The Dead Boy's Guide To Second Chances

8. fire in a hayloft

TWO MONTHS AND TWENTY-FOUR DAYS AFTER THE DEATH OF OLIVER SALLOW

"Ollie. Ollie. Ollie, hey."

These days, the nickname feels to Oliver like nails grating down a chalkboard. This might be because it's not Finn who says it. Or, possibly, because it is being yelled into his ear at about a million decibels.

"Ollie. Stop being a little bitch and open your eyes, mate."

Oliver, on account of being a huge bitch, keeps his eyes stubbornly closed. "Fuck off, Nova."

There's a moment of judgemental silence. Then, Oliver hisses as his left earbud is abruptly ripped out.

"Come on, you lazy fuck. I'm supposed to give you a lecture. I can't be doing that when you're lying here half-asleep."

Oliver opens his eyes, but only so he can glare at the nuisance crouched next to him.

He's lying on the couch in the common room in Dover, half his earphones still in. He wasn't listening to any music—he just likes the small buffer of silence between him and the rest of the world.

Wordlessly, he holds out his hand for his earbud.

Nova places it into his palm with a flourish, entirely unimpressed by the daggers he shoots at her. "Good morning, beautiful."

"What do you want."

"Loaded question to ask a dead person," says Nova.

Oliver doesn't laugh.

"God, you really are committed to your scary loner bit, aren't you?" She blows a strand of blue hair out of her eyes. It's always flopping into her face in some way—while the sides are trimmed into an undercut, the top is way too long. Oliver itches for a pair of scissors every time he sees her. Which is far too often for his taste. "Way to give us a bad rep."

The us in question is goths. Since their orientation week, Nova has been following him around like a stray puppy; all it took for her to imprint on him was a mutual dislike for colour and about two litres of liquid eyeliner between their two faces.

"Is this the lecture you wanted to give me?" Oliver questions.

"No. Dana wants me to pass on that she's pissed you didn't come to supervision."

With a groan, Oliver slumps farther into the couch. Every other week, all the In-Betweeners are asked to meet with Dana to discuss their assigned cases. It's supposed to be cathartic to them, a way to take off a bit of their load. Oliver thinks that the biggest catharsis would be to be left alone for more than two seconds. He's been dead for a few weeks, and so far there has been decidedly little resting. Or peace, for that matter. Dana and the wannabe Siouxsie Sioux next to him have made sure of that.

"Why didn't you come?" Nova asks.

"Because I had nothing to report."

"I thought you had your first contact with your assigned case this week."

"Fine. I had nothing to report that anyone would understand," Oliver corrects himself.

"Edgy," Nova comments.

"I do my best."

Nova lets herself topple backwards onto the hardwood floor, arms spread wide on both sides. "I still think it's fucked up they're making you do this with your ex-boyfriend, you know."

Oliver snorts. "That's what's fucked up about this? We're fucking dead, Nova. We died. They brought us back, but only for a year. That's like... I don't know, giving a kid a lolly and then saying All right, that's enough, time to kick it for good. What kind of messed up concept is that? What are we even doing here?"