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A victorious smirk tugged at one side of his mouth.
Isobel slammed her locker closed.
“Ah!” she yelped, her notebook landing on the floor.
Varen. Right behind where the door to her locker had stood open. His eyes, calm to the point of emptiness, seemed to stare straight through her.
“Would you not do that!” she piped.
He said nothing, just stood there and stared, like she’d suddenly gone transparent or something.
“What?” she demanded.
He moved to walk past her and Isobel thought about telling him off right then and there, in front of the whole hall, for trying to pull this Dawn of the Dead crap with her.
That was when she felt his hand, which still held the morning’s chill, slip against hers.
Isobel’s breath caught in her throat, and her eyes widened.
What did he think he was doing? What if someone saw?
He pressed something into her palm. Her fingers curled to secure it and, for the briefest moment, clenched his.
In the next, he moved on, and she felt herself turning to stare after him, rubbing her thumb over the smooth slip of folded paper.
She felt it crinkle in her hand as she watched his back, clad in a dark green mechanic’s jacket. On a piece of white fabric, safety-pinned to the jacket, was the silhouette of a dead bird lying on its back, its legs crooked upward.
He walked to the group of goths standing in front of the window by the radiator and, lifting a hand, touched the shoulder of a dark-haired, copper-skinned girl. She turned, a sultry smile gracing her full, darkly painted lips. She had a red envelope in her hand, which she held out to Varen.
As the crowded hallway absorbed them, Isobel felt as though someone were lifting their finger off the slow-mo button.
She took a cautious look around to see if anyone had noticed, then casually pretended that there was something she’d forgotten in her locker and reopened it. It swung out without a fuss this time and she leaned in, unfolding the piece of notebook paper inside the darkened space.
They know you lied.
At first Isobel wasn’t sure what it meant. When had she lied and to whom? And how would he even know? That thought in particular sent a chilling spark running along her spine and tingling through her shoulders. Maybe Nikki had been right. Maybe he was trying to freak her out.
As if on cue, Nikki strolled by.
“Hey, Nikki! Wait up,” Isobel called, taking a moment to refold the cryptic note and slip it into the pocket of the periwinkle blue cardigan hanging in her locker. She’d worry about it later, she decided, and shut her locker door before giving her number dial a twirl.
When she turned again, though, Nikki had gone.
Had she not heard her?
That seemed unlikely, given she’d passed by less than six feet away.
Something must be up.
There was an ugly, twisty feeling in her stomach as Isobel began to piece the events of that morning together. Suddenly she realized exactly what the note meant.
Her lunch tray in hand, Isobel’s heart hammered in her chest as she neared the crew’s usual spot, a table near the long wall of big windows overlooking the courtyard.
“Here she comes,” she heard Alyssa whisper. In response, all chattering at the table ceased. Nikki examined her nails. Mark swirled the end of his corn dog into a mound of ketchup.
Alyssa, hiding her cell in her lap, tinkered with her messages, and Stevie, suddenly distracted by a group of pigeons in the courtyard, stared out the window. Brad just sat there, not looking at anything. He pursed his lips.
Isobel clutched the sides of her tray in an effort to steady everything from shaking. These were her friends. Why was she so worried?
