Nevermore

Coach Logan called out to Brad, giving his whistle a short blast. Finger trained on Varen, Brad began to back away, toward where the rest of the players stood gathered, watching.

“Come on,” said Varen, releasing her, “let’s go.” He turned to walk away.

Isobel stood rooted. She stared after Brad a moment longer, still battling the urge to rush out on the field and bash his head in with his stupid helmet. Instead she turned and followed Varen.

Isobel paused in the middle traveling lane, her gaze scanning the windows of the buses. Faces. So many of them turned down on her. Glad you’re all enjoying the show, she thought.

She looked away from all the eager eyes ready to drink up her life’s drama and jogged to catch up with the dark figure ahead of her.

27

The Green Man

They drove in silence.

Isobel stared out her window at the passing trees, the fall colors seemingly neon beneath the gray overcast, and wondered if the plot to deface Varen’s car had been what Stevie had overheard Brad and Mark talking about. She also wondered why they hadn’t done more—though from their inscribed message, not to mention Brad’s ominous pointing, she certainly got the impression that the worst was yet to come.

“Can it be fixed?” she said, finally breaking the silence.

He shrugged, watching the road. “Buff it out. Repaint.”

“Will it look the same?”

“Hopefully.” She thought he sounded doubtful.

Isobel looked forward again. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry about his car. She wanted to say that she was worried, that she didn’t know what Brad was capable of anymore.

But she knew Varen wouldn’t respond. He’d say nothing and she’d be left sitting there, feeling stupid for having opened her mouth. As much as he was different from other guys, he still had that stupid male pride thing.

“What did you see in him anyway?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Isobel’s mouth popped open as though to supply some ready-made reply in her defense. Instead all she could do was utter, “I don’t know.”

He nodded in that way of his, like he had some sort of private understanding about the way the gears in her mind must work. Like he’d expected as much of her. It made her feel small again, and simple, like he was packing her back into that little box of prejudgments.

“I could just as easily ask you what you saw in that Lacy girl,” she said, and leveled a sharp glare at him.

He smiled like he couldn’t help it. She couldn’t believe it. He was actually smiling, teeth and all. Had she ever seen him smile before? No, she realized, because right now, it was such a jarring thing to witness that for a moment it felt as though she was sharing the car with a stranger.

“What?” she said.

“You really made her mad today, you know.”

“Well, does she have a right to be?”

“I don’t know,” he said, his expression sobering at once. “Does she?”

She hate-hate-hated it when he did that. When he turned her every question around and sent her own curveballs flying straight back at her. Folding her arms, she stared out her window again, refusing to play his game.

The car turned off the main road and into a small strip-mall parking lot. Isobel craned her neck to see where they were and was surprised when he parked in front of a storefront, the neon sign reading DOUBLE TROUBLE II.

“Wait here,” he said, unlatching his seat belt and getting out. He shut the door behind him, leaving the car idling. Isobel sat up in her seat and watched him step into the restaurant. She could see him partially through the sun-glared storefront glass as he stepped up to the counter and pulled out his wallet. He must have already called in an order, she thought, as the man behind the counter smiled and handed over a plastic bag. It made her wonder, because she didn’t think he owned a cell phone.

Varen came out a moment later carrying the bag, which contained several cartons of Chinese food. He opened the door and handed the bag in. She took it, the heavenly scent of egg rolls, moo goo gai pan, and beef with broccoli filling the car. Hunger awoke within her. A growl like that of a ravenous dog snarled through her stomach, and it came loud enough that she didn’t bother to humor herself with the hope that he hadn’t heard.

“Hope you like Chinese,” he said, and shifted the car into gear.

They pulled off a narrow street, past a sign that read ST. FRANCIS COURT. The purr of the Cougar echoed as they drove down one side of the enormous court, which was composed of two long one-way streets, a single row of cars parked along each. A large grass median separated the two lanes, while beyond a wide sidewalk, towering Victorian homes stood on either side, facing one another like dance partners preparing to waltz.