One of Us (26 page)

“Are you OK, Verity?” asks Meredith.

I put the kettle down. I must have been standing frozen, holding it. Greg stops humming and half-turns.

“I'm fine,” I say. “Just hot.”

“It is hot,” says Meredith. “Oh! Oh! I think the jam's jammed!”

When all the jars stand full on the draining board, treacly black jam running down the glass, Meredith
puts the pan in the sink. She has a big blob of jam on her nose, exactly where Greg has a smear of flour on his.

“You two have matching noses,” I say, and they both turn at the same moment to look at me with round brown eyes like owls, and jam and flour on their noses. I burst out laughing.

“I don't think we have to put up with this, do you, Meredith?” says Greg.

“No,” says Meredith.

Greg pounces and grabs both my arms from behind. “I don't want Verity to feel left out.”

“Me neither,” says Meredith, painting cooled jam from the plate on to my nose.

Greg twists around to look at my face. “Maybe just a bit more?” he suggests.

Meredith smears jam on to both my cheeks. I nearly get free, but then Greg starts tickling me.

“What are you doing?” Angelina stands up and stares at us. “What a mess!”

Greg lets go of me and catches Angelina, picking her up and running around the table with her.

“Stop it, Greg!” she shouts. “If you put jam on me I'll tell on you! Stop it! I don't like it!”

Greg puts her down.

She runs over to me. “Tell them, Verity.”

“Gregory and Meredith,” I say sternly. “You are behaving very badly with the jam.”

The happiness of this moment pushes everything else away.

Angelina goes back to her labels. Meredith turns
back to the sink. Greg comes over and stands right in front of me, breathing heavily.

“You've got jam on your face,” he says. “Shall I get it off for you?”

He leans close, but at the last minute he grabs the tea towel and wipes my face with it. I grip the drawer handle behind me to stop myself from putting my arms around his neck and kissing his floury face.

“Yours is just as bad,” I say. “But maybe it's an improvement.”

G
REG IS IN
the garden, taking the sheets off the washing line. I go out to help him. Everyone else stays at the kitchen table, cutting up fruit. I walk down the lawn, my bare feet sinking into the long grass, which is damp with dew. Up until now, I haven't been alone with Greg at all. It's lovely in this home, so different from the quiet, solemn life I lived with Grandma. But I have brought something ugly here with me.

“Greg. We need to talk.”

“Oh,” says Greg. “‘We need to talk,' already?”

“No,” I say. “Not
that
‘we need to talk.' But there's something I need to tell you. Something I have to tell you.”

Greg passes me two ends of a sheet so that we can fold it together. He takes back the sheet and folds it once more. “Verity.” His voice sharpens. “Don't tell me yet. Whatever it is.”

I unpeg a pillowcase. “I want to tell you before we get any closer,” I whisper. “In case, if you knew, you wouldn't want—”

Greg comes up to me. We're behind a sheet, so nobody in the house can see us. He puts his hand over my mouth. “Shh,” he says. “Don't say any more. Or I'll have to tell you . . .” He shakes his head.

“Tell me what?” I push his hand away.

“You see?” says Greg. “If you tell me whatever it is, I'll have to be completely honest with you too. But it's too soon. We haven't had enough of a chance yet.”

“I just want you to know who I am.”

Greg puts his arms around me. “I told you at the Institute, I know who you are, Verity Nekton.”

I open my mouth to tell him that that's who I'm not, but Greg stops me, by kissing me. His face smells of sunshine. He pulls away first.

“Just wait a little longer,” he says into my ear. “Then we'll both tell each other everything. We'll find ways to be alone together. Soon, I promise. But not yet. OK?” He looks at me. “OK, Verity? Please?”

He holds my face between his hands so that we are looking right into each other's eyes. His are soft and brown. It's so lovely to be able to look openly into each other's eyes. But then I have to close mine, because everything's not open, is it?

“Greg.”

“Please, Verity. Don't tell me,” he says. “Just until we get back to school. Please.”

“Later, then,” I murmur, and we kiss again. I should be relieved because I don't have to say anything now after all. But it hasn't gone away, this thing which is still there between us. Even though, the way we're clinging to each other, you'd think there was nothing wrong.

“YOUR FRUIT SALAD IS READY!” shouts Angelina from the other side of the sheet. She lifts up the bottom and ducks under, standing there for a moment, frowning from Greg to me.

CHAPTER 26

O
N THE LAST
day of the summer vacation I get the bus back from the Old City to the Institute. Once again, I pull my red case up the drive. Once again, I am entering dishonestly, a citizen spy in Brotherhood clothing. Oskar won't just let me go. Everything I own is in the red case and the wool shoulder bag with its new duffel-coat fastener.

Rosanna sewed the fastener on for me. “It makes a change to sew a thing, not a person, Verity,” she said, and it took me a moment to remember she's a surgeon.

I smile at the thought of Greg's leaky car dripping oil along this tidy gravel drive. The gates open for me, and Raymond gives me the kind of welcome only a dog can give. I stroke his lovely silk ears while he bows his head against my leg and fans his tail back and forth. Mr. East's sunflowers stand in front of the lodge, and because it's been a hot summer, they're taller than me. One of them lowers over me like a sad umbrella, too heavy now for its stem. I lift it gently. The seeds are starting to rot here and there, spiraling around, dense black in places. The forked gold petals crackle under my fingers, reminding me that summer is over.

“These are nice,” I say to Mr. East, who is standing in the lodge doorway. “Can I still take Raymond for walks?”

“Of course.” He looks out at the garden. “They're dying. Need cutting.”

“If you're going to cut them, could I have one? To draw.”

He shrugs. “I'll cut it now if you like.” He shuts the door and comes back a moment later with shears. He snips off the sunflower head so that the stem is about the length of my forearm.

Serafina is in the Sisters' house. It's as if I've never been away. The room closes in around me as she smothers me in a Serafina hug. “Let's go to dinner. Emanuel's here.”

I smile, in spite of everything. Even though Greg's not here yet, it won't be long before he is—just another two weeks, then he's back from his last family vacation of the summer. And until he gets here I don't have to keep my promise to myself and tell him the truth about who I really am. I hope he'll still want to know me afterward. But why should he?

We reach the canteen door. Serafina gives me a sudden little grin.

Emanuel's standing there, peering into the courtyard. A smile spreads over his face. “Serafina! Verity!” he says. “Come in.”

He looks taller than I remember, but his hair is just the same, a corkscrew halo around his face. There aren't any secrets in his hazel-gold eyes.

C
LASSES BEGIN BEFORE
Greg arrives. Something is different at the Institute—Ms. Cobana has been
replaced by Mr. Williams. She didn't say she was leaving and I wish she was still here. Now that we're in junior year we have Life Drawing. Greg should be here too. I close my eyes for a moment and breathe in the smell of linseed oil and dried paint on brushes. It's deeply quiet in the Art room, underneath the rustling of paper and swishing of pencils. Then Mr. Williams turns on his radio. It's the end of the jingle that precedes news, so I start listening.
“Critics urge for an inquiry into the indefinite holding of suspects at Tranquility Sound. A spokesperson from the Department of Security responded that desperate times call for desperate measures.”

What if those people are actually innocent? Imagine being locked up indefinitely then. I used to be pleased that “they” were all locked away. But that was when I was confident that it would be fair. I'm glad when the radio switches back to music.

That afternoon I ask Mr. East if I can take Raymond for a walk outside the grounds. I know I have to stay here, but the more I can get away from the claustrophobia of the Institute the better. Already I miss my walks through the Old City, the hours spent sketching by the canal. And I should check my cell phone. Sure enough, there's a text from Oskar:

Meet me Jubilee Park, 5 pm tomorrow, boating lake

Oskar never asked me about the list. Now that I'm back at school again, it's still supposed to be my mission. But I'm not going to do it. I so wish I hadn't given him Jeremiah's name now.

The light's going blue and there's smoke in the air from the bonfire Mr. East has lit behind the lodge. It'll be dark soon. I want to go and curl up on my bed with a coffee and talk to Serafina about Greg.

But I don't know if he wants to tell anyone about us yet. And will there still be an “us” after I tell Greg who I really am? So I go to the Art room instead—although the rumbling anxiety and guilt are still there, at least I'm studying Art.

I arrange the sunflower on the bench and start to paint. The flower's dead, but it's still so full of life—it's as if it's pulling my drawing out of the paper in sinuous lines. When I've finished, I'll scatter the seeds around; maybe I'll even keep a few and plant them next summer, so that the sunflower can live again.

CHAPTER 27

J
UBILEE PARK IS
in the New City, near the train station, and I get there the next day just before five. I got permission to leave the Institute because I need to buy some woodcutting chisels. Mr. Williams suggested I make my sunflower painting into a woodcut.

Oskar is leaning against a hut beside the lake.

He walks up to me. “I'll hire us a boat.”

I'm good at this
, I remind myself.
I can hide my true feelings, just smile like I would have done before.

Neither of us speaks until the dinghy is in the middle of the lake. Then Oskar rests the oars on the sides of the boat. There's a chilly nip in the air and ours is the only boat out. The water is murky and dark, lapping softly against the sides of the boat as we rock.

“Can I row?” I'll feel less ill at ease if I have something to do.

Once we've changed places, I pull toward the opposite bank, where willow branches hang over the water.

“So, K,” says Oskar, “I want to know why you didn't deliver the list.”

I look into his eyes. “It's the visitors' book,” I say. “Brer Magnus hides it away. I have no idea where he keeps it.” This is true . . . now.

Oskar stares back at me. He's just going to let it go? Then he takes a leaflet out of his pocket and hands it to me.