Nevermore

Then again, Reynolds had told her to keep it, that it was important. But who, or what, was Reynolds in the first place?

What would happen if she just . . . gave it back?

Danny’s voice floated out to her from the living room. “Yeah, but the original Transylvania Wars is kind of old-school, don’t you think?”

Isobel paused outside the living room archway, her head turning slowly to see Danny cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear, his thumbs flying over the controller, a digital vampire slayer executing an elaborate string of sword blows to a group of manic undead.

“Okay, so I’m at the Nosferatu Dungeon door,” she heard Danny say. “Now how do you get Gothica’s Gate to open again?”

Isobel felt her clenched jaw fall slack. No way. She stalked into the living room and glared at the back of her brother’s head. “Who are you talking to?”

“Hold on.” He tossed the words at her from over his shoulder, scooting in closer to the TV, close enough for his nose to touch the screen. “Ohhh,” he said, “I see it now! Jeez! How did you ever figure that out?”

“Danny, give me the phone.” Isobel thrust her hand out for the receiver. “And you can forget the five bucks.”

“I was only gonna charge you three-fifty anyway,” he said, holding the phone just out of her reach. “He knew he hadn’t dialed the wrong number, so I had to tell him you were on the crapper.”

“What? Danny! Oh my God.” Isobel lashed out, wrenching the phone from his hand, her face scalding. Storming out of the living room, she contemplated hanging up again, this time on the grounds of mortification. But then she realized she couldn’t avoid him much longer and lifted the receiver to her ear. “What?” she growled. With the Poe book tucked under one arm, Isobel mounted the stairs and stomped each one as she climbed. She headed for the last place she wanted to be but the only one in which she’d find herself alone—her room.

“Your brother,” the soft voice said, a hint of laughter behind it.

“Is a little jerk,” she snarled. “Now what do you want?”

“Would you relax for a second?”

The hand holding the phone quivered in fury. “No!” she seethed, “I will not relax!”

“I need to—”

“You need to just drop dead, okay?”

“Isobel, listen—”

Could this really be the first time he’d ever used her name? She shoved the thought aside. “No!” she shouted, “you listen! You are such a hypocrite.”

Silence. Was he even still there?

She plowed on, not caring. “What?” she said. “Shocked that the dumb blond cheerleader actually has a vocabulary beyond ‘Go team’?”

He came back with a note of defense. “I never—”

“You have done nothing but condescend to me. I stuck up for you! And after what you did yesterday, you think you can just leave me little notes and call me up and be all, ‘Hey, we need to talk,’ and expect me just to say, ‘Hey, okay’? What kind of acid are you dropping?”

“Isobel—”

“No, Varen. Don’t call me again. You can just take the stupid project and do it yourself.”

“I didn’t call you because of the project.”

“Well, I’m flattered,” she said, unable to keep the waver out of her voice. Hesitating for a fraction of a second, she jammed her thumb on the end button, severing their connection.

18 The Other Half

Isobel came downstairs for dinner, but only for her mother’s sake. She was not hungry in the least, and even felt a slight pang of nausea. Under her parents’ scrutiny, however, she lifted her fork, took another bite of rice, chewed.

“Feeling any better?” her dad asked, finally breaking the silence. Isobel saw her mother shoot him a wary look. Apparently, they’d been discussing whether or not to commit her while she’d been wallowing upstairs in her room. “Yeah,” she said, “a little.”

Her mom rose from the table. “You finished, honey?” she asked, her hand pausing on Isobel’s plate. Grateful, Isobel nodded and set her fork down.

“Think you’ll go back to school tomorrow?” asked her dad in that tone that expected a yes. Sports geek that he was, he didn’t like her to miss cheer practice. Too bad she was going to anyway. Isobel nodded in response. She slumped in her chair, mulling over how to tell her parents she’d quit the squad.

“Well, that’s good,” her dad said, dragging his fork through the wilting leaves of his salad. Isobel glanced down to the empty place mat in front of her and traced the floral imprint with the tip of her finger. She opened her mouth and drew in a breath, deciding it would be better just to blurt it out now and get it over with. They’d have to go easy on her since she’d been sick, right?

In the kitchen, the phone rang.

Isobel’s back shot into a straight line. “Hello?” her mother answered.

She sat rigid in her chair, hoping it was a wrong number, or Danny’s troop leader, or her dad’s boss—or hell, even Coach Anne.

“Expecting a call?” asked her father.

Isobel’s attention snapped back to her dad, who sat eyeing her curiously, an odd smile on his face. Oh God, she thought, knowing exactly what that expression meant. He thought he had this all figured out, that this all must be over Brad.

“Isobel,” her mother said, and poked her head out of the kitchen. She held out the cordless handset. “Phone.”

He wouldn’t dare, she thought. She rose, took the receiver, and retreated with it into the kitchen. Her back to her mother, she answered with a quiet and warning, “Hello?”

“Oh, good,” a girl’s blunt, clipped voice said, “you’re not dead.”

“What? Who is this?”

“It’s Gwen.”

“Gwen? Gwen who?”

“Gwen Daniels. Our lockers are next to each other? Let me guess, you never knew my name to begin with, did you? Again, I fail to be surprised.”

“Uh, how did you get my number?”

“I looked you up online.”

“You can do that?” Isobel asked with a twinge of unease.

“Internet White Pages. Duh. What the heck is going on with you? Are you okay? Half the school thinks you’ve killed yourself.” There was a pause before Gwen added, “The other half thinks you and Varen eloped.”

“What?”

“Wait . . . Nobody told you what happened?”

“Happened? No. What happened?” Who exactly did Gwen think would tell her? Hello, news flash. Had she not witnessed firsthand her social demise in the lunchroom?

“Hold on,” Isobel murmured. Quickly she left the kitchen and went up the stairs. In her room, door closed, Isobel didn’t have to prompt Gwen to continue.

“So did you know your boyfriend knows your locker combination?”

“You mean Brad? We broke up. I thought that was obvious.” It irked her that people at school might still think