Nevermore

20 Uninvited

She found Brad at the kitchen table. Her dad sat across from him, the now infamous books and binders from her locker in a pile between them.

After shedding her robe and throwing on an oversize sweater, Isobel had crept down the stairs, her ears tuned to the murmur of Brad’s voice. Above the noise of the TV, however, she hadn’t been able to make out specific words, and now, as she stood in the doorway to the kitchen, glaring at them, she wondered how much Brad had said. Had he mentioned Varen? By the look on his face, that jerky fake smile of his, he’d just been yukking it up with her dad. Listening while her father relived his football days, and maybe that was all.

“Isobel,” her dad started, his tone guarded because he must have read the look on her face.

Her scowl hardened as it became apparent to her that Brad’s year and a half of kissing her father’s butt were about to pay off. And Brad, sitting there with that gleam in his eye, had known this would be the case. He’d known that she wouldn’t have told her parents about their breakup. The thought of Brad being able to read her so well infuriated her to the point of wanting to snatch something off the wall and throw it at him. The feeling only got worse when her dad said, “Simmer down. Brad just brought your homework.”

“Yeah.” Her eyes fixed on Brad’s deceptively handsome face. “Thanks, you’re a real good person. Now please go.”

“Isobel,” snapped her dad in warning. Before, he’d always referred to Brad as “a real good kid,” and perhaps she’d taken a step too far with her sarcastic play on his words. “Now, I don’t know what’s going on with you two,” he said, and rose to lean across the table between them, like a referee calling a foul. “But, Isobel”—he pointed an accusing finger at her, something she hated—“you don’t talk like that to any guest in this house, no matter who it is.”

“But—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he said, holding his hand up. “Now I’m leaving the kitchen, because whatever this is about, it’s something you guys need to iron out.” He gestured loosely between them. “But you two have been together long enough to do it in civil tones. If I hear any yelling,” he said pointedly to Isobel, “then Brad’ll go home, and it’ll be another week of house arrest for you. Understand?”

Staring stubbornly at nothing, chin up, Isobel nodded, not trusting herself to give a verbal reply.

With that, her father breezed past her and into the living room, where she heard the volume of the TV spike a few notches, and then she was alone with Brad.

They stared at each other and Isobel waited for him to speak first. She wanted to know exactly what this was about before making any assumptions. After a moment, Brad scooted his chair back and stood, his letter jacket still on, she was glad to see. Maybe that meant he hadn’t planned on staying long.

“I figured you hadn’t told them,” he said, grinning.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get around to it.”

“I came to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.” She folded her arms close against herself. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, like he was assessing her for damage.

“Hey,” he said, louder, anger flashing in his features, those sharp blue eyes blazing. “I’m trying to warn you about that freak you’re screwing.”

Isobel felt her face flame. She rushed him, pushed him toward the back door. He stayed rooted to the spot, smirk in place. She spared a worried glance over her shoulder into the living room, then scowled at Brad. She gave up, knowing she’d have better luck in displacing a tree, and strode past him. She snapped on the porch light, then wordlessly opened the back door and stepped out into the brisk night.

Folding her arms, this time against the cold, she huddled into her sweater, waiting for him to follow. He took his time, making a point of closing the door behind him as he ambled out.

She watched him thumb a cigarette from a half-crushed pack he’d pulled from the inside pocket of his jacket. As he lit up, she sneered.

“So now you’re smoking at my parents’ house?”

“You going to tell on me?”

“What do you want?”

He took a long draw from the cigarette, which he kept pinched between his thumb and fingers, his eyes crinkling in thought. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment, then exhaled in a sigh. “This is getting really old, Izo,” he said, and leaned his back against the brick wall beneath the porch light. “You need to just friggin’ forget it already.”

“Forget what exactly?”

The smirk reappeared as he tapped a few ashes onto the porch. “He dissed you in front of the entire school, Iz,” he said. “Face it, he basically told you to get lost yesterday.”

Her eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “Is that what this is about?”

“Look,” he said, “why don’t you just sit with us again tomorrow, and I’ll let everybody know we can forget the whole thing.”

“What?”

“I won’t even bother the little faggot anymore, if that’ll make you happy.”

“We are over. You of all people should realize that. And, anyway, what about Nikki?”

Putting the cigarette to his lips again, he took another long tug, as though only to keep from smiling. He shrugged, blinking down at her in lazy indifference.

“You’re such a jerk.” She turned, ready to stalk back inside the house.

“I’ll tell Alyssa to back off. I’ll tell her to chill out so you can get your spot back on the squad.”

Isobel turned to face him again. “Would you listen to yourself? You’re trying to bribe me into being your girlfriend. Don’t you think that’s just a little pathetic?”

“You belong with us,” he said, “whether you’re my girlfriend or not.”

“No, Brad. No, I don’t.” She shook her head, half in denial, half in disbelief. Did he even know how he sounded?

“You think you belong with him?”

“I’m not with anybody.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“You hear what you want to.”

At this he frowned. “Izo.” He dropped the cigarette and ground it out with the tip of one shoe. He stepped in closer. She stood her ground, eyeing him suspiciously as he drew nearer, close enough for her to catch the smell of his cologne mixed in with cigarette smoke and the spearmint gum he always chewed to keep his mom guessing. “The guy is a total freak.”

“Stop calling him that.”

“Listen,” he said, inching in, his expression hardening, “there’s something not right about all of this. He’s got you brainwashed or something.”

She felt herself bristling all over from his closeness, and she wanted to step back, away from his familiar scent and his low, protective tone, but that was exactly what he wanted. She could feel it. He wanted to know he could still affect her like that, that he still held that power over her.

He leaned down and kissed her neck.

She went rigid. “Stop,” she warned.

The smell of tobacco filled her nostrils as his mouth trailed up to her jaw. She felt his arms slide around her lower back, clamping her to his solid frame. “No, Brad,” she was scarcely able to squeak. She raised her hands, palms pressed against the front of his jacket. She pushed, angling back, but not far enough. “I said stop!” He pressed his mouth over hers.

She made a muffled sound as close to a scream as she could manage, even though she knew there was no way her father would hear over the blare of the television. If only he would walk into the kitchen and look out the window. He’d see—he’d know how Brad could be sometimes. She thrashed against him, preparing to bite down on his bottom lip, when suddenly, tensing, he stopped and pulled back.

“What was that?”

“Let go!” she growled, prying herself away, shoving him as hard as she could, though she only succeeded in rumpling his jacket. “What is wrong with you?”

He shushed her, tilting his head to listen. From above came the sound of heavy scraping. “There it is again,” he muttered.

Her eyes widened. Varen. He must have heard them arguing from the roof. What was he doing? Was he coming this way? Was he crazy? Her mind raced for a distraction.

“You’re such a jerk!” she shouted as loud as she could. Brad’s head whipped back around to her, his eyes, that angry, electric shade of blue, searching.

She staggered a few steps back. “Go away!” she shouted again, knowing someone would be there any second.

Brad did too, it seemed, because he wasted no time in stepping down off the porch. He raised a finger, pointing at her as he backed away. “You’ll see,” he said. “You’ll see. In the meantime, why don’t you tell that little faggot I’m gonna kill him. Tell him I’m gonna beat the livin’ piss out of him for what he did, ’cause I know it was him. Tell him that for me, would ya, Iz?”

Isobel stared after him in horrified disbelief, her confusion mounting. Did what?

She heard the porch door open behind her and her mother’s voice. “Isobel, time to come in now. You shouldn’t even be out here after being sick.”

Isobel stood frozen, staring after Brad as he turned away and headed around to the front of the house, no doubt to wherever he’d parked his Mustang.

His Mustang. Why hadn’t she heard his Mustang? Turning, she rushed in past her mother, through the kitchen and into the living room, right up to the window. Parting the draperies, Isobel watched Brad climb into another car, one she recognized as his mom’s sleek black BMW.

She turned to see her father sit up from reclining in his easy chair. The TV on mute, he glared at her.

“Where’s Brad’s Mustang?”

Her father’s gaze narrowed. “I didn’t ask,” he said coolly, “because yesterday you told me that it was in the shop.”

“I forgot,” she muttered, and swiveled for the stairs. “I’m going to bed.”

“I was just about to suggest that,” he said, then snapped the TV volume back on.

Isobel stomped upstairs once more, averting her gaze from Danny, who stood leaning halfway out his door. “Ooh, somebody’s in trouuuuuu—”

She shut her door, cutting him off, then stopped, her heart tripping over itself at the sight of Varen Nethers perched on one corner of her tousled pink bed, last year’s cheerleading album draped open across his lap.

“What are you doing!?” Undiluted panic spurred her forward, giving her enough nerve to snatch the album away.

Oh God, she thought, looking down at the page the album had been opened to. He’d seen the one from last year’s squad sleepover, the one of her stuffing an entire slice of pepperoni pineapple pizza into her mouth.

“Impressive,” he said as he lay back against her bed, propped up on his elbows.

Clutching the scrapbook to her chest, she turned away, not wanting him to see the lobster-red hue of her face. “What is wrong with you?” she seethed. “You don’t just barge into somebody’s personal space and start going through their stuff!” Marching to her closet, she flung the album in.

“Really,” he said in that infuriating monotone.

She whirled around to see him staring at her, amused by some private joke, and her stomach turned several lopsided backflips at the sight of him half lying on her bed like that. Black sprawled over pink. She angled her eyes toward the ceiling, trying to get a grip.

“How come you’re off the squad?” he asked out of nowhere.

She flushed again, her suspicion that he’d been able to hear her conversation with Brad confirmed. “I quit,” she snapped. “I guess since you heard—”

“I heard everything,” he said.

He was doing it again. Watching her with that intense, penetrating look, the one she didn’t quite get. It made her nervous and dizzy and flustered. Realizing she’d been wringing her hands, she dropped them to her sides.

“Well, then you also heard enough to know you’d better steer clear of Brad for a while.”

“Given how much we hang out as it is.”

“You know what I mean. I don’t know what you did to piss him off like that but . . . well, he’s pissed.”

“What’s funny is,” he said, sitting up, seemingly unfazed by Brad’s death threats or her added warnings, “neither do I.”

He stood, popping the collar of his green jacket, the sudden movement causing her to stiffen. He noticed it too, and paused to stare at her.

She looked away, rubbing her arm. It was just that he could be so imposing sometimes. And unpredictable. And it was just too surreal to see him standing in her room like this.

“Do me a favor, would you?” He moved to her window.

“What’s that?”

“Take your own advice.”

“What do you mean, take my own advice?”

“I mean,” he said, handing her the now slightly runny carton of Banana Fudge Swirl, packing the other away into the nylon bag, “that you should steer clear of your ex for a while.”

Isobel tilted her head at him in wonderment. That would be doing him a favor?

“Varen?”

“Isobel.”

A chill ran through her at the way he said her name, the way he gave each syllable its own moment, making it sound so regal, so proper. He stood with his back to her, his hands gripping the sides of her window frame. His shoulders remained tense, like he knew what was coming but still held hope that he could escape.

“Why—why did you come here tonight?”

He turned his head toward her, though he didn’t meet her gaze. As usual, he didn’t answer right away either.

“Because you were right,” he said at last. “Yesterday, you were right. And I wanted a chance, deserved or not, to apologize. So . . . for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Isobel swallowed with difficulty. Had he really just apologized to her?

He ducked his head, lowering himself to straddle her window ledge.

“However, that said”—he looked back at her now, his eyes filled with a dark and secretive mirth—“I can promise that you’ll never be right about me again.”

Isobel set her carton of ice cream aside on her dresser. She stepped forward and stopped at her window, looking down at him, speaking before she knew what to say. “Never?”

For the first time since they’d met, since they’d been paired together for the project, his gaze was the one to fall away from hers.

Then something on her carpet caught his attention. He frowned, brow furrowing.

“Hey,” he said, climbing back inside. He brushed past her.

Isobel’s eyes widened, following him as he moved to her bedside. Crouching, he pulled something out from underneath. She felt a surge of panic when she saw the book. He turned to glare at her over his shoulder, holding up The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Isobel stood frozen in place, able to do nothing but gape. He rose, his gaze admonishing as he set the book on her nightstand.

“Little more respect, please,” he said, and moved past her again to climb out the window.

“Wait,” she called. She hadn’t finished telling him about her dream. How could she have forgotten? His presence, it had been like a spell. And now he was leaving and it was too late.

He was going to leave her alone with that book. “You can’t go yet.” She reached out, but stopped short of grasping his arm. “I have to tell you about the dream. I haven’t finished telling you what happe—”

“Tomorrow,” he said, ducking out. She watched him walk the length of her roof, powerless to call after him. He turned when he reached the end, then climbed down her mother’s lattice just as she’d done that day she’d snuck out to meet him. Before she could utter another syllable to stop him, she heard a quiet clink of chains as his boots met with the turf below.