Nevermore

“I was on the phone,” she answered, having had the excuse ready.

“Everything all right?”

“Yep!” She flashed a smile.

“Okay.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, but didn’t turn to leave.

“Okay,” she echoed, and pressed the door shut.

“Listen,” he said, jamming the door with his foot again, “you didn’t hear anything on the roof, did you? Mom says she thought she might have heard that raccoon again.”

“No!” Isobel answered quickly—maybe too quickly. She tried to wipe her face clear of any knowing. “No,” she repeated. “Nothing.”

“Well,” he said, “do you mind if I take a look?”

“Dad!” she screeched. She pushed his foot out with her own, then clamped the door shut in his face.

“Just wait till I’m in the shower! I am naked!”

“Okay! Okay! I’ll wait, I’ll wait!”

Isobel stood another moment at the door, her ear pressed against it, listening. After the sound of quiet shuffling, she cracked it again and saw him tromp down the stairs, muttering to himself.

She shut the door and turned the lock, then padded back to the window and heaved it open.

“What are you doing?” she hissed into the darkness.

She could see him at the roof’s ledge, inching backward toward her window crab-style, until he had at least a foot between him and the drop-off.

Isobel pulled herself out through the window. She crouched on the sill and leaned out into the sharp air, a chilly wind whipping through her hair as she watched him rise to a standing position.

He stepped sideways up the slanted roof toward her, one foot carefully following the other as he moved with all the agility of a tightrope walker.

Varen said nothing as he drew nearer, his jet-black hair stirring ever so slightly in the wind. He bent down along the way and scooped up the small nylon satchel that had snagged on the upturned roofing tile. When he came near enough, he grabbed hold of the window ledge and pulled himself forward. For the briefest moment, they came face-to-face. Their eyes locked.

Then he broke the stare, swiveled, and sank into a sitting position, chains clanking, with his knees up.

She watched him speechlessly as he set a cooler bag between his boots, like he was settling down to a picnic or something. An image of the contents as hospital blood bags, complete with juice-box straws, flashed through her mind.

Unfolding her legs, she made herself as comfortable as she could on the cold outer edge of the sill.

An intangible and unnameable charge electrified the space between them, and at first, neither one of them said anything. Another breeze rustled past, shaking the tree limbs and lacing the air with the spicy scent of dead leaves and chimney smoke.

Finally she heard him unzip the bag and watched him pull out a small cylinder.

“I thought you might like some crappy ice cream,” he said.

As Isobel’s eyes fixed on the carton, something inside of her broke. She felt it, a landslide. A flood of warmth followed, causing the tips of her fingers to burn against the cold frost of the carton as she accepted it with one hand.

In the dim light streaming from her room, she could discern little monkeys swinging on vines across the package. BANANA FUDGE SWIRL, the label read, and she felt a twisty sensation that came from the realization that he’d actually remembered.

Next he held out a spoon for her, staring at her from behind the curve of white plastic with such intensity that it frightened her. She felt an unfurling sensation through her whole body, like she was experiencing the first drop of a roller coaster—one that was sure to have a lot of loops up ahead.

Isobel took the spoon slowly, a gesture that seemed to carry with it some sort of immense weight that she didn’t exactly understand yet. His eyes fell away, releasing her.

A curious smile threatened to crack at one side of her mouth as she watched him pry open a carton of his own. He pulled another spoon from the nylon bag, then wordlessly dug in.

Isobel took a bite too, savoring the combination of banana and chocolate.

She couldn’t keep her eyes off his hands, those long fingers that, in their movement, held a grace all their own. His silver rings glinted in the light from her window, and she focused on his knuckles before clearing her throat to speak.

“That was Gwen Daniels on the phone,” she blurted, shattering the silence that had become, at least for her, unbearable. “She told me that you tried to keep Brad from taking stuff out of my locker. Is that why you called me?”

“Partly,” he admitted.

“Is that why you’re here now?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Her stomach clutched. She waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. She looked down into her carton of ice cream, pushing her spoon through, creating little paths and mountains.

“She, uh, said that he, um . . . Are you okay?” she asked.

He scowled up at her, looking genuinely affronted. She returned his stare, refusing to take back the question even though it seemed as if he was just as stubbornly going to refuse to acknowledge it.