Nevermore

that whatever Gwen was up to, it must have something to do with the Grim Facade. She also knew that no matter what Gwen was planning, there was still no way she was going to get to go.

“Oh my gosh,” Gwen said suddenly. She dropped the tape, her gaze locking on Stevie, who froze, a forkful of spaghetti hovering inches from his open mouth. “What are you wearing underneath that?” she asked, pointing at his sweatshirt.

Stevie shot a quick look at Isobel, a loud and clear cry for help.

“Oh, sorry, sorry,” Gwen said, hands flapping. “What I mean is that I need to borrow your sweatshirt, and I wanted to make sure you had something on underneath.”

“You want to borrow my shirt?” asked Stevie. He pressed his hands down on his shoulders, as though in an effort to keep the sweatshirt in place.

“Just until after tomorrow. You got a T-shirt on underneath that, right?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

Gwen hopped up and crossed to Stevie’s side. Lifting one corner of the sweatshirt, she started peeling it away from the yellow T-shirt underneath. “Thanks a ton,” she said as she yanked it over his head. “This is exactly what I need.”

Stevie sat stunned, his short, dark brown hair alive with static electricity. Isobel gaped as Gwen wrangled the cuffs off Stevie’s wrists, then wadded the sweatshirt into a bundle before plopping down next to him. From there, she scooted over her tray, grabbed her pudding dish, and dug in with her spoon.

Isobel rolled her eyes. Shaking her head, she mouthed Sorry to Stevie, whose gaze darted from her to Gwen. As he watched Gwen finish off her pudding in three humongous bites, his expression wavered, as though he couldn’t decide if he had a good taste in his mouth or a bad one.

“So what are we talking about that’s so serious? Oh, that looks so good,” said Gwen, pointing at Isobel’s plate with her pudding spoon. “I shoulda got the pizza today. Are you finished with that?”

“No!” Isobel snapped. She slid her tray away from Gwen and picked up the slice of pizza again. She bit down just as a long shadow settled over the table.

“Trying to break your own record?” a quiet voice asked.

The pizza slipped from Isobel’s hands, tumbling onto her plate, dripping sauce on her chin. She grabbed her wadded-up napkin and pressed it to her mouth, gulping the bite down whole.

Gwen elbowed Stevie, who slid down one space. Gwen slid down too, allowing Varen to take the seat across from Isobel. She caught a faint whiff of his scent, something she had never paid much attention to before, but now tried to analyze. It was peaty and rich, but somehow still delicate. He dropped a clipped stack of papers between them.

“You finished it,” she said. She grabbed the essay and read the title page:

The Man Behind “The Raven”:

The Life, Death, and Major Works of Edgar Allan Poe

An Essay

by

Isobel Lanley and Varen Nethers

“Wow, it looks great,” she said, eyes meeting his again. She’d almost gotten used to finding them within the forest of his dark hair. “You really don’t think he’ll suspect?”

“Doubt it,” he said. “Just be sure to read it over.”

Isobel nodded. She thought that maybe reading it more than once would be her best bet, in case Swanson came back around and wanted to know exactly which parts she’d contributed.

She opened the front cover of the Poe book and slipped the paper beneath it.

“So, you guys are doing this project on Poe?” Stevie asked, his tone conversational.

Varen turned to stare at him, as though he’d only just noticed Stevie’s presence. Stevie, in turn, seemed to shrink into himself, his gaze dropping to his tray, as though he feared any prolonged eye contact might turn him to stone.

“Varen, this is Stevie,” said Isobel. “He’s on the squad with me.” Translation: He’s cool. “Stevie, this is Varen.”

Stevie raised one hand. Varen nodded, and the momentary razor edge to his demeanor ebbed away. “Yeah,” he said, “we’re doing it on Poe.”

“Hey, wasn’t that the guy who married his cousin or somethin’?” Gwen said before chomping down on a Granny Smith apple, half leaning, half scooting in so that her shoulder pressed against Varen’s in heedless disregard of his personal space perimeters and unspoken no-touch policy. The table went quiet except for Gwen’s horse chewing, which was happening in close proximity to Varen’s left ear. Isobel had to press her lips together to keep from smiling. Glancing at Stevie, she saw that his eyebrows had shot clear to the ceiling.

Varen seemed to take Gwen’s close proximity in stride. He turned his head slowly to stare down at her, glancing first to where their shoulders connected, and then directly into her intrusive gaze. Isobel waited for Gwen to disintegrate, dematerialize, or melt. Instead she aimed a finger at Varen’s nose, the finger belonging to the hand that held the half-chomped apple.

“Don’t tell me he didn’t,” she said. She shook her finger at him. “’Cause I know he did.”

Varen’s stare remained, punctuated by a few slow, plaintive blinks.

Gwen looked thoughtful and added, “And wasn’t he the one who sliced off his ear and mailed it to his girlfriend?”

“Van Gogh,” said Varen, in a monotone that suggested he might be in pain.

“Van Gogh,” Gwen said, leaning away, waving the apple. “Edgar Allan Poe. Close enough!”

The bell ending lunch sounded. Stevie broke away immediately. As he went, tray in hand, he shot Isobel a pointed look from over one shoulder. She frowned, remembering his warning about Brad and Mark.

“What was that all about?” Varen asked.

She turned to face him as he stood. She should tell him what Stevie had heard, she thought. She should warn him. But didn’t he already know? After all, it wasn’t like threats from Brad were anything new. And didn’t they have enough to worry about as it was? She shook her head. “Nothing,” she murmured, deciding that, at the very least, it could wait until after tomorrow, after the project. “He just wanted to sit here today.”

“And so the monarchy crumbles in your absence,” he mused.

That made her smile, although a little sadly.

“Gwen,” he said in acknowledgment.

“Your Darkness-ship,” she returned with a bow.

His eyes remained on Isobel as he began a slow backward walk. He was doing it again, speaking to her with his eyes. She remained trapped in his stare, trying to hear him, to read the underlying message. Finally his gaze broke from hers and he turned away, walking off through the cafeteria doors.

There was a pause before Gwen spoke.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Right now, you’re trying to decide if that was hot or annoying.” She paused, as though formulating her own opinion. Finally she said, “It was so totally hot.”

Before lunch was over, Isobel had made sure to stop by the office and give her mom a call to let her know where she’d be, since she wasn’t supposed to use her cell until school let out.

She left out the no parents part.

Her mom had been cool. Mostly. At least she hadn’t asked too many questions, especially after Isobel had reminded her that their project was due the very next day and that they were behind. Way behind.

She’d assured her mom that yes, Varen would give her a ride home and that yes, she’d be through the front door by ten at the absolute latest.

“What are you going to tell Dad?” Isobel had asked before hanging up. Her mother’s response had been, “Let me worry about that,” which made Isobel worry even more. She hated it whenever her parents fought. She certainly didn’t like being the cause.

After the final bell, she found Varen waiting for her at the same place as yesterday.

“Hey,” she said as she drew closer to where he stood in the open doorway, the autumn sunlight streaming in, outlining one side of him in a rim of gold. He turned toward her, the light casting a glossy sheen against the black of his hair. He smiled, just barely, and the sight of it, the idea that she had induced this rare response in him, sent her