by Kelly Creagh
“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” said Mr. Swanson. “But did Varen happen to . . . mention anything to you about what might have been going on?”
“I . . . ,” Isobel began. She started to nod again but caught herself. “No. ” She shook her head. “He didn’t. ”
At this point, she knew that it was time to go. From here, the questions could only get more specific and her resolve not to answer them would only get weaker.
Sliding from her chair, fumbling for her things, she gathered her backpack, pen, and notebook while out in the hall, the bell indicating the beginning of lunch sounded with a shrill cry.
“About the project paper,” she said, avoiding eye contact with him as she slipped her quiz into an open pocket of her bag. “Was that all you wanted?”
After a beat, he clasped his knees and said, “Yes. I . . . suppose it was. ”
Isobel made a beeline for the door. She could feel Swanson’s eyes following her.
That she wanted to leave his classroom so badly must have been a dead giveaway that she knew more than she was letting on. But she needed to get out of there as soon as possible. To regroup. She was going to have to try and figure out some way to get through the next two weeks of his class—of life—without blowing her own cover.
The entire Baltimore trip depended on it.
Gripping the doorknob, Isobel froze, her hand tightening around the cool metal fixture as a new thought struck her.
Letting go of the knob, she pivoted to face him.
“Mr. Swanson?”
“Yes, Miss Lanley?”
“Speaking of the project paper,” she said, “do you . . . do you remember that article you handed back with our grade? The one about the—”
“Poe Toaster?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Him. How . . . how did you know about all that?”
Mr. Swanson stood from where he’d been leaning against his desk. Arms remaining folded, he glanced down at his loafers. “Oh well, you know us scholarly types,” he said. “When someone goes to such extremes to pay tribute to one of the famous dead litterateurs, we can’t help but take an interest. Now that I think about it, he’s due fairly soon, isn’t he?”
“The nineteenth,” Isobel blurted.
“That’s right,” Mr. Swanson said. Looking up, he squinted at her in surprise. “The morning of Poe’s birthday. I should give you extra credit for remembering that. I’m sure there’ll be quite a crowd there this year. It’s becoming more and more popular, you know. I daresay I’d like to go myself one day. Wouldn’t that make for a heck of a field trip?”
She watched him round his desk. Picking up Varen’s paper on Poe, he sighed and stuffed it back into the top drawer. “Doubt I could get the board to sign off on that one, though, much less the county. ”
“Sorry,” Isobel said, “did you say crowd?”
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“I did. It’s kind of a big to-do up there. Or didn’t the article say?”
Isobel shook her head. “N-no. ”
“Oh, people come from all over to stand outside the gates and watch,” he said. Turning his back to her, he picked up one of the chalkboard erasers and began to sweep away that night’s homework assignment. “It’s even gotten to the point where they’ve had to have special security lined up for the event. ”
“Security?” Swallowing, Isobel felt her heart drop into her stomach. “But . . . doesn’t the Poe Toaster come super late or something? Like, after midnight?”
“Well, so does the Great Pumpkin,” Mr. Swanson said with a chuckle. “But that doesn’t stop Linus from staying up every year, now, does it?”
Isobel frowned.
“If I’m correct,” Swanson went on, “the Poe Toaster appears at the grave sometime between midnight and six a. m. And still, droves of people go every year just to stand outside in the freezing cold for a mere chance at sighting him. Maniacs, I’m telling you. There’s even a committee of people who watch from inside the church just to make sure no one attempts to get in the Toaster’s way or, heaven forbid, unmask the poor fellow. ”
“Hold on,” Isobel said, blinking hard. “You mean people have tried?”
“Of course they have,” he said. “With anything like this, you’re always going to have the occasional nutcase who wants to ruin the mystery for everyone. Don’t worry, though. So far, no one’s ever been successful. Somehow the Poe Toaster always manages to give everyone the slip. From what I understand, the whole thing is over very quickly. ”
“But . . . ,” Isobel said. Hugging her notebook close, she took a step toward his desk. “If everyone goes to watch for him every year, why aren’t there more pictures of him circulating on the web? How come there’s only the one?”
“Ah. ” Dropping the eraser into the chalk tray, he turned to face her again, dusting his hands off. By the coy smile on his face, Isobel could tell that he was enjoying the barrage of questions. “That’s because no one ever actually sees him. Unless of course you’re inside the graveyard itself, like the group that watches from the church. You see, what many people fail to realize is that there are two gravestones in that cemetery bearing Poe’s name. ”
“Two?” Isobel said. “How can anyone be buried in two places at once?”
“Oh, while I’m sure that’s quite possible if you use your imagination,” he said with a wry laugh, “the reason Poe has two gravestones is because one stands as the marker of his original burial place. That’s the stone that you see in that grainy photo where the Poe Toaster is kneeling. Sometime in the late 1800s, Poe was exhumed and moved to a more prominent location at the front of the cemetery. This was so those wanting to pay their respects to the famous author of ‘The Raven’ wouldn’t have to go traipsing through the back end, searching for a grave that happened to be unmarked anyway. The monument that stands at the front gate of the cemetery is where Poe now rests. A very visible spot, but sadly, not the one the Toaster chooses to pay tribute to. I’m surprised you two didn’t come across any of this in your research. ”
“You said Poe was buried in an unmarked grave?”
Mr. Swanson nodded. “For a long time, that’s where he remained. He never really had a proper funeral. The original ceremony was very quick and cheap. There were only a few people in attendance, somewhere around eight or nine. Quite sad if you think about it. ”
“Yeah,” Isobel said. “Sad. ”
“Perhaps when Mr. Nethers, our resident Poe expert, returns we can ask him what he knows about it. ”
At his mention of Varen, Isobel glanced up at him and their eyes met.
Yet another well-devised trap she realized too late, because now she couldn’t seem to break away, caught yet again in the unflinching beam of that pleading look she found so impossible to evade.
“You do think we’ll see him again in the near future, don’t you?” he asked.
Isobel started to respond, but no words would come. How could she offer him an answer to that question when she didn’t even have one for herself?
It was going to be like this every day from here on out, she thought. Even if he didn’t hold her behind to question her outright like he had today, as long as Mr. Swanson thought she knew something, as long as he thought she cared, then Isobel knew he would stop at nothing to extract the truth from her.
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Suddenly, with that thought, it dawned on her exactly what it would take in order to deflect him. Before she could give it even one more moment of consideration, Isobel began to speak.
“Look, Mr. Swanson,” she began. “I know there are a lot of rumors floating around about what went on between me and Varen but . . . none of it’s true. For starters, we never went out,” she continued, taking care to keep her gaze squarely on his. “Believe me, that would so never happen. ”
Again, his brows drew in close together. Clearly, her words confused him.
In her chest, her heart began to pound wildly, hard enough and loud enough that she actually feared he might hear. “In fact, we never saw each other outside of class except those times we had to meet for the project. ”
As Mr. Swanson listened, his face grew more and more grim. He didn’t say anything, but Isobel could see a dimness settling in around his sharp gray eyes as well, as though someone had turned down the wattage of his hope.
“To be honest,” she said, plowing on, unable to stop herself, “we didn’t even get along. But I had to put up with it because I needed a passing grade. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to go to Nationals. ” Isobel raised her hand, flashing the championship ring. “When he and I started working on the project together, it turned into this big thing. ” She shrugged. “Something new for everybody to talk about, like we were part of some cheesy reality TV series or something. ”
Isobel paused long enough to draw in a shaky breath. Never in her life had she looked an adult in the face and delivered such a bold-faced string of lies. And yet, never in her life had the act of lying come so effortlessly. Still, she knew that if she wanted to convince him entirely, she couldn’t leave it at that. She had to be sure to eliminate all doubts.
“And ever since he ran off or whatever, everybody seems to think I know where he went,” she said, “but I don’t. Not any more than you do. At this point, I’m just kind of ready to forget about it and move on, you know?”
His gaze dropped from hers, and Isobel felt the tightness in her chest ease a little. A new and more ruthless wrenching came to replace it a moment later, however, as soon as she heard him utter the words, “I’m sorry. ” Crestfallen, he stared down at the floor, his brow knotted. “I didn’t mean to seem presumptuous. I just thought that maybe . . . he might have confided something in you. The two of you seemed to . . . connect on some level. From what I’d witnessed during those weeks, I . . . I was under the impression the two of you had become friends. ”
“It’s no big deal,” Isobel said. “I mean, I know you liked him a lot. ”
Feeling the stinging threat of tears, she began to back away, retracing her steps to the exit. “And I do hope they find him soon. But . . . as far as knowing anything about what happened that night? I’m honestly the last person who would. ”
Isobel turned.
Without another word, she opened the door and slipped out into the empty hall.
GRABBING HER PARKA FROM HER locker, Isobel took the sandwich and soda she’d packed that morning outside and into the vacant courtyard.
It had stopped raining sometime after third period, so it wasn’t difficult to locate a relatively dry patch on one of the stone benches.
She sat with her back to the long spread of large cafeteria windows and hoped that the slender oak, which stood in the center of the yard, would help to obscure her form from view.
With everybody already through the lunch line and seated at tables corresponding to their various social spheres, Isobel wasn’t about to go strolling in there this late, especially since Gwen wouldn’t be waiting for her at their usual table.
The only thing less pleasant than waltzing through the cafeteria right at that moment might have been walking up the steps of a gallows, hands secured at her back, cloth sack draped over her head.
So she’d opted to spend the last ten minutes left of lunch outside in the cold.
The thirty-degree dampness, laced with the occasional sweep of icy wind, didn’t bother her, though. And for once in her life, neither did eating alone.
Aside from wanting to avoid the prying eyes and the unceasing stream of whispers, Isobel needed time to think. Though there was so much swirling around in her head, she wasn’t even sure where to begin.
At least she’d managed to solve one problem for herself among her growing list.
During the next several days leading up to the Baltimore trip, Isobel knew she would be free of Mr. Swanson’s prying glances and prodding questions. From what she could tell, he’d bought the self-absorbed cheerleader bit. Though she’d hated acting that way—like she didn’t have a soul. Like it hadn’t been ripped in two from the day she’d learned Varen hadn’t returned.
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Isobel closed her eyes. She pressed her thumb to the band of her championship ring, which suddenly felt too heavy for her hand. Even though the ring had helped her to seem convincing, Isobel wished she could take it off. She wanted so much to throw it away someplace where she’d never have to look at it again. Because that was the only reason she’d ever put it on to begin with. Not to honor something she’d accomplished, but so she could persuade the world—her parents and teachers, fellow squad members, and classmates—that she hadn’t changed. That a single kiss from a boy who knew how to walk through dreams, who himself now seemed to be a dream, hadn’t irrevocably altered her.
Dropping her hand, Isobel opened her eyes.
Mechanically, she reached for her sandwich, but unable to force herself to take even one bite, she abandoned it for her soda.
Needless to say, the meeting with her English teacher hadn’t left her with much of an appetite. She even felt nauseated, as though all the lies she’d told him had followed her out here and were now trying to claw their way back inside her.
With trembling hands, Isobel popped the tab on her soda.
The sound cracked through the vacant courtyard, startling a nearby group of pigeons. They took off in a flurry, their frenzied flapping causing her to shrink into herself with a shudder.
She took a hurried sip of the soda.
In a way, she was glad Mr. Swanson had asked her to stay after class. If he hadn’t, she might never have found out about the special security setup at the graveyard on the eve of Poe’s birthday, or the hordes of people who gathered to watch. Or that there happened to be two gravestones.
That Reynolds actually had a legion of fans (she wasn’t sure what else to call them) only served to intensify the sickened feeling that continued to roil in the pit of her empty stomach. It grew more intense when she thought of the committee Mr. Swanson had also mentioned, the group apparently dedicated to protecting him.
All of it was certainly going to make her venture into the graveyard that much more difficult. Maybe even impossible.
Despite the combined mixture of anger and panic that the existence of both groups aroused within her, Isobel knew she had no right to blame either for their actions.
Unlike her, they didn’t know what they were dealing with.
Deep down, Isobel knew that every one of them must assume that after the night was over, this dark figure, like them, just went back to being a regular person from somewhere normal like New York City or Pittsburgh or even just down the street. The mystery and the drama, the chance to be a part of the moment itself, was what they sought.
And like the good performer that he was, Reynolds was giving them everything they wanted.
That’s why they protected him.
Up until now, Isobel hadn’t even begun to realize how difficult it was going to be just getting to the graveyard, let alone inside. She’d been so caught up in trying to find a way to Baltimore itself that she hadn’t stopped to consider that the ritual might actually be a tourist attraction.
It made her wonder what time people started gathering. Since Reynolds wouldn’t arrive until after midnight, spectators would probably only begin to accumulate at the gates after dark. And then there was the group inside the church to worry about too.
How was she supposed to slip past them? And how would she even get in to begin with?
Suddenly Isobel found herself wishing Gwen hadn’t cut lunch to meet up with Mikey. She needed to talk right then. She needed Gwen.
Lowering the faux-fur-lined hood of her parka, Isobel risked a quick glance behind her toward the congested and brightly lit cafeteria.
As far as she could tell, no one seemed to notice
she was out here.
She saw Mr. Nott, the cafeteria monitor, drifting between the tables, his hands clasped behind his back like a drill sergeant patrolling a mess hall.
Bending to reach into the front pocket of her backpack, Isobel groped for her phone. She had turned it off earlier that morning, but she knew that Gwen, unable to bear being out of the loop for even a moment regarding anything, usually kept hers on silent.
Isobel decided to send her a quick Mayday text to let her know something was up. Then maybe she could get a hall pass and they could meet in the library sometime next period.
Isobel drew her cell into her lap, using her body to shield the action.
She flipped open the phone, her thumb drifting toward the power button, but she stopped cold, arrested by the face reflected in the cell’s darkened LCD screen.
He stood just behind her, peering down over her left shoulder.
His eyes, black, met hers through the screen, their gaze piercing, cold.
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Varen.
14
Twisted
She had seen him. She knew she had.
One moment he’d been there, his gray-toned image mirrored in the screen of her cell phone as though he’d been standing mere inches behind her. Close enough to wrap his arms around her. Close enough for her to have felt his breath on her neck or the heat of his body against her back.
But she hadn’t felt anything.
Then, when she’d turned around, there’d been nothing there. No one. Just the wind, the cold, and the ashen oak.
Isobel had checked her phone again, but Varen’s reflection had vanished.
Too shocked to think, she forgot about texting Gwen.
The bell rang and, dazed, she returned to class.
That afternoon during cheer practice, Varen’s face, so close, so clear, continued to haunt her.
“IS-O-BEL!” Coach’s voice, amplified through the squad’s blue-and-gold megaphone, slammed through Isobel’s concentration.
“C’mon!” Coach yelled. “Up and at ’em, Lanley! You’re not going to start that space-case business again, are you?” Coach waved her toward where the rest of the squad stood waiting, already lined up in their stunting formations. “Break’s over. Just because the competition season ended doesn’t mean it’s time to slack off. ”
