She
“Lanley, stop right there!”
Isobel cringed, covering her ears.
“You walk out that door, you’re walking off the squad! You hear me?”
She heard. But she was on autopilot now and couldn’t have stopped herself anyway.
Once out of the gym, she started to move faster, nearly jogging down the deserted hallway, her sneakers making quiet claps. She rounded a corner and would have run right past her locker if she hadn’t noticed the little piece of white folded paper sticking out of the top vent. Isobel stopped, knowing all too well whose handwriting she would find on that slip of paper.
She let the strap of her heavy gym bag slip from her shoulder, and jerking the note out of the slot, she opened it.
Even though she’d known what to expect, there still came a blunt stab of hurt at the sight of dark purple ink.
“No,” she said aloud, tearing the note in two. “We don’t.” She’d shredded the paper again, again, and again, finally letting the flecks flutter to the floor like ash.
Isobel twisted her locker combination in, kicked the dented bottom corner of the door, and stood back as it popped out. She delved inside and withdrew her backpack, dragging it out by one strap. She set the bag on the floor in front of her feet and jerked open the zippers, extracting
Something inside her winced, begged for her to pull it out again.
But something else rejoiced.
She ignored the urge to rescue the book and, walking to a nearby stand, picked up several school newsletters. Wadding them up, she made her way back to the trash and tossed them in, sprinkling them over the book. Like flowers on a coffin.
Thankfully, Isobel’s dad got to school a little early to pick her up that day, so she didn’t have to worry about waiting around with anyone else from the squad, or about Brad showing up and her dad finding out she’d lied about his car being in the shop.
The ride home was a quiet one, and for once her father didn’t try to pry, asking questions like, “Why so quiet?” or “Did something happen today?” She knew he wouldn’t realize it, but she was grateful for this. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about what had happened that day.
When she got home, Isobel went straight to her room. She fell onto her bed, buried her face in her pillows, shut her eyes, and blessedly, mercifully fell asleep, her body seeming to agree with her mind that she had had enough. She didn’t wake up until hours later when her mom, having returned from a PTA meeting at Danny’s school, came to check on her.
“Izzy?”
Isobel rolled over onto one side, feeling herself pulled on opposite ends by wakefulness and sleep. She felt hot and kicked off some of the blankets. “Mm?” she murmured.
“Do you want to come down and have some supper? Soup and grilled cheese?”
“Rrrrrrg,” Isobel managed. Soup didn’t sound too bad, but it did if it meant she had to get up, walk downstairs, and lift a spoon to her mouth.
She felt her mother’s soft, cool hand press against her forehead.
“I think you’ve got a fever,” Isobel heard her say. “Daddy said you looked like you didn’t feel well.”
Isobel thought her mom said something else after that too, maybe asking her if she wanted some ginger ale, but that hazy feeling returned, like something tugging her down into deep, dark waters. The sensation overtook her, and she slept once more.
When Isobel opened her eyes again, it was with the feeling that something was wrong. She sat upright in bed—then froze at what she saw.
Trinkets from her dresser, as well as other objects from around her room—her “Number One Flyer” trophy, a tube of lipstick, her stuffed bunny Max, her pom-poms, and her portable CD player—were all floating around, drifting slowly through the air, as though her entire room had somehow been transported into the farthest reaches of outer space.
Isobel sat up wide awake, staring, unable to blink. At least not until her hair dryer came hovering right up into her face, its cord dangling behind like a tail. She lifted a hand and batted the dryer away, then watched it reel, handle over snout, in the direction of her closet.
Swinging her legs off the side of her bed, she stood, turning in a slow circle to survey the asteroid field that her room had somehow become. When her gaze fell on her open doorway, she stopped.
In the hallway, a blinding white light flickered in short bursts, like flashes of lightning, interspersed with moments of blue-tinted darkness.
Standing on the stairway landing, right in front of Danny’s door, Isobel saw the outline of a tall figure.
Terror seized her as the form began to move toward her, seeming to glide just over the carpet. Another brilliant blaze of white light flashed through the space beyond, revealing the figure’s black cloak, his tattered fedora hat.
Isobel backed away, somehow knowing that it would do her no good to rush forward and slam the door. She felt her back meet the wall.
As the figure crossed the threshold, she saw that he wore a white scarf over the bottom half of his face, and she recognized him instantly as the man from the bathroom—the figure from the mirror. He brought with him a scent both sweet and musty, like wilted roses, and the odor of perfumed decay permeated the air.
Her heart pounding, she watched wide-eyed as, behind him, the door eased closed by itself, blocking out the flashes of white light. When the door clicked into place, Isobel’s floating belongings dropped to the floor with a collective, carpet-muffled thud.
“Do not be alarmed,” the man said, his voice dry, husky, and low, like the sound of a match striking. Above the white scarf, his eyes glistened like sharp flecks of coal, and they seemed to chip right into her. “This is a dream.”
Isobel stood still and silent for another moment, her hands pressed flat to the wall behind her, as if its tangible presence held the power to ground her.
A dream?
Well, Isobel thought, taking a moment to consider the situation—her floating stuff, the hall lightning, followed by the entrance of creepy mystery man. Yeah, she could probably buy that this was a dream. It was the not- feeling-alarmed part she wasn’t so sure about.
“Who—who are you?”
“My name,” he began, as though he’d expected the question, “is Reynolds.”
She edged away from him, trying to put a greater distance between herself and Creepy McCreeperson. She bent down, careful not to let her eyes leave him, and plucked up a hairbrush from where it had fallen on her floor. She held it at arm’s length in front of herself, a stupid weapon feeling better than no weapon at all. At the very least, she could give him style.
“If this is a dream,” she said, “then there’s a good chance that—that I’m imagining you. Like the way I imagined you in the mirror. And that day at practice. If that was you. You’re . . .
a manifestation of repressed childhood . . . traumas.” Isobel crunched down hard on her brain, trying to squeeze out whatever vocabulary from her psychology class she’d managed to soak up.
“Your friend is in grave danger,” he said, cutting her off, his words coming clipped and short. “You would be wise to be quiet and listen. I haven’t much time.”
She stared as he made his way farther into her room. A glance toward her digital clock showed the numbers twitching and randomly changing on their own, as though her clock couldn’t make up its mind on what time it wanted to be.
“Then it sounds like you’re in the wrong dream, because I don’t have any friends.”
“Then it is a pity,” he said brusquely, his cold gaze narrowing on her, “that he has put you in so much danger.
