Nevermore

7 Maelstrom

It was weird.

After not talking to Brad for the rest of that night, Isobel returned to school the next morning to find him waiting at her locker, and with help from a bag of Hershey’s Kisses, they made up. Again.

After that, as long as no one brought up the “dentist” incident (or the V word), things appeared to go back to normal. The rest of that week seemed to slip past without any more nuclear meltdowns, and everyone ate lunch together again, complaining about terror tacos and boil burgers. Nikki had even warmed back up to Isobel, calling her on Thursday night to ask about borrowing her gold nail polish, then launching into a tirade about whether or not to ditch Mark and make her move on the cute chemistry guy.

She and Brad were better too. It seemed that all he’d really needed was a chance to cool down about the whole Varen thing. Of course, she hadn’t yet figured out what to do for a grade in Swanson’s class, but maybe if she talked to him on Monday, told him that her schedule conflicted too much with Varen’s, then he’d give her a separate project or let her join one of the other groups. If she told him they’d tried to meet but that it didn’t look like it was going to work out, well, that was mostly the truth. And that way, neither of them would take any blame.

It was better this way, she told herself. It was better for both of them if they just stayed away from each other. And whenever she caught herself thinking about him, about how he’d tried to warn her by slipping her that note, about how his voice sounded on the phone or about how concentrated he looked that day when he wrote on her hand, she pushed the thoughts away and tried to think of something else—anything else. It was her curiosity he’d piqued. That’s all. Only that and nothing more.

She had to admit, though, she was a little baffled concerning the crew. She wasn’t complaining, but at the same time, it was strange that everything could apparently be forgiven as long as it was never brought up again. She’d come to expect that sort of thing from Nikki, but even Alyssa was being super nice these days. In the end, Isobel chalked it up to everyone being psyched about the game—which, of course, Trenton won. Brad even made a touchdown in the second quarter.

Their squad’s routine at halftime had gone off without a hitch too. Isobel had gotten her twist perfect with the glory of the stars spinning in the clear autumn sky, the blaring stadium lights and the filled stands all whirring into her kaleidoscopic swirl.

This was what high school was supposed to be like.

After the game, Brad suggested a round of victory ice cream, and they all piled into his Mustang, its windows decorated with soap words reading GO HAWKS and DIE BEARS DIE. Isobel took shotgun next to Brad, while Alyssa, Nikki, and Mark crammed into the back. Stevie, complaining about his ankle, stayed behind to brace it, saying he might meet up with them later.

“Hey, Nikki,” Brad said, reaching an arm into the backseat. “Hand me that, would you?”

“I got it,” said Alyssa, passing up a familiar blue sweater.

“Here.” Brad glanced at Isobel pointedly, sweater in hand. “You left this in the backseat Monday.”

“Oh,” she said, blushing at the memory of how it had gotten there in the first place. She folded the sweater over her lap. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Isobel sent him a curious sidelong glance.

He watched her for another moment, winked at her without smiling, then turned the ignition. The engine roared. “All right, people,” he said over the rumble. “Let’s go get some ice cream.” He shifted the car into gear. “I know just the place.”

They wound up at a little shop called Dessert Island. The sign outside depicted a pile of ice cream that looked like a tiny island sitting in a sea of chocolate sauce, a palm tree sticking out of the middle. Isobel wondered why they’d come here instead of going to Graeter’s, which was the closest place to school, but shrugged it off as they strolled up to the storefront.

Tingling chimes announced them as they meandered through the door.

Inside, the shop was small with sparse seating. This, along with the do-it-yourself decorations and chalkboard menu, gave the place a very kitschy, family-owned feel.

Overhead, cheesy steel drum music warbled softly over the speaker system. All of the decor followed a tropical theme: quaint chairs with bamboo legs encircled wicker tables, a conch shell laid out on the center of each. Along the walls, a sprawling hand-painted mural depicted an ocean-side scene, complete with sandy beach, palm trees, and tropical birds, both perched and suspended in flight, plumage displayed.

There was no one behind the counter, but the neon OPEN sign in the front window blared electric pink, and the staff door leading to the back stood ajar, as though someone had propped it open.

It looked as though the five of them were the only customers.

“Heyo,” Brad called across the counter. He tapped the service bell, and its ting rose shrill over the island music. “Anybody here?”

Isobel stepped up to the display glass, peering in to find all the usual favorites sharing quarters with more daring combinations like Macadamia Mocha Madness, Pineapple Bliss, and Go-Go Guava. For a moment she thought about taking a chance with the shocking pink Rum While You Can but in the end decided to default to her all-time favorite—Banana Fudge Swirl.

“Yeah, can I have a scoop of the Raspberry White Chocolate, in a cup?” Nikki asked sweetly.

“Chocolate malt,” Brad added.

“Yeah, same here,” Mark said. “Alyssa, what do you want?”

“Don’t know yet, give me a second. It’s got to be good.”

“You know what you want yet, Izo?” she heard Brad ask. “Your usual?”

Isobel wandered down the long line of contenders to where her friends stood waiting, trailing a finger beneath the little rectangular plaques that listed a description of each ice cream.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“And a scoop of Banana Fudge in a cup.”

Isobel leaned her hip against the softly humming ice cream case. She stared through the glass, thinking about the game and about how well the routine had gone. In fact, all they really needed to do before Nationals was tighten the middle section, perfect the tumbling segment, and make a few adjustments on the ending pyramid. Of course, she could always sharpen her twists, and if she could work on landing her layout a fraction of a second sooner, she’d be in perfect sync.

Isobel heard the click of register keys, and her gaze drifted to stare unfocused at the store clerk’s name tag.

VAREN, it read, in bulky Gothic lettering.

Isobel froze, her eyes locked on that name tag. Her smile fell away. Her mouth went instantly dry. A tingling sensation in her legs and arms snuffed the night’s happiness, spreading its way into her lower stomach, where it congealed into a puddle of unease.

Reluctantly, she lifted her gaze.

Even though she’d read the name on the tag, it was still a shock to look up and see him staring back. For the first time, because of the green visor that he wore, she could see his face—his eyes—clearly. They remained fixed on her, holding an unreadable expression.

It would have been better, she thought, if he’d glared at her with hatred.

“Today?” Brad said, and tapped the counter between them, starting Isobel out of her shock.

Behind her, she heard Mark and Alyssa snicker.

Everything was playing out in slow motion again. Varen’s gaze lingered on hers even as he turned away. She watched him as one elegant hand reached deftly into a bin behind the counter and pulled from a trough of water a single silver ice cream scoop.

Despite its thundering, she felt her heart plummet as she realized what was going on, what her friends were going to do—what they were doing.

“Brad,” she said, and pivoted toward him just in time to see him flick over a soda-shop-style straw canister. The multi-colored tubes went spilling across the counter and behind it, some of them landing in the open ice cream bins, the rest hitting the floor, making hollow little pop sounds as they bounced on the linoleum.

“Oops.”

“Brad, you klutz,” Alyssa cooed.

“What can I say?” Brad shrugged. “I’m a hurricane.”

Isobel glanced mutely up from the spilled straws to where Varen now stood, leaning over to scrape the very bottom of one of the ice cream canisters under the close scrutiny of Nikki, who stood on her toes to watch.

“Make sure you don’t touch any of it,” she said, her hands pressed flat against the glass, leaving huge hand-lotion smudge prints. He straightened, carefully packing the ice cream into a small paper cup adorned with palm trees. Just before he finished, Nikki tapped the glass like she would a fish tank.

“Hey. ’Scuse me,” she said. “I changed my mind.”

He raised his eyes.

“I want Cinnamon instead.”

“We don’t have—”

“Then I don’t want anything.” She shrugged and waved away what he’d already prepared.

Isobel could die. She could just die. But if she said something, if she tried to stop them, she knew everyone would just go back to hating her. Would Brad break up with her? At the very least, she’d have to quit the squad for sure.

The whir of the blender cut through the silence.

“Brad.” She whirled and started for the door. “I want to go home.”

“Sure thing, Izo,” he called, “just let me get my malt.” He knocked on the counter. “Can we step on that malt back there?”

Isobel turned her eyes to Nikki, only to see a smug Cheshire smile pasted across her face, arms folded, her gaze cast to the palm-leaf ceiling fans. The realization hit her then. They’d all been in on this together. The betrayal of it burned, and Isobel’s fingers itched to form into fists.

Varen set the first malt on the counter next to the register. Brad snatched it up.

She watched in silent dread as Brad handed off the shake to Mark, who took it and tossed it on the floor. The plastic top popped off at impact, the brown ice cream mixture flying out to spatter across the floor and the nearby tables and chairs.

“Hey!” Isobel shouted, marching right up to shove Mark in the shoulder.

“Hey yourself, Iz! Relax. It was just an accident. Besides, Count Fagula’s got a mop back there somewhere, I’m sure.”

“Keeps it in his little green apron,” Brad chimed in, causing both of them to explode into howls of laughter.

“Get out,” Isobel growled, pointing them to the door.

“Can’t.” Brad sighed. As he spoke, he wandered to the store freezer, where he pulled open the door and tugged out a pint of ice cream. “We’re still short some Banana Fudge and a couple of malts.”

“Hey, Brad, over here!” shouted Mark, clapping his hands, raising them like he would for a pass.

A wild look came over Brad. “Go long!” he called. Gripping the pint like a football, he leaned back, preparing for the toss. Mark laughed and retreated as far as the front door, his eye on the pint.

“No! Don’t!” Isobel screamed.

Brad threw the pint. Alyssa squealed and ducked. Nikki flattened herself against the display glass. The carton hurtled through the air toward Mark, who dropped down at the last second, causing the pint to smash against the mural-painted wall behind him. The crushed carton slid down, then hit the floor, leaving a brown splat of Rocky Road right in the middle of a cockatoo.

Isobel spun in search of Varen, only to see Brad lift the hinged divider and invite himself behind the counter. He slid up to the register and, with practiced fingers, tapped a series of buttons that sent the cash drawer shooting out. He dipped a large hand in, and Isobel gaped as he claimed a wad of twenties.

That’s when Varen moved.

He got close enough to reach for the money—close enough to almost snatch it back. As the scene played out, a sick terror seized Isobel’s heart, tightening it in a fierce grip. She felt her entire form flinch as Brad shoved him. Varen stumbled backward, hands raised in an open-palm gesture of forfeit.

It wasn’t what Brad wanted.

His face contorted and his fist balled. He reared back, his arm a python prepared to strike.

Without thinking, without knowing what she was doing, Isobel rushed him. She crashed hard against Brad, grappling for his arm. Knocked off balance, Brad dropped the money. Before he could steady himself, her hand struck. She slapped him, and the crack of her palm against his jaw split the room.

Everything went silent except for the quiet playing of the steel drum music, and the soft hum of the store freezer. Brad stared down at her, anger fixed in his eyes, causing them to burn unnaturally bright, like two supernovas ready to explode.

“Get out,” she said, hissing the words between her teeth. She couldn’t remember being this angry at anything or at anyone ever before in her life. She could feel herself trembling all over, like a time bomb. She swallowed, strangling the impulse to strike him again. “I said get out!”

Nikki was the first to scuttle out the door. Isobel knew this because she could hear that tch sound followed by the jingle of the door chimes. Someone else followed, but Isobel couldn’t see whether it was Mark or Alyssa, because she was too busy staring holes into her ex- boyfriend. When she finally heard a third jingle of chimes, she steadied her voice and spoke quiet and slow.

“Don’t ever talk to me again.”

Brad stared at her long and hard, as though waiting for her to retract her words. She didn’t, and finally he took the cue and broke away, brushing past her. He smoothed a hand through his hair as he made his way to the door, pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his back jeans pocket, like there was nothing the matter, like he didn’t care one way or the other.

He paused before he reached the door, long enough to toss a folded piece of paper he’d dug out of his jacket pocket onto one of the little brown wicker tables.

The door chimes rang a fourth time.

Only when Brad was out of the shop did Isobel feel the shakes begin to subside.

She looked around, but Varen had vanished.

She bent to retrieve the money, stuffing it with trembling fingers haphazardly into the cash drawer and shoving it closed again, as though it could contain what had already gone awry.

She gripped the sides of the register and stared at the numbered keys, trying to anchor herself, trying to decide if the here and now was too impossible to be real.

She flinched when Brad’s headlights sliced through the front windows, as bright as search beams. They swiveled violently away, tires screeching. Isobel shut her eyes. She listened as he peeled out of the parking lot, the blast from his modified muffler sounding a roar before fading into the night.

Numb, she turned in a slow circle, opening her eyes again to pan the destruction around her. Chairs overturned, ice cream melting on the floor, and still no sign of Varen.

She shuddered, overcome with something akin to relief. She couldn’t have faced him in that moment. She couldn’t face him ever again. Not after this.

Moving on impulse, Isobel hurried to the door.

Her hands on the push bar, she stopped, her gaze catching on the table, on the folded slip of paper Brad had dropped there. Suddenly she realized what it was. It was the note from Varen, the note he’d written to warn her, the one that she’d tucked into the pocket of her sweater.

The sweater she’d left in Brad’s car.