I was blow drying my hair, trying not to look too closely at myself in the mirror when it happened.
The feel of a penetrating stare began to niggle until I couldn’t ignore it, and my eyes slid across my reflection to that of the young teen standing next to me. She was staring at me openmouthed with an excitement glittering in her eyes that I recognized. Fear slammed through me and I quickly looked away, blasting that hair dryer all over my head as if it would speed up the process somehow.
When I eventually switched off the dryer, I knew she was still staring.
Crap.
I grabbed my stuff and turned to leave. Quickly.
“Hey!”
Oh God.
I glanced over my shoulder, scowling at her.
Her smile faltered. “Ye look like Skylar Finch. Anyone ever told ye that?”
My English accent in place, I lied, “I don’t know who that is.”
The teen’s face fell at my response or the accent, I wasn’t sure. “Yeah . . .” Her voice lowered to a mutter, “As if Skylar Finch would come swimming here.”
I left without replying, forcing myself not to feel anything about the encounter. Well . . . forcing myself to pretend to not feel anything about the encounter.
My next stop was my focus. The laundromat, or launderette as they called it here. What little clothes I had I put into the washing machine and instead of waiting, I took a walk to the local fish-and-chip shop and bought my dinner along with two bottles of water. It was still raining, so I ate my fish and chips in the sheltered doorway of the laundromat. To be honest, I struggled to finish it, throwing half of it away. Fish and chips were cheap and filling, but after weeks and weeks of eating cheap junk food, I thought maybe my body was starting to reject it.
It was a monotonous wait for my clothes to come out of the dryer, but I didn’t mind. I was warm and dry in the laundromat. Apparently there was a God, however, because the rain cleared up as I headed toward my sleeping quarters. It had taken me a while to get used to the lighter nights here. During the summertime in this part of the country, it didn’t get dark until close to eleven o’ clock at night. But the nights had started to grow dark earlier and earlier over the last few weeks and as it approached seven thirty, the sky darkened.
By the time I reached my destination—the large, padlocked gates of the cemetery—night had fallen. The gates of the cemetery sat on a busy main road. Streetlamps lit the way, as did the glare of headlights as cars frequently passed.
I waited until there were no cars, then I stepped up onto the ledge of the brick pillar the gates were bolted into, grabbed hold of the iron bars, and hauled myself up and over, taking care to not let the spear-pointed tips of the bars bite into me.
Landing on the other side, the impact vibrated up my legs but they were strong from walking everywhere. Taking out my mini flashlight, I lit up the path in front of me and began to make my way through the cemetery.
Weirdly, the place didn’t freak me out at night. It had become my sanctuary where I was safe from the outside world. It was a quiet place to rest my head and I fancied my silent neighbors were somehow protecting me.
It was a large cemetery and I walked for quite a bit toward my spot. The council had been out to mow today—I could smell the freshly cut grass along with the usual familiar smell of damp earth and mingled floral scents from the flowers left by people visiting their relatives. The smell grew fainter as I moved toward the small copse of trees way up in the back that I liked to set my tent by. The stones close to the trees were so old, the engravings had faded until some were near impossible to read.
Once I had my tent up, my sleeping bag out, a pillow, the throw blanket I’d got on sale and used for extra warmth, I got in, got comfy, and pulled out one of the two books I carried with me.
Poison Study by Maria V. Snyder. I’d read it a million times, but it had become a comfort read. It and Graceling by Kristin Cashore. I was a fantasy fan. And I loved reading about wicked-strong heroines who kicked ass despite the odds.
As I read, I forgot about where I was, or that it was cold. I forgot about the outside world entirely for a while. I knew Ham, Mandy, and a lot of the other homeless folks in the city kept in touch with the outside world with their phones. I didn’t know how they got phones. If they stole them or stole money to buy them. Or if they saved up all the money strangers gave them to buy a cheap phone so they could connect with each other and the world. But they did it. They charged them at charging points in coffee shops and used free Wi-Fi there to go on the internet. Some of them even had Facebook pages. No home. But they had a Facebook page.
I, however, didn’t want anything to do with the outside world. The outside world was a distant memory.
Instead I read about Yelena learning about poisons as she studied to be a food taster. I read about her survival and her strength. And that night I closed my eyes and fell asleep in the cemetery that had become my home, knowing I had what it took to survive this life I’d chosen.
* * *
THE AIR HELD THE COPPERY scent of rain. Diesel fumes, coffee, and rain. However, I wouldn’t let the thought of impending rain worry me as I stood on Buchanan Street the following Saturday. I was too busy trying not to let the little shit who had set up close beside me with his PA system bother me.
He was trying to bother me, making that clear when he’d thrown a smug, arrogant smirk my way as he halted closer to my spot than was polite to set up. There was a code among buskers, and he was breaking its most important rule; he was deliberately attempting to drown me out. And doing a great job of it. Anyone who took the time to stop was stopping to listen to him mimic Shawn Mendes.
Yet, I continued. I’d become a master at pretending young male musicians weren’t getting under my skin. I mean, I’d been in a band with three of them and we traveled on a tour bus together, for God’s sake. This kid had no idea how good I’d gotten at pretending assholes like him didn’t exist.
And when to take my opportunity for payback.
It happened as soon he lowered his voice to sing a Coldplay ballad.
I belted out “Chandelier” by Sia. A notoriously difficult song to sing and one that tended to impress people when you could. People drew to a stop, crowding around me as my voice rose above the kid’s PA system.
Then the camera phones came out, making me lower my head, shielding my face with my fedora. One of these days, those goddamned camera phones were going to get me in trouble. How long before someone on the internet went, “Hey, she sounds exactly like Skylar Finch. Wait . . . that is Skylar Finch!”
I dreaded it, realizing I wouldn’t even know if it happened because I refused to go online. It was my worst fear to be playing on the streets of Glasgow one day only to look up and find one of my guys there, glaring at me accusingly.
I shook off the worries and kept singing.
As the applause died down, someone in the crowd called out, “Gonnae sing ‘Titanium’?”
Between the constant rainfall during the week and the dropping temperatures in the tent at night, I’d had to spend most of my money on a raincoat and a couple of fleece-lined hoodies to wear in bed. What little it left me with I’d spent on a shower and the laundromat. I needed the money, so I sang “Titanium,” particularly enjoying the moment when the kid with the PA system started to belt out a rock track and was told to shut up by one of the guys standing in my crowd.