The Marbury Lens by Andrew Smith Page B

dinner.”
    “Dude. Don’t get stuck behind the funky doorway. And go out and get a beer.”
    We both had fake American IDs from Idaho, like anyone here would know what an Idaho ID card looked like. But we’d heard how easy it was to get served beer here, too.
    “Yeah. Sure.” I said it like I didn’t want one, but it actually sounded good. “Oh, and Con? I need you to do something for me, okay?”
    “What?”
    “I forgot the charger for my cell phone. Stella’s going to want to kill me about that. Can you go to my house and pick it up for me?”
    “Damn. You’ve really been losing it, Jack.”
    “I know.”
    “Well, call me again before your battery runs out.”
    “Okay.”
    “And Jack? Everything’s okay now. Really.”

Sixteen
    I left the television turned on while I took a shower. I still couldn’t figure out how they’d designed this place because there really was no way you could get in or out of the tub with the bathroom door shut, unless you crawled beneath the open glass shower door. And that was too weird to do, I thought. But it was possible to watch a left-handed version of the televised soccer match in the bathroom mirror and take a shower at the same time, so that was kind of cool.
    By the time I dressed and got off the phone with Stella, it was dark. Of course she complained about how I forgot the phone charger, and I could hear Wynn in the background repeating, “Remind Jack they’re expecting him and Conner at St. Atticus on Thursday.” But at least I could make an excuse for ending the call quickly, since I wanted to save my battery as long as possible.
    I walked east from the hotel that night and stopped at a place near Warren Street called The Prince of Wales, a pub where there were groups of kids who looked about my age, having dinner and drinking beer.
    I realized how hungry I was, and how free it felt to be in a place that would actually serve beer to me, so I went inside.
    It was a little awkward being there alone, and I had to sit at a long table with a group of noisy young people who laughed and drank beers. I ate a sandwich and chips, then got my nerve up and finally ordered a beer, which, one of the girls down the table explained patiently, had to be specified by name or I’d look like a tourist.
    The kids said hello, asked if I was from California because of my shorts, then ignored me after offering generic well wishes for my “holiday.” They left while I was on my second beer and finally feeling relaxed, almost happy, after the long ordeal of just getting here.
    I wanted to call Conner and tell him what I was doing, but I dropped my phone on the floor when I tried taking it out of my pocket. I had to practically crawl under the table to get my hands on it. As I looked across the floor, I could see that the man with those purple glasses had come in to the pub and was standing at the bar across from me.
    And he was watching me.
    I sat up and put my phone in my pocket. As soon as I did, he took the glasses away from his face. I was sure he’d been following me, and now I was trapped. It was like being caught doing everything horrible and wrong I’d ever done, and I couldn’t help thinking that maybe this guy knew about what I did to Freddie Horvath, that maybe he was going to do something even worse to me.
    I felt like I was going to throw up.
    I pulled some money out and left it beside my plate. When I started sliding out from the bench I’d been sitting on, the man carried his beer over and stood across the table from me.
    It was suddenly so quiet.
    “Hello.” His voice had a friendly sound to it, an English accent. Then he said, “Mind if I sit down, Jack?”
    My heart almost stopped when he said my name.
    What could I do?
    I felt myself sliding back against the wall, wishing I could somehow sink into it.
    The man sat down and placed his beer on the table between us. He smiled at me, as if he expected me to recognize him. But, except for those couple times earlier