The Dead Boy's Guide To Second Chances

23. picnic psychoanalysis

SEVEN MONTHS PRIOR TO THE DEATH OF OLIVER SALLOW

Finn had never really liked the holidays. Sure, he liked not having to go to school, and he didn't mind a few extra hours of sleep. It was just that, more often than not, his holidays were lonely.

While almost all his friends drove to see their relatives over Easter, some even travelling out of the country with their parents, Finn couldn't remember the last time he'd spent a holiday somewhere other than at home. Which was fine. He knew that they were tight on money, and that there was no way his mum could stand a train ride, much less flying on a plane. They could've driven somewhere, maybe, but even then there was still a high chance she would only lock herself in her hotel room.

Finn wasn't angry at her for it. He himself was nervous before getting on the bus before away games—Had he always been? He couldn't remember—, knowing that if he had a panic attack, there was nowhere to discreetly hyperventilate. So... yeah. Not angry. Just a bit disappointed, maybe.

This time, however, was different. This time, Oliver was there.

His foster parents weren't travelling—something about grading and a study and research that couldn't be put off—which meant that, for two weeks, they saw each other almost every day.

That day, they were spending it in Blissby Green. It was the closest thing the town had to a park; a carefully cropped square of grass with a few monkey bars and a swing set that was located a few minutes away from their school. At two p.m., the April sun stood high in the sky, prompting them to take shelter in the shade of one of the tall oak trees.

Finn was sure they made for a comical sight. There was him, dressed in his football trackies and a washed-out t-shirt, the sun warm on his bare arms. Then there was Oliver, draped in all black, glowering at the blue sky from behind the sunglasses they'd bought in Brick Lane like it had personally wronged him.

"Have you ever travelled?" Finn asked between sips from his Ribena. Before their picnic, they'd gone shopping at the nearby Sainsbury's. Their haul of discounted Easter chocolates and crisps was scattered across the blanket between them. "Like, properly?"

Oliver popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth, thinking about it for a moment. "I went to Spain once with one of my foster families. I just remember that it was scorching. I wanted to see the museums, but they dragged me to the beach every day."

Finn snorted a soft laugh as the image of Oliver miserably stalking through the sand in his leather trench coat popped into his mind. "What about the Walkers? Did they ever take you anywhere?"

Oliver hesitated. "They wanted to, yeah. Last year, over the summer. I didn't go though."

"Why not?"

"Dunno. Just felt weird." He shifted a little, repositioning his head where it was pillowed on his bunched-up coat. The piercings in his ears glittered in the sun. "Like I was intruding or something. I just imagined them going through a photo album in a few years and seeing holiday pictures with me in them and going Ha, remember when that bloke lived with us?"

Oliver didn't speak much about his feelings regarding his foster family—or any of the ones before, for that matter. Hidden behind the sunglasses, it was hard to make out his expression.

Finn didn't press. Instead, he asked, "If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?"

"Rome," came the immediate answer.

"'Course," Finn snorted.

"You?"

"I'm not sure. Somewhere proper warm. Somewhere that's not like..." Finn waved a hand around. "This."