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Isobel opened her mouth, not sure what to say. Was Gwen seriously going to sit with her? An overwhelming sense of gratitude welled up inside of her, nearly bringing a sting to her eyes. It was the nicest thing anyone had done for her in more than a week.
“What, were you dropped on your head as a kid?” Gwen railed. “First you hang up on me.” She held up a hand and ticked off fingers. “Then you don’t call me back, then you don’t even show up at your locker this morning to say why you didn’t call me back!”
Isobel chanced a look toward the floor-sitting group that she thought Gwen normally ate with. She received a few curious glances from some scraggly bearded guys and more than a few sneers from the bandanna-wearing girls.
“Hey, Earth to Isobel.” Gwen banged her spoon against Isobel’s tray. “Why the snap-crackle-pop didn’t you call me back?”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I forgot.”
“Well, I’m about to ‘Oh I’m sorry’ forget to tell you what I found out this morning.”
“Uh. What?”
Gwen grinned. Looking self-satisfied, she folded her arms. “No, I’m not tell—” but she stopped, her eyes growing round. Something over Isobel’s shoulder had caught her attention.
“Oh my.”
Isobel twisted in her seat. A hush fell over the entire cafeteria. All eyes focused on Mr. Nott, the assistant principal, who’d entered through the double doors, Brad on one side of him, a dark, familiar figure on the other.
“Oh, no,” Isobel said. She pressed both hands against the table and pushed herself up to get a better look. At the sight of him, a thrill of excitement mixed with nervousness surged through her. She scanned him, taking an inventory of all appendages and searching for any sign of bruises or blood or evidence of a fractured skull. His face still looked as perfect as it had the previous night, smooth and calm. Brad, however, stood scowling, his shoulders tensed, his hands clenched into fists.
The two boys broke away from Mr. Nott and strode in opposite directions, ignoring each other as well as the countless stares. Brad headed for the crew’s usual spot, while Varen, bypassing his own table, moved straight for her.
“Holy granola. He’s coming over here,” Gwen whispered, hands flapping, knocking over her yogurt cup.
Isobel took in a sharp breath as she watched him approach.
A brown paper lunch bag hit the tabletop. “Mind if I join you,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Gwen, in a flurry, scrambled to move down one seat.
“Hey,” he offered to Gwen as he slid onto the bench next to her, directly across from Isobel.
“Shalom,” she said, raising a hand.
“What the hell is that?” asked Varen. He nodded at Isobel’s tray.
Isobel sat stunned for a moment, her brain flatlining when she felt his knee brush hers. “Uh.” She shook her head. Why couldn’t she think straight? She glanced down at the soupy contents of her plate. Just tell him what it is. Simple. Look at it and say what it is. “Sloppy Joe,” she managed.
“Hmm,” he said, sounding doubtful. “May he rest in peace.”
“So, I don’t mean to be rude,” Gwen interjected, “but are you going to tell us what that was all about or what?” She jabbed a thumb toward the door through which he and Brad had entered.
Isobel’s eyes darted to Varen. Gwen, unlike her, seemed to have the audacious ability to jump in there and ask the hot-button questions. The girl was really starting to grow on her.
Varen sat very still, staring Gwen down in that withering way that always left Isobel wishing she could blend into the furniture. After an immeasurable moment, he blinked slowly and, turning back to Isobel, said, “Apparently, during football practice yesterday, somebody overturned your boy’s car in the school parking lot.”
“What?” Isobel and Gwen shouted in unison.
Several sets of eyes shot in their direction. The three of them ducked their heads and turned to their lunches. Gwen tore her grilled cheese sandwich in half. Isobel poked at her fruit salad with her fork, while Varen pulled a small Tupper-ware container out of the paper bag.
Isobel leaned forward over the table. “That’s what he must have meant last night,” she whispered.
His eyes locked on hers, causing a mosh-pit sensation to erupt in her stomach. When he looked at her like that, it was like he was trying to communicate through some form of telepathy. It was a language she wished she held the power to decipher.
“How did I not know about this?” Gwen wondered aloud. “And what? He’s trying to say that it was you?” She dipped an apple slice into her yogurt.
“I spent the better part of the last hour in Finch’s office being questioned. With your ex and his old man there, let me tell you, it was a real party,” he said.
“They seriously think you could have done that?” asked Isobel.
