Nevermore

Like being paired for a project.

“Hey,” Isobel said before she could stop herself. “What are you looking for? Did you lose something?”

“She speaks,” the girl said, “imagine that.” Using both arms, she shoveled the pile of papers into her locker, then rose, angling, using her foot to stomp down the contents. “And she, who drops everything, asks me if I’ve lost something. No, I haven’t lost anything. Except, perhaps, my ability to be surprised.”

Isobel couldn’t help but stare as the girl gripped the sides of her locker, switched feet, and stomped again to compress the papers. She had some sort of New York accent, short, sharp, and a little brutal-sounding. Not at all what she’d expected. Suddenly the girl looked at her. “What did you do to your hair?”

Isobel felt her mouth open and a draft float in. Nice. The most fashion-challenged girl in school had just noticed her hair issues. “Slept on it sort of wet,” she murmured. She set her backpack down and crouched to scrounge through her emergency pouch for a hair tie.

So much for making acquaintances.

“Looks good,” the girl said, shutting her locker door. “Makes you look a little less stuck-up.” With that, she turned away and floated off in a swish of hair and skirts.

O-kay, Isobel thought. Despite the dig, she couldn’t keep from smiling just a little. She took the hair tie and looped it around her wrist. Maybe today wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

That’s when she saw them.

Brad. And Nikki. Walking down the hall— together—in her direction, holding hands.

Oh. My. God.

Isobel looked away quickly. She slammed her locker shut and wrestled to get her combination lock back in place and snap it closed before they got close enough to see her. Giving the combination pad a twist, she risked another glance and, sure enough, Brad was staring straight at her, his hand linked with Nikki’s—fingers intertwined.

And Nikki. Just look at her, smiling away at everything around her, like she just won Miss America or something.

Well, they could have each other.

Isobel spun away to take an alternate route to class. She wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of a public display. She knew that was what Brad wanted.

But when she entered the stairwell, out of their sight, she felt her swollen sense of pride deflate. She had to fight down a whole swell of emotions she hadn’t expected to feel. She was mad— really mad—but she was confused, too. Then again, she hadn’t expected to see Brad practically welded to Nikki not two days after she’d broken up with him.

But maybe she should have.

14

All That We See

Isobel wasn’t sure why she hadn’t stopped to think about it before now, but as the end of the lunch line drew nearer, it dawned on her. Where was she going to sit?

The last thing she wanted was to be seen floundering around in the lunchroom, especially since the crew would be watching. No doubt they’d already been broadcasting her downfall.

She moved forward out of the line, taking a few slow steps into the cafeteria, like she was trying to be extra careful not to spill her lemonade. She could see the crew out of the corner of her eye, sitting at the usual table. Even though she didn’t look at them straight on, she could tell they were staring, waiting for her to try and sit with them—to try and sit anywhere.

She scanned the room.

As usual, everyone sat within their designated social sphere.

Computer geeks near the far wall. The hippies in the corner, some of them on the floor. The jocks at the tables overlooking the courtyard. And there, in the corner farthest from the windows, like a gaggle of dark, exotic birds, sat the goths and the weirdos.

Among them, she saw Varen.

Before she knew what her feet were doing, they started moving her in that direction. Her pathway chosen, she bypassed the opportunity of an empty table and walked straight for the black gathering, trying to ignore the sacrificial lamb feeling she was getting.

As though they had some kind of sonar or radar built in, a few of them glanced over. She stepped closer and heard someone make a hushing remark. Then, like in a creepy painting where all the figures seem to stare at the onlooker, they turned their heads. All those outlined eyes chiseling into her almost made her veer off course.

Isobel ignored the impulse to steer away. She kept going, her steps taking her ever forward until she drew to a slow stop, standing no more than three feet away.

Everyone stared at her now—the whole cafeteria—she could feel it, a scarcely perceptible vibration coming at her from all angles. It was like they were watching the series finale of some major drama show and were all waiting to see who would die.