“Nikki, no one would have freaked out in the first place if you hadn’t said anything!”
“Whatever,” Nikki said. “Listen, we’re going out for Chinese at Double Trouble. Brad’s coming too.” Nikki’s voice adopted gooey sweetness as she said, “I’m sure if you caaaaalllled him, he’d swing by and pick you uuuuppp.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I have to . . . I have a dentist appointment.” The lie was out before she could stop it.
“Eeww. Bummer,” said Nikki after a beat, though Isobel could hear in her voice that she didn’t buy it. No, Nikki knew her better than that, and Isobel knew that they both knew that it all boiled down to her keeping the holdout on Brad.
Of course, there was that little thing about not being able to tell Nikki that she’d made other plans. Or, more important, who she’d made them with. Even though she hadn’t really made them per se.
Isobel shook her head, her brow creasing. This felt weird, lying to her friends, sneaking around over some stupid project.
“Oh, well,” Nikki said, breaking the awkward silence.
Isobel frowned at the rumpled folds of her pink comforter. Since when had they ever had an awkward silence?
“Anyway,” Nikki went on, “if you get out early or something, give me a ring on my cell.”
Translation: Call me if you change your mind or whenever you decide to stop sulking.
“Okay, later,” Isobel mumbled.
“Later.”
There was a pause, like neither of them really wanted to end the call.
“Bye,” Nikki said.
“Bye,” replied Isobel, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt.
She waited, but this time, Nikki hung up.
That afternoon Isobel got a ride to the library from her dad. He dropped her off by the side entrance, near the old solemn-faced statue of Abraham Lincoln, saying he’d be back to pick her up some time around three, after his haircut appointment.
Isobel hurried up the stairs and barely waved good-bye to her dad before heading inside to begin her search for Varen. After spending nearly fifteen minutes scouring through the stacks and checking the study rooms, she finally found him on the second floor.
It was obvious he’d purposely picked a spot well out of sight, sequestered away in a far-off corner just beyond the 800s. Feeling more than just a little agitated by this, Isobel made a point of dropping her purse on the table right in front of where he sat reading, lost in the open spread of some gigantic tome.
He glanced up with his eyes only, glaring at her past the ridge of his leveled brow. A soft glint from the desk lamps ran liquid smooth down the curve of his lip ring.
She twiddled her fingers at him in a wave. Ha, the gesture seemed to say, found you.
He stared at her as she lowered herself into the cushiony swivel seat across from his, and in turn, she eyed the enormous tome he’d been absorbed in.
“So.” She cleared her throat. “What are we doing?”
He did the prolonged silence thing again, like he needed the time to contemplate whether or not to banish her from his sight.
“We,” he said at last, “are doing our project on Poe.”
He shifted the huge book around and scooted it toward her, one finger indicating a black-and-white thumbnail photograph. The image portrayed was of a gaunt, deep-browed man with unruly hair and a small black-comb mustache. His eyes looked sad, desperate, and wild all at the same time. Sunken and pooled by enormous dark circles, they seemed to ache with sorrow.
To Isobel, he looked like a nicely dressed mental patient in need of a nap.
She sank farther into her chair, picking at the pages. “Didn’t he marry his cousin or something?”
“The man is a literary god and that’s all you have to say?”
She shrugged and grabbed a book from the stack on the table. She opened it, then flipped through the pages, glancing up at him. He leaned forward over the table and scribbled something onto a yellow steno notepad, which sat atop his black hardbound book. Her eyes fell to the book. She couldn’t help wondering if it was some sort of journal or something and why he seemed to carry it with him wherever he went.
“Who’s Lenore?” she asked, turning another page.
He stopped writing, looked up. Stared.
What? Had she said something wrong?
“His dead love,” he replied finally.
“Poe’s?”
“The narrator’s.”
“Oh,” she said, wondering if there was a difference but knowing better than to ask.
