Nevermore

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Isobel said, trying to resurrect her smile. He held his arms open for a hug, and Isobel reached over the top of the gate and stood on her toes to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “Thanks, Daddy,” she said, pulling him tight and kissing his cheek.

“Be good and keep your phone on,” he said, shoving his own phone back into his pocket. “And don’t forget to check on Brad.”

“I won’t,” she promised.

He turned away and Isobel watched him as he went, blending into the crowd.

She felt her heart sink as she lowered her heels to the ground. She wished she could call him back, that she could tell him the truth. That he would believe her.

“Okay, for real,” Nikki said as soon as he was out of earshot. “What was that all about?”

After Isobel’s dad left, Gwen went off to change and meet up with Mikey in the parking lot. In the meantime, the squad took their position on the field, ready to once again perform the Nationals routine. Isobel, on the sidelines, waited for the music to start before telling Nikki she would be right back and sliding from the bench. She heard the familiar beats blast through the stadium speakers, and she couldn’t help mentally tracing through her moves.

She could hear the crowd’s cheering escalate (probably for the back tuck the squad did in a fanning wave), and slipped behind the brick siding of the home-side stands. She trailed her hand along the Hawk emblem painted over brick, moving more quickly now that she was out of direct sight, and hurried toward the entrance to the football locker room.

Coach Logan’s voice grated loudly from within. Could he still be yelling at the team?

Isobel drew up to the entrance and placed one hand on the archway, huddling up close to listen. She certainly didn’t have to strain to hear.

“Now I don’t know what you ballerinas are doing out there, but that scoreboard better change in this next quarter, or so help me, I’ll scout JV for replacements! And Borgon, I hope I don’t need to tell you again that when you catch the damn ball, you’re supposed to hold on to it! You got that? Is that clear? Now all of you, get your butts out there and turn this thing around!”

A unanimous scuffling noise came from within, players rushing off their benches. Isobel had to step back as a burst of team members emerged, escaping through the archway like steam from a pressure cooker. They shouldered and bumped their way through the door and past one another. Silent and moody, not a one of them seemed to notice her. She stood to one side, her back against the cold concrete wall. She hoped to remain invisible as she searched each back for the number twenty-one.

Brad’s number was not among them, though. He must still be inside the locker room. Isobel waited, and after a moment, Coach Logan came out. He turned and looked right at her, his ruddy face contorting into what she took as a dirty look. Isobel, resisting the urge to glower back, concentrated instead on the space between her sneakers while he stormed off toward the field.

Isobel left the wall. She slipped quietly into the narrow doorway and down the three steps that led into the locker room. The air here turned humid, saturated with the smell of sweat, grass, and dirt.

When she took in a breath, the air felt thick in her lungs, as though it held no oxygen. It was like entering a sauna.

Brad sat alone on a bench in the middle, his helmet in his hands, head hung, his hair plastered with sweat to his forehead. Wet, his hair was the color of old pennies.

Isobel stepped toward him, surprised when he didn’t look up.

“Brad,” she said, announcing herself, her voice even.

His stare remained fixed on his helmet. He turned it slowly in his hands until he was looking into the inside.

“Brad,” she repeated, and moved in farther, something about the cooling sheen of sweat over his skin making the blister on his upper lip redden. Or was it that he seemed suddenly so pale?

She stopped to stand in front of him, her eyes falling to peer into his helmet, at the black foam padding lining the inside. She lowered herself to crouch in front of him and placed her hands on his wrists. She looked up, into his face. “Brad, are you okay?”

His eyes lifted to hers, and Isobel felt a surge of terror. Dilated pupils, wide and black, eclipsed almost entirely the bright blue of his irises, so they appeared as no more than thin halos, slim rings of color around two holes of unreflective blackness.

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, and shook away from her as he stood. Knocked off balance, Isobel stumbled to her feet. He spun from her, moving for the door.

“Brad, wait!”

“Tell them to leave me alone!” he shouted, and ran up the stairs.

Shocked, Isobel watched him retreat through the archway. She ran to catch up, climbing the three steps, only to find her path blocked. Mark. He glared at her, helmet in hand, his face stern and set, a smear of black paint streaked beneath each eye.