Nevermore

26 Freak

“Central control to Cadet Lanley. Do you read me?”

By the time Isobel had reached her locker that morning, she’d come up with a neat and (for the most part) logical explanation for almost everything. The forest had come from Varen’s black-tree CD, the run through the woods had been her subconscious mind reliving her run through the park, and Reynolds . . . well, Reynolds probably had something to do with her dad.

Stick that all in a box labeled “bad dream,” tie it up with a dreaming about dreaming theory, and Isobel thought she had things pretty much figured out. Of course, the only thing she hadn’t been able to play connect the dots with had been the strange white light, the mysterious ghostly woman. Maybe, Isobel mused, it had been a metaphor for Lacy.

The locker beside hers slammed shut with a bang, causing Isobel to start.

“Yeah, hello,” Gwen said, circling a hand around in front of Isobel’s face, as though washing sludge from a window.

“What?” said Isobel. She pushed Gwen’s hand down.

“What my butt! Did you seriously not hear a single thing I just told you? I said, ‘Are you feeling okay?’ You’re all catatonic this morning. And you look a little washed-out.”

Isobel looked away, trying to hide her face behind the locker door. “Yeah, I’m okay. I just didn’t sleep very well.”

Overhead, first bell sounded.

“Hey,” Gwen said, still watching Isobel as though she were examining something in a petri dish. Then her concern softened and melted away, replaced by a wry smile. “Before I forget.” She held out a folded slip of paper with Isobel’s name printed across one side in deep purple lettering. “I only read it once, I swear.”

Isobel gasped and snatched up the note. “When did you see him?”

“Parking lot. This morning. You know, some of us have cars.”

“Don’t rub it in.” Isobel unfolded the note.

Can we meet after school? My house. No parents.

See you in Swanson’s class.

—V

Isobel’s heart thrummed, turning several loop-de-loops. His house?

She grinned, suppressing visions of the Addams Family mansion.

And no parents. No parents?

She reread that line again, suddenly realizing that the thought of being totally alone with him was more than just a little terrifying.

What word had her mother used? Experienced?

She refolded the note quickly.

It didn’t help to look up and see a grinning, brow-waggling Gwen. Isobel rolled her eyes and tucked the note away in her locker. Then, thinking better of it, she pushed the note into the right pocket of her jeans instead. She still hadn’t changed her combination, and it was definitely not a message she wanted Brad to see.

“Hey,” said Gwen, backing away to join the traffic of the crowded hall, “I’ll see you at lunch, okay? My delicate butterfly nature calls on me to table hop, so expect a visit. And don’t look so worried. It’s been my experience that the spooky ones usually know what they’re doing.” Gwen winked, then with a hand cupped around her mouth like a megaphone, called,

“And they’ll only bite you if you let them!”

Isobel shut her locker, then hustled in the opposite direction, away from all the heads that had turned.

She tried not to smile.

The rest of the morning dragged by, with every minute feeling more like five. Isobel found herself unable to focus on what was going on in her classes. Unlike the day before, when she’d been able to zone out and let time slip away, she felt fidgety and tense. She kept watching the clock, and even though she’d decided to stick with her sleepwalking theory, her second dream encounter with Reynolds kept creeping in through the back door of her mind, shadow-playing through her memory. The only pleasant distraction she found was in the thought of seeing Varen in Mr. Swanson’s class and then later that afternoon, though the idea of being alone with him still made her nervous.

After what seemed like nine eternities, fourth period finally rolled around. Isobel stopped by her locker again before heading to class to pick up her English binder as well as the dreaded Poe book. If there was one thing she was looking forward to most about finishing the project, it was not having to tote around Poe’s lifework anymore. Besides being creepy and contributing to nightmares, the thing weighed as much as a cement block.

Isobel found her seat in Mr. Swanson’s class. A moment later, chains clinking, Varen walked in. She looked up, straightening in her chair, his presence never failing to put her on full alert. But a second later her rigidness crumbled into laughter, and she had to cover her mouth. Several people turned in their seats, looking curiously between them. The T-shirt beneath his jacket read HOOLIGAN in Gothic white lettering. It was the term Isobel’s father had used last night. Varen had heard, she realized with a stab of embarrassment.

“Shades off, Mr. Nethers, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Swanson said.

Varen removed his sunglasses in a salute before going to his desk, his wallet chains rattling noisily against the plastic seat and metal chair legs as he sat.

The bell rang, and Mr. Swanson began the day’s lesson, leaving Isobel still trying to wrestle the goofy smile from her face. She also had to fight to keep herself from sneaking glances in Varen’s direction.

Toward the end of the class, Mr. Swanson began listing project groups on the board in the order of their presentations the next day. Romelle and Todd were going first with Mark Twain, Josh and Amber were next with Walt Whitman, then came the one group of three with Richard Wright. Isobel started to fidget with her pen as the list grew longer.

“And last but not least,” Mr. Swanson said, writing her name on the board, “we’ll have Isobel and Varen with our Halloween guest of honor, Mr. Edgar Allan Poe. I’m looking forward to that one especially.” He smiled and nodded at the two of them.

Way to load on the pressure there, Swanson. She shot an anxious glance at Varen. He gave her what she took to be a “no big deal” shrug, and she thought that must mean that he had a plan. She tried to smile, hoping that was the case, but despite this reassurance from him, the queasy feeling in her middle refused to subside. After all, it was no secret between the two of them that she at least had completed nothing. Well, nothing except scribbling down a few random quotes that, if she read them aloud tomorrow, might prevent them from getting a total zero. Emphasis on might.

Isobel shut her eyes, taking a moment to get a grasp on the fact that she could not afford to fail tomorrow. She’d almost lost her spot on the squad once. If she got a failing grade in English, then it would be out of Coach’s hands, and no amount of repentant cheers could save her from exile. Her wings would be clipped, Alyssa would take over, and she’d have to wave good-bye as the bus headed off to Nationals.

The bell rang, dismissing them for lunch. Isobel gathered her things and stood, loading the Poe book on top of her binder, now sorry she’d rooted it out of her locker, since they hadn’t been given any time to work in their groups that day. When she looked up, though, she no longer saw Varen at his desk. Instead her eyes found him standing out in the hall, talking to somebody blocked by the wall, though her suspicions about who it was were confirmed the moment she caught sight of black hair and a copper-toned, bracelet-lined wrist.

Her eyes narrowed. She shoved her things under one arm and started for the door. She thought, as she drew nearer, that she might have caught the word “bimbo.”

Before she could even think to stop herself, Isobel slipped out into the hall and stood next to Varen, touching him gently on the arm. The connection sent a static sensation coursing through her. He turned fast, his eyes on hers, deep green pools of surprise. Through sheer will, Isobel kept her hand steady on his sleeve. Then, for the killer, she leaned in, quietly interrupting with, “Hey, I’ll see you after school, okay?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Her gaze slid from him to Lacy, and Isobel took care to flash her a wink-smile combo. The Queen of Sheba stood stunned, her glossy maroon lips parted in awe. Still smiling, Isobel spun on her toes. Putting just the right amount of sway in her walk, she headed toward the lunchroom.

Isobel left the lunch line with the Poe book and her binder both clamped under one arm and tried to keep her tray steady with both hands. Thursdays were order-out-pizza days at Trenton, and Isobel, her empty stomach finally catching up with her, had grabbed the biggest slice of Tony Tomo’s mushroom pizza she could find. From there, it was a balancing act all the way to her table, and she didn’t see who was sitting there until she was ready to set her tray down.

Stevie. He stood up and reached out to take her books. Isobel noticed that he was wearing one of his usual Trenton sweatshirts, blue with a big yellow T printed on the chest.

“Hey,” he said, “mind if I sit here today?”

Isobel shook her head. She slid her tray onto the table, watching him carefully. She resisted the urge to glance toward the crew’s usual spot, and she hoped Stevie realized what this would mean for him. But then again, she thought, after standing up for her yesterday at practice, she wouldn’t doubt it if the crew hadn’t already given him the boot.

She sat down. “Hey, by the way, thanks for yesterday,” she said. Maybe if she kept the conversation light, he wouldn’t feel pressured to talk about any falling-out that had gone on. She picked up her slice of pizza from her plate, famished.

“Isobel . . .”

“Yeah?” she managed, just before chomping down.

“I came over here today because I need to talk to you. I think Mark and Brad are up to something,” he said in a low voice.

Isobel slowed her chewing. She let the slice of pizza slip back onto her plate and, wiping her hands on her napkin, tried to swallow. “What do you mean?”

“I heard Brad and Mark talking about it after third period,” he went on. “But they stopped right as I walked up. I only heard Mark asking Brad if he thought you’d tell. Then Brad said something like, ‘He won’t be able to prove anything.’”

Isobel froze at the word “he.” She dropped her hands into her lap, still clutching her napkin, and skimmed the cafeteria with her eyes. She saw Brad, Mark, Alyssa, and Nikki sitting together. She glanced toward the goths’ table next, though she didn’t see Varen. Or Lacy, for that matter. She frowned.

“Isobel,” said Stevie, lowering his voice to a whisper. She turned back to him as he leaned over the table. “Brad won’t stop talking about you. Something’s gotten into him over this whole thing between you and that guy. I mean, jeez, if he’s not talking about you, then he’s saying all this stuff about how he’s going to mess up this Varen.”

Isobel went still as she sat listening. Why couldn’t Brad just let it go? Why couldn’t he let her go?

“Isobel, I think they might do something major. I mean, Brad is convinced that Varen’s responsible for what happened to his car. Did you know the police found claw marks on his tires?”

“Say what?” Isobel leaned in, shaking her head. Stevie was talking so low, she couldn’t be sure she’d heard him right.

“All this stuff keeps happening. And I—I think you ought to tell someone that Brad’s been acting weird about you before he does whatever he’s got planned. Nikki thinks so too.”

“Nikki?” Wadding her napkin, she tossed it onto her tray. Okay, now he had to be kidding. Either that, or this was a setup.

“Isobel, listen to me,” he said. “The only reason she wouldn’t come over here with me today is because she thinks you hate her.”

“I don’t hate her.” The words leaped out of her mouth before she could rein them in. “I mean,” she amended, “it’s not like she’s my most favorite person in the world right now, but—”

“You know the only reason she ever went out with Brad was because she thought it would get your attention. It’s killing her that you guys don’t talk anymore. Besides that, she and Brad aren’t even dating anymore. That lasted, like, two seconds. He just won’t let her tell anyone, because he doesn’t want you to find out. All he ever talks about now is how brainwashed you are and how he’s going to mangle this guy.”

Another tray hit the table. Isobel jumped. “Why are we whispering?” Gwen whispered. Isobel looked up to see Gwen lift a length of tailor’s measuring tape from around her neck. “Sit up, you,” she said, poking Isobel between the ribs. Isobel squeaked and sat up straight. She stared at Stevie, whose eyes widened as Gwen looped the measuring tape around Isobel’s waist and drew it snug.

“Gwen,” said Isobel, “what are you doing?”

“Just never you mind,” she murmured. She stripped the tape away and pulled a pen out of her ponytail to mark the back of her wrist. “Hold out your arms. And don’t be rude. Introduce me already. Who’s your friend?”

Isobel clamped her arms in against herself like chicken wings as Gwen fussed around her. “This is Stev— Ow! ” She jolted as Gwen pinched her right on the fleshy part of her underarm.

“Hello, Stev-ow,” Gwen said. She nodded to Stevie while she strung the tape around Isobel’s bustline.

“Omigod, Gwen!” Isobel’s head whipped back and forth to see who might be watching.

“H-hey,” Stevie offered with a small wave.

“Oh, I hate you,” Gwen grumbled, making a note on the back of her wrist. She pulled the tape away again, this time drawing out one of Isobel’s arms to measure its circumference.

Scowling, Isobel gave up with a huff, resigning herself to be handled and measured and cataloged. She knew that whatever Gwen was up to, it must have something to do with the Grim Facade. She also knew that no matter what Gwen was planning, there was still no way she was going to get to go.

“Oh my gosh,” Gwen said suddenly. She dropped the tape, her gaze locking on Stevie, who froze, a forkful of spaghetti hovering inches from his open mouth. “What are you wearing underneath that?” she asked, pointing at his sweatshirt.

Stevie shot a quick look at Isobel, a loud and clear cry for help.

“Oh, sorry, sorry,” Gwen said, hands flapping. “What I mean is that I need to borrow your sweatshirt, and I wanted to make sure you had something on underneath.”

“You want to borrow my shirt?” asked Stevie. He pressed his hands down on his shoulders, as though in an effort to keep the sweatshirt in place.

“Just until after tomorrow. You got a T-shirt on underneath that, right?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

Gwen hopped up and crossed to Stevie’s side. Lifting one corner of the sweatshirt, she started peeling it away from the yellow T-shirt underneath. “Thanks a ton,” she said as she yanked it over his head. “This is exactly what I need.”

Stevie sat stunned, his short, dark brown hair alive with static electricity. Isobel gaped as Gwen wrangled the cuffs off Stevie’s wrists, then wadded the sweatshirt into a bundle before plopping down next to him. From there, she scooted over her tray, grabbed her pudding dish, and dug in with her spoon.

Isobel rolled her eyes. Shaking her head, she mouthed Sorry to Stevie, whose gaze darted from her to Gwen. As he watched Gwen finish off her pudding in three humongous bites, his expression wavered, as though he couldn’t decide if he had a good taste in his mouth or a bad one.

“So what are we talking about that’s so serious? Oh, that looks so good,” said Gwen, pointing at Isobel’s plate with her pudding spoon. “I shoulda got the pizza today. Are you finished with that?”

“No!” Isobel snapped. She slid her tray away from Gwen and picked up the slice of pizza again. She bit down just as a long shadow settled over the table.

“Trying to break your own record?” a quiet voice asked.

The pizza slipped from Isobel’s hands, tumbling onto her plate, dripping sauce on her chin. She grabbed her wadded-up napkin and pressed it to her mouth, gulping the bite down whole.

Gwen elbowed Stevie, who slid down one space. Gwen slid down too, allowing Varen to take the seat across from Isobel. She caught a faint whiff of his scent, something she had never paid much attention to before, but now tried to analyze. It was peaty and rich, but somehow still delicate. He dropped a clipped stack of papers between them.

“You finished it,” she said. She grabbed the essay and read the title page:

The Man Behind “The Raven”:

The Life, Death, and Major Works of Edgar Allan Poe

An Essay

by

Isobel Lanley and Varen Nethers

“Wow, it looks great,” she said, eyes meeting his again. She’d almost gotten used to finding them within the forest of his dark hair. “You really don’t think he’ll suspect?”

“Doubt it,” he said. “Just be sure to read it over.”

Isobel nodded. She thought that maybe reading it more than once would be her best bet, in case Swanson came back around and wanted to know exactly which parts she’d contributed.

She opened the front cover of the Poe book and slipped the paper beneath it.

“So, you guys are doing this project on Poe?” Stevie asked, his tone conversational.

Varen turned to stare at him, as though he’d only just noticed Stevie’s presence. Stevie, in turn, seemed to shrink into himself, his gaze dropping to his tray, as though he feared any prolonged eye contact might turn him to stone.

“Varen, this is Stevie,” said Isobel. “He’s on the squad with me.” Translation: He’s cool. “Stevie, this is Varen.”

Stevie raised one hand. Varen nodded, and the momentary razor edge to his demeanor ebbed away. “Yeah,” he said, “we’re doing it on Poe.”

“Hey, wasn’t that the guy who married his cousin or somethin’?” Gwen said before chomping down on a Granny Smith apple, half leaning, half scooting in so that her shoulder pressed against Varen’s in heedless disregard of his personal space perimeters and unspoken no-touch policy. The table went quiet except for Gwen’s horse chewing, which was happening in close proximity to Varen’s left ear. Isobel had to press her lips together to keep from smiling. Glancing at Stevie, she saw that his eyebrows had shot clear to the ceiling.

Varen seemed to take Gwen’s close proximity in stride. He turned his head slowly to stare down at her, glancing first to where their shoulders connected, and then directly into her intrusive gaze. Isobel waited for Gwen to disintegrate, dematerialize, or melt. Instead she aimed a finger at Varen’s nose, the finger belonging to the hand that held the half-chomped apple.

“Don’t tell me he didn’t,” she said. She shook her finger at him. “’Cause I know he did.”

Varen’s stare remained, punctuated by a few slow, plaintive blinks.

Gwen looked thoughtful and added, “And wasn’t he the one who sliced off his ear and mailed it to his girlfriend?”

“Van Gogh,” said Varen, in a monotone that suggested he might be in pain.

“Van Gogh,” Gwen said, leaning away, waving the apple. “Edgar Allan Poe. Close enough!”

The bell ending lunch sounded. Stevie broke away immediately. As he went, tray in hand, he shot Isobel a pointed look from over one shoulder. She frowned, remembering his warning about Brad and Mark.

“What was that all about?” Varen asked.

She turned to face him as he stood. She should tell him what Stevie had heard, she thought. She should warn him. But didn’t he already know? After all, it wasn’t like threats from Brad were anything new. And didn’t they have enough to worry about as it was? She shook her head. “Nothing,” she murmured, deciding that, at the very least, it could wait until after tomorrow, after the project. “He just wanted to sit here today.”

“And so the monarchy crumbles in your absence,” he mused.

That made her smile, although a little sadly.

“Gwen,” he said in acknowledgment.

“Your Darkness-ship,” she returned with a bow.

His eyes remained on Isobel as he began a slow backward walk. He was doing it again, speaking to her with his eyes. She remained trapped in his stare, trying to hear him, to read the underlying message. Finally his gaze broke from hers and he turned away, walking off through the cafeteria doors.

There was a pause before Gwen spoke.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Right now, you’re trying to decide if that was hot or annoying.” She paused, as though formulating her own opinion. Finally she said, “It was so totally hot.”

Before lunch was over, Isobel had made sure to stop by the office and give her mom a call to let her know where she’d be, since she wasn’t supposed to use her cell until school let out.

She left out the no parents part.

Her mom had been cool. Mostly. At least she hadn’t asked too many questions, especially after Isobel had reminded her that their project was due the very next day and that they were behind. Way behind.

She’d assured her mom that yes, Varen would give her a ride home and that yes, she’d be through the front door by ten at the absolute latest.

“What are you going to tell Dad?” Isobel had asked before hanging up. Her mother’s response had been, “Let me worry about that,” which made Isobel worry even more. She hated it whenever her parents fought. She certainly didn’t like being the cause.

After the final bell, she found Varen waiting for her at the same place as yesterday.

“Hey,” she said as she drew closer to where he stood in the open doorway, the autumn sunlight streaming in, outlining one side of him in a rim of gold. He turned toward her, the light casting a glossy sheen against the black of his hair. He smiled, just barely, and the sight of it, the idea that she had induced this rare response in him, sent her reeling.

“Nice job on the paper,” she said.

She’d read the ten-page essay during algebra, when they were supposed to be working on the day’s problems. She could finish those that weekend, she’d reasoned, since the worksheet wasn’t officially due till Monday.

Varen nodded once, but said nothing. They walked out into the parking lot together, Varen slipping his sunglasses into place. It felt good walking next to him. Almost like they were . . .official.

He stopped.

“What?” Isobel asked. When he didn’t answer, she followed the direction of his stare.

The words had been carved into the paint of the Cougar, across the driver’s-side door and all the way to the rear fender. The message had been scraped out by a key or another sharp object, showing up primer-gray against the once sleek black finish. YOU’RE DEAD FREAK it read.

“Damn it,” Isobel breathed. “That’s it.” She pivoted to march back toward the school, a new kind of rage surging through her, intensifying with each step. Abruptly she swiveled again, changing her mind. No, she thought, she wouldn’t go to the office. Brad and Mark were both varsity players with loaded parents, and that’s why everyone always looked the other way.

She’d go to the practice field instead, right to the source. If she had to kick Brad’s ass in front of all his football buddies and get suspended in the process, then fine. So be it. This time, he had gone too far.

“Where are you going?” she heard Varen call after her, and it was like he’d tugged on a string tied around her heart. Her footsteps slowed, but she didn’t turn around and she didn’t stop. She could hear him following her, but if she looked now, she knew she’d lose her resolve. She sped up again.

Brad was doing this because of her. That meant that it was her job to fix it.

Isobel crossed through the parking lot to the bus loading area, which ran like a wide driveway lengthwise in front of the school.

Yellow buses rumbled, parked in a double line while students wove their way in and out in pairs and groups. Isobel couldn’t see the fenced-in practice field just beyond, but she knew the football team would be gathering there, piling on their gear, grunting and smacking one another around about tomorrow’s big game.

“Isobel,” Varen called, still following. She marched on, stepping down off the grass median, over the curb, and through the line of buses. The smell of hot exhaust hit her, and she held her breath to keep from inhaling it. She crossed the space between the buses and was almost through the second line when she felt a hand catch her arm.

“What?” She whirled on him, flushing pink because she hadn’t meant to snap.

“Don’t,” he said, still clutching her arm, his grip just tight enough to hold her. She looked away from him, toward the field—and saw Brad. Having spotted them in turn, he walked toward the fence, beaming, his helmet dangling from one hand, his shoulder pads and football pants making him look like some hulking comic-book supervillain. His smile broadened and he waved to them, like he would to a pair of old friends.

“Don’t you see it’s what he wants?” Varen whispered to her, though she could barely hear him over the rumble of the buses.

Isobel watched as Brad stopped waving and pointed straight at Varen. Her entire body tensed. Dread seized her, and she turned to Varen only to find his face as unreadable as ever.

Coach Logan called out to Brad, giving his whistle a short blast. Finger trained on Varen, Brad began to back away, toward where the rest of the players stood gathered, watching.

“Come on,” said Varen, releasing her, “let’s go.” He turned to walk away.

Isobel stood rooted. She stared after Brad a moment longer, still battling the urge to rush out on the field and bash his head in with his stupid helmet. Instead she turned and followed Varen.

Isobel paused in the middle traveling lane, her gaze scanning the windows of the buses. Faces. So many of them turned down on her. Glad you’re all enjoying the show, she thought.

She looked away from all the eager eyes ready to drink up her life’s drama and jogged to catch up with the dark figure ahead of her.