chest, placing it at her waist instead.
He made an “I don’t know” sound, his hand venturing upward again.
“Brad!” She squirmed in his grasp, trying to sound stern, but she had to laugh at his sneaky persistence. He grinned through kissing her and lightly pinched her side, causing her to jolt and wiggle. “Brad, I gotta go home!” she insisted through giggles. “It’s probably seven already, I know it is.”
“You’re just making that up,” he whispered to her, all husky and soft.
She closed her eyes, clamping her lips shut, fighting the seduction.
“—just trying to get away to see your new boyfriend.”
Isobel went still.
She knew he was teasing, but the words still managed to burrow beneath her skin. He wasn’t going to let it go. She felt like a kite sinking back toward earth after flying high on a rush of wind. She frowned and pushed against him again. He lightened up and leaned back to look at her.
“I told you,” she said, “it wasn’t like that.”
He watched her for a long moment before he sank back into his seat. Then he stared forward, out the steam-mottled windshield. “Well,” he said, “then why the hell do you keep getting so bunched up about it?”
“I’m not. I mean—I just—” Isobel couldn’t believe this. They’d been just fine two seconds ago. She reached for him.
He shook her off. “Would you wake up, Isobel? The way he stares at you, it’s like he can’t wait to tie you up!”
“Brad! Oh my God!”
“You just don’t get it, Iz. He’s a wing nut. A girl like you? You can’t talk to a guy like that without him thinking he’s won the freaking lottery!”
She thought about telling him that Varen had already cleared up the question of whether or not she was his type. That was probably a bad idea, though, seeing as it might throw Brad into Incredible Hulk mode, complete with bulging neck and psycho eyes.
“I’m not doing the project with him anymore, okay?” she said quickly, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“You’ll forgive me if I’m not exactly torn up to hear that.” He reached to snap on the defrost. “Put on your seat belt.”
Wrenching around, Isobel grabbed the belt and slung it over her lap. After the click of the buckle lock, Brad slammed his foot on the gas. Isobel braced herself. The back tires kicked a spray of gravel as he spun the Mustang toward the road.
7
Maelstrom
It was weird.
After not talking to Brad for the rest of that night, Isobel returned to school the next morning to find him waiting at her locker, and with help from a bag of Hershey’s Kisses, they made up. Again.
After that, as long as no one brought up the “dentist” incident (or the
She and Brad were better too. It seemed that all he’d really needed was a chance to cool down about the whole Varen thing. Of course, she hadn’t yet figured out what to do for a grade in Swanson’s class, but maybe if she talked to him on Monday, told him that her schedule conflicted too much with Varen’s, then he’d give her a separate project or let her join one of the other groups. If she told him they’d tried to meet but that it didn’t look like it was going to work out, well, that was mostly the truth. And that way, neither of them would take any blame.
It was better this way, she told herself. It was better for both of them if they just stayed away from each other. And whenever she caught herself thinking about him, about how he’d tried to warn her by slipping her that note, about how his voice sounded on the phone or about how concentrated he looked that day when he wrote on her hand, she pushed the thoughts away and tried to think of something else—anything else. It was her curiosity he’d piqued. That’s all. Only that and nothing more.
She had to admit, though, she was a little baffled concerning the crew. She wasn’t complaining, but at the same time, it was strange that everything could apparently be forgiven as long as it was never brought up again. She’d come to expect that sort of thing from Nikki, but even Alyssa was being super nice these days. In the end, Isobel chalked it up to everyone being psyched about the game—which, of course, Trenton won. Brad even made a touchdown in the second quarter.
Their squad’s routine at halftime had gone off without a hitch too. Isobel had gotten her twist perfect with the glory of the stars spinning in the clear autumn sky, the blaring stadium lights and the filled stands all whirring into her kaleidoscopic swirl.
This was what high school was
After the game, Brad suggested a round of victory ice cream, and they all piled into his Mustang, its windows decorated with soap words reading GO HAWKS and DIE BEARS DIE. Isobel took shotgun next to Brad, while Alyssa, Nikki, and Mark crammed into the back. Stevie, complaining about his ankle, stayed behind to brace it, saying he might meet up with them later.
“Hey, Nikki,” Brad said, reaching an arm into the backseat. “Hand me that, would you?”
“I got it,” said Alyssa, passing up a familiar blue sweater.
“Here.” Brad glanced at Isobel pointedly, sweater in hand. “You left this in the backseat Monday.”
“Oh,” she said, blushing at the memory of how it had gotten there in the first place. She folded the sweater over her lap. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Isobel sent him a curious sidelong glance.
He watched her for another moment, winked at her without smiling, then turned the ignition. The engine roared. “All right, people,” he said over the rumble. “Let’s go get some ice cream.” He shifted the car into gear. “I know just the place.”
They wound up at a little shop called Dessert Island. The sign outside depicted a pile of ice cream that looked like a tiny island sitting in a sea of chocolate sauce, a palm tree sticking out of the middle. Isobel wondered why they’d come here instead of going to Graeter’s, which was the closest place to school, but shrugged it off as they strolled up to the storefront.
Tingling chimes announced them as they meandered through the door.
Inside, the shop was small with sparse seating. This, along with the do-it-yourself decorations and chalkboard menu, gave the place a very kitschy, family-owned feel.
Overhead, cheesy steel drum music warbled softly over the speaker system. All of the decor followed a tropical theme: quaint chairs with bamboo legs encircled wicker tables, a conch shell laid out on the center of each. Along the walls, a sprawling hand-painted mural depicted an ocean-side scene, complete with sandy beach, palm trees, and tropical birds, both perched and suspended in flight, plumage displayed.
There was no one behind the counter, but the neon OPEN sign in the front window blared electric pink, and the staff door leading to the back stood ajar, as though someone had propped it open.
It looked as though the five of them were the only customers.
“Heyo,” Brad called across the counter. He tapped the service bell, and its ting rose shrill over the island music. “Anybody here?”
Isobel stepped up to the display glass, peering in to find all the usual favorites sharing quarters with more daring combinations like Macadamia Mocha Madness, Pineapple Bliss, and Go-Go Guava. For a moment she thought about taking a chance with the shocking pink Rum While You Can but in the end decided to default to her all-time favorite—Banana Fudge Swirl.
“Yeah, can I have a scoop of the Raspberry White Chocolate, in a cup?” Nikki asked sweetly.
