Page 90

“Something happen that you want to talk about?”
“No,” she mumbled into her arms. Definitely not. Besides the fact that she wouldn’t know where to start, she couldn’t think of anything to tell him that wouldn’t just give him another reason to ground her until college. If she even decided to go to college—and there was another argument entirely.
“Well, did you get anything done?”
His tone was curious rather than pushy, and it made her wonder why he was being so nice.
She groaned, rocking her forehead back and forth against her arms, halfway to say no and halfway to clear her thoughts. She was too tired to keep being angry at him. It took too much effort. “It’s no use,” she muttered. “We’re done for.”
“That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think? Are you giving up?”
Isobel shrugged. Maybe, since their paper was done, they’d at least get half credit? That way she’d still pass her junior year, even if it meant she wouldn’t be a cheerleader when she did. With another pang in her stomach, Isobel thought about Nationals, about the squad going to Dallas without her, Alyssa taking her spot as middle flyer. She released another sigh, this one mixed with a growl, her hands clenching into fists. How was this fair? How was it right when they’d honestly tried?
“Is there something I can do?” he asked.
“Not unless you can work miracles.”
She heard the Poe book slide against the table and then the sound of pages being flipped in chunks. Isobel peeked up at him with one suspicious eye, watching as he settled at last on the
“Ultima Thule” portrait of Poe.
“He sure was a weird dude, wasn’t he?” he murmured, more to himself, Isobel thought, than to her.
She raised her head slowly, staring hard at her father.
“Weird-looking, too,” he commented.
Isobel’s hand shot out. She gripped her father’s arm. He looked at her in alarm.
“Dad,” she said, her eyes scanning his face. Her grip on him tightened as she recalled something her father had said before, on the drive home from the library that first day she’d met with Varen. “Dad, do you really want to help? Really?”
His eyes softened, brows slanting. Her own eyes widened. “Yes, Izzy,” he said with a nod, sounding almost relieved. “I really, really do.”
“Omigod,” she said, rocketing out of her chair, pressing one palm to her forehead, a flood of ideas filling her head all at once. She shook her father’s arm before letting go, flying to the wall next to the garage door, and taking his car keys off their hook. “I have an idea,” she said. “Walmart!” she shouted. “You have to take me to Walmart, right now!”
“Okay, kiddo, okay. We’ll go to Walmart.” He stood, uncertainty written across his features, and Isobel rushed to him, hugging him, then shoved his keys into his hands.
He spread his arms questioningly. “Well, aren’t you going to fill me in?”
Isobel flung open the garage door, clambered down the stairs, and opened the passenger door to the sedan. “On the way,” she said. “Get in.”
Isobel was late to school the next morning, missing two whole periods. Nobody took class seriously on a big game day, though (nobody but Mr. Swanson, of course), so she doubted that she’d missed anything vital. Carting along her boom box, she moved through the decorated halls hung with poster-board signs and blue and yellow balloons, peeking into classroom doors, hoping on the off chance that she’d catch a glimmer of silver chains or black boots. She had no idea what his schedule was outside of fourth-period English, but it would be a huge relief just to know he was in the building. She wanted to let him know that they at least had a game plan. She could give him a heads-up. Most of all, she wanted to see him. She needed to talk to him.
But that would all have to wait.
Nearing her U.S. history classroom, Isobel decided she couldn’t spare the time to keep looking. The rule for all county high schools was that to participate in any after-school functions, like a play, a club, or especially a football game, you had to be in school for at least half the day. Isobel wasn’t going to push it by waiting until fourth period to show her face. They had a pep rally last period, and she couldn’t be certain if that hour really counted or not.
Hitching her bag higher on her back, Isobel grasped the door handle and went in, her yellow late slip crumpled in one hand.
She froze in the doorway as a sudden barrage of hoots, hollers, and desk pounding trumpeted at her appearance. Oh God, she thought, what now? Then someone from the back stood up, cupping his hands over his mouth, and shouted, “What’s up, Tren ton?”