Nevermore

3 After Nine

“You want to meet the crew at Zot’s?” Brad asked as he pulled out of the school parking lot, joining the flow of traffic.

“I’m supposed to eat with my parents tonight,” Isobel lied, shifting in her seat to stare out the passenger-side window. She knew she was doing the girl thing, the full-on “you should know why I’m mad” tactic straight out of the Petty Playbook, but she didn’t care.

“Going to invite me?” he asked, not bothering to put on his turn signal when they reached the light.

“No.”

“Oh,” he said, “okay.”

That was it. She jerked around in her seat to face him. “What did Nikki tell you?” she demanded, deciding to forgo the whole dance-around chitchat thing and cut to the chase.

“Nikki didn’t say a thing,” he said, making the turn. He reached up to pull down his sun visor, and a pack of Camels fell into his lap. Isobel sneered and turned to look back out her window. She hated when he smoked, and lately it had become more than just an after-school fix.

“Mark told me,” he said.

Of course, she thought. It all made sense now. After lunch, Nikki, two shades short of bursting, must have told Mark, who, being Brad’s best friend, must have then blabbed to Brad sometime before football practice. Just like preschool. Connect the dots.

“Listen,” Isobel said, “we’re paired to do a stupid project, that’s all. He doesn’t want to work with me, either, so just leave him alone.”

“So he wrote his number on your hand?” Brad asked, his expression darkening. He took another turn, this one too sharply. Isobel gripped her seat. One of his hands left the wheel to slide a Camel from its pack.

“Never mind. Just take me home.”

“Would you just chill out?” he growled. Finding his Zippo between the seats, he flipped open the metal lighter and held the flame to the cigarette. “All I told him was not to talk to you,”

he mumbled, the cigarette bobbing between his tightened lips. He snapped the Zippo shut and tossed it into the backseat, taking a long draw from the cigarette before returning both hands to the wheel.

Isobel hit the power button to crack her window.

“What?” he asked, an amused smile playing at his lips. “Excuse me if I don’t like makeup-wearing fags writing on my girlfriend.”

Isobel glared at him. He only shrugged again, like that excused him or something. She folded her arms and stared straight ahead, deciding it was best to give him the silent treatment, though her plan semi-backfired when he didn’t say anything else. He only smiled away like he thought she was being cute.

After pulling into her driveway, Brad got out, like he always did, to get the car door for her. This time, though, Isobel threw open the door for herself. She slammed it shut behind her, the bang echoing through her neighborhood.

“Hey!” he said, arms spread. “What gives?”

She ignored him and marched up the brick sidewalk without a word.

“Izo!” he called. “Babe!”

It was the amusement, the underlying laughter in his voice that made her anger swell. Isobel stalked to her front door, refusing to let him cajole her into admitting that she was overreacting.

“All right. Fine,” he called after her. “Then I guess I’ll just leave your stuff on the porch?”

She paused on the front stoop of her house, then turned back to see Brad standing at the rear of his Mustang, trunk open, her gym bag hanging by its strap from one outstretched hand.

She was annoyed at herself for not thinking and annoyed at him for that big, churlish movie-star grin on his face. Abandoning the walkway, she stomped through the yard and jerked the bag from his grasp.

“Ooh,” he said with a wink.

“Brad,” she snapped, “you didn’t have to do that.”

“Aw, c’mon, Iz, I just talked to him. You heard what I said.”

“I heard you threaten him!”

“I didn’t threaten him.” He laughed again, shaking his head like he thought she needed glasses or a hearing aid, or a head check.

“Good-bye,” she said, and trudged once more for her front door.

“Okay, baby.” He sighed. “Love you, too.”

Isobel forced her lips to pinch together. As much as she wanted, she would not return the sentiment. She knew he was only probing for a response, trying to wriggle his way off the hook.

“All right,” he called. “Tell Paps I said what’s up.”

Isobel flung open the screen door and stalked inside her house.

He yelled after her, “Change your mind, you’ll know where we’ll be.”

She shut the door behind her and dropped her bag in the foyer. She stood motionless as she heard the slam of Brad’s trunk, followed by the clap of the driver’s-side door. She turned, ready to push her way back outside, to catch him before he left, but his engine revved, and he took off, music blasting, tires squealing.

“I don’t understand what you see in this game,” she mumbled, chewing on the crust of her last slice of pizza. Her parents had gone out for the night, leaving her alone with Danny, whose entire twelve-year-old existence revolved around his collection of video games, consoles, and online RPG empires. “It’s the same thing over and over, only with a background change.”

“No, it’s not,” Danny said, and waggled the controller to the right, as if that would make the armor-clad figure on the screen jump farther.

Isobel narrowed her gaze on the back of Danny’s school uniform pants, at his crack poking out just above the belt. She couldn’t believe that he hadn’t even bothered to change when he’d gotten home. Instead, like always, he’d plunked himself in front of the TV. “What’s the difference, then?” she asked, only mild interest backing the question.

“Each level gets harder,” he explained, leaning to his left while trying to get the figure on the screen to do the same. “Duh. And eventually you have to face Zorthibus Klax.”

Isobel glanced down at her hand, at the pale purple lines that had somehow, very faintly, remained. “Sounds like some foul disease.”

“Your face is a foul disease. Now shut up so I can concentrate.”

Isobel rolled her eyes. She leaned her head against her hand, her elbow resting on the arm of the sofa, and eyed her metallic pink cell phone, which she’d set on the end table next to the TV remote. It sat there silent and still beneath the glow of the beige, fat-bellied lamp. She’d brought it down from her room after letting it charge just in case Nikki, the traitor, sent her a text.

Or in case Brad called.

She couldn’t get it out of her mind, though. The way Varen had looked at her in the hall. He probably thought she’d told Brad everything, just to get back at him. He must have thought she’d run right to him and told him what happened, showed him her hand and said, “Go get him!”

Absently Isobel ran her fingers across the back of her hand, over the place he’d written on her. If she concentrated, she could still feel the sensation of the pen, the weight of his hand, the sharpness of the ballpoint.

Hunkering down into the couch cushions, she hooked a thumb in her T-shirt, biting the collar, unnerved all over again by the memory.

Were they even still on for the project?

Her eyes fell to her phone and lingered there.

Finally she stood. “Don’t burn down the house,” she snapped at Danny, grabbing her cell.

She flipped open the phone as she wandered into the kitchen and scrutinized the digits on her hand—or rather, what remained of them. Was that last one a zero or a nine? She decided to guess, pressing the corresponding keys.

The phone rang on the other end. And rang . . . and rang.

“Hello?” a woman’s light, sweet voice answered. This must be his mom, Isobel thought, admitting to herself that she’d half expected a gravelly tone and a chain smoker’s cough.

“Uh, yes. May I speak to—” She glanced up, catching sight of the digital clock on the stove. Nine thirty. She gasped.

“Hello?” the voice asked.

“Oh, I—Sorry.” Isobel sputtered, remembering what he’d said about calling after nine.

Automatically her thumb jabbed the end button. The phone went dead. For a moment she held the cell limp in her hand, staring at it. It was kind of a strange thing to say, now that she thought about it: Don’t call after nine. What did he mean, Don’t call after nine? What happened at nine? Was that when he retired to his tomb? Was it some bogus rule of his parents or his own thing? Why was he so weird?

Isobel wandered back into the living room, only to find Danny right where she’d left him, the TV screen flashing in bold biohazard orange while a high-pitched voice cackled evil victory in the background.

“Man!” He moaned, and threw the controller against the entertainment center.

“Hey!” Isobel shouted. “Watch it!”

He ignored her, collecting the controller again, like he wanted to make up with it. Isobel settled back onto the couch and watched as he restarted the game.

“Can’t we watch TV or something?” she said with a sigh.

“Nooooo!” He groaned.

“Danny, you’ve been playing that thing nonstop.” She reached for the TV remote.

“Don’t!” He swung around and lunged at her, grasping for the remote. Isobel dropped her phone to grapple with both hands.

“For real, Danny, don’t you have homework or friends or something?” She grunted, pulling the remote.

“Don’t you?” he snarled, yanking it back.

Her phone rang. Danny let go of the remote and snatched up her cell. “Hello?”

Isobel grabbed for her phone, but Danny, with faster reflexes than she’d thought him capable of, slid out of her reach.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, “hold on.” Smiling, he waggled the phone. “It’s your boyfriend!”

Isobel clambered off the couch and charged her brother, ready for battle. No one messed with her phone calls.

“Trade,” he said, skittering back, holding the phone out behind him.

“Ugh. You’re such a fungus!” She threw the remote down on the carpet. He tossed the phone at her and dove for the remote. The phone bounced between her hands before she caught it, and the video game music started up again.

She pressed the cell to her ear, blocking her other ear with one finger.

“Brad?”

“Not likely,” said the cool voice on the other end.

A thunder started in her chest.

“How did you get my number?”

“Relax.” His tone went from cold to glacial. “My folks have caller ID. You called me.”

“Oh,” she said, cringing. Oh? She glanced quickly at her brother, then slipped out of the room and out of earshot. “Well, listen,” she said, groping for what she’d originally planned to say. “I just wanted you to know that I didn’t tell Brad about the number thing.”

“I wasn’t hitting on you,” he said, as if he was the one setting her straight. “If nothing else, you’re not my type.”

Her mouth fell open.

“Uh, yeah,” she said, trying to ignore the heat that crawled its way up her neck. She felt like throwing the phone against the wall and curling up to die all at the same time. Who did this guy think he was? “I never said I thought you were—”

“Well, someone felt threatened.”

“Look, I talked to him about it,” she said, the words coming out quick and jerky. She hated sounding so spastic, especially when he seemed so unconcerned. “He just gets like that.”

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter as long as he has you to make excuses for him.”

Now he was making her mad. “You know what—” But he didn’t let her finish.

“If you’re not bailing on the project, I’ll be at the main library tomorrow,” he said, his voice hushed. She could hear a crackle on the other end, like he was moving around. “After one.”

“But it’s Saturday.”

“Christ,” he hissed, “you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Isobel started to say fine, whatever, she’d meet him. She paused, though, at the sound of someone calling for him in the background—a man. “Never mind,” he snapped, “I’ll do it myself.” The line went dead.

Isobel bit down on the insides of her mouth hard. She drew the phone away from her ear and squeezed it. She wanted to scream. She wanted to smash the phone to pieces or cram it into the disposal.

“Turn it down,” she yelled to Danny as she stormed through the living room. “I’m going to bed!”

“I can’t hear you,” he shot over one shoulder.

She mounted the stairs, her steps pounding hard enough to skew the picture frames.

What exactly was his type, anyway? Bride of freaking Frankenstein?