whack him upside the head.
“Besides,” Gwen added, fluffing the dress folds, “this thing took forever, so you’re wearing it.”
“Wait, you made this?” Isobel asked, distracted.
“Altered it,” she admitted. She shrugged. “Half off at the Nearly New Shop. By the way, you owe me twenty- five dollars. Oh, and there’s a smudge on the toe of the left shoe, but I got them to throw those in, so don’t worry about it. Now how do you get this stuff off?” Her hands flew to Isobel, twisting her by the shoulders. Isobel felt the release of her cheer uniform’s zipper.
“What are you doing?” Isobel squealed. “I’m not getting dressed in here!”
“What? Why not?”
“Uh, boy!” she shouted, and shot a finger at Mikey, who lifted his chin and waggled his eyebrows at them through the rearview mirror. Isobel made a sound of disgust. Who
Gwen leaned forward. Reaching through from the backseat to the front, she flipped the rearview mirror so it faced the ceiling.
“Isn’t that kind of dangerous?” Mikey protested.
“Keep your eyes on the road or you’ll be a eunuch before the night’s out.”
“What’s a eunuch?” he asked, chuckling.
“Look it up.”
Gwen fell back in her seat and immediately set to work with the dress. Resigned, Isobel let Gwen help wrestle her out of the cheer top, though her eyes never wavered from the back of Mikey’s spiked head. If he so much as peeked . . .
They were on the highway now and flying. Her turtleneck was the next to go, followed by her sports bra. Then Gwen, hardly giving Isobel time to breathe, threw the dress over her head and pulled down. Isobel fought through the folds of pink to bring her arms through the tunnel of the cinched waist. The satin lining slid smooth and ice-cold against her bare skin, making her gasp. Her fingers wiggled through, seeking for straps or sleeves, but then, without warning, Gwen yanked the dress into place, and Isobel realized that there weren’t any.
“Lean forward,” Gwen said, and shoved Isobel over at the waist, knocking the wind out of her. Gwen pulled up the zipper. The fabric drew snug around her body, molding to her perfectly. “Now sit up,” said Gwen, and pulled her straight again.
Isobel stared down at herself as Gwen fussed. Even in the dark, she could see that the thing was vintage and frilly. It had a lace overlay, a sweetheart neckline, and a poofy skirt that she thought would frill out and fall to just below the knee when she stood. It was nothing Isobel would have ever picked out herself—almost too pretty, with the pink satin Alice-in-Wonderland ribbon that tied around the waist.
Arms folded, Isobel allowed herself to be dressed and primped. Gwen proceeded to strip her of her blue and gold hair ribbons. Head twisted, Isobel stared out the window. They were moving fast. Too fast. But she found herself actually liking the speed for once, and she urged the car along in her mind, never wincing, even as Mikey swung around one sharp turn after another. Up front, he handled the wheel like a wrestling partner.
Soon the car exited the freeway and traveled along a maze of back roads. Without the aid of streetlights, the darkness outside transformed to blackness. Trees raced by, illuminated by moonlight and the Cadillac’s brights, their steady, thickening stream seeming to keep beat with the music.
Isobel felt a bobby pin scrape her scalp, then another. The Cadillac dipped down a hill, and her stomach lurched to high-five her heart.
They would be pretty far out from town now, she thought, watching the trees grow denser, their skeleton shadows more wicked. She hadn’t been watching for signs, but she figured they were probably somewhere out in Henry County, or Spencer, though she couldn’t be sure.
Then again, could she really be sure of anything anymore? Reality? Reason? Herself?
Isobel looked down at her lap, at her hands. She turned her left one over, remembering where Varen had written his number on her that first time. Those numbers were gone now, but in hindsight, he may as well have tattooed the moment onto her soul. She clenched her hand into a fist.
What had he meant by not wanting things to “end” this way? Why did it feel as though the note was his way of trying to tell her good-bye? And why had he said everything would
“disappear” after tonight?
Isobel squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to reach into her bag and read the note again. It was as though she hoped the writing there could have changed while she wasn’t looking.
Then again, why not, when everything else around her seemed to be doing just that?
An unnerving feeling unfurled through her stomach, a poisonous blossom of uncertainty and doubt and fear. She wondered if Varen had known what the Nocs would do. Worse, she wondered if he’d sent them—Pinfeathers, after all, had come bearing his letter. Or were the Nocs part of what he’d meant by having lost control?
“Done,” Gwen said finally, dropping her arms. “Now, where’s your tag?”
Freed, Isobel opened her eyes. She pulled the tag from her gym bag. Gwen snatched it from her, grabbed Isobel’s hand, and looped the red ribbon around her wrist. She tied it there, tightening the knot until the ribbon pressed into her skin, almost to the point of cutting off her circulation. “Whatever you do,” she said, “don’t lose this.”
The Cadillac slowed suddenly, and Isobel had to brace herself as the front tires bumped over what felt like a log. Gwen bounced as though having expected the jolt, and went to securing her own tag. They shuttled off the last of the long, snake-winding back roads, the tires crunching and popping over gravel.
Mikey switched off the brights, and the Cadillac’s normal headlights dimmed to cast a yellowish white light over a wide lot of pale dirt and rock. Dust and grit kicked up to swirl through the two beams like mist. Rows of dark cars lined their path like sleeping monsters. Isobel scooted forward, grabbed the back of Mikey’s seat, and squinted through the windshield.
Ahead she saw groups of figures standing outside a long two-story building—something that looked part barn and part warehouse. A pulsing green-to-pink light radiated from within, and distantly Isobel could feel more than hear the low thump of music.
As the car crept closer, its beams passed over a set of tall, pallid figures. Isobel’s insides tightened at the sight of them, at the way they stood huddled together beside a black Honda, sharing a cigarette. She pressed to the window, scanning their faces.
Smoke swirled up from the group, and as the Cadillac crawled past, each white face turned to stare. They glowered at her, their sharp noses and starkly painted faces menacing but nevertheless whole. Isobel sat back, taking a moment to breathe, to urge her heart to slow.
“Hey,” Gwen said, nudging her. “Look.”
Her heart thudding anew, she turned to scan the parking lot. The headlights passed over the rear of a familiar car, and Isobel let out a small cry as she caught sight of the jagged letters against the black finish, the hateful word FREAK spelled out on the side of a Cougar.
Isobel unlatched the door. It swung out, and the Cadillac stuttered to a halt.
“Hey, what gives?” Mikey shouted.
She slipped from her seat into the cool air that instantly latched to her bare shoulders. A shiver ran through her, but the sharpness of the cold felt good—further evidence that she was really here, that she was awake, alive —that Varen must be too.
“Isobel, wait!”
Ignoring Gwen, she ran at full speed for the warehouse, her feet joining in with the thumping, chaotic beat of music. She glanced up at the sky. An almost full moon beamed silver-white through a gauzy haze of cloud cover. Shining like a lazy serpent’s eye, it cast the world around her in a ghostly pallor and caused the pink satin and lace of her dress to turn luminescent.
Even over the crashing drums that joined in with the drone of bass guitar, Isobel could still hear the quiet rustling of her skirts.
A wide wooden door stood open before her. Inside, colored lights raged. Flashes of violet and red blinked and pulsed, flaring through a writhing throng of black-clad bodies. She slowed her run as she drew into the archway and took in the sea of masked faces. Against one wall a band, the source of the tortured music, played atop a makeshift stage. A boy dressed in a long black coat, his face painted like Death’s, screamed into a microphone. He dropped to
