One of Us (18 page)

I try to walk away slowly. Everyone will still be in the library so the Art room is the only place I can think of where I can be alone at this time of day, and maybe even find somewhere to hide the visitors' book. I should be worrying about that, but all I can think of is that Brer Magnus has chosen me to represent
the Institute because he admires my “freedom fighter” parents.
How could you have given me terrorist parents, Oskar? Even fake ones?
But then I remember with a jolt what else Oskar has done.

“N
ICE SHOES
,”
SAYS
Greg as I push open the door of the Art Room.

I glare at him.

Greg smiles. “Where have you been, then, Verity? I thought you said you were coming straight here?”

On the other side of the room Ms. Cobana has spread folders across three tables and is scribbling in her grade book. She must be the only teacher in today.

“I went to see Brer Magnus.” I take my Math book and pencil case out of my bag, keeping the visitors' book hidden, and put them on the bench. “As if it's anything to do with you.” I concentrate on delving in the bag until I find my paintbrushes.

Greg puts his hands up in an exaggerated back-off. “Hey! I was only asking.” He carries on drawing in his sketchbook.

Ms. Cobana goes over to the wall with some pictures and starts shooting staples into the board. I fetch inks and a sheet of paper from the closet trying to quell the panic rising up in my throat. I dip my brush—the one Greg gave me—into yellow ink and wash it over the whole surface. In the quiet my breathing is too loud and fast.

“Verity?” Greg has stopped drawing. “Are you all right?”

I get a grip on myself, and nod. Even shortish long
hair is useful for hiding behind at times like this.

“OK,” he says. But under my hair I can see that he hasn't picked up his charcoal pencil again He pulls a stool over, next to mine. “Verity?”

I look up. The afternoon sun is gold on his face. His eyes have a navy circle around the brown.

“You OK?” he says.

I wait for him to ask me again why I went to see Brer Magnus. Or what's wrong. Wherever I go there is someone waiting to question me.

But instead he picks up my Math book.

I try to snatch it back, but he whisks it away. He opens it and looks at the fractions I can never remember. Now he'll think I'm a total moron. He is probably up to the kind of Math where you can work out time travel.

“I was thinking,” he says.

“Oh dear. What will Brer Magnus say?”

Greg frowns. But he continues. “If you like, I could help you with your Math sometimes.”

“You don't have time.”

“It's OK,” he says. “I could spare half an hour a week. If you want.”

I think it over. “All right,” I say. “But just stop if you change your mind.”

“It'll be OK.” He looks at his watch. “We could start now.”

I don't feel like painting anymore. “OK.”

Greg writes quickly on my book. “You do this one.”

He looks at my answer. “Trial and error,” he says. “That's no good.” He starts breaking it down. His sleeves are rolled up and the fine hairs on his arms
catch the late sunshine. If I was drawing his arm, it would make a nice curve.

“Verity!” says Greg. “Pay attention.”

“Sorry,” I say. I try to concentrate, because it would be good to pass. “Not everyone is studying Math, Honors Math, Advanced Math, Statistics, and Quantum Physics, you know.”

Greg puts down his pencil. “Do you not want me to help you?”

“No. Yes. I do want you to.”

“All right, then. Engage your brain.”

I try to fill my mind with numbers. I watch them dancing on the page under Greg's pencil. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the shape of his shoulder, and the sunlit line of his cheekbone, and the way his hair has grown just long enough to fall near his eyebrows as he leans forward. I stare at the white paper and try to breathe slowly. But it's no good. I didn't feel like this when I was drawing him.

I close my eyes, because if I look at him, I want to reach out and touch him. Even so, his voice is too close to my ear, sending a current through me. No, no, no! I can't feel this for Greg. How did I let this happen? This mustn't happen.

“OK.” Greg nudges me with his elbow. “You do this one.”

I jolt away.

“What?” Greg looks at me.

I stand up. “Isn't it time for dinner?” I say, scooping my Math book up from under Greg's elbow and stuffing it into my bag. I start clinking ink bottles
into the tray. “I'm going to the library first,” I say. “I'll see you in the canteen.”

T
HE LIBRARY IS
empty now. I hurry to the Art section alcove and take down a large book. I kick off my flip-flops and curl up in an armchair, hiding the visitors' book behind the book while I write down the names in the middle of my art pad. There are hundreds. I glance at the clock. Dinner will be in twenty minutes. But at last I've got them all.

I stand up and hide the visitors' book behind the art tome and then push it back in. I'll have to return it to Brer Magnus's office soon, but for now it's safer here than in the Sisters' house.
Better borrow a book
, I think,
as cover
. I find one on printmaking and head for the door. When I open it I see Ms. Cobana coming up the stairs.

“Hello, Verity.” She stops, glancing at my feet in their ridiculous flowery flip-flops. “Verity? I hope you don't mind,” she begins, “but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with Greg.”

“Oh,” I say. Here we go again.

“I was just wondering—you're not in some kind of trouble, are you?”

I pretend to consider her question. I'm still here, at least. “I don't think so.”

“You've gotten very friendly with Greg.”

I let my hair fall across to hide my face. “Not particularly Greg; it's the whole group, really.”

She nods, as if I haven't spoken. “He's a lovely boy,” she says. “Very thick with Brer Magnus, of course.”

“Oh. Is he?” Like I haven't noticed.

She nods again, emphatically. It's almost as though she's trying to warn me about something. But then she says, “I'm glad you've made friends. I hope you get to stay on here with them all next year.”

“I do too,” I say. And I do. Don't I? Because I've never had friends like these before. And if I don't stay on, where will I go? Who will I be?

“I also hope you don't mind me saying,” Ms. Cobana goes on. “It's just that you seem a bit . . . adrift. And I'd like you to know that if you ever need help, you can ask me.”

“Thanks.”

But now she's handing me a little card. “No, I really mean it, Verity.” She frowns. “Here's my number.”

I take the card.

“If you ever need help, I'll be there for you,” she says. “OK?”

I look at her. She looks steadily back at me from behind her big glasses. There's something in her eyes that makes me want to believe she does mean it.

“OK,” I say. “OK.” I put the card in my wallet. “Thanks,” I add.

It doesn't have her name on it, just a number.

CHAPTER 20

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Greg is waiting at the caretaker's lodge. His eyebrows shoot up when he sees me. “You look like Celestina.”

I think that's a good thing, or is it? I look down at the clothes I've borrowed. A swishy skirt and a
cropped jacket, and a silk scarf around my neck. And pointy pumps that are too tight.

Greg is in full red check. Red-checked jacket, red-checked shirt. But he looks lovely. “You're late. We'd better run.”

But we miss the next bus into the New City and then we have to run across the square toward Central Station. There's no time to think about the last time I went inside. The first time I saw Greg. I expect our bags to be searched as we enter. But instead the policeman takes Greg to one side. He has to stand with his arms and legs outstretched to be frisked.

“Go behind there.” The other policeman jerks his head toward a screen.

Now it's my turn. A policewoman runs her hands up and down my body, arms, and legs. She doesn't speak or make eye contact.

And then we find that we've missed the Yoremouth train after all and there isn't another one for an hour.

An hour is all I need to check out Oskar's story.

“Let's split up and meet back here,” I say to Greg. “I want to go around the shops.”

He looks at me with his usual expression of distrust. “Don't be late again,” he says.

It doesn't take me long to walk to the crematorium. I stop at the flower stall outside the station and buy a white rose. Three black cars drive slowly through the stone gateway as I jog up to it. The gleaming black paintwork and the cloud reflections in the windows fill me with dread. I lean against the wall, catching my breath and waiting for the cars to disappear up
the drive and behind some fir trees. I don't want to go in now. But I have to see for myself. So I slip through, past the stone pillars and the open wrought-iron gates. The Garden of Remembrance is on the left.

Trees line the path, their bark black with rain, silver drops dotting every leaf. They're poplars, like the trees beside the playing field at the Institute. Emanuel told me. He studies plants.

On my left there is a wall checkered with small brass plaques. Most only have a name, but some have messages too. I feel sick now. This is a place to come and remember loved ones. Each plaque has a metal vase below, some holding flowers and others withered remains. On the opposite wall I see a tap for filling the vases. I look back along the lines of new names, the shinier plaques.

I'm looking for it, but I don't really expect to see it, so when I do, it's as if it punches me in the chest.

K CHILD

There it is, in black and gold. The letters reach out and hold me. I no longer exist.

But I didn't come here for me. I came for the girl who ended up here in my name. I have to believe Oskar was telling the truth when he swore that she wasn't the real Verity Nekton. I do believe it. But all the same I'm so shocked that I can hardly breathe. What else would Oskar do to further the cause, if he thought it necessary? I was right to decide never to talk to him about my friends at the Institute.

This girl must have been someone like me. Someone who could disappear without anyone noticing. It could have
been
me.

I lay the palm of my hand against the brass. The flower vase below is empty, and I pour some water in and place the white rose inside. Then I wait until my tears stop before I leave the Garden of Remembrance.

I don't cry as I run back to the station because I'll have to face Greg in a minute. But there is a soreness in my heart.