finally.
“Someone taking you there tonight?” he asked, checking the time on his cell phone.
Isobel felt a leap of joy in her chest. He was going to let her go.
“She can ride with me,” said Gwen. Good old Gwen. Good old brilliant, inventive, industrious Gwen.
“And Nikki can bring me home in the morning,” Isobel added.
He sighed, and she knew that his resolve had already crumbled. She launched up into a fit of jumping and squealing, forgetting for half a second that she wasn’t really going to a girls’
sleepover, that right now she was tricking him, lying to her dad after everything. Again. A stab of guilt grounded her.
“In that case,” he said, “I’m going to go ahead and get out of here. It doesn’t look like the score is going to change any time soon. Maybe I can catch the end of the U of K game on TV.
Think there’ll be any candy left on the porch?”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Isobel said, trying to resurrect her smile. He held his arms open for a hug, and Isobel reached over the top of the gate and stood on her toes to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “Thanks, Daddy,” she said, pulling him tight and kissing his cheek.
“Be good and keep your phone on,” he said, shoving his own phone back into his pocket. “And don’t forget to check on Brad.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
He turned away and Isobel watched him as he went, blending into the crowd.
She felt her heart sink as she lowered her heels to the ground. She wished she could call him back, that she could tell him the truth. That he would believe her.
“Okay, for real,” Nikki said as soon as he was out of earshot. “What was
After Isobel’s dad left, Gwen went off to change and meet up with Mikey in the parking lot. In the meantime, the squad took their position on the field, ready to once again perform the Nationals routine. Isobel, on the sidelines, waited for the music to start before telling Nikki she would be right back and sliding from the bench. She heard the familiar beats blast through the stadium speakers, and she couldn’t help mentally tracing through her moves.
She could hear the crowd’s cheering escalate (probably for the back tuck the squad did in a fanning wave), and slipped behind the brick siding of the home-side stands. She trailed her hand along the Hawk emblem painted over brick, moving more quickly now that she was out of direct sight, and hurried toward the entrance to the football locker room.
Coach Logan’s voice grated loudly from within. Could he
Isobel drew up to the entrance and placed one hand on the archway, huddling up close to listen. She certainly didn’t have to strain to hear.
“Now I don’t know what you ballerinas are doing out there, but that scoreboard better change in this next quarter, or so help me, I’ll scout JV for replacements! And Borgon, I hope I don’t need to tell you again that when you catch the damn ball, you’re supposed to hold on to it! You got that? Is that clear? Now all of you, get your butts out there and turn this thing around!”
A unanimous scuffling noise came from within, players rushing off their benches. Isobel had to step back as a burst of team members emerged, escaping through the archway like steam from a pressure cooker. They shouldered and bumped their way through the door and past one another. Silent and moody, not a one of them seemed to notice her. She stood to one side, her back against the cold concrete wall. She hoped to remain invisible as she searched each back for the number twenty-one.
Brad’s number was not among them, though. He must still be inside the locker room. Isobel waited, and after a moment, Coach Logan came out. He turned and looked right at her, his ruddy face contorting into what she took as a dirty look. Isobel, resisting the urge to glower back, concentrated instead on the space between her sneakers while he stormed off toward the field.
Isobel left the wall. She slipped quietly into the narrow doorway and down the three steps that led into the locker room. The air here turned humid, saturated with the smell of sweat, grass, and dirt. When she took in a breath, the air felt thick in her lungs, as though it held no oxygen. It was like entering a sauna.
Brad sat alone on a bench in the middle, his helmet in his hands, head hung, his hair plastered with sweat to his forehead. Wet, his hair was the color of old pennies.
Isobel stepped toward him, surprised when he didn’t look up.
“Brad,” she said, announcing herself, her voice even.
His stare remained fixed on his helmet. He turned it slowly in his hands until he was looking into the inside.
“Brad,” she repeated, and moved in farther, something about the cooling sheen of sweat over his skin making the blister on his upper lip redden. Or was it that he seemed suddenly so pale?
She stopped to stand in front of him, her eyes falling to peer into his helmet, at the black foam padding lining the inside. She lowered herself to crouch in front of him and placed her hands on his wrists. She looked up, into his face. “Brad, are you okay?”
His eyes lifted to hers, and Isobel felt a surge of terror. Dilated pupils, wide and black, eclipsed almost entirely the bright blue of his irises, so they appeared as no more than thin halos, slim rings of color around two holes of unreflective blackness.
“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, and shook away from her as he stood. Knocked off balance, Isobel stumbled to her feet. He spun from her, moving for the door.
“Brad, wait!”
“Tell them to leave me alone!” he shouted, and ran up the stairs.
Shocked, Isobel watched him retreat through the archway. She ran to catch up, climbing the three steps, only to find her path blocked. Mark. He glared at her, helmet in hand, his face stern and set, a smear of black paint streaked beneath each eye.
Isobel bounced on her toes and strained to see over the padded shelf of his shoulder. She saw Brad nearing the field, watched him brace one hand to his forehead. The air around him seemed to shift and shimmer. Isobel blinked to clear her vision, but that only served to sharpen the dark, snakelike tendrils of oily smoke that now emerged from nothing. Like clouds of violet ink in water, dark figures took form, pouring into shape through the air around him. All at once, several sets of black boots strode forth. Four white-faced figures fell into stride behind him, two on either side, their sharp red smiles gleaming.
“Omigod, Brad!”
Isobel burst forward, but Mark barred her with a thick arm. She struggled against him. He held her, gathering her momentum, then using it to sling her back. Isobel half tripped, half staggered down the stairs again, catching herself against one wall.
“I don’t know what you did,” he said, “but just stay away from him.”
Isobel stared at him in stunned silence, long enough to watch him turn his back. She waited only one moment more, then rushed forward, up the stairs and out, determined to bolt past him. He must have heard the beat of her sneakers, though, or maybe he’d expected her to try something, because he swung around. Dropping his helmet, he caught her, flinging her back with the full force of both arms. Isobel hurtled backward, her arms freewheeling. She hit the concrete, landing on her rear with a decided thud. Grit bit into the palms of her hands.
She cringed and drew a sharp breath through clenched teeth as the burn set in on her skinned palms. Mark glowered down at her, his expression void of either regret or concern. He bent to retrieve his helmet and then, for the third time, he started for the field.
“Mark, wait!” she called, trying to keep the hurt from seeping into her voice. Even if they weren’t friends now, they had been once—at least to some degree.
Isobel struggled to her feet. She caught up to him, hovering a safe distance behind until they were in view of the stands, knowing her chances of getting slugged would be less within the direct sight of parents and coaches. “Listen to me. You don’t understand!”
Her eyes darted between his back and the players collecting on the field. The announcer’s voice echoed over the sound system, reviewing the score. She saw Brad make his way with the other players toward center field.
