Nevermore

2 Marked

“So are you going to tell Brad?” Nikki asked, an all-too-eager gleam in her pretty sapphire eyes.

Isobel dialed her combination, then kicked the dented bottom corner of her locker. The door popped open, sending her makeup bag toppling out to hit the floor with a muffled crack, contents spilling.

“No,” she muttered, and squatted to recover her eye shadow, the bronze cake of color inside having split apart into crumbles. She growl-sighed, shoving it all back into the pouch, yet again catching sight of the slanted, dark purple numbers that glared like an insignia against her skin.

“Why not?”

“Because,” Isobel said, “I think Mr. Swanson likes the guy, and anyway, I have to pull off a good grade because of that paper I didn’t do.”

Isobel rose to stuff the pouch back into her locker when Nikki halted her, grabbing her by the wrist, shaking her own hand at her. “Izzy,” she said, “look at this! He wrote on you. Like he was marking you as his next victim or something.”

Isobel pulled her hand away. “Okay!” she said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind one ear. “We’ve already established that he’s a weirdo. So let’s just leave it at that. Brad doesn’t need to know.”

She jumped, cutting off Nikki’s prepared retort, startled by a mysterious hand that, with a clink of bracelets, appeared from around the side of her open locker door. The handheld Isobel’s runaway tube of Raspberry Ice lip gloss between a set of long fingers.

Isobel took the gloss and tossed it into her locker, about to mutter a quick thanks, when Nikki interrupted, snatching her wrist again.

“I mean, look at this!” she said, bringing Isobel’s hand to her nose, scrutinizing the numbers as though they spelled some hidden message. “It probably means you’ve made his death list or something. I mean, the guy is a total Trench Coat Mafia wacko.”

Isobel detached her wrist from Nikki’s grasp once more and leveled a mordant stare at her friend. “Nikki, are you kidding me? It’s a phone number.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s what I’m saying. You got hit on by Lurch, and now he’s going to leave dead animals on your porch and cyber-stalk your Facebook page.”

“It isn’t like that.” Isobel sighed again. “We just got stuck together for this . . . thing.”

She stared into her open locker as she changed out her books.

To her, the presence of Varen Nethers, aka “that one guy,” had always been like that of a fleeting shadow, an estranged entity that floated through the halls, never wanting to be bothered. In all truth, he’d probably crossed her mind no more than a handful of times and even then, only when someone chose to dredge up the latest crazy goth-centric gossip. She’d never had a class with him until this year, and Trenton was a big enough school that her day-to-day interaction with him had, before now, never amounted to more than the occasional hallway pass-by.

Isobel jumped again, shaken from her reverie, her breath catching when the mystery hand reappeared. This time it looped over the top of her locker door, the fingers clutching a familiar pistachio-green cylinder.

Cautiously Isobel took the tube of Pink Goddess lipstick and watched the hand of her locker neighbor slither away once more. She glanced at Nikki, who made a show of blinking before grasping Isobel’s locker door and moving it aside. But the girl—Isobel thought her name was Grace or Gabbie—slammed her own locker shut, swiveled away without a word, and walked off.

“Creepers,” Nikki muttered. She plucked the lipstick from Isobel’s hand and, repositioning the locker door, stooped to use the mirror inside. “Back into the Middle Ages she goes.”

Isobel watched the retreating back of the girl, whose too long, too straight brown hair swished in time with her floor-length broom skirt. With a final faint tinkle of bracelets, the girl swept around the next corner and out of sight.

“Anyway,” Nikki said, finishing with the lipstick and tucking the tube back into Isobel’s makeup bag. She blotted her lips and popped her mouth. “I still think you should tell Brad.”

“Drop it, Nikki. I’m not going to tell Brad,” Isobel snapped. “And don’t you tell him either,” she added, slamming her locker door shut. At this, Nikki’s expression morphed, fading at once from scandalized coyness into wounded annoyance, and Isobel had only half a beat to regret her words before her friend twirled away.

“Nikki,” Isobel moaned, starting after her.

“Whatever,” Nikki shot over her shoulder. She fluttered one hand dismissively and quickened her pace. “You know,” she called, “he’s going to keep that stalker crap up if he thinks he can get away with it.”

Watching the bounce of Nikki’s ponytail, with its tiny blue and gold puff-ball hair tie, Isobel felt a tug of guilt. So maybe she’d been a little too insistent on keeping the whole phone number incident a secret. Then again, if she caught up to her, if she apologized now, Nikki might think it wouldn’t be such a big deal if she did blab to Brad.

Isobel found herself hating that she’d told Nikki the truth when she should have just made something up. Of course, she hadn’t wanted to play secrets, either. Nikki was her best friend.

She was on the squad and part of the crew.

She slowed her steps and let Nikki walk ahead of her to lunch. When she was out of sight, Isobel ducked into the nearest girls’ restroom. At the sink, she turned the water on warm and pumped soap from the dispenser into her hand. She lathered it thick over the numbers.

Like curls of smoke, the deep purple ink loosened into violet swirls and then slid down the drain.

At practice that day, she missed a jump.

She never missed a jump.

At the end of a round-off, back handspring, back tuck, she overrotated and had to catch herself on her heels. She hit the gymnasium floor hard, landing straight on her butt, bones jarring, teeth rattling.

Coach Anne ripped her for it, of course, blowing the dust off her old “no tumbling without someone spotting you” rant. Nothing made Coach more nervous than sloppy or botched stunts, especially with December Nationals looming. Their choreography was tight and sharp. Too tight and too clean to sit a hurt squad member in the stands and still expect to place.

Not surprisingly, Nikki didn’t wait around to chat after Coach blew the final whistle. Isobel found she didn’t mind too much, knowing that it was probably less about her still being peeved from earlier and more about wanting to catch up to Mark after football practice. Either way, she was grateful not to have to relive the locker argument and even more grateful that it was Friday. She needed a break.

It was good that they didn’t have a game for another week, too. It would give the already purpling baseball-size bruise on the back of her thigh time to fade before she had to don her uniform again.

Isobel left the gym locker rooms and took her usual route through the hall toward the back parking lot, but slowed when she thought she heard Brad’s voice. Had he come looking for her? She’d probably spent too long glaring at her bruised thigh in the locker room mirrors.

“—talk to her again. Do you understand?”

Turning the corner, Isobel halted.

A black-clad figure stood in a slump, his back pressed against a row of cobalt blue lockers, his tattered black hardback journal tucked beneath one arm. Brad hovered over him, wearing his blue and gold letter jacket, which bulked up his already hulking shoulders.

Varen, comparatively thin and frail-looking, appeared able to do little more than endure, his head hanging, his wispy black hair draped in his face.

An anger she couldn’t explain flashed inside of her.

“Hey!” she called, closing in on them.

Varen’s eyes lifted, locking on her, a look as stark as it was accusing, and it stopped her cold.

So help her, Isobel wanted to strangle Nikki till those stupid little blue and gold puff-balls popped off.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothin’, babe. Nothin’,” Brad said, pushing away from the lockers, running a palm through his thick amber hair, glossy in the fluorescent lighting and still wet from the showers. He stuffed a hand into the pocket of his jacket and walked to meet her, slinging his other arm around her shoulders and planting a kiss on the side of her head with an audible “Mmwah.”

Varen’s expression remained blank, though his gaze chiseled into her, causing the world around her to smudge into oblivion, and she found herself unable to break away.

Did he think she ran off to tell Brad? Then again, what else was there for him to think?

Isobel opened her mouth to speak again, to set the record straight, but Brad’s arm tightened around her shoulders, jostling her against him. This, combined with his deodorant and Zest soap smell, reminded her that he was there. Still in macho mode and still in reach of the strange boy who had asked her what she was staring at and who was now, intently, staring at her.

Isobel closed her mouth.

She let Brad angle her away. He dropped his arm to pat her tender rear.

“Don’t,” she said, wincing, but kept moving.

Anything to get away from those eyes.