Nevermore

She teetered forward from the weight of her book bag and slammed to her knees. She picked herself up again, stumbling, scrambling, running even as her body begged her to stop.

The chains that held the swinging gate shut rattled behind her. Whispers and hisses. Someone laughed, but the sound morphed into a high-pitched shriek. She heard a splintering shatter—like a crash of plates.

She dared not turn around.

To her left and right, familiar houses zoomed by, looking like shocked faces in the low street light.

She tore past them, and even as her own house drew into view, she did not slow. She willed her body to keep moving in spite of her screaming muscles, the torturous ache in her lungs.

“Isssobel.”

The sound of her name whisked by her, caught by the wind and then lost in the rush of leaves scattering around her feet. She had heard it, though. Her name. Someone had whispered her name.

That, at last, stopped her and brought her stuttering to a halt at the edge of her front yard. She wheeled around, eyes scanning. She gasped for breath, sucking down air in huge gulps.

She peeled her backpack off and, mustering every bit of strength she had left, threw it onto the ground. It made a dull thud sound as the book within slammed to the cold, hard turf.

Whoever it was had said her name. That meant they knew her.

As though triggered by the flip of a switch, rage replaced her fear.

“Who’s there?” she shouted, heaving. “Who is it? Why don’t you just come out?”

She wiped her running nose with her sleeve, not caring.

“Brad?” she roared toward the oak in Mrs. Finley’s yard. “Mark? I know you’re there!” This she turned on a row of shrubs lining Mr. Anchor’s white fence.

“Brad, if that’s you, this isn’t funny, I swear to God it’s not! Wherever you are—whoever you are

—!” As she shouted, Isobel bent down despite her wooziness and hauled up from the leaf-strewn grass a thick and gnarled branch. She swung it, teetering. “Come out already!” She waved the limb through the air again, swiping. “Come out so I can take this stick and shove it straight up your—”

“Isobel!”

Whirling, Isobel dropped the stick. It cracked against the asphalt.

Her mother leaned out the front door, her form cast in the buttery glow of the porch light. Arms crossed, tucked in against the cold, she squinted at Isobel, her expression undergoing a strange battle between concern and outrage.

12

The Invisible Visible

In that moment, all Isobel wanted to do was run to her mom, cry on her, and tell her everything. She wanted her dad to search the yard, call the cops, and have them shut down the park. And right then, with her mom watching her like that, and the energy draining from her limbs, making her feel so tired, Isobel found she didn’t care anymore about getting in trouble. Maybe she wanted to stay inside for the rest of her life.

Just as she was about to collapse onto the grass, release the waterworks, and let the confessions fly, Danny’s voice broke out from the side of the house. “You tell ’em, Iz!” he shouted. Her head jerked up, and she saw him trudging toward her, huffing, his belly wobbling beneath his white T-shirt.

Behind him, like a disobedient dog, he pulled along one of the large plastic trash cans they kept on the back porch. Isobel watched, only vaguely aware that her mouth had dropped open.

Danny sent a cheerful wave toward their mom, who had stepped out onto the porch. Snorting, he said, “That raccoon again.”

“What are you two doing?” her mom said. Her arms remained folded. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, eyeing them both. “Somebody better tell me what’s going on out here.”

Isobel’s numb gawk shifted away from her brother, to her mother, and back to her brother.

“It’s all good, Mom,” Danny assured her as he drew the huge trash can to sit right next to the mailbox, grunting and puffing. He patted the lid. “Just taking out the trash. Thought we’d do it before dinner so we wouldn’t have to in the morning.” He beamed.

“Isobel?” Her mom’s voice sounded as though it were coming from inside a bottle.

Isobel tried to work her mouth, feeling like a fish that had flopped out of its tank.

“She’s helping me,” Danny answered for her.

Isobel found it easier to nod than to talk.

“And,” Danny continued, “that stupid raccoon came back again. Damn raccoon!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the neighborhood.

“Danny!”

“Sorry, Mom. Darn raccoon!” he yelled.

“Both of you,” her mom snapped, “get in here. Right now. You can finish taking out the trash after dinner, Danny. Not you, Isobel. You look like death warmed over. Get inside before you get sick.”

When their mother turned away to open the screen door for them, Isobel felt Danny’s elbow shoot into her side, causing her to jump with a residual jolt of adrenaline. Where the hell were you? he mouthed. But he didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he scowled and, shaking his head, hustled into the house and past their mom. Isobel drifted toward the open door and her worried mother. She wiped her nose on her sleeve again, sniffing.