by Келли Криг
She bit back a protest as he took her hand in his. She gawked as one long-fingered hand grasped hers and stared, unblinking, at the black pen that appeared from nowhere and began moving against her skin, the tip as cold and sharp as those eyes.
Oh. My. God. He was writing on her.
She tried to make a noise but couldn’t.
His face remained emotionless as he made small, careful lines with the pen. The steady impression of the ballpoint tickled, creating knots in her stomach.
All she could do was stare at an enormous ring, molded into the shape of a silver dragon, as it snarled at her from his middle finger.
When at last he finished, he released her hand and, with one final almost admonishing stab of that razor gaze, turned away. Grabbing his black book, he slung his beaten leather satchel over one shoulder. “Don’t call after nine,” he said, and tucking the pen behind one ear, strolled out of the classroom.
Isobel’s face burned. Her skin tingled where he’d touched her, with an almost imperceptible electricity that she couldn’t be sure if she was imagining. Like the tips of her fingers had somehow fallen asleep.
She took a quick inventory, first of her senses, then of the people still in the room, afraid to see who had noticed, amazed that apparently no one had. Even Eagle Eye Swanson had just returned to his desk, where he now sat munching a sandwich and leafing through the school paper, the Hawk’s Call.
Isobel looked down at her hand again.
In deep purple ink, he’d written
“V—555-0710.”
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 w
anting 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.
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 wit
h 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.
