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.
