Nevermore

“Oh my gosh,” Gwen said suddenly. She dropped the tape, her gaze locking on Stevie, who froze, a forkful of spaghetti hovering inches from his open mouth. “What are you wearing underneath that?”

she asked, pointing at his sweatshirt.

Stevie shot a quick look at Isobel, a loud and clear cry for help.

“Oh, sorry, sorry,” Gwen said, hands flapping. “What I mean is that I need to borrow your sweatshirt, and I wanted to make sure you had something on underneath.”

“You want to borrow my shirt?” asked Stevie. He pressed his hands down on his shoulders, as though in an effort to keep the sweatshirt in place.

“Just until after tomorrow. You got a T-shirt on underneath that, right?”

“Well, yeah, but—” Gwen hopped up and crossed to Stevie’s side. Lifting one corner of the sweatshirt, she started peeling it away from the yellow T-shirt underneath. “Thanks a ton,” she said as she yanked it over his head. “This is exactly what I need.”

Stevie sat stunned, his short, dark brown hair alive with static electricity. Isobel gaped as Gwen wrangled the cuffs off Stevie’s wrists, then wadded the sweatshirt into a bundle before plopping down next to him. From there, she scooted over her tray, grabbed her pudding dish, and dug in with her spoon.

Isobel rolled her eyes. Shaking her head, she mouthed Sorry to Stevie, whose gaze darted from her to Gwen. As he watched Gwen finish off her pudding in three humongous bites, his expression wavered, as though he couldn’t decide if he had a good taste in his mouth or a bad one.

“So what are we talking about that’s so serious? Oh, that looks so good,” said Gwen, pointing at Isobel’s plate with her pudding spoon. “I shoulda got the pizza today. Are you finished with that?”

“No!” Isobel snapped. She slid her tray away from Gwen and picked up the slice of pizza again. She bit down just as a long shadow settled over the table.

“Trying to break your own record?” a quiet voice asked.

The pizza slipped from Isobel’s hands, tumbling onto her plate, dripping sauce on her chin. She grabbed her wadded-up napkin and pressed it to her mouth, gulping the bite down whole.

Gwen elbowed Stevie, who slid down one space. Gwen slid down too, allowing Varen to take the seat across from Isobel. She caught a faint whiff of his scent, something she had never paid much attention to before, but now tried to analyze. It was peaty and rich, but somehow still delicate. He dropped a clipped stack of papers between them.

“You finished it,” she said. She grabbed the essay and read the title page: The Man Behind “The Raven”: The Life, Death, and Major Works of Edgar Allan Poe An Essay by Isobel Lanley and Varen Nethers

“Wow, it looks great,” she said, eyes meeting his again. She’d almost gotten used to finding them within the forest of his dark hair. “You really don’t think he’ll suspect?”

“Doubt it,” he said. “Just be sure to read it over.”

Isobel nodded. She thought that maybe reading it more than once would be her best bet, in case Swanson came back around and wanted to know exactly which parts she’d contributed. She opened the front cover of the Poe book and slipped the paper beneath it.

“So, you guys are doing this project on Poe?” Stevie asked, his tone conversational.

Varen turned to stare at him, as though he’d only just noticed Stevie’s presence. Stevie, in turn, seemed to shrink into himself, his gaze dropping to his tray, as though he feared any prolonged eye contact might turn him to stone.

“Varen, this is Stevie,” said Isobel. “He’s on the squad with me.” Translation: He’s cool. “Stevie, this is Varen.”

Stevie raised one hand. Varen nodded, and the momentary razor edge to his demeanor ebbed away.

“Yeah,” he said, “we’re doing it on Poe.”

“Hey, wasn’t that the guy who married his cousin or somethin’?” Gwen said before chomping down on a Granny Smith apple, half leaning, half scooting in so that her shoulder pressed against Varen’s in heedless disregard of his personal space perimeters and unspoken no-touch policy. The table went quiet except for Gwen’s horse chewing, which was happening in close proximity to Varen’s left ear.

Isobel had to press her lips together to keep from smiling. Glancing at Stevie, she saw that his eyebrows had shot clear to the ceiling.

Varen seemed to take Gwen’s close proximity in stride. He turned his head slowly to stare down at her, glancing first to where their shoulders connected, and then directly into her intrusive gaze.

Isobel waited for Gwen to disintegrate, dematerialize, or melt. Instead she aimed a finger at Varen’s nose, the finger belonging to the hand that held the half-chomped apple. “Don’t tell me he didn’t,” she said. She shook her finger at him. “’Cause I know he did.”

Varen’s stare remained, punctuated by a few slow, plaintive blinks.

Gwen looked thoughtful and added, “And wasn’t he the one who sliced off his ear and mailed it to his girlfriend?”

“Van Gogh,” said Varen, in a monotone that suggested he might be in pain.