Nevermore

Varen removed his sunglasses in a salute before going to his desk, his wallet chains rattling noisily against the plastic seat and metal chair legs as he sat.

The bell rang, and Mr. Swanson began the day’s lesson, leaving Isobel still trying to wrestle the goofy smile from her face. She also had to fight to keep herself from sneaking glances in Varen’s direction.

Toward the end of the class, Mr. Swanson began listing project groups on the board in the order of their presentations the next day. Romelle and Todd were going first with Mark Twain, Josh and Amber were next with Walt Whitman, then came the one group of three with Richard Wright. Isobel started to fidget with her pen as the list grew longer.

“And last but not least,” Mr. Swanson said, writing her name on the board, “we’ll have Isobel and Varen with our Halloween guest of honor, Mr. Edgar Allan Poe. I’m looking forward to that one especially.” He smiled and nodded at the two of them.

Way to load on the pressure there, Swanson. She shot an anxious glance at Varen. He gave her what she took to be a “no big deal” shrug, and she thought that must mean that he had a plan. She tried to smile, hoping that was the case, but despite this reassurance from him, the queasy feeling in her middle refused to subside. After all, it was no secret between the two of them that she at least had completed nothing. Well, nothing except scribbling down a few random quotes that, if she read them aloud tomorrow, might prevent them from getting a total zero. Emphasis on might.

Isobel shut her eyes, taking a moment to get a grasp on the fact that she could not afford to fail tomorrow. She’d almost lost her spot on the squad once. If she got a failing grade in English, then it would be out of Coach’s hands, and no amount of repentant cheers could save her from exile. Her wings would be clipped, Alyssa would take over, and she’d have to wave good-bye as the bus headed off to Nationals.

The bell rang, dismissing them for lunch. Isobel gathered her things and stood, loading the Poe book on top of her binder, now sorry she’d rooted it out of her locker, since they hadn’t been given any time to work in their groups that day. When she looked up, though, she no longer saw Varen at his desk. Instead her eyes found him standing out in the hall, talking to somebody blocked by the wall, though her suspicions about who it was were confirmed the moment she caught sight of black hair and a copper-toned, bracelet-lined wrist.

Her eyes narrowed. She shoved her things under one arm and started for the door. She thought, as she drew nearer, that she might have caught the word “bimbo.”

Before she could even think to stop herself, Isobel slipped out into the hall and stood next to Varen, touching him gently on the arm. The connection sent a static sensation coursing through her. He turned fast, his eyes on hers, deep green pools of surprise. Through sheer will, Isobel kept her hand steady on his sleeve. Then, for the killer, she leaned in, quietly interrupting with, “Hey, I’ll see you after school, okay?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Her gaze slid from him to Lacy, and Isobel took care to flash her a wink-smile combo. The Queen of Sheba stood stunned, her glossy maroon lips parted in awe. Still smiling, Isobel spun on her toes. Putting just the right amount of sway in her walk, she headed toward the lunchroom.

Isobel left the lunch line with the Poe book and her binder both clamped under one arm and tried to keep her tray steady with both hands. Thursdays were order-out-pizza days at Trenton, and Isobel, her empty stomach finally catching up with her, had grabbed the biggest slice of Tony Tomo’s mushroom pizza she could find. From there, it was a balancing act all the way to her table, and she didn’t see who was sitting there until she was ready to set her tray down.

Stevie. He stood up and reached out to take her books. Isobel noticed that he was wearing one of his usual Trenton sweatshirts, blue with a big yellow T printed on the chest.

“Hey,” he said, “mind if I sit here today?”

Isobel shook her head. She slid her tray onto the table, watching him carefully. She resisted the urge to glance toward the crew’s usual spot, and she hoped Stevie realized what this would mean for him. But then again, she thought, after standing up for her yesterday at practice, she wouldn’t doubt it if the crew hadn’t already given him the boot.

She sat down. “Hey, by the way, thanks for yesterday,” she said. Maybe if she kept the conversation light, he wouldn’t feel pressured to talk about any falling-out that had gone on. She picked up her slice of pizza from her plate, famished.

“Isobel . . .”

“Yeah?” she managed, just before chomping down.

“I came over here today because I need to talk to you. I think Mark and Brad are up to something,” he said in a low voice.

Isobel slowed her chewing. She let the slice of pizza slip back onto her plate and, wiping her hands on her napkin, tried to swallow. “What do you mean?”

“I heard Brad and Mark talking about it after third period,” he went on. “But they stopped right as I walked up. I only heard Mark asking Brad if he thought you’d tell. Then Brad said something like, ‘He won’t be able to prove anything.’”

Isobel froze at the word “he.” She dropped her hands into her lap, still clutching her napkin, and skimmed the cafeteria with her eyes. She saw Brad, Mark, Alyssa, and Nikki sitting together. She glanced toward the goths’ table next, though she didn’t see Varen. Or Lacy, for that matter. She frowned.

“Isobel,” said Stevie, lowering his voice to a whisper. She turned back to him as he leaned over the table. “Brad won’t stop talking about you. Something’s gotten into him over this whole thing between you and that guy. I mean, jeez, if he’s not talking about you, then he’s saying all this stuff about how he’s going to mess up this Varen.”

Isobel went still as she sat listening. Why couldn’t Brad just let it go? Why couldn’t he let her go?

“Isobel, I think they might do something major. I mean, Brad is convinced that Varen’s responsible for what happened to his car. Did you know the police found claw marks on his tires?”

“Say what?” Isobel leaned in, shaking her head. Stevie was talking so low, she couldn’t be sure she’d heard him right.

“All this stuff keeps happening. And I—I think you ought to tell someone that Brad’s been acting weird about you before he does whatever he’s got planned. Nikki thinks so too.”

“Nikki?” Wadding her napkin, she tossed it onto her tray. Okay, now he had to be kidding. Either that, or this was a setup.

“Isobel, listen to me,” he said. “The only reason she wouldn’t come over here with me today is because she thinks you hate her.”

“I don’t hate her.” The words leaped out of her mouth before she could rein them in. “I mean,” she amended, “it’s not like she’s my most favorite person in the world right now, but—”

“You know the only reason she ever went out with Brad was because she thought it would get your attention. It’s killing her that you guys don’t talk anymore. Besides that, she and Brad aren’t even dating anymore. That lasted, like, two seconds. He just won’t let her tell anyone, because he doesn’t want you to find out. All he ever talks about now is how brainwashed you are and how he’s going to mangle this guy.”

Another tray hit the table. Isobel jumped. “Why are we whispering?” Gwen whispered. Isobel looked up to see Gwen lift a length of tailor’s measuring tape from around her neck. “Sit up, you,” she said, poking Isobel between the ribs. Isobel squeaked and sat up straight. She stared at Stevie, whose eyes widened as Gwen looped the measuring tape around Isobel’s waist and drew it snug.

“Gwen,” said Isobel, “what are you doing?”

“Just never you mind,” she murmured. She stripped the tape away and pulled a pen out of her ponytail to mark the back of her wrist. “Hold out your arms. And don’t be rude. Introduce me already. Who’s your friend?”

Isobel clamped her arms in against herself like chicken wings as Gwen fussed around her. “This is Stev— Ow! ” She jolted as Gwen pinched her right on the fleshy part of her underarm.

“Hello, Stev-ow,” Gwen said. She nodded to Stevie while she strung the tape around Isobel’s bustline.

“Omigod, Gwen!” Isobel’s head whipped back and forth to see who might be watching.

“H-hey,” Stevie offered with a small wave.

“Oh, I hate you,” Gwen grumbled, making a note on the back of her wrist. She pulled the tape away again, this time drawing out one of Isobel’s arms to measure its circumference.

Scowling, Isobel gave up with a huff, resigning herself to be handled and measured and cataloged. She knew