Kelly Creagh - Nevermore

Their squad’s routine at halftime had gone off without a hitch too. Isobel had gotten her twist perfect with the glory of the stars spinning in the clear autumn sky, the blaring stadium lights and the filled stands all whirring into her kaleidoscopic swirl.

This was what high school was supposed to be like.

After the game, Brad suggested a round of victory ice cream, and they all piled into his Mustang, its windows decorated with soap words reading GO HAWKS and DIE BEARS DIE. Isobel took shotgun next to Brad, while Alyssa, Nikki, and Mark crammed into the back. Stevie, complaining about his ankle, stayed behind to brace it, saying he might meet up with them later.

“Hey, Nikki,” Brad said, reaching an arm into the backseat. “Hand me that, would you?”

“I got it,” said Alyssa, passing up a familiar blue sweater.

“Here.” Brad glanced at Isobel pointedly, sweater in hand. “You left this in the backseat Monday.”

“Oh,” she said, blushing at the memory of how it had gotten there in the first place. She folded the sweater over her lap. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Isobel sent him a curious sidelong glance.

He watched her for another moment, winked at her without smiling, then turned the ignition. The engine roared. “All right, people,” he said over the rumble. “Let’s go get some ice cream.” He shifted the car into gear. “I know just the place.”

They wound up at a little shop called Dessert Island. The sign outside depicted a pile of ice cream that looked like a tiny island sitting in a sea of chocolate sauce, a palm tree sticking out of the middle. Isobel wondered why they’d come here instead of going to Graeter’s, which was the closest place to school, but shrugged it off as they strolled up to the storefront.

Tingling chimes announced them as they meandered through the door.

Inside, the shop was small with sparse seating. This, along with the do-it-yourself decorations and chalkboard menu, gave the place a very kitschy, family-owned feel.

Overhead, cheesy steel drum music warbled softly over the speaker system. All of the decor followed a tropical theme: quaint chairs with bamboo legs encircled wicker tables, a conch shell laid out on the center of each. Along the walls, a sprawling hand-painted mural depicted an ocean-side scene, complete with sandy beach, palm trees, and tropical birds, both perched and suspended in flight, plumage displayed.

There was no one behind the counter, but the neon OPEN sign in the front window blared electric pink, and the staff door leading to the back stood ajar, as though someone had propped it open.

It looked as though the five of them were the only customers.

“Heyo,” Brad called across the counter. He tapped the service bell, and its ting rose shrill over the island music. “Anybody here?”

Isobel stepped up to the display glass, peering in to find all the usual favorites sharing quarters with more daring combinations like Macadamia Mocha Madness, Pineapple Bliss, and Go-Go Guava.

For a moment she thought about taking a chance with the shocking pink Rum While You Can but in the end decided to default to her all-time favorite—Banana Fudge Swirl.

“Yeah, can I have a scoop of the Raspberry White Chocolate, in a cup?” Nikki asked sweetly.

“Chocolate malt,” Brad added.

“Yeah, same here,” Mark said. “Alyssa, what do you want?”

“Don’t know yet, give me a second. It’s got to be good.”

“You know what you want yet, Izo?” she heard Brad ask. “Your usual?”

Isobel wandered down the long line of contenders to where her friends stood waiting, trailing a finger beneath the little rectangular plaques that listed a description of each ice cream. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“And a scoop of Banana Fudge in a cup.”

Isobel leaned her hip against the softly humming ice cream case. She stared through the glass, thinking about the game and about how well the routine had gone. In fact, all they really needed to do before Nationals was tighten the middle section, perfect the tumbling segment, and make a few adjustments on the ending pyramid. Of course, she could always sharpen her twists, and if she could work on landing her layout a fraction of a second sooner, she’d be in perfect sync.

Isobel heard the click of register keys, and her gaze drifted to stare unfocused at the store clerk’s name tag.

VAREN, it read, in bulky Gothic lettering.

Isobel froze, her eyes locked on that name tag. Her smile fell away. Her mouth went instantly dry. A tingling sensation in her legs and arms snuffed the night’s happiness, spreading its way into her lower stomach, where it congealed into a puddle of unease.

Reluctantly, she lifted her gaze.

Even though she’d read the name on the tag, it was still a shock to look up and see him staring back.

For the first time, because of the green visor that he wore, she could see his face—his eyes—clearly.

They remained fixed on her, holding an unreadable expression.

It would have been better, she thought, if he’d glared at her with hatred.

“Today?” Brad said, and tapped the counter between them, starting Isobel out of her shock.

Behind her, she heard Mark and Alyssa snicker.

Everything was playing out in slow motion again. Varen’s gaze lingered on hers even as he turned away. She watched him as one elegant hand reached deftly into a bin behind the counter and pulled from a trough of water a single silver ice cream scoop.

Despite its thundering, she felt her heart plummet as she realized what was going on, what her friends were going to do—what they were doing.

“Brad,” she said, and pivoted toward him just in time to see him flick over a soda-shop-style straw canister. The multi-colored tubes went spilling across the counter and behind it, some of them landing in the open ice cream bins, the rest hitting the floor, making hollow little pop sounds as they bounced on the linoleum.

“Oops.”

“Brad, you klutz,” Alyssa cooed.

“What can I say?” Brad shrugged. “I’m a hurricane.”

Isobel glanced mutely up from the spilled straws to where Varen now stood, leaning over to scrape the very bottom of one of the ice cream canisters under the close scrutiny of Nikki, who stood on her toes to watch.

“Make sure you don’t touch any of it,” she said, her hands pressed flat against the glass, leaving huge hand-lotion smudge prints. He straightened, carefully packing the ice cream into a small paper cup adorned with palm trees. Just before he finished, Nikki tapped the glass like she would a fish tank.

“Hey. ’Scuse me,” she said. “I changed my mind.”

He raised his eyes.

“I want Cinnamon instead.”

“We don’t have—”

“Then I don’t want anything.” She shrugged and waved away what he’d already prepared.

Isobel could die. She could just die. But if she said something, if she tried to stop them, she knew everyone would just go back to hating her. Would Brad break up with her? At the very least, she’d have to quit the squad for sure.

The whir of the blender cut through the silence.

“Brad.” She whirled and started for the door. “I want to go home.”

“Sure thing, Izo,” he called, “just let me get my malt.” He knocked on the counter. “Can we step on that malt back there?”

Isobel turned her eyes to Nikki, only to see a smug Cheshire smile pasted across her face, arms folded, her gaze cast to the palm-leaf ceiling fans. The realization hit her then. They’d all been in on this together. The betrayal of it burned, and Isobel’s fingers itched to form into fists.

Varen set the first malt on the counter next to the register. Brad snatched it up.

She watched in silent dread as Brad handed off the shake to Mark, who took it and tossed it on the floor. The plastic top popped off at impact, the brown ice cream mixture flying out to spatter across the floor and the nearby tables and chairs.