Kelly Creagh - Nevermore

Isobel prepared for the lift.

They hoisted her up, and the ground dropped away. She felt herself extend upward, like the stem of a flower shooting for the sun, her roots below her, stuck in the earth.

Coach screamed out the count as she went up. “Four, five,” and they dipped her down on five, preparing for the launch. “Six!” They popped her into the air. Yes!

Twisting once, twice, freewheeling. Her world became a spinning kaleidoscope of blurred faces, of blue and gold and bright white lights. An all-too-quick half turn, and she felt the catch. She dipped into her V position, one arm clamping around Nikki’s back, the other wrapped around Alyssa. They set her to the floor.

“That was good, Iz,” Coach said, sounding a bit more relaxed. “Let’s keep it up—get it? Keep it up?” A collective groan arose from the squad. “Okay. This time with the music, boys and girls.”

Isobel tugged her practice shorts down and got into position while Coach Anne went to fool with the CD player, her frizzy grizzly-bear hair springing with each step and her loafers squeaking against the gymnasium floor.

Nikki shifted into place directly behind Isobel, who could feel Nikki’s eyes chiseling into the back of her skull.

When the pumping music started and the right beat came along, Isobel swiveled about-face to stare directly at Nikki, whose normally mirthful, cheer-ready blues glared ice.

“Why did you lie about it?” she hissed.

Well, Isobel thought, at least it seemed they were on speaking terms again.

The intro beat to the music thumped low, building in volume, and their arms lifted high while their heels pounded the floor. “Because! You run and tell everything!”

“Not when it’s important!”

“Yeah, and you’re the one who gets to decide when something’s important!”

It really wasn’t feasible to do much more talking than that. The electronic music sped up and every beat got a kick, a turn, or a flip. Coach liked flashy formation changes too, so they moved into a lot of shapes, breaking apart, fanning out, and making new configurations.

When it came time for Isobel’s big flip, the bases stood ready for her.

Four, five, up! Two quick twists came right in time with the singer’s “Woo-hoo!” but in the middle of her second revolution, for a split second, Isobel thought she saw something in the practice mirrors. A dark figure. She glimpsed it in a flash—someone standing in the gym doorway. She only caught the outline of the form in a quick blur, but whoever it was, he’d been wearing what had looked like a black hat and . . . a cloak?

She fell into the cradle and was brought to her feet again, facing the gym doors, which now stood empty.

Isobel glanced back at the mirrors, squinting, her eyes narrowing on the reflection of the vacant doorway, forgetting that she was supposed to be switching positions for the next formation when Stephanie Dorbon plowed into her. Isobel hit the floor hard and the pain from last week’s bruise reawakened with a roar. She cringed, drawing in a sharp breath between her teeth.

All around her, the whole routine ground to a screeching halt. The music stopped.

“What the hell happened?” Coach shouted, her round face blotchy red as she broke through to where Isobel sat and where Stephanie stood right next to her, hugging herself like she wanted out of the frame of blame that very second.

“I fell,” Isobel said to relieve Steph’s anxiety. She picked herself up to the grumbling of the squad, leaving her floundering dignity to choke to death on the floor. She folded her arms over her chest and shot a quick look back to the gymnasium doors.

Empty. She could have sworn . . .

“C’mon, folks!” Coach yelled. She cocked her wide hips to one side—always a bad sign. “This is dangerous stuff. Look. Bottom line. Pay attention! I don’t want any broken bones, bloody noses, or sobbing parents, okay? Okay. We’ll try it again tomorrow. Go home.” She waved a hand of dismissal and everyone turned with a mumble and trudged to collect their gym bags and water bottles.

As Alyssa passed Isobel, she leaned in to mutter, “Great going, albatross.”

Isobel kept her own comments in check. She slogged toward the bleachers to grab her bag, yanking it up from between two benches. She felt like chucking it out into traffic and watching an eighteen-wheeler plow over it.

“Isobel,” Coach said, stepping up behind her, “you stay. We’ve got to talk.” She brushed by and went to wind up the cord to the CD player while the boys folded up and stowed the practice mirrors.

Isobel shut her eyes, keeping them that way for a full three seconds.

Could this day—could this year get any worse?

She released her gym bag and flopped onto the bleachers to watch everyone else file out the door.

Nikki offered only a single backward glance before hurrying out after Alyssa. Isobel set her chin in her hands and focused on her tennis shoes, white with blue and yellow stripes.

She was more angry than upset. After crying at lunch that day, she’d had enough of being upset and letting other people see it. It was easier just to get mad.

Maybe she was losing her touch.

“What’s going on, missy? It’s time to talk,” said Coach, settling on the bleachers next to her. The wood and iron squeaked as it compressed beneath her weight.

“I just got distracted,” Isobel mumbled. She glanced toward the gym doors, which still stood vacant.

She looked back down again at her hands, picking at the nonexistent dirt under her fingernails.

Maybe she was just altogether losing it.

“Okay,” Coach said. She looped her thumb through the yellow lanyard around her neck, jostling her whistle. “So whatever it was that distracted you today, could it be the same thing that distracted you last Friday? That’s two falls in two weeks.” Coach held up two fingers as though Isobel needed the visual as a reminder. “For you, that’s not normal.”

“I know. It—it’s nothing,” Isobel insisted. “I just . . .” She trailed off. She just what? Saw something that wasn’t really there? Oh yeah, that wasn’t begging for a call home.

“Well,” Coach said, ending the stretch of silence, “I heard that you were upset at lunch today. Does that have anything to do with all this?”

Isobel felt her cheeks blossom into buds of fire, and she involuntarily braced a shielding hand at her brow. Did everyone know about the lunch saga?

“Listen, Isobel,” Coach started, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I’m just trying keep hold of my best flyer. That’s all.”

Isobel nodded at the floor. She appreciated the encouragement. It felt good to be recognized, but at the same time, she couldn’t think of any way to respond. She could say she’d do better. She could say anything. But with Coach, words never went as far as actions. She’d just have to do better next time. She’d have to put all the crap aside, forget about everything for a while, and just think up.

“Hey.” Coach nudged her.

Isobel lifted her head—and froze. Brad stood in the gym doorway, his letter jacket slung over one shoulder, his curly, thick hair wet and darkened from the showers.

Beside her, Coach stood, and the bleachers wobbled with a creak and a sigh. “Better let you go,” she said. “Looks like there’s someone here to see you.”

“Go away.”

Isobel forced herself to look straight at him as she said it. He’d followed her all the way from the gym to her locker, wearing that cocky grin, his lips curled up on one side, dimple displayed.

And that smirk combined with the way his wet hair hung in his face? So hot.

Isobel pivoted away from him, doing her best to remember her locker combination, but stopped when he reached out and began to turn the dial for her.