Enshadowed

“Wait a second. Mikey?” Isobel asked, trying not to blanch outwardly. “Are you still seeing that guy?”

“Eh. It’s an on-off thing.” She shrugged. “What can I say? He’s got nice hands.”

Flashing a coy smile, Gwen winked and turned, skirts swishing as she vanished around the corner.

WHEN THE BELL ENDING THIRD period rang, Isobel gathered her things slowly. She took the long route through the halls, using the added time to prepare herself for the most torturous hour of the day.

Mr. Swanson’s English class.

In that room, Varen’s empty desk might as well have been a ghost. One whose hollow, vacant stare never relented.

She knew better than to try and skip the class; instead she trained herself not to look at that part of the room, or if she could help it, even think about the desk being there.

No one ever tried to sit at it. And no one ever commented on it either. It seemed the general consensus was to pretend Varen was out sick. Or maybe she was fooling herself with that thought. Maybe it was more like the room you left untouched out of respect after the death of its occupant.

Isobel tried not to let these thoughts repeat themselves in her head, circling around on a never-ending carousel. Instead she did the only thing she could think of that could occupy her mind.

She paid attention.

It wasn’t always easy, but over the two-month period that Varen had been missing now, she’d gotten better at it.

But it wasn’t so much the threat of distractions or wandering thoughts that made it difficult. Rather, it was Mr. Swanson and the way he looked at her whenever they happened to catch each other’s eye.

The expression “if looks could kill” came to her mind whenever it happened. But Swanson never dealt the accusing dagger-and-knife kind of look that usually went with that saying. It was more of a slow and painful hemlock poisoning kind of kill that came in the form of questioning glances and looks of general concern. There was a sadness reflected in those eyes too, a weighty sorrow glimpsed behind the oval lenses of his spectacles.

If there was one adult she wanted to tell everything to, it was Mr. Swanson. And maybe that was why Isobel found his looks so unbearable. Because she knew they were an invitation. One that he extended time and again, over and over, every day if he could manage to sneak it in.

What happened? those looks seemed to be asking her.

Under that pleading gaze, Isobel felt the plaster-patched cracks in her projected veneer of innocence and ignorance start to open until she began to actually entertain the idea of talking to him.

She often caught herself daydreaming about it, thinking of what she would say and how she would tell him and where she would begin. Whenever she got to that point, though, she forced herself to look down at her paper full of notes. Then, once she’d severed the connection, she told herself to think, drilling herself with the questions she knew he, or anyone, would respond with.

What do you mean he’s in a dreamworld?

Poe? What does he have to do with any of this?

And, worst of all: Don’t you think this is something we need to mention to the police?

Always, that last one became the deciding factor in her decision to remain silent and appear as clueless as everybody else.

Up until today, it had been a good plan.

Near the end of class, however, Mr. Swanson gave them a reading assignment to finish while he went around the room, handing back the pop quiz on The Crucible he’d sprung on them the Friday before break.

Even though Isobel had missed only one of the questions, she found a neon-green Post-it affixed to hers.

Please see me after the bell, it read, the words scrawled in her teacher’s loopy cursive writing.

Wonderful, Isobel thought.

Whether she was up for one or not, it seemed she was in for a Swanson chat after all.

13

Grave Danger

When the bell did ring, Isobel’s first impulse was to pretend she hadn’t seen the note and book it straight out the door. One fatal glimpse in Mr. Swanson’s direction, though, and she knew there would be no slipping past his radar, especially since it seemed to be aimed straight at her.

Like a chess club’s version of a bouncer (complete with sweater-vest and tucked-in necktie), Mr. Swanson stood poised beside the door as everyone filed out. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his pleated khaki pants, he shot several pointed glances her way between quick exchanges with the students now headed for the lunchroom.

Already halfway out of her desk, Isobel gritted her teeth and sank back down again.

She felt a surge of sudden resentment toward him for making her stay like this, for breaking his unspoken promise that he wouldn’t bring up Varen unless she came to him first.