The run through the park. The voice in the attic. She wasn’t crazy—or maybe she was? Isobel funneled her focus onto a single black knot in the wood as she tried to recall something else Reynolds had told her. What he’d said about . . .
“Varen?” she asked breathlessly.
She stood abruptly and looked into the seat next to hers. She saw only their paper, bound neatly in a plastic report cover. She watched dully as all the others began piling on top, burying the neat Gothic typeface he’d chosen for the title. She looked up, her eyes locking on his desk in the corner. Empty. His satchel, his black book—gone.
32
Pinfeathers
Halfway out the door, Isobel slammed into her father, the makeshift raven flopping off his shoulder and once again onto the floor.
“Hey, whoa, Iz! I’m still here.” He gripped her shoulders to steady her. “How do you think we did? Hey, listen”—he dropped one arm to check his watch—“I better get on to the office so I can be back to pick you up before the game.” He bent to get the bird, and before Isobel could utter a syllable, six-foot-something Bobby Bailey stepped between them, blocking Isobel completely.
“Hey, man, that was awesome,” he said, engaging her father in a complicated series of handshakes and fist bumps.
“Hey, thanks,” her dad replied, navigating through the grips and punches as best as he could. “Uh, glad you thought so . . . man.”
Isobel peered down the hall both ways, searching for Varen’s familiar dark figure. Not seeing him, she elbowed Bobby aside. “Dad, this is important. Did you see which way Varen went?”
Bobby butted fists with her father one last time before passing on. Her dad, stuffing the bird under one arm, frowned. “Yeah,” he said, pointing, “he took off down that way. Didn’t even say hi or, you know, thanks.”
“Daddy, thanks. Listen, that was great.” She hugged him quickly, then shoved the boom box into his grasp. “Can you take this for me? I gotta go!” She turned without waiting for a reply and ran off through the crowd, jumping up to see over the tops of bobbing heads. It was at times like these that she hated being so short. She also hated leaving her dad like that, standing in the middle of the chaotic hall, still dressed as Poe and carting around her blue stereo.
At first she didn’t see him. Then the way cleared, and suddenly he was there. Isobel shoved her way through.
“Varen!”
Hadn’t he heard her? She shot after him, almost catching up. She called to him again—why wouldn’t he turn around? He rounded the corner without looking back. She swung around the bend right after him—then skidded to a halt.
He was gone.
He’d been right there in front of her not two seconds ago and now, in the space where he should have stood . . . nothing.
Isobel peeked into the nearest classroom. Vacant. She turned again, this time in a slow circle. Lockers slammed. Somewhere in the distance, she recognized the shouts of her favorite call-and-response chant: “When I say Trenton, you say Hawks! Trenton! Hawks! Trenton! Hawks! When I say down, you say Bulldogs! Down! Bulldogs! Down! Bulldogs!” More students streamed by her, laughing and chattering, no one seeming to have noticed one person’s total evaporation.
When Isobel entered the lunchroom, she found Gwen right away, sitting at their table. Stevie was there too, which wasn’t a big surprise. Someone she hadn’t expected to find, though, sitting at one far end, picking through her untouched taco salad, bedecked in cheerful dangling earrings yet still managing to look mopey, was Nikki.
For a moment their eyes met. Isobel resisted the urge to look away, to steal a glance toward where she knew the crew would be sitting. Or, she corrected herself, where what was left of the crew would be sitting. With Nikki attempting to cross over and merge with the light side (if that indeed was what she was trying to do), Isobel figured the crew should be neatly split somewhere down the middle.
At this newest complication, Isobel found herself more annoyed than anything, wishing Nikki had picked another day. Yesterday, for instance. She didn’t have time for drama right now.
She switched her gaze to Stevie, who waved, no doubt on Nikki’s side for her attempt at a smooth convergence.
“Hey, Iz,” he called, “where’ve you been?”
Isobel came to a stop beside the table, letting her bag drop to the floor. “Long story.”
“You know,” said Gwen, after swallowing a mouthful of what looked to Isobel like a peanut butter and banana sandwich, “I’ve seen that look before. Not on you”—she shook her head—“on somebody else. I think his name was Rambo.”
