A/N: I'm not going to lie. This chapter is kind of intense, despite the title. So enjoy it :)
To be honest, I'm not quite sure if it's possible to decipher the chalkboard behind the counter. Whoever wrote on it last has the handwriting of a five-year-old, all cramped and uneven, and it's smeared enough that the likelihood of its being properly wiped off before the lists were last rewritten is slim.
"Newkirk, can you read the chalkboard?" I ask absently, twirling a cleaning rag around in my hand.
He looks up from his task of mopping up a recent spill to reply. "Hmm? Yeah, I can read it. Why?"
"Because I'm having trouble. Who wrote all that, exactly?"
"I did." He returns to his mop a little dejectedly.
I blink and raise my eyebrows, trying to find a good way to phrase my next question. "Oh. Uh–do you think Rigby would mind if I rewrote it? Maybe used a few different colors of chalk to liven it up?"
Newkirk narrows his eyes at me over squeezing out the mop in its yellow bin. "I don't think he'd have a problem with it, so long as you don't change any of the prices and he doesn't have to pay for the new chalk. And you don't have to avoid saying that I have terrible handwriting, you know. It's a well known fact. I think they even put it in the last edition of the Oxford Encyclopedia."
My mouth opens and closes, but no words come out, so I just shrug.
"The hardware store on Fifth sells the best quality chalk, and they have about ten colors. That's your best option."
"Thanks."
He returns the mop to the supply closet and turns to me. "So are you an artist or something?"
"How'd you guess?" I scrub at a coffee stain for a moment, but there's no need because it blends in with the dark-stained wood of the counter so well.
"You doodle on your Advanced Comp notes. I really like your birds."
"Oh," I say, reddening. "I–uh, I like things that fly, you know? Birds especially, because they don't need any help."
"Sure, I know the feeling. But I prefer underwater stuff. Whales, sharks, the like. Jellyfish especially."
I snort. "Jellyfish?"
"I can relate to them so well because that's how I look when I try to swim." He pulls a face and mimes what I assume must be a swimming motion, but event that's a stretch.
"Then I suppose I should be an ostrich?" I offer around a chuckle, straightening my apron.
Newkirk lets out a sharp laugh, but cuts off abruptly when the bell on the door rings as it's opened. Stepping through the door is Alek, a cap pulled low over his head. He's ditched his posh clothing in favor of a baggy sweatshirt and faded jeans, so it's surprising I recognize him.
"I dig your new threads, yo," Newkirk says after a moment, earning him my glare. I didn't even understand him, so it's more than safe to assume that the foreign boy hadn't a clue.
"Pardon me, but what did you just say?" Alek looks genuinely confused and just a little panicked.
"Don't mind me. I'm practicing an American accent for the school play."
"He likes your sweatshirt," I clarify, and instead of letting my eyes linger on his slim jeans I glance down at my watch. Eight thirty-seven.
I have to meet Matt at nine.
Or, rather, he's picking me up here then. When I realized that I was scheduled to close on Friday night, we arranged it so he'd come get me when I was done. I've been looking at the clock all afternoon, waiting for the hours to trudge by.
"I'm sorry, Newkirk. Uh–your American sounds very nice. I can't understand a word any of them are saying, either." Alek smiles halfheartedly, more rattled than he should be from Newkirk's banter. Something else lurks beneath the surface of his green eyes, but it's been there since we met.
He rests his palms on the counter, tapping fingernails on the wooden surface. "What is on special today?"
"Bovril tea," I inform him, dredging up what Rigby told me when I arrived just after school.
One of the first genuine smiles I've seen from Alek lights up his face. "Brilliant. I quite enjoy Bovril. It is one of the only teas I like."
"Exactly," I agree. "Bovril's my favorite."
When I was young and Da was still alive, every Sunday morning before he took Jaspert and I to church–though she doesn't look it, Ma is strictly agnostic–he would boil a pot of water and make Bovril tea for us. I can remember watching the steam rise up from my chipped cup, almost too big to fit in my little hands, and watching Jaspert yawn wide enough that I could stick my fist in his mouth. Those mornings–they were so normal, so commonplace, that I never thought about them much. But now when I make myself a cup of tea on Sunday mornings the memories fill my mind as full as my mug, steam coming off them as though they were made moments before.
"I'll have that, then," Alek says, and reaches into his pocket.
Newkirk, holding out a hand to stop him, replies, "No, I've got it. I said you got a free drink next time you came in, remember? I keep my promises." He tosses the money on the counter and sets to readying the tea.
I blink a few times. "When did you tell him that?"
He holds a lever in the coffee maker down and lets hot water run into a styrofoam cup. "When I knocked him over last Friday outside the shop, on my way back after I had to run and unlock the apartment for my sister."
Laughing a little, I nod. "Yeah, that. Does she always forget her keys?"
"Most days, yes. I keep telling Ma that we should just leave one under the rug outside, but she doesn't trust the rest of the tenants not to break into our apartment."
Alek smiles, shuffling his feet on the tiled floor as he moves to stand at the end of the counter. He watches Newkirk add a scoop of beef extract to the water and stir it around for a time, waiting for it to dissolve. The red label on the bulbous jar of extract proclaims its brand loudly, a sight as familiar as my own reflection. Since I was little, we've kept a jar in the house, and they never last long with how much we use the salty beef additive.
A lid is snapped on top of the cup, and Newkirk hands the drink to Alek. "You're welcome to stay and sit, if you like. The couches are very comfortable."
The boy glances at the storefront as if looking for something through the wall-to-wall windows. "I think I will, thank you. What time do you close at night?"
"Nine," I say as I tear off the printed receipt and toss it in a waste bin.
"That seems rather late for a coffee house to be open, don't you think?" he asks, taking a sip of his drink.
"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Newkirk agrees. "But you'd be surprised how many people come in close to closing time. We're within walking distance from the University of London, so we get loads of students that come down for a shot of caffeine when they've got schoolwork to do. Especially around finals week–then it gets absolutely barmy."
Alek looks around warily. "What's your least busy time of day, then?"
"Between five and seven. That's when everyone's at dinner." He narrows his eyes at the red-headed boy for a moment, trying to puzzle through the interrogation. "Rigby once tried having half-priced coffee then, to bring in more traffic, but it didn't help much."
I hear the bell on the door jingle and turn away from Alek to see Matt in the doorway, pulling a hat off his head. Startled, I look at my watch. We don't close for another ten minutes.
"Hey, Matt," I say, smiling despite myself. The cold from outside has tinted his cheeks pink, but his eyes are as bright as ever. They match his light blue jacket so well they could get lost in it, and his jeans are as dark as an approaching storm.
Newkirk glances between him and me and announces, "I'll go get some more creamer from the back," and slinks through the door to the storage room. I pretend not to notice him or Alek, who squares his shoulders and sits up straighter, staring at Matt's back as he walks to the counter.
"Deryn, it's good to see you. I know I'm early, but I wanted to make sure I could find this place. It's rather small, isn't it?"
"Ye–yeah, but that only makes it more cozy," I reply. "Would you like something to drink while you wait? Bovril tea is on special today."
He wrinkles his nose, head shaking. "Not a fan of Bovril. I'll just have green tea, if you don't mind. Pomegranate infused."
"Coming right up," I say, and after he pays me I pull a cup off the stack and begin to prepare his tea. "So where did you say the party was?" I ask. He told me Wednesday morning while he walked me to fencing class, but I can't for the life of me remember what he said.
"Lilit Zavenian's house. Do you know her?"
I hand him the steaming cup after putting the lid in place. "I think we have English Lit together. Look, all I've got left to do is mop, so you can have a seat until I'm done."
"I'll do that."
I pull the mop out of the cleaning closet where Newkirk stowed it a few minutes ago.
"Oh, hello Ryan," Matt greets Alek as he sits on one of the dull brown armchairs. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"Then you can imagine my own surprise," he replies coldly. The two haven't gotten along well since they met on Monday, though I'm not quite sure why. There are so many things about Alek that just don't add up, and I want badly to put the pieces together. I don't like being in the dark like this, and that boy is midnight black with mystery.
"Do you come here often, Ryan?" His tone is pleasant enough, but I've spent enough time with him this week that I can sense the challenge hidden beneath.
Alek smiles sweetly, razor blades hidden in his grin. "Only on the days when Bovril tea is on special. It's my absolute favorite." He holds up his cup like he's just made a toast and takes a drink.
My eyes dart to the clock on the wall, and I'm almost too glad that nine o'clock is in just two minutes. I bite my lip, and the shop is awkwardly silent as I finish mopping.
"Well, I suppose I should be on my way," Alek says finally, standing and brushing forehead-length hair to one side. For an extended moment, he looks Matt square in the eye, and I can tell a sort of understanding passes between them. He shoulders past the other boy and sets the bell on the door ringing loudly as he exits, almost like it's as upset as he is.
Five minutes later, I've turned off all the burners and lights, and Matt and I are standing outside. Newkirk locks the door like it's something he's done a thousand times and starts home. I call a goodbye to him as he's walking away, and he doesn't look over his shoulder as waves back. Matt hands me my jacket and I slip it on, and as my hand snakes into the sleeve, I find his waiting hand at the other end. Surprised, I let mine slide into his, and we walk together to his car.
Monday mornings are never fun.
I almost fall asleep in Contemporary Issues. Even doodling on my notebook fails to wake me up. I should be paying attention to the lecture, I know–mostly, it's about the civil war in Austria, and the possible repercussions it could have on the UK. Alliances can't pull multiple countries into opposing sides like the world wars did, but that just makes the lesser of two evils. Nevertheless, the prime minister is contemplating if England should take action and whether to side with the seated government or the rebels.
The bell rings, and as we rush out the door the professor hurriedly assigns that we find one new fact about the Austrian civil war before class tomorrow. In the hallway, I find Matt waiting for me.
"Hey, Deryn."
As I look into his eyes, the memory of his lips pressing against mine surfaces, hot and tasting slightly of alcohol*. My heart skips a beat at the thought.
Our hands fit together absently, like pieces of a puzzle. I run my thumb along the back of his hand, tracing the musculature of his wrist made from long hours of gripping a fencing foil. "So did you have fun on Friday?" he asks, leaning his head down so it's level with mine. He only has an inch on me, but the way his hair brushes against my forehead sends a shiver up my spine.
Keep your head, you ninny, I tell myself harshly. It was just one kiss. Much to my disappointment.
"Loads," I reply, my gaze shifting between him and the walkway toward the fencing gym. I'm still sore from the daily practices last week, and I'm not entirely looking forward to another one, but the first tournament is in a fortnight. And, seeing as I'm one of five girls on our team, I'm varsity by default.
"Maybe we can do it again sometime," he offers, then lowers his voice. "But maybe just us. How does dinner sometime sound?"
"Dinner would be great," I agree calmly, though on the inside my stomach is doing little flips. He deposits me outside the gym and heads to his next class, leaving me in an elated stupor for a moment before I snap myself out of it.
Don't be stupid, I remind myself, feeling the scar at the base of my skull. This is what got you into trouble at your last school.
Well, not exactly. But I still can't go rushing into this.
I push open the doors to the gym and head straight to the locker room, changing into full gear for the first time. The mask makes everything look darker, and the chest piece–it's called a metallic plastron, I'm told–feels a bit bulky for my taste, but I'm still excited. Alek and I will finally get to handle foils and learn a few strikes and parries. Surely he knows them all already, but that's to my advantage because he can teach me better than the coach.
At lunch, I sit with Newkirk, Robert, and Alek, deciding that Matt can sit with us, too. I'll sit with his friends some days, and on others he can sit with mine. When I get my tray and sit down, Alek isn't there yet. I motion Matt over, and he sits reluctantly.
"Why don't you come to another table?" he asks quietly.
My resolve stiffens. I won't be swayed if I want to have a real position in our relationship. "I'm sitting here today, Matt. I'll sit where you want to tomorrow."
A storm cloud passes over his face, but he nods. "Okay."
I don't notice an unfamiliar boy with close-shaved red hair sit down at our table until his green eyes catch mine.
Blisters.
Alek.
I bite my tongue before I can exclaim What happened to your hair? because he looks almost wounded without it. His face mask covered up the cut during fencing class, and that's why I hadn't noticed it until now. It's half an inch long at best, and it makes his emerald colored eyes look twice as big.
He nods to us all wordlessly and opens the seal on his prepackaged lunch.
We sit in a moment of surprised silence before Newkirk speaks. "So how have all your days been?" he asks innocently.
No one answers, and I notice withs surprise that Matt and Alek are having a staring match.
"I almost didn't recognize you without any hair," Matt says, letting go of my hand. "I must say–it may just be an improvement. That mop it was before–"
"Shut up." Alek is filled with cold fury, etched into every hard line of his face.
Matt seems to be enjoying the other boy's anger. "Can't take a compliment?"
"Matt," I warn him, putting an arm on his shoulder to bring him back to reality. "Stop."
"What? I'm trying to give the boy my honest opinion on his new hairdo. Really, Ryan, I'm still not sure if I like it, but it is better than it used to be."
Alek stands up abruptly, his chair sliding back a good yard. "I said, shut up. Or maybe I wasn't very clear."
"Yes, you are quite difficult to understand with that accent. Didn't they like you back at home, or is that why you had to come here? Did mommy and daddy send you away because they didn't want you around anymore?" He's standing now, too, circling the table so he's mere feet away from Alek.
The barely concealed rage that Alek's been holding in explodes like a bomb, and then he's yelling in what sounds like German and his fists are balled. The whole cafeteria is out of their seats in seconds, anticipating a fist-fight. I stay where I am, in total shock.
Just as Alek lunges for Matt, Newkirk pushes him back, suddenly standing between the two. "He's not worth it," he says, voice low and calm. "Listen to me. He is not worth it."
Matt is about to speak, but Newkirk turns a snarl on him. "Not another word out of you, either, you pompous maggot."
"And what right have you to call me a maggot when you're nothing but a git?" he asks, trying to provoke Newkirk.
"Say what you want, Weldon, but you won't get a rise out of me."
"And what a pity that is. I did enjoy our go-arounds last year."
Alek is breathing hard, his green eyes sparkling with ferocity. "This isn't over."
Matt smiles cruelly, and I can't help but wonder how this could be the same boy that walked me to class just this morning. "Then come at me, anytime and anywhere, and know that I will beat the clart out of you every time."
He turns away, ready to stride out of the canteen like he's just won. "Fencing."
"What?" Matt looks back over his shoulder, grinning slyly. "What was that?"
"Fencing. I challenge you to a match, after school. Today. In the gym at four o'clock." Alek meets his gaze levelly, eyes glittering now.
"You just don't know when you've lost, do you? I almost pity you."
Alek scoffs, wringing out his hands like he's still itching for a good punch. "So you're scared, then?"
My ears are ringing. I can't process what's happening
"I never said that. You're on. Just know that you've made a very big mistake." Now he walks out of the canteen, not looking back.
He doesn't hear Alek say, "No, you're the one that's mistaken."
A/N: *Although the drinking age in England is 18, it is legal for those ages 5-17 to have alcohol (at home or at a friend's house) with parental permission. So they technically weren't breaking the law, assuming their parents said it was okay. But that's for y'all to decide.
So. How about that chapter, guys? Review and tell me what you think! :)