Nevermore n-1

by Келли Криг

  “Yeah, can I have a scoop of the Raspberry White Chocolate, in a cup?” Nikki asked sweetly.

  “Chocolate malt,” Brad added.

  “Yeah, same here,” Mark said. “Alyssa, what do you want?”

  “Don’t know yet, give me a second. It’s got to be good.”

  “You know what you want yet, Izo?” she heard Brad ask. “Your usual?”

  Isobel wandered down the long line of contenders to where her friends stood waiting, trailing a finger beneath the little rectangular plaques that listed a description of each ice cream.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “And a scoop of Banana Fudge in a cup.”

  Isobel leaned her hip against the softly humming ice cream case. She stared through the glass, thinking about the game and about how well the routine had gone. In fact, all they really needed to do before Nationals was tighten the middle section, perfect the tumbling segment, and make a few adjustments on the ending pyramid. Of course, she could always sharpen her twists, and if she could work on landing her layout a fraction of a second sooner, she’d be in perfect sync.

  Isobel heard the click of register keys, and her gaze drifted to stare unfocused at the store clerk’s name tag.

  VAREN, it read, in bulky Gothic lettering.

  Isobel froze, her eyes locked on that name tag. Her smile fell away. Her mouth went instantly dry. A tingling sensation in her legs and arms snuffed the night’s happiness, spreading its way into her lower stomach, where it congealed into a puddle of unease.

  Reluctantly, she lifted her gaze.

  Even though she’d read the name on the tag, it was still a shock to look up and see him staring back. For the first time, because of the green visor that he wore, she could see his face—his eyes—clearly. They remained fixed on her, holding an unreadable expression.

  It would have been better, she thought, if he’d glared at her with hatred.

  “Today?” Brad said, and tapped the counter between them, starting Isobel out of her shock.

  Behind her, she heard Mark and Alyssa snicker.

  Everything was playing out in slow motion again. Varen’s gaze lingered on hers even as he turned away. She watched him as one elegant hand reached deftly into a bin behind the counter and pulled from a trough of water a single silver ice cream scoop.

  Despite its thundering, she felt her heart plummet as she realized what was going on, what her friends were going to do—what they were doing.

  “Brad,” she said, and pivoted toward him just in time to see him flick over a soda-shop-style straw canister. The multi-colored tubes went spilling across the counter and behind it, some of them landing in the open ice cream bins, the rest hitting the floor, making hollow little pop sounds as they bounced on the linoleum.

  “Oops.”

  “Brad, you klutz,” Alyssa cooed.

  “What can I say?” Brad shrugged. “I’m a hurricane.”

  Isobel glanced mutely up from the spilled straws to where Varen now stood, leaning over to scrape the very bottom of one of the ice cream canisters under the close scrutiny of Nikki, who stood on her toes to watch.

  “Make sure you don’t touch any of it,” she said, her hands pressed flat against the glass, leaving huge hand-lotion smudge prints. He straightened, carefully packing the ice cream into a small paper cup adorned with palm trees. Just before he finished, Nikki tapped the glass like she would a fish tank.

  “Hey. ’Scuse me,” she said. “I changed my mind.”

  He raised his eyes.

  “I want Cinnamon instead.”

  “We don’t have—”

  “Then I don’t want anything.” She shrugged and waved away what he’d already prepared.

  Isobel could die. She could just die. But if she said something, if she tried to stop them, she knew everyone would just go back to hating her. Would Brad break up with her? At the very least, she’d have to quit the squad for sure.

  The whir of the blender cut through the silence.

  “Brad.” She whirled and started for the door. “I want to go home.”

  “Sure thing, Izo,” he called, “just let me get my malt.” He knocked on the counter. “Can we step on that malt back there?”

  Isobel turned her eyes to Nikki, only to see a smug Cheshire smile pasted across her face, arms folded, her gaze cast to the palm-leaf ceiling fans. The realization hit her then. They’d all been in on this together. The betrayal of it burned, and Isobel’s fingers itched to form into fists.

  Varen set the first malt on the counter next to the register. Brad snatched it up.

  She watched in silent dread as Brad handed off the shake to Mark, who took it and tossed it on the floor. The plastic top popped off at impact, the brown ice cream mixture flying out to spatter across the floor and the nearby tables and chairs.

  “Hey!” Isobel shouted, marching right up to shove Mark in the shoulder.

  “Hey yourself, Iz! Relax. It was just an accident. Besides, Count Fagula’s got a mop back there somewhere, I’m sure.”

  “Keeps it in his little green apron,” Brad chimed in, causing both of them to explode into howls of laughter.

  “Get out,” Isobel growled, pointing them to the door.

  “Can’t.” Brad sighed. As he spoke, he wandered to the store freezer, where he pulled open the door and tugged out a pint of ice cream. “We’re still short some Banana Fudge and a couple of malts.”

  “Hey, Brad, over here!” shouted Mark, clapping his hands, raising them like he would for a pass.

  A wild look came over Brad. “Go long!” he called. Gripping the pint like a football, he leaned back, preparing for the toss. Mark laughed and retreated as far as the front door, his eye on the pint.

  “No! Don’t!” Isobel screamed.

  Brad threw the pint. Alyssa squealed and ducked. Nikki flattened herself against the display glass. The carton hurtled through the air toward Mark, who dropped down at the last second, causing the pint to smash against the mural-painted wall behind him. The crushed carton slid down, then hit the floor, leaving a brown splat of Rocky Road right in the middle of a cockatoo.

  Isobel spun in search of Varen, only to see Brad lift the hinged divider and invite himself behind the counter. He slid up to the register and, with practiced fingers, tapped a series of buttons that sent the cash drawer shooting out. He dipped a large hand in, and Isobel gaped as he claimed a wad of twenties.

  That’s when Varen moved.

  He got close enough to reach for the money—close enough to almost snatch it back. As the scene played out, a sick terror seized Isobel’s heart, tightening it in a fierce grip. She felt her entire form flinch as Brad shoved him. Varen stumbled backward, hands raised in an open-palm gesture of forfeit.

  It wasn’t what Brad wanted.

  His face contorted and his fist balled. He reared back, his arm a python prepared to strike.

  Without thinking, without knowing what she was doing, Isobel rushed him. She crashed hard against Brad, grappling for his arm. Knocked off balance, Brad dropped the money. Before he could steady himself, her hand struck. She slapped him, and the crack of her palm against his jaw split the room.

  Everything went silent except for the quiet playing of the steel drum music, and the soft hum of the store freezer. Brad stared down at her, anger fixed in his eyes, causing them to burn unnaturally bright, like two supernovas ready to explode.

  “Get out,” she said, hissing the words between her teeth. She couldn’t remember being this angry at anything or at anyone ever before in her life. She could feel herself trembling all over, like a time bomb. She swallowed, strangling the impulse to strike him again. “I said get out!”

  Nikki was the first to scuttle out the door. Isobel knew this because she could hear that tch sound followed by the jingle of the door chimes. Someone else followed, but Isobel couldn’t see whether it was Mark or Alyssa, because she was too busy staring holes into her ex- boyfriend. When she finally heard a third jingle of chimes,
she steadied her voice and spoke quiet and slow.

  “Don’t ever talk to me again.”

  Brad stared at her long and hard, as though waiting for her to retract her words. She didn’t, and finally he took the cue and broke away, brushing past her. He smoothed a hand through his hair as he made his way to the door, pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his back jeans pocket, like there was nothing the matter, like he didn’t care one way or the other.

  He paused before he reached the door, long enough to toss a folded piece of paper he’d dug out of his jacket pocket onto one of the little brown wicker tables.

  The door chimes rang a fourth time.

  Only when Brad was out of the shop did Isobel feel the shakes begin to subside.

  She looked around, but Varen had vanished.

  She bent to retrieve the money, stuffing it with trembling fingers haphazardly into the cash drawer and shoving it closed again, as though it could contain what had already gone awry.

  She gripped the sides of the register and stared at the numbered keys, trying to anchor herself, trying to decide if the here and now was too impossible to be real.

  She flinched when Brad’s headlights sliced through the front windows, as bright as search beams. They swiveled violently away, tires screeching. Isobel shut her eyes. She listened as he peeled out of the parking lot, the blast from his modified muffler sounding a roar before fading into the night.

  Numb, she turned in a slow circle, opening her eyes again to pan the destruction around her. Chairs overturned, ice cream melting on the floor, and still no sign of Varen.

  She shuddered, overcome with something akin to relief. She couldn’t have faced him in that moment. She couldn’t face him ever again. Not after this.

  Moving on impulse, Isobel hurried to the door.

  Her hands on the push bar, she stopped, her gaze catching on the table, on the folded slip of paper Brad had dropped there. Suddenly she realized what it was. It was the note from Varen, the note he’d written to warn her, the one that she’d tucked into the pocket of her sweater.

  The sweater she’d left in Brad’s car.

  8

  Ligeia

  Her back pressed to the wall, Isobel lingered just outside the staff door. Finally, steeling herself with a shuddering breath, she pushed away from the wall and gave the door frame a timid double knock. “Hello?” she called into the pitch-blackness. “You—you back there?”

  No answer.

  Isobel reached a tremulous hand inside and patted the wall. Her fingers fumbled over a light switch and she flicked it upward, causing fluorescents to sputter on with a soft clink.

  Inside, shelves packed with boxes of ice cream cones, packages of napkins, and cartons of paper cups lined the hideous lime green, cracked plaster walls. Her searching gaze traveled past a dark gray locker cabinet and the rear exit, stopping to rest on the door to the walk-in freezer. It stood ajar, mist whispering through a slim gap.

  Isobel stepped into the room. She moved to the freezer and glanced down to find it propped open to a slit by a small wooden crate.

  She put her hand to the latch and pulled, surprised when it opened easily, sending huge gales of cold air tumbling out over her sneakers. She peeked her head inside first, sliding in only when she thought she saw, through the veil of fog, one black boot.

  “What are you doing in here?” was the first thing, the safest thing, she thought to ask.

  He sat in one corner, lounging on a bench composed of shrink-wrapped ice cream canisters. She inched farther into the cold, suddenly glad of the turtleneck and the pair of blue sweatpants that she’d brought to throw on after the game. She let the freezer door thud back against the wooden crate, her shoulders hunkering, and wrapped her arms around her middle.

  His visor sat on the floor between his boots, and his hair once again hung in his face so that she couldn’t read his expression.

  “I . . . ,” she began, groping for the next thing to say, the right thing to say. “I’m sorry,” she said, the words sounding lame in her own ears, and she knew that, on their own, they weren’t enough. “I . . . didn’t know they—”

  “I know,” he said.

  She hugged herself tighter. “I—I put the money back in the—”

  “Thanks.”

  Isobel pressed her lips together in a tight frown, a wad of frustration knotting itself in her chest. “Look—I’m trying . . . I said I was sor—”

  “Why?” He looked up at her sharply, anger etched on his features. “Why did you do that?”

  “I—,” she stammered, entrapped once again within the force of those eyes. “What do you mean? I couldn’t just—”

  “Those were your friends, right?”

  “Yeah, but—” Her gaze dropped to the frosted metal floor. She shook her head furiously, though more to combat his questions than to answer them.

  “What do you think you proved, cheerleader?” He rose suddenly, and Isobel felt herself shrink back with an involuntary step.

  “N-nothing,” she stammered. “It just . . . it wasn’t right.”

  “Why do you care?” he demanded, drawing close enough to stand over her, close enough for her to feel the anger rolling off of him, washing over her.

  She paused to swallow, to think. She stared up at him, quivering from the cold and from nerves. She’d expected his anger, yes, but this blatant challenge? When she opened her mouth to respond, no words came. Why did she care?

  She thought about it, then cleared her throat, all too conscious of his looming over her like a thundercloud. “Why—why do you care?”

  “Who said I did?”

  She flinched. There it was again. That blockade of his.

  “You did,” she whispered, her breath leaving her in a plume of white. Teeth chattering, she unfolded her arms and held out, between shaking fingers, the slip of paper Brad had left on the wicker table. “When you slipped me this note.” She glanced up at him.

  His face changed, uncertainty taking the place of resentment. He looked quickly at the note, then just as quickly away. He stepped back from her.

  “Because,” he started, but stopped himself. “I don’t know,” he amended, and turned to face the wall, shoulders stiff.

  “How did you know, anyway?” she pressed. She watched his back, hoping the question would defuse his anger. And she wanted to know. “How did you know that they knew I lied about Saturday?”

  “Someone—” Again, he checked himself. “I heard it through the grapevine, I guess. What does it matter?”

  It mattered, Isobel thought, watching him, because that would mean he’d been listening in the first place.

  “Never mind,” she said, her teeth chattering. “Forget it. Can we just . . . ?” Her shivering worsened, and she waggled her knees to keep her blood flowing. How could he stand it in here? She shut her eyes for one elongated second. Opening them again, she said, “Look, can we please just get out of the freezer?”

  He whirled and motioned in an offhanded after you gesture toward the door.

  Hesitating only a moment, unsure if he would follow, Isobel slipped out.

  Blessed warmth rushed over her as she re-entered the stockroom. As her nose thawed, she blew warm air into her fists, curling and flexing her fingers in an effort to regain feeling.

  He came out behind her, kicking away the makeshift doorstop, letting the enormous freezer door ease shut and click into place.

  She didn’t wait for him to tell her to leave, and she didn’t ask him where to find the cleaning supplies. Instead she went straight to the double-tub sink against the opposite wall and crouched to peer underneath. There she found an empty janitor’s bucket and a stack of folded rags. She wrestled the bucket free, straightened, and turned on the hot water.

  She glanced back at him. “Do you have a mop?”

  “Who did you say this was again?” she asked, using a napkin to peel a wad of gum she could only assume had belonged to Alyssa off the display glass. She spraye
d Windex in its place and wiped the case down with a rag.

  “Cemetery Sighs,” he replied, nodding his head to the grim beat of the churning, haunting music. Before they’d set to cleaning up the mess the crew had left, Varen had replaced the steel drum CD with one from his own collection, which he’d dug out of his car. He’d brought it in along with her gym bag, which Brad, gentleman that he was, had dumped in the parking lot before speeding off. She was actually grateful, though, seeing as the bag held both her phone and her house keys.

  “This song is ‘Emily Not, Not Gone,’” he said. “It’s about a woman who dies and then rises from the grave to be with her true love.”

  “How romantic,” Isobel scoffed.

  “It is,” he said, and dragged the mop through the last of the malt goo that had gone runny on the floor while they’d been in the freezer.

  “It just sounds gruesome to me.”

  “Gruesome can be romantic.”

  “Sorry.” She shook her head and made a face. “But that’s just a strange thing to say.”

  He stopped mopping and turned to regard her. “Don’t you think it’s at all romantic—the idea that love could conquer death?”

  “I guess.” Isobel shrugged, but really she didn’t want to think about it. The only thing that came to mind was the phrase “death breath.” She grimaced at the thought of kissing a dead guy and walked to the sink behind the counter to rinse out her rag. Over the rush of cold water, the churning music broke to silence, and the female vocals crooned a cappella, beautiful and sad.

  Let this death shroud be a wedding veil,

  Though this skin is clay, my lips so pale.

  My eyes, for you, ever more shine bright

  Blacker than the raven wings of night.

  ’Tis I . . .

  ’Tis I . . .

  Your lost love, your Lady Ligeia. . . .