Kelly Creagh - Nevermore

But when she entered the stairwell, out of their sight, she felt her swollen sense of pride deflate. She had to fight down a whole swell of emotions she hadn’t expected to feel. She was mad—really mad —but she was confused, too. Then again, she hadn’t expected to see Brad practically welded to Nikki not two days after she’d broken up with him.

But maybe she should have.

Isobel wasn’t sure why she hadn’t stopped to think about it before now, but as the end of the lunch line drew nearer, it dawned on her. Where was she going to sit?

The last thing she wanted was to be seen floundering around in the lunchroom, especially since the crew would be watching. No doubt they’d already been broadcasting her downfall.

She moved forward out of the line, taking a few slow steps into the cafeteria, like she was trying to be extra careful not to spill her lemonade. She could see the crew out of the corner of her eye, sitting at the usual table. Even though she didn’t look at them straight on, she could tell they were staring, waiting for her to try and sit with them—to try and sit anywhere.

She scanned the room.

As usual, everyone sat within their designated social sphere.

Computer geeks near the far wall. The hippies in the corner, some of them on the floor. The jocks at the tables overlooking the courtyard. And there, in the corner farthest from the windows, like a gaggle of dark, exotic birds, sat the goths and the weirdos.

Among them, she saw Varen.

Before she knew what her feet were doing, they started moving her in that direction. Her pathway chosen, she bypassed the opportunity of an empty table and walked straight for the black gathering, trying to ignore the sacrificial lamb feeling she was getting.

As though they had some kind of sonar or radar built in, a few of them glanced over. She stepped closer and heard someone make a hushing remark. Then, like in a creepy painting where all the figures seem to stare at the onlooker, they turned their heads. All those outlined eyes chiseling into her almost made her veer off course.

Isobel ignored the impulse to steer away. She kept going, her steps taking her ever forward until she drew to a slow stop, standing no more than three feet away.

Everyone stared at her now—the whole cafeteria—she could feel it, a scarcely perceptible vibration coming at her from all angles. It was like they were watching the series finale of some major drama show and were all waiting to see who would die.

Amid all the icicle stares, Varen’s was the only gaze she sought in return. Why, though, did it seem like he was the last person to look at her?

“What do you want, Barbie?” the girl sitting next to him asked.

Isobel’s mouth pinched tight. She heard the girl, registered the words, but for some reason, she couldn’t respond. She was too focused on waiting for Varen. For him to say something. To intercede on her behalf.

All she could do was keep her eyes locked on his while she stood there, waiting—waiting for him to clear her name and a place for her to sit.

“Hey,” the girl said again, waving a hand between them, breaking the spell.

Varen turned away. Dazed, Isobel looked at the girl, recognizing her instantly as the one who had handed Varen the red envelope, the girl he kept a picture of in his wallet. Lacy.

“I don’t know if you’re lost or something,” she said, her voice deep, mellow, and full of disinterest.

“Or, like, if it’s too hard for you to remember which table you’re supposed to sit at?” A snicker trickled through the others. “But you can’t sit here.”

Isobel looked back to Varen. Tell them, she thought. Why didn’t he just tell them?

He sat staring straight ahead, his jaw hard.

Like an electroshock, Isobel felt a surge of fear, mortification, stupidity, and liquid anger. It all shot through her spine, a deadly mixture that filled her from the inside out.

With every second that ticked by, the knot in her stomach expanded. She could feel everyone staring at her, and her face burned.

So this was how it would go?

“I can’t believe you,” she said, her voice scarcely above a whisper.

But she was talking right to him. Right at him. Why wouldn’t he look at her?

Slowly, one by one, the rest of them followed his example. They each turned back to their lunches, chains clanking, black lace rustling—a few dark smiles gracing painted lips. Dismissed, they seemed to say.

No, Isobel thought, it wasn’t going to be that easy.

“You think you’re different.” Her voice wavered, and she hated sounding so weak. “You think you’re all so different,” she went on, louder this time. “You do everything to be different,” she spat.

The silence of the table—of the whole cafeteria—was reclaimed in an instant. “But you’re not,” she said at last. “You are just like every. Body. Else.”

Pivoting, Isobel swung away. She dumped her tray onto the vacant table she had passed earlier, where it landed with a loud clatter. Refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, she stormed out the cafeteria doors, using both arms to shove them wide.

Alone in the hallway, she bit down on the inside of her bottom lip, hard—hard enough to taste the copper sting of blood. She pounded her fist against a locker door.

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

She kept walking, straight to the nearest girls’ bathroom.

She pushed through the door and dabbed the sleeve of her sweater against her eyelids, hating the tears that soaked it, hating that she’d have to hand wash the fabric later in Woolite to get the mascara smudges out—hating most of all the thought that he might know she was crying.

Isobel grabbed the trash can, piled high with wadded paper towels and tissues, and hauled it over. It toppled onto its side, its metal body clanging against the tiled floor.

She really didn’t care. It was just embarrassing, was all. Humiliating. But then what had she expected? It shouldn’t be this big of a surprise. None of it should be. Not Brad, not Nikki—least of all him.

I don’t care. She said it over and over in her mind, pacing the floor, trampling wet towels.

All he’d cared about was the project.

All that had mattered to him was the grade.

She was expendable.

“I don’t care!” she screamed at the trash can, kicking it. The crash echoed, and the can upchucked more wadded paper towels onto the floor.

She was stupid for shouting. She was stupid for crying, and most of all, she was stupid for believing, for even a second, that they might have been friends.

Isobel grabbed a handful of paper towels from the metal dispenser. She would not go back out into the hall with her makeup smeared and her eyes puffy-red.

Drawing in a shuddering breath, she turned on the faucet and brought her gaze up to her reflection.

A dry croak caught in her throat.

He stood in the doorway of the stall behind her. A man, cloaked in black. He stared at her, a tattered fedora hat shading his features, a white scarf swathing his mouth and nose, hiding his face.

She opened her mouth to . . . to what? To scream? To say something?

Suddenly, in the mirror, the door to the bathroom popped open. The skinny girl, her locker neighbor, poked her head in. Isobel whirled around.

“Talk about crash and burn,” the girl said. “You all right or what?”

Isobel stared at the open space where she had seen the man. Behind her, she gripped the cold sink.

Her eyes darted to the girl and then, her head whipping around, she looked back into the mirror. In it she could see her own face, drained of color, and the stall behind her—empty.

Her lips formed words. “Did you . . . ?” The question withered in her mouth.