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The stench of spoiled milk and rotten food filled her nostrils, making her gag. She coughed and clamped a hand over her nose and mouth. She grew still and waited, listening even though her ears could pick up only the sound of her own ragged breathing and the shift of plastic bags and compacting trash. She hoped those noises were a result of her own body weight and not the scampering of rats.
Closing her eyes, she held her breath and waited.
When she finally popped her head out of the Dumpster, she sucked in gasps of oxygen, hoping Varen’s stepmother had moved on from the area.
After climbing out of the Dumpster, she retrieved the bike and began to pedal homeward, as fast as her legs could carry her, praying the whole way that her mother had not yet opened the door to her bedroom.
HIDING DANNY’S BIKE IN THE backyard bushes, Isobel hurried up the lattice on the side of her house. She made her way across the slanted roof ledge, her legs weak from having pedaled so hard and so far. She slid her window open and climbed back in the way she’d left.
The alarm clock sitting on top of her cubbyhole headboard had already gone off, blasting a continuous and shrill tone, the numbers blinking 6:33.
“—sobel!” her mother’s voice boomed from somewhere downstairs.
Isobel slammed her window shut and turned her head to look toward the door when she heard footsteps on the stairs.
Shedding her coat, she scrambled into her bed, tossing the covers over her head. She heard her doorknob wiggle and yanked off the black ski cap, stuffing it under her pillow the instant before her door swung open.
“Izzy!” her mother called into the room. “Glad to finally see you getting some sleep, but can we please shut this thing off?”
Isobel peeked over her comforter. She did her best to slow her breathing, careful to keep her body concealed so her mother wouldn’t see that she was fully dressed.
Stopping at her bedside, her mother reached over Isobel’s head to hit the alarm’s snooze button.
“There,” she said with a sigh, and ran a hand through her hair, which had been combed and curled. In place of her usual nightgown and slippers, her mother wore a wool skirt and her moss-green cashmere sweater. “C’mon,” she said, giving Isobel’s leg a double tap. “Let’s go. Danny’s got a teacher conference this morning, so I’m giving you both a ride to school. Up and at ’em. We need to leave early.”
Isobel nodded. “I’m awake,” she said.
Her mother walked away but stopped at the door and turned to look back, her nose crinkled. “What’s that smell?” she asked. “Have you been leaving food up here?”
Isobel rolled over onto her side, feigning grogginess. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll get it in a sec.”
“You do that,” her mom said. “I don’t know how you can stand it. And no more snacks in the bedroom, please. You know better.”
With that, her mom bustled out. Isobel waited half a beat and then sat up, kicking back the covers. She was about to make a beeline for the bathroom when her brother’s voice broke from the hall.
“Shower dibs!” he shouted, his words punctuated by the slamming of the bathroom door.
GWEN SET HER TRAY ON the table in front of Isobel’s. Hiking her skirts, she threaded legs, clad in black spandex and gray legwarmers, through the picnic-table-style bench and sat with a sigh that seemed to say at last. Her hands fluttered over her tray, fingers twiddling as she searched for her fork and knife, as though she were a magician about to perform her first trick.
Locating her fork, Gwen prepared to stab her salad. She paused, though, and glanced up slowly.
“You know,” she said, “if you wanted to sit by yourself today, all you had to do was ask.”
Isobel leaned an elbow against the table. She put a hand to her forehead, her shoulders sagging. Her eyelids fell closed as though weighted by sandbags, and it felt good to block out the stinging glare of the fluorescents, even if only for a moment.
“Is it that bad?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“It’s bad,” Gwen said. “What happened? Been spending quality time with your brother?”
Isobel kneaded the bridge of her nose between her finger and thumb. “Long story.”
“Mm,” Gwen said. “Would have been better, I think, if you hadn’t spritzed the body spray over it. You know when somebody tries to cover up a fart by lighting a candle?”
“Gwen?”
“Eh?” she said, popping a cherry tomato into her mouth.
“Not today, please.”
