like preschool. Connect the dots.
“Listen,” Isobel said, “we’re paired to do a stupid project, that’s all. He doesn’t want to work with me, either, so just leave him alone.”
“So he wrote his number on your hand?” Brad asked, his expression darkening. He took another turn, this one too sharply. Isobel gripped her seat. One of his hands left the wheel to slide a Camel from its pack.
“Never mind. Just take me home.”
“Would you just chill out?” he growled. Finding his Zippo between the seats, he flipped open the metal lighter and held the flame to the cigarette. “All I told him was not to talk to you,”
he mumbled, the cigarette bobbing between his tightened lips. He snapped the Zippo shut and tossed it into the backseat, taking a long draw from the cigarette before returning both hands to the wheel.
Isobel hit the power button to crack her window.
“What?” he asked, an amused smile playing at his lips. “Excuse me if I don’t like makeup-wearing fags writing on my girlfriend.”
Isobel glared at him. He only shrugged again, like that excused him or something. She folded her arms and stared straight ahead, deciding it was best to give him the silent treatment, though her plan semi-backfired when he didn’t say anything else. He only smiled away like he thought she was being cute.
After pulling into her driveway, Brad got out, like he always did, to get the car door for her. This time, though, Isobel threw open the door for herself. She slammed it shut behind her, the bang echoing through her neighborhood.
“Hey!” he said, arms spread. “What gives?”
She ignored him and marched up the brick sidewalk without a word.
“Izo!” he called. “Babe!”
It was the amusement, the underlying laughter in his voice that made her anger swell. Isobel stalked to her front door, refusing to let him cajole her into admitting that she was overreacting.
“All right. Fine,” he called after her. “Then I guess I’ll just leave your stuff on the porch?”
She paused on the front stoop of her house, then turned back to see Brad standing at the rear of his Mustang, trunk open, her gym bag hanging by its strap from one outstretched hand.
She was annoyed at herself for not thinking and annoyed at him for that big, churlish movie-star grin on his face. Abandoning the walkway, she stomped through the yard and jerked the bag from his grasp.
“Ooh,” he said with a wink.
“Brad,” she snapped, “you didn’t have to do that.”
“Aw, c’mon, Iz, I just talked to him. You heard what I said.”
“I heard you threaten him!”
“I didn’t threaten him.” He laughed again, shaking his head like he thought she needed glasses or a hearing aid, or a head check.
“Good-bye,” she said, and trudged once more for her front door.
“Okay, baby.” He sighed. “Love you, too.”
Isobel forced her lips to pinch together. As much as she wanted, she would not return the sentiment. She knew he was only probing for a response, trying to wriggle his way off the hook.
“All right,” he called. “Tell Paps I said what’s up.”
Isobel flung open the screen door and stalked inside her house.
He yelled after her, “Change your mind, you’ll know where we’ll be.”
She shut the door behind her and dropped her bag in the foyer. She stood motionless as she heard the slam of Brad’s trunk, followed by the clap of the driver’s-side door. She turned, ready to push her way back outside, to catch him before he left, but his engine revved, and he took off, music blasting, tires squealing.
“I don’t understand what you see in this game,” she mumbled, chewing on the crust of her last slice of pizza. Her parents had gone out for the night, leaving her alone with Danny, whose entire twelve-year-old existence revolved around his collection of video games, consoles, and online RPG empires. “It’s the same thing over and over, only with a background change.”
“No, it’s not,” Danny said, and waggled the controller to the right, as if that would make the armor-clad figure on the screen jump farther.
Isobel narrowed her gaze on the back of Danny’s school uniform pants, at his crack poking out just above the belt. She couldn’t believe that he hadn’t even bothered to change when he’d gotten home. Instead, like always, he’d plunked himself in front of the TV. “What’s the difference, then?” she asked, only mild interest backing the question.
“Each level gets harder,” he explained, leaning to his left while trying to get the figure on the screen to do the same. “Duh. And eventually you have to face Zorthibus Klax.”
Isobel glanced down at her hand, at the pale purple lines that had somehow, very faintly, remained. “Sounds like some foul disease.”
“Your
Isobel rolled her eyes. She leaned her head against her hand, her elbow resting on the arm of the sofa, and eyed her metallic pink cell phone, which she’d set on the end table next to the TV remote. It sat there silent and still beneath the glow of the beige, fat-bellied lamp. She’d brought it down from her room after letting it charge just in case Nikki, the traitor, sent her a text.
Or in case Brad called.
She couldn’t get it out of her mind, though. The way Varen had looked at her in the hall. He probably thought she’d told Brad everything, just to get back at him. He must have thought she’d run right to him and told him what happened, showed him her hand and said, “Go get him!”
Absently Isobel ran her fingers across the back of her hand, over the place he’d written on her. If she concentrated, she could still feel the sensation of the pen, the weight of his hand, the sharpness of the ballpoint.
Hunkering down into the couch cushions, she hooked a thumb in her T-shirt, biting the collar, unnerved all over again by the memory.
Were they even still on for the project?
Her eyes fell to her phone and lingered there.
Finally she stood. “Don’t burn down the house,” she snapped at Danny, grabbing her cell.
She flipped open the phone as she wandered into the kitchen and scrutinized the digits on her hand—or rather, what remained of them. Was that last one a zero or a nine? She decided to guess, pressing the corresponding keys.
The phone rang on the other end. And rang . . . and rang.
“Hello?” a woman’s light, sweet voice answered. This must be his mom, Isobel thought, admitting to herself that she’d half expected a gravelly tone and a chain smoker’s cough.
“Uh, yes. May I speak to—” She glanced up, catching sight of the digital clock on the stove. Nine thirty. She gasped.
“Hello?” the voice asked.
“Oh, I—Sorry.” Isobel sputtered, remembering what he’d said about calling after nine.
Automatically her thumb jabbed the end button. The phone went dead. For a moment she held the cell limp in her hand, staring at it. It was kind of a strange thing to say, now that she thought about it:
Isobel wandered back into the living room, only to find Danny right where she’d left him, the TV screen flashing in bold biohazard orange while a high-pitched voice cackled evil victory in the background.
“Man!” He moaned, and threw the controller against the entertainment center.
“Hey!” Isobel shouted. “Watch it!”
He ignored her, collecting the controller again, like he wanted to make up with it. Isobel settled back onto the couch and watched as he restarted the game.
“Can’t we watch TV or something?” she said with a sigh.
