Nevermore

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 book. 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?

“Is there something I can do?” he asked.

“Not unless you can work miracles.”

She heard the Poe book slide against the table and then the sound of pages being flipped in chunks. Isobel peeked up at him with one suspicious eye, watching as he settled at last on the

“Ultima Thule” portrait of Poe.

“He sure was a weird dude, wasn’t he?” he murmured, more to himself, Isobel thought, than to her.

She raised her head slowly, staring hard at her father.

“Weird-looking, too,” he commented.

Isobel’s hand shot out. She gripped her father’s arm. He looked at her in alarm.

“Dad,” she said, her eyes scanning his face. Her grip on him tightened as she recalled something her father had said before, on the drive home from the library that first day she’d met with Varen. “Dad, do you really want to help? Really?”

His eyes softened, brows slanting. Her own eyes widened. “Yes, Izzy,” he said with a nod, sounding almost relieved. “I really, really do.”

“Omigod,” she said, rocketing out of her chair, pressing one palm to her forehead, a flood of ideas filling her head all at once. She shook her father’s arm before letting go, flying to the wall next to the garage door, and taking his car keys off their hook. “I have an idea,” she said. “Walmart!” she shouted. “You have to take me to Walmart, right now!”

“Okay, kiddo, okay. We’ll go to Walmart.” He stood, uncertainty written across his features, and Isobel rushed to him, hugging him, then shoved his keys into his hands.

He spread his arms questioningly. “Well, aren’t you going to fill me in?”

Isobel flung open the garage door, clambered down the stairs, and opened the passenger door to the sedan. “On the way,” she said. “Get in.”

Isobel was late to school the next morning, missing two whole periods. Nobody took class seriously on a big game day, though (nobody but Mr. Swanson, of course), so she doubted that she’d missed anything vital. Carting along her boom box, she moved through the decorated halls hung with poster-board signs and blue and yellow balloons, peeking into classroom doors, hoping on the off chance that she’d catch a glimmer of silver chains or black boots. She had no idea what his schedule was outside of fourth-period English, but it would be a huge relief just to know he was in the building. She wanted to let him know that they at least had a game plan. She could give him a heads-up. Most of all, she wanted to see him. She needed to talk to him.

But that would all have to wait.

Nearing her U.S. history classroom, Isobel decided she couldn’t spare the time to keep looking. The rule for all county high schools was that to participate in any after-school functions, like a play, a club, or especially a football game, you had to be in school for at least half the day. Isobel wasn’t going to push it by waiting until fourth period to show her face. They had a pep rally last period, and she couldn’t be certain if that hour really counted or not.

Hitching her bag higher on her back, Isobel grasped the door handle and went in, her yellow late slip crumpled in one hand.

She froze in the doorway as a sudden barrage of hoots, hollers, and desk pounding trumpeted at her appearance. Oh God, she thought, what now? Then someone from the back stood up, cupping his hands over his mouth, and shouted, “What’s up, Tren ton?”

Relief washed over her. Chicken Soup for the Cheerleader’s Soul.

She beamed, posing (albeit a little awkwardly with the boom box still in one hand), and shot her fist into the air. Even Mr. Fredenburg put down his chalk to applaud. She’d almost forgotten she’d worn her cheer uniform that day, blue skirt with yellow pleats over blue Trenton sweatpants, yellow turtleneck under her blue-with-yellow-stripes shell top, a yellow H for Hawks emblazoned on her chest. This was normal, she reminded herself as she made her way through her personal parade to her seat. Normal, normal, how she loved thee. She was still Isobel the cheerleader. Isobel the flyer. This was what it was all about.

Tonight, even if she failed the project, even if it was for the last time, she would get her spinning lights, her weightless suspension, her gasping crowd—tonight she would fly.

U.S. history ended fast, bringing the bell for the between-class break all too soon. Isobel found herself moving through the throng of blue and gold enthusiasm toward Mr. Swanson’s class.

A group of sophomores with their faces painted pranced by, laughing together, the girls hand in hand with their letter-jacket boyfriends. Streams of blue Silly String slung out from nowhere, catching in hair and on clothes, spraying the lockers and walls. Lost in the shuffle, Isobel could hear Mr. Nott’s cries for order.

The excitement was catching.

A new spirit seemed to have seized and shaken the school, like it always did on a big game day, and Isobel found herself desperately wanting her slice of the fun. Boys hooted as she walked down the hall, a group of them clearing a path for her, shouting, “What’s up, Tren-ton?” and banging on lockers between chants. A rhythm of “What’s up, Tren-ton!” bang, bang followed her all the way to the stairwell. Isobel tried to keep her smile in check when what she really wanted to do was get rid of the stupid boom box and turn cartwheels down the hall to the beat of the lockers and the rhythm of shouts. This was her element and she wanted in, the cheerleader inside her screaming and jumping to cut loose. She would, she assured herself.

But before she could, there was just one thing left to do: Operation Finish This Poe Thing So My Life Can Go On.

Isobel walked resolutely into her English classroom, her heart fluttering when she saw everyone gathered together in their groups, doing last-minute prep work before the bell. She saw Mr. Swanson and looked away quickly, pretending not to have caught his eye. Varen wasn’t there. His chair was empty.

She took her seat, setting the boom box on her desk. Where could he be? Would he seriously leave her on her own? Only now did she allow herself to become fully aware of her jangling nerves. They seemed to splinter all the more now, with her plan unraveling. She remembered Mr. Swanson’s warning. Both partners had to be present.

And then he appeared in the doorway. Isobel shot up from her chair, almost knocking over the boom box. He looked a little bedraggled, wearing yesterday’s black jeans and, she thought, yesterday’s T-shirt turned inside out, his eyes hidden once more beneath dark sunglasses. His hair was more ragged than usual too, giving him a wilder look. The sight of him stirred up something powerful and scary deep within her, the sensation intensifying when she thought about what she’d resolved to tell him that day. Would he listen?

The noise of the room grew louder. She might have thirty seconds left before the bell, thirty seconds left to let him in on the plan. She waited for him, but for some reason, he turned away, moving not toward her, but straight for Mr. Swanson’s desk.

Wait. What was he doing?

Isobel tore down the aisle to the front of the room.

“Oh yeah,” she said, inserting herself between Varen and Mr. Swanson. “I forgot. We wanted to ask if it was okay if we used a boom box.” She flashed Mr. Swanson her most convincing custom-made cheer-ready grin.

Mr. Swanson glanced between them, wearing an expression close to alarm. Maybe it was her cheer uniform next to Varen’s undertaker look. Isobel could sense all eyes fixed on them from behind, and she had the childish urge to turn around and stick her tongue out at everyone.

Mr. Swanson shrugged. “Why wouldn’t it be?” he said, his expression morphing into bemusement.

“See?” Isobel said, turning to Varen. “I told you.” His shielded gaze met hers. She stared at him pointedly, her tight smile reflected back at her through the sunglasses. The sound of the bell filled the room, followed by the scraping of chairs. Time was up.

She leaned in, whispering quickly under the noise cover, “I know you don’t want to do any talking, but you have to do the death part, because we didn’t get that far. I’ll start. Jump in if you can and follow my lead.” She slipped away from him, taking her seat on the opposite end of the room.

“Shades please, Mr. Nethers.”

Isobel watched as Varen made his way to his own chair. He moved slower than usual and this time didn’t bother lifting away the sunglasses at Mr. Swanson’s behest. Maybe, she thought, he hadn’t heard him ask? That seemed unlikely, though, since lately it had become a sort of start-of-class ritual between them, a show of their mutual respect. Isobel watched him sink into his desk, almost as though this action took more effort than normal. A quick glance out of the corner of her eye told her that Mr. Swanson was watching too. And so, it seemed, was everybody else.

Varen settled into his seat. A moment passed by in which Mr. Swanson seemed to deliberate on whether or not to repeat his request. To Isobel’s relief, he did not. Maybe it was Varen’s uncharacteristically disheveled appearance. Or maybe Mr. Swanson knew something, or suspected something. Whatever it was, he didn’t ask again.

He called the first group. Todd and Romelle popped in a DVD, which turned out to be a music video about Mark Twain’s life. It was a good idea, so good that Isobel wished she’d thought of it. It wouldn’t have taken that long, and they could have used a song from Varen’s collection.

Soon it was the next group’s turn with Walt Whitman. Next, Richard Wright, then Washington Irving. Between each presentation, Isobel kept trying to catch Varen’s eye. Why wouldn’t he look at her? She thought about passing a note but then decided it was too risky.

“Isobel and Varen?”

Isobel stood, her heart speeding up. She glanced toward Varen, but he didn’t need the cue. He’d stood mechanically, and now they both made their way to the front of the classroom.

Isobel handed him the stereo and cord. When he took them from her, the little red light next to the control buttons on the boom box lit up. White noise fuzzed, then spiked, and Isobel stopped, confused, because she knew she’d taken the batteries out that morning to make the player lighter to carry.

She stared at Varen as he moved to the front of the classroom, the radio jumping through stations. He set the boom box on Mr. Swanson’s desk, and in the moment before he took his hands away, a woman’s soft voice broke through. Far-off and fuzzy, it sounded as though it was coming from an old, scratched-up record. “—centrate,” it said. “Treat it all like an empty page.”

With a stab of unease, Isobel realized that she’d heard this voice before—coming from the attic of Nobit’s Nook. It was that day she and Varen had worked together, when she’d gone back to get the Poe book and found the upstairs room empty. Right before she’d gone into the park.

Unsettled, Isobel swallowed. While Varen plugged in the stereo, she brought two chairs to one side of Mr. Swanson’s desk, taking extra time to straighten the one closest to where their teacher usually sat. She was glad Varen took the hint. He went to that chair and sat. Trying to forget the moment with the radio, Isobel rounded the desk and lowered herself into Mr.

Swanson’s swivel seat. Swanson, who had taken an empty seat out in the room, said nothing.

Isobel gathered up her stack of index cards, taking a moment to breathe. This was it.

She smiled at the classroom, reached out, and pressed the play button. Music blared—a catchy, almost game-showish synthesizer tune from a bonus round on one of Danny’s video games. Everyone stared, faces blank, Varen’s included. The music died down, and Isobel pressed the pause button.

“Welcome to another episode of Dead Poet Discussions,” she said. “I’m your host, Isobel Lanley, and for this exclusive All Hallows’ Eve edition, I have a few special guests in store for you. One of them is with us now. Please welcome Professor Varen Nethers, famous depressed dead poets historian and author of the bestselling books Unlocking your Poe-tential: A Writer’s Guide, and Mo Poe Fo Yo: When You Just Can’t Get Enough. Welcome, Professor Nethers.”

Isobel hit the next track button, unleashing the sound of applause. Varen’s shielded gaze fixed on hers in what she thought might be a pained expression. She gritted through a smile, begging him with her eyes to just play along.

The sound of applause died down. “But that’s not all,” Isobel plowed on, trying to keep her tone encouraging, the mood upbeat.

“We have yet another very special guest with us this evening,” she went on, “all the way from Westminster Cemetery in lovely Baltimore, Maryland.” Isobel paused, keeping her smile.

She held her arm out toward the door in a presentational gesture, like they did on all late-night talk shows.

“Please welcome to the show Mr. Edgar Allan Poe!”