by Келли Криг
“That was good, Iz,” Coach said, sounding a bit more relaxed. “Let’s keep it up—get it? Keep it up?” A collective groan arose from the squad. “Okay. This time with the music, boys and girls.”
Isobel tugged her practice shorts down and got into position while Coach Anne went to fool with the CD player, her frizzy grizzly-bear hair springing with each step and her loafers squeaking against the gymnasium floor.
Nikki shifted into place directly behind Isobel, who could feel Nikki’s eyes chiseling into the back of her skull.
When the pumping music started and the right beat came along, Isobel swiveled about-face to stare directly at Nikki, whose normally mirthful, cheer-ready blues glared ice.
“Why did you lie about it?” she hissed.
Well, Isobel thought, at least it seemed they were on speaking terms again.
The intro beat to the music thumped low, building in volume, and their arms lifted high while their heels pounded the floor. “Because! You run and tell everything!”
“Not when it’s important!”
“Yeah, and you’re the one who gets to decide when something’s important!”
It really wasn’t feasible to do much more talking than that. The electronic music sped up and every beat got a kick, a turn, or a flip. Coach liked flashy formation changes too, so they moved into a lot of shapes, breaking apart, fanning out, and making new configurations.
When it came time for Isobel’s big flip, the bases stood ready for her.
Four, five, up! Two quick twists came right in time with the singer’s “Woo-hoo!” but in the middle of her second revolution, for a split second, Isobel thought she saw something in the practice mirrors. A dark figure. She glimpsed it in a flash—someone standing in the gym doorway. She only caught the outline of the form in a quick blur, but whoever it was, he’d been wearing what had looked like a black hat and . . . a cloak?
She fell into the cradle and was brought to her feet again, facing the gym doors, which now stood empty.
Isobel glanced back at the mirrors, squinting, her eyes narrowing on the reflection of the vacant doorway, forgetting that she was supposed to be switching positions for the next formation when Stephanie Dorbon plowed into her. Isobel hit the floor hard and the pain from last week’s bruise reawakened with a roar. She cringed, drawing in a sharp breath between her teeth.
All around her, the whole routine ground to a screeching halt. The music stopped.
“What the hell happened?” Coach shouted, her round face blotchy red as she broke through to where Isobel sat and where Stephanie stood right next to her, hugging herself like she wanted out of the frame of blame that very second.
“I fell,” Isobel said to relieve Steph’s anxiety. She picked herself up to the grumbling of the squad, leaving her floundering dignity to choke to death on the floor. She folded her arms over her chest and shot a quick look back to the gymnasium doors.
Empty. She could have sworn . . .
“C’mon, folks!” Coach yelled. She cocked her wide hips to one side—always a bad sign. “This is dangerous stuff. Look. Bottom line. Pay attention! I don’t want any broken bones, bloody noses, or sobbing parents, okay? Okay. We’ll try it again tomorrow. Go home.” She waved a hand of dismissal and everyone turned with a mumble and trudged to collect their gym bags and water bottles.
As Alyssa passed Isobel, she leaned in to mutter, “Great going, albatross.”
Isobel kept her own comments in check. She slogged toward the bleachers to grab her bag, yanking it up from between two benches. She felt like chucking it out into traffic and watching an eighteen-wheeler plow over it.
“Isobel,” Coach said, stepping up behind her, “you stay. We’ve got to talk.” She brushed by and went to wind up the cord to the CD player while the boys folded up and stowed the practice mirrors. Isobel shut her eyes, keeping them that way for a full three seconds.
Could this day—could this year get any worse?
She released her gym bag and flopped onto the bleachers to watch everyone else file out the door. Nikki offered only a single backward glance before hurrying out after Alyssa. Isobel set her chin in her hands and focused on her tennis shoes, white with blue and yellow stripes.
She was more angry than upset. After crying at lunch that day, she’d had enough of being upset and letting other people see it. It was easier just to get mad.
Maybe she was losing her touch.
“What’s going on, missy? It’s time to talk,” said Coach, settling on the bleachers next to her. The wood and iron squeaked as it compressed beneath her weight.
“I just got distracted,” Isobel mumbled. She glanced toward the gym doors, which still stood vacant. She looked back down again at her hands, picking at the nonexistent dirt under her fingernails. Maybe she was just altogether losing it.
“Okay,” Coach said. She looped her thumb through the yellow lanyard around her neck, jostling her whistle. “So whatever it was that distracted you today, could it be the same thing that distracted you last Friday? That’s two falls in two weeks.” Coach held up two fingers as though Isobel needed the visual as a reminder. “For you, that’s not normal.”
“I know. It—it’s nothing,” Isobel insisted. “I just . . .” She trailed off. She just what? Saw something that wasn’t really there? Oh yeah, that wasn’t begging for a call home.
“Well,” Coach said, ending the stretch of silence, “I heard that you were upset at lunch today. Does that have anything to do with all this?”
Isobel felt her cheeks blossom into buds of fire, and she involuntarily braced a shielding hand at her brow. Did everyone know about the lunch saga?
“Listen, Isobel,” Coach started, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I’m just trying keep hold of my best flyer. That’s all.”
Isobel nodded at the floor. She appreciated the encouragement. It felt good to be recognized, but at the same time, she couldn’t think of any way to respond. She could say she’d do better. She could say anything. But with Coach, words never went as far as actions. She’d just have to do better next time. She’d have to put all the crap aside, forget about everything for a while, and just think up.
“Hey.” Coach nudged her.
Isobel lifted her head—and froze. Brad stood in the gym doorway, his letter jacket slung over one shoulder, his curly, thick hair wet and darkened from the showers.
Beside her, Coach stood, and the bleachers wobbled with a creak and a sigh. “Better let you go,” she said. “Looks like there’s someone here to see you.”
“Go away.”
Isobel forced herself to look straight at him as she said it. He’d followed her all the way from the gym to her locker, wearing that cocky grin, his lips curled up on one side, dimple displayed.
And that smirk combined with the way his wet hair hung in his face? So hot.
Isobel pivoted away from him, doing her best to remember her locker combination, but stopped when he reached out and began to turn the dial for her.
She swatted his hand aside and spun the rest of the numbers on her own, making a mental note to change the combination later.
When she tugged at the handle, the door stuck, and before she could stop him, Brad gave the bottom left corner a quick, rough kick. The door popped out.
“I said, go away!” she snarled.
First she got her binder, the one she’d left over the weekend, resolving to do her algebra tonight since she no longer had friends to go out with. Next she reached in to snag her cardigan, only to find that it had disappeared off the little hook inside. She blinked, then turned to find it draped by the collar off the tip of Brad’s finger.
“Stop!” She snatched the sweater away and pulled it on, juggling her binder from arm to arm in the process. He stood there, watching, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.
Infuriated, she slammed her locker closed, shouldered her gym bag, and marched toward the front doors.
&nbs
p; “Just so I have this straight,” he called after her, “you don’t want a ride home?”
“No.”
Isobel shoved open the push-bar door with her hip. A rush of cool, moist air blasted her in the face, whipping her hair into a frenzy as she slipped out to stand on the concrete steps.
The trees in the yard tossed their arms around as if hailing a warning, their yellows and reds flashing. A few dry leaves skipped and tumbled along the empty bus drive as though heading for cover.
The sky, looming gray, emitted a low rumble.
She could call her mom, she thought, but Mondays were her yoga nights, so she probably already had her phone off. Of course, she could call her dad. He was probably already home from work, but then she’d have to field the barrage of Brad-centric questions, since he was usually the one who gave her a ride home anyway.
She looked over her shoulder at Brad.
Cocking an eyebrow at her, he waggled his car keys.
Isobel loved how Brad’s face felt after he’d shaved that morning, smooth but still not completely soft. There was an underlying roughness to it that she liked to feel against the tips of her fingers and with her cheek while they kissed, a sensation like tempered sandpaper. She breathed him in as his mouth sought hers, savoring the smell of his cologne, musky and sharp all at once.
Outside, thunder rolled.
Steam coated the windows of Brad’s Mustang. Light rain pattered against the glass while the radio softly buzzed on a pop station.
On their way to Isobel’s house, Brad had pulled over into one of the vacant gravel lots of Cherokee Park. He’d said he’d wanted to talk, but so far they’d done more making out than talking. But that was okay with Isobel. She was ready for things to go back to normal, and if that meant just dropping the whole thing and pretending like it never happened, that was more than fine with her.
She felt Brad’s hands slip to her shoulders, where they burrowed between the fabric of her sweater and her T-shirt, coaxing the cardigan back. Isobel shrugged and jostled her shoulders to aid the shedding of the outer layer. Despite the drop in temperature outside, it had gotten warm in the car.
“Mmm, Brad?” she murmured around his mouth.
He grunted in response, tugging her sweater free from her wrists before slinging it into the back. The leather seats creaked as he leaned in closer to her, his hands traveling lower.
“Mm—what time is it?” she asked, taking his hand and guiding it away from its original path toward her chest, placing it at her waist instead.
He made an “I don’t know” sound, his hand venturing upward again.
“Brad!” She squirmed in his grasp, trying to sound stern, but she had to laugh at his sneaky persistence. He grinned through kissing her and lightly pinched her side, causing her to jolt and wiggle. “Brad, I gotta go home!” she insisted through giggles. “It’s probably seven already, I know it is.”
“You’re just making that up,” he whispered to her, all husky and soft.
She closed her eyes, clamping her lips shut, fighting the seduction.
“—just trying to get away to see your new boyfriend.”
Isobel went still.
She knew he was teasing, but the words still managed to burrow beneath her skin. He wasn’t going to let it go. She felt like a kite sinking back toward earth after flying high on a rush of wind. She frowned and pushed against him again. He lightened up and leaned back to look at her.
“I told you,” she said, “it wasn’t like that.”
He watched her for a long moment before he sank back into his seat. Then he stared forward, out the steam-mottled windshield. “Well,” he said, “then why the hell do you keep getting so bunched up about it?”
“I’m not. I mean—I just—” Isobel couldn’t believe this. They’d been just fine two seconds ago. She reached for him.
He shook her off. “Would you wake up, Isobel? The way he stares at you, it’s like he can’t wait to tie you up!”
“Brad! Oh my God!”
“You just don’t get it, Iz. He’s a wing nut. A girl like you? You can’t talk to a guy like that without him thinking he’s won the freaking lottery!”
She thought about telling him that Varen had already cleared up the question of whether or not she was his type. That was probably a bad idea, though, seeing as it might throw Brad into Incredible Hulk mode, complete with bulging neck and psycho eyes.
“I’m not doing the project with him anymore, okay?” she said quickly, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“You’ll forgive me if I’m not exactly torn up to hear that.” He reached to snap on the defrost. “Put on your seat belt.”
Wrenching around, Isobel grabbed the belt and slung it over her lap. After the click of the buckle lock, Brad slammed his foot on the gas. Isobel braced herself. The back tires kicked a spray of gravel as he spun the Mustang toward the road.
7
Maelstrom
It was weird.
After not talking to Brad for the rest of that night, Isobel returned to school the next morning to find him waiting at her locker, and with help from a bag of Hershey’s Kisses, they made up. Again.
After that, as long as no one brought up the “dentist” incident (or the V word), things appeared to go back to normal. The rest of that week seemed to slip past without any more nuclear meltdowns, and everyone ate lunch together again, complaining about terror tacos and boil burgers. Nikki had even warmed back up to Isobel, calling her on Thursday night to ask about borrowing her gold nail polish, then launching into a tirade about whether or not to ditch Mark and make her move on the cute chemistry guy.
She and Brad were better too. It seemed that all he’d really needed was a chance to cool down about the whole Varen thing. Of course, she hadn’t yet figured out what to do for a grade in Swanson’s class, but maybe if she talked to him on Monday, told him that her schedule conflicted too much with Varen’s, then he’d give her a separate project or let her join one of the other groups. If she told him they’d tried to meet but that it didn’t look like it was going to work out, well, that was mostly the truth. And that way, neither of them would take any blame.
It was better this way, she told herself. It was better for both of them if they just stayed away from each other. And whenever she caught herself thinking about him, about how he’d tried to warn her by slipping her that note, about how his voice sounded on the phone or about how concentrated he looked that day when he wrote on her hand, she pushed the thoughts away and tried to think of something else—anything else. It was her curiosity he’d piqued. That’s all. Only that and nothing more.
She had to admit, though, she was a little baffled concerning the crew. She wasn’t complaining, but at the same time, it was strange that everything could apparently be forgiven as long as it was never brought up again. She’d come to expect that sort of thing from Nikki, but even Alyssa was being super nice these days. In the end, Isobel chalked it up to everyone being psyched about the game—which, of course, Trenton won. Brad even made a touchdown in the second quarter.
Their squad’s routine at halftime had gone off without a hitch too. Isobel had gotten her twist perfect with the glory of the stars spinning in the clear autumn sky, the blaring stadium lights and the filled stands all whirring into her kaleidoscopic swirl.
This was what high school was supposed to be like.
After the game, Brad suggested a round of victory ice cream, and they all piled into his Mustang, its windows decorated with soap words reading GO HAWKS and DIE BEARS DIE. Isobel took shotgun next to Brad, while Alyssa, Nikki, and Mark crammed into the back. Stevie, complaining about his ankle, stayed behind to brace it, saying he might meet up with them later.
“Hey, Nikki,” Brad said, reaching an arm into the backseat. “Hand me that, would you?”
“I got it,” said Alyssa, passing up a familiar blue sweater.
“Here.” Brad glanced at Isobel pointedly, sweater in hand. “You left this in
the backseat Monday.”
“Oh,” she said, blushing at the memory of how it had gotten there in the first place. She folded the sweater over her lap. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Isobel sent him a curious sidelong glance.
He watched her for another moment, winked at her without smiling, then turned the ignition. The engine roared. “All right, people,” he said over the rumble. “Let’s go get some ice cream.” He shifted the car into gear. “I know just the place.”
They wound up at a little shop called Dessert Island. The sign outside depicted a pile of ice cream that looked like a tiny island sitting in a sea of chocolate sauce, a palm tree sticking out of the middle. Isobel wondered why they’d come here instead of going to Graeter’s, which was the closest place to school, but shrugged it off as they strolled up to the storefront.
Tingling chimes announced them as they meandered through the door.
Inside, the shop was small with sparse seating. This, along with the do-it-yourself decorations and chalkboard menu, gave the place a very kitschy, family-owned feel.
Overhead, cheesy steel drum music warbled softly over the speaker system. All of the decor followed a tropical theme: quaint chairs with bamboo legs encircled wicker tables, a conch shell laid out on the center of each. Along the walls, a sprawling hand-painted mural depicted an ocean-side scene, complete with sandy beach, palm trees, and tropical birds, both perched and suspended in flight, plumage displayed.
There was no one behind the counter, but the neon OPEN sign in the front window blared electric pink, and the staff door leading to the back stood ajar, as though someone had propped it open.
It looked as though the five of them were the only customers.
“Heyo,” Brad called across the counter. He tapped the service bell, and its ting rose shrill over the island music. “Anybody here?”
Isobel stepped up to the display glass, peering in to find all the usual favorites sharing quarters with more daring combinations like Macadamia Mocha Madness, Pineapple Bliss, and Go-Go Guava. For a moment she thought about taking a chance with the shocking pink Rum While You Can but in the end decided to default to her all-time favorite—Banana Fudge Swirl.
