The Dead Boy's Guide To Second Chances

21. one-man travelling theatre

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

On February 10th 2021, Oliver found himself ducking under kitschy heart garlands strung in the school hallways, pink posters tacked to the lockers announcing the annual rose sale. It was a silly tradition—and a dreadfully American one, in Oliver's opinion—where students could have roses delivered to the objects of their pubescent affection on February 14th.

To him, it had always seemed a rather humiliating affair; in the middle of class, someone would come knocking at the door and distribute the flowers to a blushing handful while the rest watched with a mix of envy and second-hand-embarrassment. The proceeds went into the year's prom.

Oliver had never had anyone to send roses to, on Valentine's day or otherwise. This time, he, to his own horror, found himself slowing his steps as he approached the make-shift stall set up in the hallway. He wondered what Finn would say if he sent him one. Then, he grimaced as he recalled with clarity the way Finn had left class last year, cheeks as red as the small bouquet in his hands.

Tearing away his gaze, Oliver left the stall behind.

Not roses, then. But maybe something different.

***

On the 14th, Oliver arrived at school extra early. The lockers at Blissby School were organized by last name—S and O were close enough together that Finn's locker was only a few feet down the hall from his. His lock combination was as familiar to Oliver as his own by now, used mostly to drop off little notes between classes or to get his books when Finn was too tired after practice to stand up and retrieve them himself. Today, the delivery in question was different: it was a bag of Maltesers, a Lucozade Sport (the orange flavour; Finn's favourite), and a printed code for a Spotify playlist he'd spent hours curating last night.

With his hand on the locker door, Oliver hesitated. Was he being too presumptuous doing this? It wasn't like they were boyfriends or anything. But... they had been hanging out for almost six months now. Since their first kiss, nearly four months had passed. And these weren't roses, nothing obviously romantic. Just a regular gift.

Channelling the courage of every romantic hero he had ever read about, Oliver closed the door and clicked the lock back into place. Then, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his leather trench coat and hurried down the hall to his first class.

As expected, his lessons dragged that day. At half past eleven, the door burst open and a girl from the rose committee strolled inside. Oliver hated the way he tensed a little as she came towards him, only to make a hard left at the last second and hand the flower to the boy one desk over.

Not boyfriends, he repeated in his head. It was for the best if Finn didn't gift him anything. It would make it easier for Oliver to detach himself once he had to leave.

And so, he wasn't disappointed. Or jealous. Or even just the slightest bit crestfallen as he strode into the library that afternoon.

"Oliver!" greeted Mrs. Thistlecloth.

She was sitting behind the librarian's desk, waiting for him to arrive before she could end her work day. She was a spindly white woman in her late fifties who was as much an institution at Blissby School as the library itself. With her wide-rimmed glasses and her crisply ironed blouses, she always had a rather severe appearance—until you looked at her feet, where nine times out of ten, brightly patterned socks peeked out between her shoes and the hem of her pants. Or until you found her beaming at you with a hot cup of coffee at the ready, as was the case for Oliver almost every afternoon.