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“Well,” he said, “I guess I could drop by on the way home from work. Does Brad need a ride home too?”
“No.”
That did the trick, and her father put down his paper. He eyed her before asking, “You two still getting along okay?”
“Fine, Dad.” She sighed, slouching. “Fine.”
“You sure you’re feeling all right, Izzy? You don’t look so good.”
“Hundredth time, Dad, yeah.”
Apart from losing all her friends in one weekend, being chased by phantom stalkers, and feeling like a sock puppet personified, she was just peachy, Dad, thanks for asking.
“Humph,” he said, flipping his paper back up. He leafed noisily through a series of pages before snapping the paper straight again. “You’ve been acting kind of funny lately.”
“Hormones,” she murmured.
Danny slammed his spoon on the table. “Gross!” he shouted.
Her dad’s only response was a short “Mm.”
Then her mom came in. “You two ready to hit the bricks?”
Eager for an excuse to bolt, Isobel scooped up her broken watch. Pulling on her brown corduroy jacket from the back of her chair, she started for the door. She grabbed her backpack along the way.
“It’s still early. Who wants a ride to the bus stop?” her mom asked. “I think we even have time for drive-through lattes.”
“Me,” Isobel growled in coffee lust, while Danny shook his head and groaned.
At her locker, Isobel tucked a strand of her half-blow-dried, half-air-dried, pillow-crimped hair behind one ear and leaned down to pick up her binder. Next to her, she heard a furious rustle of papers, followed by books clunking. She looked over to see the weird skinny girl, her locker neighbor, on her knees, rooting through an impossible tangle of papers, bracelets clanking.
Wispy and long-necked, she reminded Isobel of a goose. She always wore long, flowing, flowery broom skirts with black leotard pants underneath and fitted sweaters layered over tank tops. She also wore oval-framed glasses and had straight, mouse brown hair so long she could sit on it. The girl usually secured her hair with a bandanna or a low ponytail tied at the nape of her neck.
She wasn’t someone Isobel would normally talk to, but for some reason, at that moment it struck her as kind of funny how they saw each other every day and had never spoken.
Didn’t having lockers together make you at least acquaintances? It was one of those situations where you had to be around someone you wouldn’t normally hang out with.
Like being paired for a project.
“Hey,” Isobel said before she could stop herself. “What are you looking for? Did you lose something?”
“She speaks,” the girl said, “imagine that.” Using both arms, she shoveled the pile of papers into her locker, then rose, angling, using her foot to stomp down the contents. “And she, who drops everything, asks me if I’ve lost something. No, I haven’t lost anything. Except, perhaps, my ability to be surprised.”
Isobel couldn’t help but stare as the girl gripped the sides of her locker, switched feet, and stomped again to compress the papers. She had some sort of New York accent, short, sharp, and a little brutal-sounding. Not at all what she’d expected. Suddenly the girl looked at her. “What did you do to your hair?”
Isobel felt her mouth open and a draft float in. Nice. The most fashion-challenged girl in school had just noticed her hair issues. “Slept on it sort of wet,” she murmured. She set her backpack down and crouched to scrounge through her emergency pouch for a hair tie.
So much for making acquaintances.
“Looks good,” the girl said, shutting her locker door. “Makes you look a little less stuck-up.” With that, she turned away and floated off in a swish of hair and skirts.
O-kay, Isobel thought. Despite the dig, she couldn’t keep from smiling just a little. She took the hair tie and looped it around her wrist. Maybe today wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
That’s when she saw them.
Brad. And Nikki. Walking down the hall— together—in her direction, holding hands.
Oh. My. God.
