Before lunch was over, Isobel had made sure to stop by the office and give her mom a call to let her know where she’d be, since she wasn’t supposed to use her cell until school let out.

She left out the no parents part.

Her mom had been cool. Mostly. At least she hadn’t asked too many questions, especially after Isobel had reminded her that their project was due the very next day and that they were behind. Way behind.

She’d assured her mom that yes, Varen would give her a ride home and that yes, she’d be through the front door by ten at the absolute latest.

“What are you going to tell Dad?” Isobel had asked before hanging up. Her mother’s response had been, “Let me worry about that,” which made Isobel worry even more. She hated it whenever her parents fought. She certainly didn’t like being the cause.

After the final bell, she found Varen waiting for her at the same place as yesterday.

“Hey,” she said as she drew closer to where he stood in the open doorway, the autumn sunlight streaming in, outlining one side of him in a rim of gold. He turned toward her, the light casting a glossy sheen against the black of his hair. He smiled, just barely, and the sight of it, the idea that she had induced this rare response in him, sent her reeling.

“Nice job on the paper,” she said.

She’d read the ten-page essay during algebra, when they were supposed to be working on the day’s problems. She could finish those that weekend, she’d reasoned, since the worksheet wasn’t officially due till Monday.

Varen nodded once, but said nothing. They walked out into the parking lot together, Varen slipping his sunglasses into place. It felt good walking next to him. Almost like they were . . .official.

He stopped.

“What?” Isobel asked. When he didn’t answer, she followed the direction of his stare.

The words had been carved into the paint of the Cougar, across the driver’s-side door and all the way to the rear fender. The message had been scraped out by a key or another sharp object, showing up primer-gray against the once sleek black finish. YOU’RE DEAD FREAK it read.

“Damn it,” Isobel breathed. “That’s it.” She pivoted to march back toward the school, a new kind of rage surging through her, intensifying with each step. Abruptly she swiveled again, changing her mind. No, she thought, she wouldn’t go to the office. Brad and Mark were both varsity players with loaded parents, and that’s why everyone always looked the other way.

She’d go to the practice field instead, right to the source. If she had to kick Brad’s ass in front of all his football buddies and get suspended in the process, then fine. So be it. This time, he had gone too far.

“Where are you going?” she heard Varen call after her, and it was like he’d tugged on a string tied around her heart. Her footsteps slowed, but she didn’t turn around and she didn’t stop. She could hear him following her, but if she looked now, she knew she’d lose her resolve. She sped up again.

Brad was doing this because of her. That meant that it was her job to fix it.

Isobel crossed through the parking lot to the bus loading area, which ran like a wide driveway lengthwise in front of the school.

Yellow buses rumbled, parked in a double line while students wove their way in and out in pairs and groups. Isobel couldn’t see the fenced-in practice field just beyond, but she knew the football team would be gathering there, piling on their gear, grunting and smacking one another around about tomorrow’s big game.

“Isobel,” Varen called, still following. She marched on, stepping down off the grass median, over the curb, and through the line of buses. The smell of hot exhaust hit her, and she held her breath to keep from inhaling it. She crossed the space between the buses and was almost through the second line when she felt a hand catch her arm.

“What?” She whirled on him, flushing pink because she hadn’t meant to snap.

“Don’t,” he said, still clutching her arm, his grip just tight enough to hold her. She looked away from him, toward the field—and saw Brad. Having spotted them in turn, he walked toward the fence, beaming, his helmet dangling from one hand, his shoulder pads and football pants making him look like some hulking comic-book supervillain. His smile broadened and he waved to them, like he would to a pair of old friends.

“Don’t you see it’s what he wants?” Varen whispered to her, though she could barely hear him over the rumble of the buses.

Isobel watched as Brad stopped waving and pointed straight at Varen. Her entire body tensed. Dread seized her, and she turned to Varen only to find his face as unreadable as ever.