Nevermore

“Chocolate malt,” Brad added.

“Yeah, same here,” Mark said. “Alyssa, what do you want?”

“Don’t know yet, give me a second. It’s got to be good.”

“You know what you want yet, Izo?” she heard Brad ask. “Your usual?”

Isobel wandered down the long line of contenders to where her friends stood waiting, trailing a finger beneath the little rectangular plaques that listed a description of each ice cream.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“And a scoop of Banana Fudge in a cup.”

Isobel leaned her hip against the softly humming ice cream case. She stared through the glass, thinking about the game and about how well the routine had gone. In fact, all they really needed to do before Nationals was tighten the middle section, perfect the tumbling segment, and make a few adjustments on the ending pyramid. Of course, she could always sharpen her twists, and if she could work on landing her layout a fraction of a second sooner, she’d be in perfect sync.

Isobel heard the click of register keys, and her gaze drifted to stare unfocused at the store clerk’s name tag.

VAREN, it read, in bulky Gothic lettering.

Isobel froze, her eyes locked on that name tag. Her smile fell away. Her mouth went instantly dry. A tingling sensation in her legs and arms snuffed the night’s happiness, spreading its way into her lower stomach, where it congealed into a puddle of unease.

Reluctantly, she lifted her gaze.

Even though she’d read the name on the tag, it was still a shock to look up and see him staring back. For the first time, because of the green visor that he wore, she could see his face—his eyes—clearly. They remained fixed on her, holding an unreadable expression.

It would have been better, she thought, if he’d glared at her with hatred.

“Today?” Brad said, and tapped the counter between them, starting Isobel out of her shock.

Behind her, she heard Mark and Alyssa snicker.

Everything was playing out in slow motion again. Varen’s gaze lingered on hers even as he turned away. She watched him as one elegant hand reached deftly into a bin behind the counter and pulled from a trough of water a single silver ice cream scoop.

Despite its thundering, she felt her heart plummet as she realized what was going on, what her friends were going to do—what they were doing.

“Brad,” she said, and pivoted toward him just in time to see him flick over a soda- shop-style straw canister. The multi-colored tubes went spilling across the counter and behind it, some of them landing in the open ice cream bins, the rest hitting the floor, making hollow little pop sounds as they bounced on the linoleum.

“Oops.”

“Brad, you klutz,” Alyssa cooed.

“What can I say?” Brad shrugged. “I’m a hurricane.”

Isobel glanced mutely up from the spilled straws to where Varen now stood, leaning over to scrape the very bottom of one of the ice cream canisters under the close scrutiny of Nikki, who stood on her toes to watch.

“Make sure you don’t touch any of it,” she said, her hands pressed flat against the glass, leaving huge hand- lotion smudge prints. He straightened, carefully packing the ice cream into a small paper cup adorned with palm trees. Just before he finished, Nikki tapped the glass like she would a fish tank.

“Hey. ’Scuse me,” she said. “I changed my mind.”

He raised his eyes.

“I want Cinnamon instead.”

“We don’t have—”

“Then I don’t want anything.” She shrugged and waved away what he’d already prepared.

Isobel could die. She could just die. But if she said something, if she tried to stop them, she knew everyone would just go back to hating her. Would Brad break up with her? At the very least, she’d have to quit the squad for sure.

The whir of the blender cut through the silence.

“Brad.” She whirled and started for the door. “I want to go home.”

“Sure thing, Izo,” he called, “just let me get my malt.” He knocked on the counter. “Can we step on that malt back there?”

Isobel turned her eyes to Nikki, only to see a smug Cheshire smile pasted across her face, arms folded, her gaze cast to the palm-leaf ceiling fans. The realization hit her then. They’d all been in on this together. The betrayal of it burned, and Isobel’s fingers itched to form into fists.

Varen set the first malt on the counter next to the register. Brad snatched it up.

She watched in silent dread as Brad handed off the shake to Mark, who took it and tossed it on the floor. The plastic top popped off at impact, the brown ice cream mixture flying out to spatter across the floor and the nearby tables and chairs.

“Hey!” Isobel shouted, marching right up to shove Mark in the shoulder.

“Hey yourself, Iz! Relax. It was just an accident. Besides, Count Fagula’s got a mop back there somewhere, I’m sure.”

“Keeps it in his little green apron,” Brad chimed in, causing both of them to explode into howls of laughter.

“Get out,” Isobel growled, pointing them to the door.

“Can’t.” Brad sighed. As he spoke, he wandered to the store freezer, where he pulled open the door and tugged out a pint of ice cream. “We’re still short some Banana Fudge and a couple of malts.”

“Hey, Brad, over here!” shouted Mark, clapping his hands, raising them like he would for a pass.

A wild look came over Brad. “Go long!” he called. Gripping the pint like a football, he leaned back, preparing for the toss. Mark laughed and retreated as far as the front door, his eye on the pint.

“No! Don’t!” Isobel screamed.

Brad threw the pint. Alyssa squealed and ducked. Nikki flattened herself against the display glass. The carton hurtled through the air toward Mark, who dropped down at the last second, causing the pint to smash against the mural-painted wall behind him. The crushed carton slid down, then hit the floor, leaving a brown splat of Rocky Road right in the middle of a cockatoo.

Isobel spun in search of Varen, only to see Brad lift the hinged divider and invite himself behind the counter. He slid up to the register and, with practiced fingers, tapped a series of buttons that sent the cash drawer shooting out. He dipped a large hand in, and Isobel gaped as he claimed a wad of twenties.

That’s when Varen moved.

He got close enough to reach for the money—close enough to almost snatch it back. As the scene played out, a sick terror seized Isobel’s heart, tightening it in a fierce grip. She felt her entire form flinch as Brad shoved him. Varen stumbled backward, hands raised in an open-palm gesture of forfeit.

It wasn’t what Brad wanted.

His face contorted and his fist balled. He reared back, his arm a python prepared to strike.

Without thinking, without knowing what she was doing, Isobel rushed him. She crashed hard against Brad, grappling for his arm. Knocked off balance, Brad dropped the money. Before he could steady himself, her hand struck. She slapped him, and the crack of her palm against his jaw split the room.

Everything went silent except for the quiet playing of the steel drum music, and the soft hum of the store freezer. Brad stared down at her, anger fixed in his eyes, causing them to burn unnaturally bright, like two supernovas ready to explode.

“Get out,” she said, hissing the words between her teeth. She couldn’t remember being this angry at anything or at anyone ever before in her life. She could feel herself trembling all over, like a time bomb. She swallowed, strangling the impulse to strike him again. “I said get out!”

Nikki was the first to scuttle out the door. Isobel knew this because she could hear that tch sound followed by the jingle of the door chimes. Someone else followed, but Isobel couldn’t see whether it was Mark or Alyssa, because she was too busy staring holes into her ex-