Nevermore n-1

by Келли Криг

  Almost an hour passed before Isobel finished compiling excerpts, and it was the sound of the front door opening that made her look up.

  She saw her dad step in and set down his briefcase. Instantly she stiffened, but she told herself to take it easy. If her mom had been cool about Varen, then why should she expect any different from her father?

  “Hey, Dad,” she tried, testing the waters.

  “Hey, Izzy,” he said breezily enough, but when he looked up and into the dining room, something in his eyes darkened. His expression changed.

  That’s okay, Isobel thought. Varen’s appearance can be a little jarring at first. Just keep playing it cool and he’ll relax.

  “Dad,” she said, “this is Varen, a friend from school. We’re working on a project together for English class.” She gestured to their spread of papers and books on the table. See, Dad?

  Exhibit A.

  Varen rose again and extended a ringed hand out over the dining room table, toward her dad. “Sir,” he said.

  Isobel held her breath. Awkward dot com.

  Her dad frowned, his face going hard. He stepped into the room, and Isobel watched as her dad grasped Varen’s hand in what she thought might have been a tighter-than-necessary grip.

  Anger shot through her, but she kept her seat, still waiting for the moment of tension to slip away.

  The handshake lasted about half a second. Her dad broke from it, saying, “Is that your car parked out front . . . Varen?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Her dad’s hardened expression now deepened with a layer of suspicion. “So then, is it safe to say that you were the one who brought my daughter home past midnight the other night?”

  Isobel shot to her feet. “Dad.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Varen, his tone admitting yet, Isobel dared to think, unrepentant.

  “Dad.”

  Ignoring her, her dad brushed past both of them and into the kitchen, calling for Isobel’s mom. “Jeannine,” he said, “can I talk to you for a second?”

  Isobel stared after him, appalled. So, yeah. Hadn’t part of last night’s lecture been about the treatment of guests? Still dazed by her father’s behavior, she became only partially aware of Varen gathering his things and loading them into his satchel.

  “Oh, no,” she said, having to stop herself from placing a hand on his arm. “Please don’t go,” she pleaded. “It’s okay. He’s just—”

  “Walk me out?” he said, shouldering the satchel. His words had been little more than a low mutter, which Isobel heard distractedly, her ears half tuned to the sound of her parents’

  urgent whispers in the kitchen. She thought she caught the word “hooligan” (one of her father’s favorites), and, afraid Varen had heard too, she nodded, pressing forward through the dining room, into the foyer, and then outside. She held the storm door for him again, and they stepped onto the front porch. A chilling wind swept up around them, stirring wind chimes somewhere in the distance—a ghostly sound.

  Isobel wrapped her arms tightly around herself. They descended through her yard and to his car without words. He opened the passenger-side door and threw in his satchel, then, rounding to the other side, opened the driver’s-side door. Isobel stood helplessly by on the edge of the lawn, able only to shiver and watch as she waited for him to climb in and drive off.

  He paused behind the car door, holding it open. Standing in the glow of the cab light, he seemed to be waiting for her.

  Isobel stepped carefully off the curb and around the car, trying her best to keep her teeth from chattering from the mix of cold and anger. She moved around the car door, not wanting it to be a barrier between them. She kept her gaze downcast at first, drawing as near as she dared, surprising herself as she scooted the toes of her shoes to within inches of his boots.

  She focused first on the design of his T-shirt—a wilting rose gripped in the jaws of a skull—and worked her way up to the collar of his green jacket and the light wisps of his hair. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She looked up at him. His eyes, once again partially lost in the dark, jagged recesses of his hair, stared down into hers.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

  “Varen . . . I don’t think there’s any way I can go with you this Friday,” she said, blurting the thought out just as it occurred to her. Her throat constricted, and she turned her attention once more to their feet. “I want to go,” she went on softly, “but . . .” She shut her mouth quickly, before she was able to make herself sound any more pathetic.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he repeated, so gently that she had to look up at him again, to make sure she hadn’t imagined the faint note of amusement there. “Listen,” he said. He leaned down close to whisper, the sensation of his breath against her cheek nearly causing her eyes to flutter shut. “I’ve got to go,” he said, “’cause right now, your dad’s watching every move I make.”

  Isobel’s eyes popped open. Over his shoulder, she could see her dad standing in the orange-yellow light of the dining room, squinting at them through the window like some great ogre, his arms folded, his face grim.

  She felt the brush of Varen’s knuckles against her jaw. Startled, her eyes returned to his. Then, before she could stop him, he sank away from her and into the driver’s seat of the car.

  He turned the ignition, and the sound of his softly wailing stereo broke the silence.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. Isobel stepped back from the Cougar so he could shut the door. Her skin seeming to hum from where he’d touched her. She saw him shift the car into gear and then he drove off, his headlights crossing beams with another car that was just pulling onto her street. Isobel stood and stared after the Cougar until its taillights—like two demon-red eyes—vanished around the next turn. The approaching car pulled into her driveway, and when Danny climbed out from the backseat, she heard him murmur a quick thanks to his ride before calling out, “Hey, Isobel! Who was that?”

  Her arms still tightly wrapped about herself, Isobel ignored her brother as she made her way toward the house. She stormed through the front door to find her father in the foyer, waiting.

  24

  The Woodlands of Weir

  “Are you seeing that kid?” her father asked, pointing out the door. Isobel tried her best to ignore the fear that flared through her insides, like dry tinder catching flame. Her father hardly ever lost his temper, but when he did, it was totally lair-of-the-dragon-king, complete with fire breathing and fuming eyes.

  “Sam,” came her mother’s voice from the hallway. She appeared in the archway leading to the kitchen, her hands wrapped in a dish towel.

  “He’s not a kid,” Isobel seethed, “and for your information, neither am I. What is your problem, anyway?” She tightened her arms around her middle, bracing herself for the argument.

  She hated fighting with her dad, and it was such a rare event that it always made her nervous.

  “I’m trying to find out if my only daughter is dating a hoodlum, that’s my problem!” he railed.

  These words were echoed by the bang of the storm door. Danny, clad in his tan Boy Scouts uniform, awe plastered across his chubby face, entered the foyer. “That car was dope!” he announced. “Who—?” He stopped suddenly, looking between Isobel and their dad, his enthusiasm draining. “Ohhhh,” he whispered, his voice like a tire leaking air, “should have used the back door.”

  “Sam, honestly,” her mom said, “I don’t get what the big deal is. They were just working on a project.”

  “Did you not see that kid, Jeannine? He looks like one of those gun-toting, school-shoot-out maniacs!”

  “Yes, Sam, I did see him! And I spoke with him. He was very well-mannered, and if you hadn’t blown through the roof, you might have found that out for yourself.”

  “Who are we taking about?” asked Danny, opening his arms as though expecting rain.

  Isobel couldn’t believe this. Her dad was freaking out over nothing! He was blowing a gasket be
cause she’d been doing her homework. “You just can’t handle it that I broke up with Brad, can you?” she growled.

  “Whoa,” Danny said, taken aback, “you broke up with Meathead?”

  “No,” said her dad, starting to shout, “what I can’t handle is you being dropped off after midnight by some kid who thinks he’s a vampire!”

  “And now you’re dating a vampire?” Danny asked, intrigued. “You know they bite, right?”

  “Danny,” her mom said, “go sit in the kitchen.” Danny stayed right where he was.

  “Oh, please!” Isobel shouted. Spinning away, she mounted the stairs at a run. She was not going to stand there and be questioned like a five-year-old.

  “Are we talking about the dude from the phone?” asked Danny, addressing the room in general.

  “Isobel, you stop right there. I’m not done yet!” her dad yelled.

  “Too bad,” she shouted, stopping midway up the banister, “because I am!”

  “How can he be a vampire when he knows so much about slayers?”

  “Danny,” her mom said, her voice full of warning.

  “Just saying.” Danny shrugged.

  “I said get down here, Isobel! We’re going to talk about this or it’s going to be another two weeks before you’re allowed out of this house!”

  “So what else is new!” she bellowed, barging the rest of the way up.

  “Isobel!”

  “Sam, stop yelling at her!” her mother yelled.

  “If this were in Japanese,” said Danny, “it could so be an anime.”

  “Isobel!” her dad shouted again.

  She stopped at the top landing and leaned over the railing. “I’m sixteen, Dad! And it’s none of your business who I choose to date!” She turned and stomped the rest of the way to her room, stopping again outside her door, her anger blazing. “Or who I dump, for that matter!” she roared, and sent her bedroom door slamming shut with a resounding bang.

  Inside her room, Isobel flung herself onto her bed, unleashing an unbridled scream into her pillow. What was happening to her life? When had everything become so complicated? It was homework! How and when had her life become upended by homework?

  Quick footsteps on the stairs were followed by a gentle knock at her door. Her mom. Isobel knew it even before she heard the soft voice asking if she would please come down to dinner. Isobel offered no reply. After a moment, she heard a sigh, then the retreat of defeated footsteps.

  She lay still for a long time after that, curled up on her side, and tried to ignore the dull ache forming in her head.

  She thought about digging her cell phone out of her backpack, but who would she call? She could try Gwen, but Isobel didn’t know her number, and since Gwen had called the land line the other night, she wouldn’t have it in her cell’s directory, either. She thought about trying Gwen’s Internet White Pages approach, but that would mean she would have to venture into her brother’s room, and right then, she didn’t have it in her to face another argument.

  For what felt like the first time in her life, Isobel was battling not to hate her father. She couldn’t understand how he could be so unfair or so blind, how he couldn’t seem to see Brad’s other side. Or what it was about Varen that had caused him to go so ballistic in the first place. Why did Varen seem to cause everyone around to go ballistic? What about him was not allowed? What made his world so different from hers?

  His face, angular and serene, materialized in her mind. The memory of his gaze sent a gentle calm through her. She pictured him just as he had been when they’d been standing outside together next to his car. He’d been so close, she thought, shutting her eyes again, taking in a long, deep breath, as though, if she concentrated hard enough, she might be able to imagine he was right there next to her.

  From somewhere downstairs, Isobel heard the phone ring, followed by Danny’s shout of, “I got it!” She opened her eyes and rolled onto her back, straining her ears to try to hear whether or not the call was for her, even though she knew she wouldn’t be allowed to take it. She heard her brother’s voice float up from the foyer, saying, “Hey, Trevor.”

  She rolled over to stare out her darkened window. Her thoughts drifted back to Varen, and she tried to ignore her brother’s heavy footsteps on the stairs and his voice as he spoke loudly into the phone. “Yeah, it’s upstairs, let me get it and I’ll check.”

  Now she could see Varen in her mind’s eye, just where he’d been in her dream. A far-off form, tall, windswept, framed by a forest of matchstick trees. She was just about to shut her eyes again when there came a quiet knock at her bedroom door. She sat up. “What?”

  “Isobel.” It was Danny, whispering to her through the bottom crack of her door.

  “What do you want?”

  “Open up,” he said. “It’s for you.” He raised his voice again, and she heard him say, “Yeah, I got the whole list of codes right here. Which ones do you want first?”

  Isobel stumbled out of bed and toward the door. She opened it to a slit and found her brother there, holding the portable out to her. Stunned, she took it.

  “Make it quick!” he whispered, and leaning over the banister, he said, “Okay, the first one is for Blood Thirst Traitor Three, and it’s to stop the countdown clock on level seven. Ready?

  Okay—two, two, nine, zero—”

  Isobel retreated quickly into her room and cradled the receiver against her ear. “Hello?”

  “Okay, so madness runs in the family, am I right?”

  “Gwen!” Isobel breathed out in a rush, sinking to the carpet on her knees.

  “What is it?” said Gwen. “What’s the matter?”

  Outside her door, Isobel could hear Danny droning on, spouting off made-up codes. She knew there was bound to be a catch to Danny’s help, but for the moment she was grateful.

  “Varen was here,” Isobel whispered, and then proceeded to give Gwen the abridged version of what had happened, all the way from the drive home to the atomic explosion with her dad.

  “Are you serious?” Gwen exclaimed, cutting her off before she could finish. Then, as if she hadn’t heard a word about the fight, she said, “He tagged you to go to the Grim Facade? Oh my cheese and crackers. Do you even know how major this is?”

  “Gwen, are you listening to me? Did you not hear me when I said my dad just finished grounding me for the rest of my natural life?”

  “Are you kidding?” she squeaked. “Ohhh, you are sooo going. You gotta see it. ’Course, I’ve only ever been once myself, but it was awesome. I went the year before last ’cause that emo kid, Mikey, with the spiky hair? You know the one I’m talkin’ about? He tagged me. Hey! I bet I could get him to tag me again. If he isn’t already taking somebody.”

  “Gwen, hello.” Isobel tapped a finger against the receiver. “You’re not hearing me. I can’t go. I already told him I couldn’t.”

  “What are you gonna wear?”

  Isobel shut her eyes. She rubbed her temple where a headache had begun to set in.

  “Look,” she said, “it’s probably safe to say that I won’t be having much social interaction outside of school, at least until New Year’s. I’m not going, Gwen. End of story. I’m just trying to figure out a way to meet with Varen this week to get the project done. Can you help me figure that one out? Please? Besides, if I can manage not to get kicked off the squad again, I’ve got the rival game this Friday anyway.”

  “Your parents gonna be there?” Gwen asked, a sly edge to her voice.

  “At the game?”

  “No, at your bat mitzvah—yes, the game!”

  “After tonight? Are you kidding? My dad’ll probably pick a seat front and center and still have binoculars handy.”

  “Can you . . . guarantee that?”

  “Yes!” Isobel hissed, “I can!”

  “Good!”

  “Gwen—”

  “Only do me a favor and try not to piss your dad off any more—well, any more than can be avoided.”

>   “But—”

  “—is not a nice word, even though we all have one. Now go to bed before your dad finds out you’re on the phone and sends you into orbit for nine years. I’ll see ya in the morning.”

  Click.

  Isobel stared at the phone. Now she was completely convinced. Gwen was a mental case. Recent escapee from the Home of Our Lady of Loonies. There was no way she was going to be able to sneak out this Friday. Hello. It was Halloween. Her parents—at least her dad—would be taking notes for the record if she so much as sneezed.

  Isobel jumped when Danny zoomed into her room, snatching the phone out of her grasp. “Abort, abort!” he rasped, rushing back out, practically dive-bombing into his own room, shouting into the receiver, “Yeah—oh, yeah. Detrodon is the best!”

  Isobel heard footsteps on the stairs. Her first instinct was to rush forward and slam her door shut, but instead she rose quietly and went to stand in the doorway. She grasped the handle and peered out to see her mother on her way up. Isobel frowned and turned away but left her door ajar. Returning to her bed, she buried herself in covers.

  “Isobel,” her mom said, her voice soft, coaxing, “I want you to know that your father and I are going to have a talk.”

  Isobel felt one side of her bed sink down as her mom sat, and then the weight of one warm hand against her arm. “In the meantime, I want you to go ahead and make plans to finish this project, okay? Here, I brought you your book.” Isobel’s eyes widened as her mother laid The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe on the covers right next to her head. She shifted to sit up.

  “Do you have somewhere else you two can meet this week?” her mom asked.

  Isobel thought for a moment. In her mind, she pictured the ice cream shop. There was also Nobit’s Nook, and of course, there was the library if all else failed. She nodded, grateful to have an ally after all. More often than not, her parents stuck maddeningly together on most issues concerning her social life.