neck to peek around a shelf. He wasn't sure why he had chosen this desk. The easy explanation was that he'd already embarrassed himself in front of Oliver, so there wasn't really a reason to play hide and seek with him now. The truth that was more difficult to swallow was that, for some unknown reason, Finn had come away from the scarring experience strangely intrigued.

Oliver Sallow was the kind of person that everyone in Blissby talked about, but no one really knew. The stories that were whispered about him ranged from mildly concerning to downright bizarre: he was a satanist, he was in the witness protection program, he was dealing drugs, he had won a poetry competition, he could be found wandering around the cemetery in the afternoons, he had once saved somebody's cat from a tree. To Finn, Oliver had always been more of a myth than an actual person; a cautionary tale with a bad black dye job.

Until he'd found himself squeezed under the sink next to him.

Then, Oliver hadn't been very scary at all. Trying to make Finn laugh, offering him a ride home, he'd been... oddly sweet.

It almost made Finn feel indebted to him. Which was why he was presently clutching a bag of Maltesers while trying to work up the nerve to get up from his seat.

He scooted. Craned his neck again. Oliver was still sitting in the same position, only moving every once in a while to take a sip of coffee—Villain, I have done thy mother, his mug proudly proclaimed—without taking his eyes off the page.

Finn swallowed. He could easily just forget about this, go home, keep the Maltesers. But... that would've meant giving up. Which meant avoidance. Which meant doing what his mother would do. He got out of his chair and rounded the corner.

As he tentatively neared Oliver, he realized that his lips were moving, whispering to himself: "Stay, illusion! If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, speak to—Oh, good lord!"

This last part, Finn guessed, was not from Shakespeare's quill. Aside from the sudden exclamation, Oliver quickly regained his composure. Lips ticking up ever so slightly—Finn always wondered how people did that without looking stupid; had he practiced this in the mirror?—, he swung his legs off the desk and drew himself up straight. "Finn O'Connell. To what do I owe the pleasure?"