by Келли Криг
“It won’t come off, Dad.”
“I didn’t tell you to talk yet. And you better damn well hope it comes off, because I’m not paying for it to be fixed, and you’re not driving that piece of crap around like that. I told you he couldn’t keep a car, Darcy. I told you he—”
Varen stood, leaving the cartons. “It’s my car. I bought it myself. Bruce cosigned, not you. Or have you been too drunk to remember?”
“Varen.” The woman’s voice. “Just stop it, both of you.”
“That’s it. You know what? You’re not keeping that pile of junk. You can just ride the damn bus to school, since you can’t seem to get a clue. It’s not sitting in front of my house like that. And since it’s your car and you paid for it, you can pay to have it towed, too. Better yet, call up Bruce and have him tow it off! I’ll call him up myself—and that’s another thing, I don’t want you back at that bookshop anymore, do you hear me? I’m tired of that invalid undermining me. I can find plenty of work for you to do here. No more. Is that clear?”
“Whatever.”
The man’s arm shot out, viper fast, snatching Varen’s sleeve in a tight grip.
Isobel pressed one hand flat against the inside of the closet door, ready to push through, but she willed herself to remain, her fingers curling to grip the slats, knowing that it would only get worse if his dad found out she was there.
“When are you going to wake up?” the man shouted, shaking Varen, his voice booming again, something about his son’s apathy infuriating him more than his defiance. He let go, flinging Varen back. He stumbled but caught himself against the wall, his head down.
“Look’t you, you screwup,” he muttered, his words streaming together, bleeding into one another. The hard heels of his dress shoes snapped on the floorboards as he walked past the closet door. Isobel swiveled her head as he passed. She heard a drawer from Varen’s desk scrape open and saw it hit the floor with a crack, papers spilling. Another drawer joined the first, followed by the overturned contents of a third. Bound portfolios and poems scattered, pens fleeing across the floor. Varen’s dad kicked one polished shoe through the rubble. “Look’t this waste of time. God, you’re just like your mother. Gonna be a screwup scooping ice cream for the rest of your goddamned life if you don’t clean up your act.”
His dad sighed, and his voice sounded tired now. Spent. He held his open hands over the mess of writing and blank papers waiting to be filled, as though there was no answer for it.
“Joe, that’s enough,” the woman whispered. “He said he’d clean it up. Come downstairs.”
Isobel crouched low, peering up through the slats.
She saw the woman enter the room, though her face remained obscured. She saw her reach out an arm, long, slender, and tanned, her delicate wrist encircled by a glittering bracelet.
She touched the man’s shoulder.
“Better clean it up,” he stammered, “’cause I’ll be back up here t’ check.”
The woman, Varen’s stepmother, pulled his father from the room. Isobel shut her eyes. Slowly she rose, clutching the Poe book to her chest. She heard the sound of stumbling. A curse.
The door slammed.
In an instant, whispers filled the room—ten people hissing and talking at once.
Her eyes flew open. On the floor just outside, she saw the light dim and then grow bright again, as though the chandelier over Varen’s bed swayed on its chain. The echo of footsteps on the stairs grew distant and distorted, as though coming from somewhere far away and deep underwater. Shapeless shadows flitted over the floor and across the closet door, throwing Isobel into moments of complete darkness.
Somewhere in the room, Slipper yowled.
29
Driven
Isobel rattled the closet door. It refused to open. The whispers grew louder; they seemed to seep from the walls. She could no longer see Varen—the space where he’d stood was now empty. Isobel pushed against the door with both hands, the Poe book clamped beneath one arm. She banged against the slats.
The closet door flew open with a crack. She jumped back. The whispers ceased.
He stood there wearing his beat-up satchel, staring through her, his face as cold and expressionless as glass. Behind him, the light hung motionless on its chain, no longer flickering, though she could still hear Slipper growling.
“I’m taking you home,” he said.
He spun without another word and, grabbing her backpack, he went to the window against the far wall. Isobel stepped cautiously from the closet, her eyes scanning the floor, the walls, the closet door. Everything was silent.
She watched him grip the window and pull it up. He slipped out into the encroaching darkness, vanishing from sight.
Isobel hurried to the window. She found him standing just outside, seeming to float on nothing. She looked down, and as her eyes adjusted, she saw the black platform that supported him. An unfolding iron stairway clung to the brick siding, a rust-caked fire escape.
She hesitated. They were so high up. Varen gripped her free hand, giving her no choice. Powerless to resist him, she climbed out into the cold air, her trembling transforming to shivers as a frigid wind rushed up the side of the house, blasting them.
His already fierce grip on her tightened, and when her feet found the metal landing, he pulled her into motion. Beneath them, the rickety stairs groaned and sighed, swaying as they rounded the first corner. Down, around, down, and down. From a rooftop above, an ebony bird sounded a warning, its hoarse call answered by an echoing croak and a flurry of wings.
Varen jumped down first from the ladder that hung at the end of the escape. Quivering uncontrollably, Isobel turned to lower herself one rung at a time, descending one-handed, with the Poe book still tucked under her arm. She felt Varen’s hands fasten around her waist. He lifted her and set her on her feet. He caught her hand once more, and she was moving again before she could comprehend how or where.
They reached the curb, and when he let go, handing off her backpack, she knew to get into the Cougar. He rounded the car and flung open the driver’s side. Throwing his own satchel into the backseat, he got in, then pulled the door shut behind him.
Isobel fell into the passenger seat, clutching her backpack and the Poe book in her lap.
Should she say something? Would that just make everything worse?
He started the car, revving the engine. Isobel shut her door quickly, afraid he would bolt at any second. He revved the engine again. He must want them to know he was leaving, she realized. Isobel looked back toward the house and saw the porch light come on. His stepmom hurried outside onto the verandah. She was blond, tall, and candle-straight, and she wore a long silver evening dress that glistened like water in the moonlight. She left the stained-glass door open and rushed down the sidewalk toward them, heels clacking, calling to Varen.
The stereo kicked on. Guitars and crashing drums filled the car, somebody screaming more than singing.
The woman stopped when she saw Isobel. For one full second, their eyes locked.
Tires squealed. They pulled out. Isobel’s back slammed against her seat as they ripped down the street. He took the first right without so much as braking, the rear of the car fishtailing.
Isobel groped for her seat belt and slung it over her lap, fumbling to snap it into place. She saw his hand twist the stereo’s volume dial all the way, his face showing little more than the faintest scowl as the sound of rage pumped through the cab.
He took another turn. Isobel yelped.
They barreled down a city street, swerving out of the left lane into the right as the car ahead of them braked for the light. Yellow flick red. They shot beneath.
“Varen,” she said, making her voice as stern and loud over the music as she could. She gripped her seat. “Slow. Down.”
The engine growled. He sped up.
“Varen, stop! You’re scaring me!”
He ignored her, tires shrieking as he twisted around another sharp corner. Is
obel groped for something else to grab hold of. There was nothing.
Buildings and lights streamed by in a blur. Street signs raced past. Isobel’s head whipped from side to side, though she couldn’t place their fleeting surroundings. Around them, the world bled into one long streak.
Someone screamed at them from the sidewalk. The car rumbled like a beast.
Between the music and the speed, Isobel felt as though her mind might either melt or shatter.
The crashing song fizzed and zipped as they rocketed through an underpass. The lights on the dashboard dimmed and guttered. Static washed over the music while the needle of the speedometer teased higher, then loosened to swing back and forth. A low, dry voice cut through the static of the radio, buried amid a chorus of whispers. Unintelligible, the murmuring grew into a collective hiss.
“Go away,” Varen growled between clenched teeth.
At his command, the static rippled, then cleared. The music blared full force once more, and the dashboard lights resumed their dim red glow.
Ice water replaced Isobel’s rushing blood. Her fear spiked, crawling its way up from her very depths, paralyzing her. Her eyes slid from the dashboard radio to Varen. Who was he talking to?
“Varen—?”
He turned again, cutting her off. Her shoulder slammed into the passenger-side door, and Isobel pressed a hand to the glass to brace herself. She squeezed her eyes shut and yelled,
“You’re going to get us killed!”
He wasn’t listening.
She felt the buzzing sensation of speed course through her seat and hum through her body. She hated this feeling, of being so totally out of control. This was exactly what she’d always hated about driving with—
Isobel opened her eyes. She slammed her hand on the Discman beside her, killing the meltdown music. “Would you stop?” she screamed. “You’re driving like Brad!”
She saw his hands clench on the wheel and had only an instant to regret these words before his foot slammed on the brakes. Tires screeched. The world of buildings, streets, cars, lights, and people gained on them, stuttering into focus as the car squealed and skittered to a stop.
Isobel pitched forward in her seat, then slammed back again, the impact knocking the breath out of her. Around them, horns blared. Cars swerved and went swooshing past, drivers yelling from their windows.
Silence.
She stared at him, her breath coming in heaves. White headlights pierced the rear window, casting as much shadow as stark light into the car. Black shapes, sharp and quick, slipped over him. They swept their way down his form, retreating to their corners and crevices as a car passed around them, the light vanishing with it. He stared forward, both hands still fixed on the wheel. They sat in silence again, the engine still rumbling, a tension pulsing between them so thick that Isobel thought she might never catch her breath.
He moved finally, leaning forward in his seat so that his forehead almost touched the top of the steering wheel. “Sorry,” he said, the word scarcely audible.
Isobel dropped her gaze to her lap. She stared at her still-quivering knees and found herself once more at a loss for words.
He sat back and shifted the car into gear, and they were moving again. He drove with total control, and suddenly Isobel recognized the overpass they turned onto. He was taking her home.
“Varen—”
“Don’t,” he said.
Isobel snapped her teeth together and set her jaw. Deep down, she knew that it would be better not to say anything. Not when she knew he had never meant for her to see. To know.
30
Projected
Isobel let her bag drop in the foyer as soon as she stepped through the door. She stood dazed, remembering the way the Cougar had shot off the second she’d shut the car door. Just like that, he’d left her standing there in front of her house without so much as a “See you tomorrow.” She couldn’t even think where he could be headed, but she was certain that he wouldn’t go home.
“Wherever,” he’d said in the attic.
Isobel frowned, hoping that his “wherever” didn’t mean Lacy’s house.
She stared at her sneakers and tried, for a moment, to imagine what it would be like not to be able to go home. Then she had to stop, because to her it was unfathomable. And yet she had seen enough of the Nethers household to know she had not witnessed the worst.
Isobel hugged the Poe book to herself. She rested her cheek against the cool, gold-lined pages and black binding, grateful, for once, to have it—her one solid link back to him. Her one tether to his impenetrable world if, after tonight, it proved true that she held no others. If they failed the project— when they failed the project—the book would give her one last excuse to see him. To tell him everything, she thought, letting her eyes slide closed. Everything she should have said already. She’d spit it all out, regardless of who was around to hear it. She’d tell him how she couldn’t stop thinking about him, how she just wanted to be near him. She’d do the unspeakable. She’d let her hands slide inside his jacket and her arms slip around him.
Brave thoughts, she told herself, opening her eyes. All brave thoughts.
She leaned down to hook her hand once more through one shoulder strap of her backpack. She trudged down the hallway, dragging her book bag behind her like a ball and chain.
The living room was dark and empty, and so were the hallway and the kitchen. Everyone must be upstairs, she thought. She lifted her book bag and slung it onto the nearest kitchen chair, deposited the Poe book on the table, went to the cabinet to get a clean glass, then stalked to the sink to fill it.
Tilting her head back, Isobel drained the glass, then wiped her mouth with her sleeve. She set the glass on the counter and sat down at the table, shoulders slumping.
The dishwasher swished while the kitchen clock ticked.
Isobel stared off in the general direction of the refrigerator.
She felt the remnants of adrenaline subsiding. He’d scared her tonight. After becoming so used to his composed demeanor, his unruffled coolness, to see him like that, so beyond reason, had terrified her. And in that moment, she knew that he’d wanted to terrify her. Or at least he hadn’t cared. And then, when he’d spoken aloud to the radio, all the warning bells she possessed had blared through her in one unanimous clangor, recalling to her mind all the rumors, all the original forewarnings that had spooked her from day one.
Isobel brought her hands up to her face, rubbing, not caring if she smudged her mascara. That wasn’t him. He’d been beyond himself. She might have been too had things been reversed.
Anyone would have.
She sighed, feeling suddenly so tired. How had it all come down to this? So much had gotten in the way, and now, after everything, they were both going to fail the project.
“You’re home early.”
Isobel stopped rubbing her face. She spread her fingers and opened her eyes to see her father standing in the doorway, dressed in torn jeans and the red flannel shirt she sometimes liked to steal. His arms were folded, a stance that made Isobel want to reply with something sarcastic. She settled instead on ignoring him.
Opening the zipper on her backpack, she lifted her notebook out, realizing she at least still had her list of quotes, even if their poster-board pictures and index cards had been left on Varen’s bedroom floor. Would he remember to bring them? Did he even care anymore?
For a split second, Isobel imagined she could try and fake the presentation for both of them. Maybe she could pull it off. Maybe. If she stayed up all night. But quotes alone wouldn’t be nearly enough to get by on.
“Isobel.”
The sound of her father’s voice irritated her. Couldn’t he take the hint? She wasn’t ready to talk to him yet. Most of all, she wasn’t in the mood for an “I’m just looking out for you”
lecture.
“Did you get your project finished?” he asked.
Pretending she hadn’t heard the question, she opened the Poe bo
ok. She stared down at the tiny words printed in close rows. If she stayed up, how far would she get? Whatever the case, she couldn’t hope to get anywhere with her dad standing over her, breathing down her neck like this.
“I said, did you get your project finished?”
“No,” she said, “we didn’t. How could we when everybody’s dad keeps interrupting?”
She pushed the notebook away, disgusted, and folded her arms on the table. She dropped her face into the cool, dark space they made. She stayed there, listening to the sound of her own breathing, something about it oddly calming. She heard her father’s footsteps and the scooting of a kitchen chair over the tile. As he sat down, she caught a whiff of shower gel and aftershave.
“Something happen that you want to talk about?”
“No,” she mumbled into her arms. Definitely not. Besides the fact that she wouldn’t know where to start, she couldn’t think of anything to tell him that wouldn’t just give him another reason to ground her until college. If she even decided to go to college—and there was another argument entirely.
“Well, did you get anything done?”
His tone was curious rather than pushy, and it made her wonder why he was being so nice.
She groaned, rocking her forehead back and forth against her arms, halfway to say no and halfway to clear her thoughts. She was too tired to keep being angry at him. It took too much effort. “It’s no use,” she muttered. “We’re done for.”
“That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think? Are you giving up?”
Isobel shrugged. Maybe, since their paper was done, they’d at least get half credit? That way she’d still pass her junior year, even if it meant she wouldn’t be a cheerleader when she did. With another pang in her stomach, Isobel thought about Nationals, about the squad going to Dallas without her, Alyssa taking her spot as middle flyer. She released another sigh, this one mixed with a growl, her hands clenching into fists. How was this fair? How was it right when they’d honestly tried?