Nevermore

35 Tell-Tale Heart

The stadium lights glared camera-flash bright suspended above the sea of gathered faces. Isobel sat on a bench on the sidelines, her back facing the crowd. Somewhere behind her, her father sat in the stands, watching the game.

To her relief, her dad hadn’t said much of anything after reading the note from Coach about her little trip to the floor. He’d only picked up drive-through fried chicken (which Isobel had devoured in the car, starved from skipping lunch) and asked her if she was sure she wanted to go to the game. When she’d said yes without hesitation, he’d seemed satisfied, and for once he’d said no more. He didn’t even mention her supposed “accident” to her mom once they got home. Instead he kept the spotlight of their dinner conversation on the success of the project. Then talk switched easily to the scary movie party Danny was going to with his Boy Scout troop later that night, after trick-or-treating. It seemed that Mom would be going too, since they’d come up short on chaperones at the last minute. Consequently, Varen’s name never came up, and it was this one omission that Isobel felt most grateful for.

Even now, though, sitting on the cold bench, watching grass grow as the game played, she couldn’t keep him from her thoughts. For the first time in her cheer life, Isobel found that she couldn’t care less who they were playing, let alone what the scoreboards showed. Only she knew that she hadn’t insisted on attending the game out of some sense of duty or school pride that might have motivated her before, but because this had been the predetermined point of rendezvous with Gwen. She hadn’t seen any sign of her yet, though, and the closer it got to halftime, the more Isobel began to fidget.

Every few minutes she scanned the stands behind her, keeping a watchful eye out for more of those creatures—what had Reynolds called them? Nocs? How many of those things were there, anyway? Distractedly, she wondered why she hadn’t seen any of them since she’d left school. She wanted to think that it was a good sign, but that felt like a false hope.

On the field, the squad disbanded and let the marching band take over. Isobel turned to look toward the stands again, this time hoping to find some evidence of Reynolds’s presence. He said he’d be near, but where? Why did he always have to be so cryptic?

“Iz?” She felt the sensation of someone taking the seat next to her. She turned.

Nikki gazed at her, her dark blue eyes wide, her eyebrows knitted together. She cradled her wrist, which had been wrapped tightly in beige gauze.

“Hey, Nikki,” Isobel offered. “Let me guess. Coach benched you, too?”

“Yeah,” she said, holding up her bandaged wrist. “Sprained. Not too bad, though. Do—do you care if I sit here?”

Isobel shook her head, and they sat for a moment in uncomfortable silence.

“Isobel,” Nikki started, “I didn’t think I was going to come tonight. But I decided to at the last second because I knew you’d be here. And I have to tell you this. I—I know you won’t believe me, but I still have to say it. No matter what you think, I—I didn’t drop you today. At least not on purpose.”

“I know,” said Isobel simply. She turned again to look over her shoulder. She wished the game was over. She wished she could fast-forward through time so that she and Gwen could be on their way to wherever the Grim Facade was surely starting. She wanted to find Varen, to see his face, to know that he was all right. She wanted to know the truth about what was happening. She wanted to know how to make it stop. How to just be normal again.

“No. I mean, I didn’t. I swear. I’ll swear on anything. It was like . . . It was like something had hold of me.” She grabbed her bound wrist for emphasis. “I know it sounds crazy, but—”

“Nikki.” Isobel turned to meet her gaze straight on. “I believe you.”

Nikki’s tortured expression melted into worried confusion, as though she half expected Isobel to take her statement back. This reaction made Isobel realize that Nikki had been spending far too much time hanging around Alyssa.

“Does . . . does that mean you’re—that you’re not mad at me anymore?”

Wouldn’t go as far as to say that, Isobel thought. Wasn’t stabbing you in the back and running off with your ex the first two no-nos listed on the first page of the best friend bible? Then again, Isobel wondered—why not? What did any of it matter now if Nikki wanted to make up? She and Brad were over, the crew was over. These days it was starting to seem as though reality itself was over. If the sky was falling, wasn’t it better if Ducky Lucky and Loosey Goosey hugged and made up beforehand? Isobel opted for a noncommittal shrug but then, embarrassed by the stinginess of her gesture, added, “No. Not really.”

“I miss you,” Nikki said. “I miss us.”

Looking down between her shoes, Isobel nodded, not certain if she could say the same. She had too much else swirling around in her head. Too much had happened since they fought.

Too much that she could never tell Nikki. Nikki and her, well, that all seemed like a lifetime ago. How could she explain to her that she was different? Changed. And that right now she could think of only one person she could truly say she missed.

“I’m jealous, you know.”

Isobel’s head popped up, eyes angled toward Nikki, who smiled at her. A sweet and sad sort of smile. Isobel was guarded. “What do you mean?”

Nikki shook her head, her eyes glistening. She swept a manicured thumb at each, then laughed instead. “Everyone’s jealous of you, Isobel.”

Isobel blinked several times, uncertain how to react.

“But I’m jealous because . . . well, because I’ve never known what it feels like to be in love.”

Isobel stiffened. All at once, she ceased to breathe.

“Oh,” said Nikki, laughing. She swept at her eyes again, this time with the knuckle of her first finger, trying to save her mascara. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re not that clueless.”

She laughed harder then, though, Isobel thought, more in an effort to keep from crying.

“I guess maybe you are,” Nikki amended, taking in the stricken look on Isobel’s face. “At least for once I’m not the last one to know something.” She laughed genuinely now, and her mirth was so contagious, the weight of her words so startlingly plain, that in spite of everything, Isobel found that she had to laugh too.

In love. In love with the stoic, the sullen, the eternally morose Varen Nethers?

He would never allow it.

Isobel sobered quickly. Suddenly the prospect of seeing him became terrifying, because she knew it was true and that the only way she’d hidden it from him before was because she had never allowed herself to put her feelings into words. And Nikki, the least perceptive being on this planet, had seen through it all.

“Hey, Izzy!”

Isobel jumped, nearly bouncing off the bench. She and Nikki both swung around.

Isobel’s dad was there, leaning against the fence. He waved her over.

Isobel stood, murmuring, “Be right back,” to Nikki, who remained where she was while Isobel jogged to meet her father. She was glad for an excuse to leave the bench, glad for a moment to recover.

“What’s going on with you guys tonight? You’re choking out there. Major.”

“What?” Was he talking about the squad? She hadn’t been paying attention.

“You guys are losing. Big-time. Haven’t you been watching the score?” He pointed.

Were they really losing? Isobel scanned the scoreboard. Wow. Thirty-one to zero. They were losing.

“Hey, what’s the deal with Brad out there?”

“Brad?”

“Yeah.” He folded his arms over the top of the fence, trying to act nonchalant now that he’d brought up the B word. “Didn’t you see him drop the ball? Have you been sleeping out there on that bench or what? This is the worst I think I’ve ever seen him play.”

Isobel looked around for Brad now. She saw him standing with the team on the sidelines, filling up a cup of water and pouring it down his shirt, despite the chill of the fifty-degree night.

While the rest of the team headed for the locker rooms, Coach Logan, his face purple, stood two heads below Brad, berating him the way a yappy dog might bark at a squirrel up a tree.

“Sheesh. Looks like Coach is really laying it on thick,” Isobel’s dad said. “Hey, Iz, I’m not trying to get in the middle of things here, but maybe you should go talk to him. See what’s going on?”

“Isobel! There you are!”

Isobel turned her head, her eyes narrowing on the blue-and-gold-decked, pom-pom-pigtailed stranger who now bounced toward her along the other side of the fence. Holy cheer catastrophes—it was Gwen.

“Isobel!” she shrieked again, and bounded to a stop beside her dad. She threw her arms over her head, the sleeves of her impossibly huge sweatshirt waggling—no, Isobel corrected as she took note of the yellow T—the sleeves of Stevie’s impossibly huge sweatshirt. Isobel stepped back from the fence to give Gwen an astonished once-over. She’d never once seen her friend in a pair of pants, let alone anything resembling school colors (did Gwen even own a pair of pants?). After closer scrutiny, Isobel couldn’t help but notice a certain familiarity about the Trenton sweats she wore. They looked a lot like the ones she herself had shed earlier in the locker room. And then there were the long pigtails, held up by a set of equally familiar blue and gold pom-pom hair-ties. Suddenly it was easy to figure out where Gwen had been all this time.

“Omigosh, is this your dad? Hey, Mr. Lanley!” Gwen slung one wiry arm around his shoulders.

“Um, yeah,” Isobel began, not sure where Gwen was going with this, “Dad, this is Gwen. She’s, uh . . . she’s . . .” Mentally whacked, Isobel wanted to say.

“I’m the mascot escort,” said Gwen. She flashed her perfectly straight white teeth in a wide grin. “I babysit the mascot,” she added.

“Ah,” Dad began. He twisted to look around as much as Gwen’s friendly grip on his shoulders would allow. “Where is the mascot, then?”

“Oh, he’s around here somewhere . . . molting or something, I dunno. So, Iz, are you coming to my victory party or what? You never answered my Facebook invite.”

“Victory party?” her dad echoed.

All at once, Gwen’s genius dawned on her.

“Ohh,” Isobel chimed in, sounding appropriately glum. “I forgot to respond. I haven’t been online much because I’ve been really busy trying to finish that English project, y’know?

Anyway, Gwen, I don’t think I can go.”

“What?” Gwen deflated, her face crumbling in an instant. For added emphasis, she let her arm slip from Dad’s shoulders, where it flopped against her side. “Why not? Didn’t you get the project done?”

Isobel shrugged. “I got it done. I mean, thanks to Dad. I just . . .” She sent a pitiful glance to her father. Yes, she thought, catching a glimmer of indecision in his eyes. They just had to play it up a little more. “I just don’t know if I can.”

“Oohhhh,” Gwen said, looking between Isobel and her dad, feigning sudden understanding.

“How can you have a victory party if your team’s losing?” her dad asked.

“Wait, we’re losing?” Gwen craned her neck in search of the scoreboard.

“Where’s this party going to be?”

Isobel sprang on her chance. “Omigosh, Dad, for real, can I go?”

“Yeah, Dad, for real, can she go?”

“I just asked where it was going to be—”

“My house,” Gwen said, “all-girls’ sleepover, no guys allowed.”

“Are your parents going to be there?”

“Oh, they’re there right now, setting up the karaoke machine.” Gwen mimed holding a microphone and swayed against Isobel’s father. “Fame! I’m gonna live forever—take it away, Mr. Lanley.”

Isobel’s dad set a hand on Gwen’s offered fist, gently pushing it down from his face. “Who else is going?”

Gwen pointed at the figure waiting on the bench. “She is.”

“Nikki is going?” he asked, looking at Isobel, surprised. “I thought you two were on the fritz.”

“Oh,” Isobel said. She saw Nikki rise from the bench and start over toward them, probably at hearing her name. Thinking fast, Isobel blurted, “We made up.”

“Nikki!” shouted Gwen. “You’re coming, right?”

“What?” she called back, eyeing Gwen’s getup.

“To the party,” Isobel said, nodding, trying to communicate meaning through her eyes. Despite her recent show of perceptiveness, Isobel couldn’t see Nikki picking up the clue phone to get the message. “You know,” Isobel went on, “the party Gwen’s having tonight.”

“You’re having a party?” Nikki asked, studying Gwen. “Hey, isn’t that Stevie’s sweatshirt?”

Uh-oh.

“Dad might let me go now,” said Isobel, nodding again. Lots of nodding.

Nikki’s eyes remained on Isobel’s, searching, things still not fully clicking. “Well . . . okay,” she said finally.

“Someone taking you there tonight?” he asked, checking the time on his cell phone.

Isobel felt a leap of joy in her chest. He was going to let her go.

“She can ride with me,” said Gwen. Good old Gwen. Good old brilliant, inventive, industrious Gwen.

“And Nikki can bring me home in the morning,” Isobel added.

He sighed, and she knew that his resolve had already crumbled. She launched up into a fit of jumping and squealing, forgetting for half a second that she wasn’t really going to a girls’

sleepover, that right now she was tricking him, lying to her dad after everything. Again. A stab of guilt grounded her.

“In that case,” he said, “I’m going to go ahead and get out of here. It doesn’t look like the score is going to change any time soon. Maybe I can catch the end of the U of K game on TV.

Think there’ll be any candy left on the porch?”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Isobel said, trying to resurrect her smile. He held his arms open for a hug, and Isobel reached over the top of the gate and stood on her toes to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “Thanks, Daddy,” she said, pulling him tight and kissing his cheek.

“Be good and keep your phone on,” he said, shoving his own phone back into his pocket. “And don’t forget to check on Brad.”

“I won’t,” she promised.

He turned away and Isobel watched him as he went, blending into the crowd.

She felt her heart sink as she lowered her heels to the ground. She wished she could call him back, that she could tell him the truth. That he would believe her.

“Okay, for real,” Nikki said as soon as he was out of earshot. “What was that all about?”

After Isobel’s dad left, Gwen went off to change and meet up with Mikey in the parking lot. In the meantime, the squad took their position on the field, ready to once again perform the Nationals routine. Isobel, on the sidelines, waited for the music to start before telling Nikki she would be right back and sliding from the bench. She heard the familiar beats blast through the stadium speakers, and she couldn’t help mentally tracing through her moves.

She could hear the crowd’s cheering escalate (probably for the back tuck the squad did in a fanning wave), and slipped behind the brick siding of the home-side stands. She trailed her hand along the Hawk emblem painted over brick, moving more quickly now that she was out of direct sight, and hurried toward the entrance to the football locker room.

Coach Logan’s voice grated loudly from within. Could he still be yelling at the team?

Isobel drew up to the entrance and placed one hand on the archway, huddling up close to listen. She certainly didn’t have to strain to hear.

“Now I don’t know what you ballerinas are doing out there, but that scoreboard better change in this next quarter, or so help me, I’ll scout JV for replacements! And Borgon, I hope I don’t need to tell you again that when you catch the damn ball, you’re supposed to hold on to it! You got that? Is that clear? Now all of you, get your butts out there and turn this thing around!”

A unanimous scuffling noise came from within, players rushing off their benches. Isobel had to step back as a burst of team members emerged, escaping through the archway like steam from a pressure cooker. They shouldered and bumped their way through the door and past one another. Silent and moody, not a one of them seemed to notice her. She stood to one side, her back against the cold concrete wall. She hoped to remain invisible as she searched each back for the number twenty-one.

Brad’s number was not among them, though. He must still be inside the locker room. Isobel waited, and after a moment, Coach Logan came out. He turned and looked right at her, his ruddy face contorting into what she took as a dirty look. Isobel, resisting the urge to glower back, concentrated instead on the space between her sneakers while he stormed off toward the field.

Isobel left the wall. She slipped quietly into the narrow doorway and down the three steps that led into the locker room. The air here turned humid, saturated with the smell of sweat, grass, and dirt. When she took in a breath, the air felt thick in her lungs, as though it held no oxygen. It was like entering a sauna.

Brad sat alone on a bench in the middle, his helmet in his hands, head hung, his hair plastered with sweat to his forehead. Wet, his hair was the color of old pennies.

Isobel stepped toward him, surprised when he didn’t look up.

“Brad,” she said, announcing herself, her voice even.

His stare remained fixed on his helmet. He turned it slowly in his hands until he was looking into the inside.

“Brad,” she repeated, and moved in farther, something about the cooling sheen of sweat over his skin making the blister on his upper lip redden. Or was it that he seemed suddenly so pale?

She stopped to stand in front of him, her eyes falling to peer into his helmet, at the black foam padding lining the inside. She lowered herself to crouch in front of him and placed her hands on his wrists. She looked up, into his face. “Brad, are you okay?”

His eyes lifted to hers, and Isobel felt a surge of terror. Dilated pupils, wide and black, eclipsed almost entirely the bright blue of his irises, so they appeared as no more than thin halos, slim rings of color around two holes of unreflective blackness.

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, and shook away from her as he stood. Knocked off balance, Isobel stumbled to her feet. He spun from her, moving for the door.

“Brad, wait!”

“Tell them to leave me alone!” he shouted, and ran up the stairs.

Shocked, Isobel watched him retreat through the archway. She ran to catch up, climbing the three steps, only to find her path blocked. Mark. He glared at her, helmet in hand, his face stern and set, a smear of black paint streaked beneath each eye.

Isobel bounced on her toes and strained to see over the padded shelf of his shoulder. She saw Brad nearing the field, watched him brace one hand to his forehead. The air around him seemed to shift and shimmer. Isobel blinked to clear her vision, but that only served to sharpen the dark, snakelike tendrils of oily smoke that now emerged from nothing. Like clouds of violet ink in water, dark figures took form, pouring into shape through the air around him. All at once, several sets of black boots strode forth. Four white-faced figures fell into stride behind him, two on either side, their sharp red smiles gleaming.

“Omigod, Brad!”

Isobel burst forward, but Mark barred her with a thick arm. She struggled against him. He held her, gathering her momentum, then using it to sling her back. Isobel half tripped, half staggered down the stairs again, catching herself against one wall.

“I don’t know what you did,” he said, “but just stay away from him.”

Isobel stared at him in stunned silence, long enough to watch him turn his back. She waited only one moment more, then rushed forward, up the stairs and out, determined to bolt past him. He must have heard the beat of her sneakers, though, or maybe he’d expected her to try something, because he swung around. Dropping his helmet, he caught her, flinging her back with the full force of both arms. Isobel hurtled backward, her arms freewheeling. She hit the concrete, landing on her rear with a decided thud. Grit bit into the palms of her hands.

She cringed and drew a sharp breath through clenched teeth as the burn set in on her skinned palms. Mark glowered down at her, his expression void of either regret or concern. He bent to retrieve his helmet and then, for the third time, he started for the field.

“Mark, wait!” she called, trying to keep the hurt from seeping into her voice. Even if they weren’t friends now, they had been once—at least to some degree.

Isobel struggled to her feet. She caught up to him, hovering a safe distance behind until they were in view of the stands, knowing her chances of getting slugged would be less within the direct sight of parents and coaches. “Listen to me. You don’t understand!”

Her eyes darted between his back and the players collecting on the field. The announcer’s voice echoed over the sound system, reviewing the score. She saw Brad make his way with the other players toward center field. Securing his helmet in place, he clutched it to his head, gripping either side as though he hoped to block out the world. He didn’t look back, and Isobel realized that he could not see the dark forms that trailed him.

“Mark,” she said, catching hold of his arm.

“Get off me!” he shouted, jerking away.

“You have to tell Coach Logan to pull Brad!” she insisted. She caught hold of him again. “You have to!”

“I said, don’t touch me!” he growled.

“Denson!”

They both looked up. Coach Logan marched toward them, a cold wind whipping his fine white hair, reddening the hard set of his already chapped face. “What’s this?” he demanded, gesturing at Isobel as though she were a pet Mark had allowed to follow him.

“Brad told her to leave him alone, but she keeps bugging him anyway,” he said.

“Where’s your coach? Why are you harassing my players?” Coach Logan growled, the hot-iron color in his face getting deeper by the second. “Aren’t you supposed to be over there somewhere?” he asked, gesturing toward where the squad stood regrouping on the sidelines.

Fine, Isobel thought. She’d bypass Mark altogether—go straight to the source.

“You have to pull Brad out of the game!” The words rushed out of her all at once, tumbling one over the other. “Something’s not right. You have to pull him,” she repeated, pointing toward the field.

Now his face turned purple. His jowls started to quiver, and just when Isobel began to wonder whether he might be having a heart attack, he screamed at her, his voice rough and raw from the back of his throat, like a saw blade through steel. “Do I tell you how to cheer!?”

Isobel had to hunker into herself to avoid the flying spit.

“Denson!” he shouted before spinning away to thunder back toward the sidelines, his entire form vibrating with rage. Without another glance, Mark followed, securing his own helmet.

Isobel watched their retreating backs. Helpless, she looked searchingly to the field, another cold wind causing her to shiver.

“Well,” a quiet voice said. It had come from behind her, soft yet scratchy, with that strange static essence. “That went well.”

Isobel turned to see him leaning against the brick side of the stands. His wraith-thin frame partially obscured the painted emblem of the hawk’s head. With his arms folded and his hands tucked beneath his elbows, his red claws stretched out on either side like lethal fans. He leveled his black stare on her from beneath the ridge of his brow. A few spikes of coarse, featherlike hair escaped to hang loose over the jagged hole in his white face.

He smiled crimson. “Hello again . . . cheerleader.”