The Boy That Broke America

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WHEN LANE EMERSTAN first found Ivor Bennett, he was sitting on the side of one of New York's many roads. He was outside a café on the corner of Waverly Place and 6th Avenue; sitting slouched on a bench with his suitcase, despondently picking at the colourful pansies in a pot beside him, looking awfully lost and utterly exhausted.

It was a pity, really, that he'd given up on looking for the flat she shared with her mother, she thought, considering that it was a mere street away. She hopped off her bicycle across the street from him, and guided it across the road in between the cars that sped down the tarmac intermittently.

Ivor's trip to New York had been arduous, she knew. The flight from London had been delayed and then cancelled, leaving him to frantically sort out new travel arrangements in order to get to America as quickly as possible.

He was tall and lean, long figure draped over the wooden bench, with a mop of shambolic dark locks atop his head and thick lashes that seemed to stretch for miles.

Lane regarded him cautiously as she approached the worn wooden bench. He was staring at a small, old-fashioned paper map of the city. It was a yellow colour, lined with the red and blue veins of streets. Someone had marked out a rough route with black pen, scribbling over the veins and making a path from JFK International Airport to Christopher Street and her apartment.

Ivor didn't notice Lane until she was barely a foot away, when he looked up with an expression of equal trepidation and annoyance. She didn't blame him, really. A stranger walks up to you while you're minding your own business and trying to find your way in a strange city, and you're bound to be slightly on edge.

"Can I help you?" He asked, in a rather clipped and slightly rude tone.

"Well, I think the question is more whether I can help you." Lane replied; amusement laced through her tone.

"I'm sorry?" The poor boy looked tremendously confused.

Lane's lips twisted up slightly at the corners to form the faintest hint of a smile. "Apology accepted."

"Haha," Ivor replied, not a trace of amusement lining his sarcastic answer, "Very funny. Look: I'm lost, quite unbelievably jetlagged, and penniless. The only way you could possibly help me right now is to tell me that either you're Flora Emerstan or here to provide me with caffeine."

Lane grinned widely, "Well, you're in luck. Lane Emerstan, at your service." She enjoyed the look of surprise and slight shock that graced his features. "Now, on the latter issue: there is a coffee shop directly behind you, and I would willing to buy you anything they offer that contains caffeine."

Ivor immediately brightened up at that statement. It was funny, Lane thought, how the prospect of caffeine changed someone's entire demeanor; for some, it was the holy grail, and yet for others, it was a brown liquid that gave you shaky fingers if you consumed too much.

"Are you serious?" He asked, with all the excitement of a child on Christmas morning.

"No." she deadpanned; eventually smiling as his face instantaneously dropped, she rolled her eyes and took his elbow to guide him towards the worn, olive-coloured shop-front and heaved open the hefty wooden door.

The shop was vaguely empty, being a Monday morning. Usually, she had a lecture at that time, but all her classes had been rearranged for that particular week, and so there she was, babysitting a rather cantankerous and very weary Englishman.

Lane stopped at the counter and peered up at the menu. She hadn't thought to bring her glasses, and reading surprisingly proved rather difficult without them.

"So, what would you like?" She asked Ivor, digging the required dollar notes out the back pocket of her jeans.

He replied without a single hesitation - "an Americano, please" - and Lane chuckled.

"One Americano and a jam thumbprint cookie, please." She relayed to the sweet-faced girl behind the counter before adding in a whispered tone to Ivor, "those biscuits are the best goddamn things to ever grace the Earth, I tell you."

Ivor smirked at Lane in cool amusement, and she pretended to ignore him as the girl behind the counter reached for the biscuit with silver tongs and dropped it into a paper bag, before handing it to Lane. She moved over towards the unofficial waiting area, beckoning Ivor to follow her as she trod across the dark wooden floorboards.

"So," Ivor began - attempting to spark up a conversation, "Waverly Place... isn't there some television program about a bunch of wizards who live there?"

(He did not do a very good job)

(In fact, he made Lane take a slightly significant disliking to him in that moment)

She simply looked at him, exasperation pouring from her expression.

"You have got to be kidding me," Lane muttered, turning to face the counter.

(Not that she could turn very far, because the café itself was rather small)

"What?" Ivor asked, apparently confused with Lane's current state of exasperated-ness.

Lane let out an exaggerated sigh and turned towards him, "Please don't tell me I'm stuck with the only person in the entire world who can manage to make the first thing they associate with New York a Disney show? You couldn't have picked something good like, I don't know, Friends?"

Ivor simply shrugged as if to say, 'what can you do?' and turned back to the counter.

Lane was now angry.

(Mostly because Ivor had shrugged at Friends, but also because she was impatient and Ivor's coffee was taking too long)

"Please tell me you didn't just shrug at Friends?"

Ivor raised an eyebrow (Lane was quite envious that he could do that, as she'd never been able to herself. Not that she was going to tell Ivor about that), "You're kinda weird."

"Hush." Lane silenced him, just as the girl behind the counter called "One Americano?"

He flashed her a grin and reached into his pocket to grab a few dollars to drop into the tips jar, only to falter when he remembered that he was penniless.

(His words, not Lane's)

Ivor turned to Lane and pleaded with her with his eyes. It made Lane feel oddly superior (no matter that he was obviously just over a foot taller than her).

(Not that Lane was short in any sense of the word, but he made her feel short)

(Lane did not like that)

She stepped up to the counter and, without meeting Ivor in the eye, swiftly dropped a few dollars into the jar and swung around, making sure to whip him right in the face with a good mouthful of her shoulder-cropped hair.

She could see the girl behind the counter blushing as she strode purposely and deliberately towards the door, swinging her hips, without a second glance over her shoulder.

As she left, she felt them all watching her.

And she liked it.