reeling.
“Nice job on the paper,” she said.
She’d read the ten-page essay during algebra, when they were supposed to be working on the day’s problems. She could finish those that weekend, she’d reasoned, since the worksheet wasn’t officially due till Monday.
Varen nodded once, but said nothing. They walked out into the parking lot together, Varen slipping his sunglasses into place. It felt good walking next to him. Almost like they were . . .official.
He stopped.
“What?” Isobel asked. When he didn’t answer, she followed the direction of his stare.
The words had been carved into the paint of the Cougar, across the driver’s-side door and all the way to the rear fender. The message had been scraped out by a key or another sharp object, showing up primer-gray against the once sleek black finish. YOU’RE DEAD FREAK it read.
“Damn it,” Isobel breathed. “That’s it.” She pivoted to march back toward the school, a new kind of rage surging through her, intensifying with each step. Abruptly she swiveled again, changing her mind. No, she thought, she wouldn’t go to the office. Brad and Mark were both varsity players with loaded parents, and that’s why everyone always looked the other way.
She’d go to the practice field instead, right to the source. If she had to kick Brad’s ass in front of all his football buddies and get suspended in the process, then fine. So be it. This time, he had gone too far.
“Where are you going?” she heard Varen call after her, and it was like he’d tugged on a string tied around her heart. Her footsteps slowed, but she didn’t turn around and she didn’t stop. She could hear him following her, but if she looked now, she knew she’d lose her resolve. She sped up again.
Brad was doing this because of her. That meant that it was her job to fix it.
Isobel crossed through the parking lot to the bus loading area, which ran like a wide driveway lengthwise in front of the school.
Yellow buses rumbled, parked in a double line while students wove their way in and out in pairs and groups. Isobel couldn’t see the fenced-in practice field just beyond, but she knew the football team would be gathering there, piling on their gear, grunting and smacking one another around about tomorrow’s big game.
“Isobel,” Varen called, still following. She marched on, stepping down off the grass median, over the curb, and through the line of buses. The smell of hot exhaust hit her, and she held her breath to keep from inhaling it. She crossed the space between the buses and was almost through the second line when she felt a hand catch her arm.
“What?” She whirled on him, flushing pink because she hadn’t meant to snap.
“Don’t,” he said, still clutching her arm, his grip just tight enough to hold her. She looked away from him, toward the field—and saw Brad. Having spotted them in turn, he walked toward the fence, beaming, his helmet dangling from one hand, his shoulder pads and football pants making him look like some hulking comic-book supervillain. His smile broadened and he waved to them, like he would to a pair of old friends.
“Don’t you see it’s what he wants?” Varen whispered to her, though she could barely hear him over the rumble of the buses.
Isobel watched as Brad stopped waving and pointed straight at Varen. Her entire body tensed. Dread seized her, and she turned to Varen only to find his face as unreadable as ever.
Coach Logan called out to Brad, giving his whistle a short blast. Finger trained on Varen, Brad began to back away, toward where the rest of the players stood gathered, watching.
“Come on,” said Varen, releasing her, “let’s go.” He turned to walk away.
Isobel stood rooted. She stared after Brad a moment longer, still battling the urge to rush out on the field and bash his head in with his stupid helmet. Instead she turned and followed Varen.
Isobel paused in the middle traveling lane, her gaze scanning the windows of the buses. Faces. So many of them turned down on her.
She looked away from all the eager eyes ready to drink up her life’s drama and jogged to catch up with the dark figure ahead of her.
27
The Green Man
They drove in silence.
Isobel stared out her window at the passing trees, the fall colors seemingly neon beneath the gray overcast, and wondered if the plot to deface Varen’s car had been what Stevie had overheard Brad and Mark talking about. She also wondered why they hadn’t done more—though from their inscribed message, not to mention Brad’s ominous pointing, she certainly got the impression that the worst was yet to come.
“Can it be fixed?” she said, finally breaking the silence.
He shrugged, watching the road. “Buff it out. Repaint.”
“Will it look the same?”
“Hopefully.” She thought he sounded doubtful.
Isobel looked forward again. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry about his car. She wanted to say that she was worried, that she didn’t know what Brad was capable of anymore.
But she knew Varen wouldn’t respond. He’d say nothing and she’d be left sitting there, feeling stupid for having opened her mouth. As much as he was different from other guys, he still had that stupid male pride thing.
“What did you see in him anyway?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.
Isobel’s mouth popped open as though to supply some ready-made reply in her defense. Instead all she could do was utter, “I don’t know.”
He nodded in that way of his, like he had some sort of private understanding about the way the gears in her mind must work. Like he’d expected as much of her. It made her feel small again, and simple, like he was packing her back into that little box of prejudgments.
“I could just as easily ask you what you saw in that Lacy girl,” she said, and leveled a sharp glare at him.
He smiled like he couldn’t help it. She couldn’t believe it. He was actually
“What?” she said.
“You really made her mad today, you know.”
“Well, does she have a right to be?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his expression sobering at once. “Does she?”
She hate-hate-hated it when he did that. When he turned her every question around and sent her own curveballs flying straight back at her. Folding her arms, she stared out her window again, refusing to play his game.
The car turned off the main road and into a small strip-mall parking lot. Isobel craned her neck to see where they were and was surprised when he parked in front of a storefront, the neon sign reading DOUBLE TROUBLE II.
“Wait here,” he said, unlatching his seat belt and getting out. He shut the door behind him, leaving the car idling. Isobel sat up in her seat and watched him step into the restaurant. She could see him partially through the sun-glared storefront glass as he stepped up to the counter and pulled out his wallet. He must have already called in an order, she thought, as the man behind the counter smiled and handed over a plastic bag. It made her wonder, because she didn’t think he owned a cell phone.
Varen came out a moment later carrying the bag, which contained several cartons of Chinese food. He opened the door and handed the bag in. She took it, the heavenly scent of egg rolls, moo goo gai pan, and beef with broccoli filling the car. Hunger awoke within her. A growl like that of a ravenous dog snarled through her stomach, and it came loud enough that she didn’t bother to humor herself with the hope that he hadn’t heard.
