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Isobel brought her hands up to her face, rubbing, not caring if she smudged her mascara. That wasn’t him. He’d been beyond himself. She might have been too had things been reversed.
Anyone would have.
She sighed, feeling suddenly so tired. How had it all come down to this? So much had gotten in the way, and now, after everything, they were both going to fail the project.
“You’re home early.”
Isobel stopped rubbing her face. She spread her fingers and opened her eyes to see her father standing in the doorway, dressed in torn jeans and the red flannel shirt she sometimes liked to steal. His arms were folded, a stance that made Isobel want to reply with something sarcastic. She settled instead on ignoring him.
Opening the zipper on her backpack, she lifted her notebook out, realizing she at least still had her list of quotes, even if their poster-board pictures and index cards had been left on Varen’s bedroom floor. Would he remember to bring them? Did he even care anymore?
For a split second, Isobel imagined she could try and fake the presentation for both of them. Maybe she could pull it off. Maybe. If she stayed up all night. But quotes alone wouldn’t be nearly enough to get by on.
“Isobel.”
The sound of her father’s voice irritated her. Couldn’t he take the hint? She wasn’t ready to talk to him yet. Most of all, she wasn’t in the mood for an “I’m just looking out for you”
lecture.
“Did you get your project finished?” he asked.
Pretending she hadn’t heard the question, she opened the Poe book. She stared down at the tiny words printed in close rows. If she stayed up, how far would she get? Whatever the case, she couldn’t hope to get anywhere with her dad standing over her, breathing down her neck like this.
“I said, did you get your project finished?”
“No,” she said, “we didn’t. How could we when everybody’s dad keeps interrupting?”
She pushed the notebook away, disgusted, and folded her arms on the table. She dropped her face into the cool, dark space they made. She stayed there, listening to the sound of her own breathing, something about it oddly calming. She heard her father’s footsteps and the scooting of a kitchen chair over the tile. As he sat down, she caught a whiff of shower gel and aftershave.
“Something happen that you want to talk about?”
“No,” she mumbled into her arms. Definitely not. Besides the fact that she wouldn’t know where to start, she couldn’t think of anything to tell him that wouldn’t just give him another reason to ground her until college. If she even decided to go to college—and there was another argument entirely.
“Well, did you get anything done?”
His tone was curious rather than pushy, and it made her wonder why he was being so nice.
She groaned, rocking her forehead back and forth against her arms, halfway to say no and halfway to clear her thoughts. She was too tired to keep being angry at him. It took too much effort. “It’s no use,” she muttered. “We’re done for.”
“That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think? Are you giving up?”
Isobel shrugged. Maybe, since their paper was done, they’d at least get half credit? That way she’d still pass her junior year, even if it meant she wouldn’t be a cheerleader when she did. With another pang in her stomach, Isobel thought about Nationals, about the squad going to Dallas without her, Alyssa taking her spot as middle flyer. She released another sigh, this one mixed with a growl, her hands clenching into fists. How was this fair? How was it right when they’d honestly tried?
“Is there something I can do?” he asked.
“Not unless you can work miracles.”
She heard the Poe book slide against the table and then the sound of pages being flipped in chunks. Isobel peeked up at him with one suspicious eye, watching as he settled at last on the
“Ultima Thule” portrait of Poe.
“He sure was a weird dude, wasn’t he?” he murmured, more to himself, Isobel thought, than to her.
She raised her head slowly, staring hard at her father.
“Weird-looking, too,” he commented.
Isobel’s hand shot out. She gripped her father’s arm. He looked at her in alarm.
