Nevermore
“Bruce owns the ice cream shop.”
“He’s your boss?”
“More or less,” he said, and scribbled something onto his notepad.
“I was kind of wondering why you were there all by yourself,” she said, using her dad’s probing trick, trying to make it sound more like a casual observation than prying.
“Yeah, well, he’s short on help. And speaking of that, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention anything to him about . . . what happened.” He didn’t look up at her, just kept writing, his pen moving in slow, careful strokes.
“Why? Would you get fired?”
“No. He’s just got enough to worry about.”
“Do you work here, too?” she asked, looking around. She shed her backpack and let it drop to the floor. Then she took a seat in the chair across from his.
“Not really,” he said.
“So what, you just hang out here? With Bruce? And Bess?” she added, trying not to smile.
“Did you read?” he asked.
She paused. Oh, yeah. The reading.
For the first time since she’d written them down, Isobel thought back to the list of titles he’d given her. So much had gotten in the way between then and now. She grimaced. “Mm.
About that . . .”
He sighed. A soft sound, like a dying breath.
“Well, have you read them?” she asked.
“Multiple times.”
“Of course,” she said, realizing she might as well have asked the pope if he’d read the Bible.
“You know, you can find most, if not all, of Poe’s tales and poems on the Internet,” he said, in a very distinct and warning “you’ll have no excuse the next time” tone.
“Oh, sure. Let me just ask my geek brother to stop slaying zombie ninjas for a few hours so I can borrow the PC and catch up on my Victorian horror lit.”
“Doomed Kingdom One or Two?”“Huh?”
“Is he playing Doomed Kingdom One or Two? It’s the only series with zombie ninjas.”
Isobel stared at him, incredulous. “How should I know?”
“Hm,” he said, eyes dropping, as though she’d just ratcheted herself down yet another slot on his respect scale. “Never mind.” She glared at him as he leaned over to pull something out of his satchel. “Here. You can borrow this for now.” Carefully he laid a large, black, gold-embossed book on the table in front of her. Its title read, The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe, in shining gold letters. “But if anything happens to it, I own your soul.”
“Uh, thanks,” she said, handling it with care while under his scrutiny. “It’s so nice and portable.”
“We’ll have to meet again tomorrow,” he said. “After school.”
“Can’t. I’ve got practice.” Though she hadn’t even begun to figure out how she was going to deal with school yet, with facing Brad or Nikki, she still had to stand her ground where practice was concerned. She didn’t dare miss, not this close to Nationals.
“Whatever,” he said. “Tuesday, then.”
“Fine. What time?”
“Sometime after school. But I have to work, so you’ll have to come by the shop.”
Isobel bit her lip and thought about that. She hadn’t realized how tricky this was going to be. On top of being grounded, now that she and Brad were broken up, it was going to be tough to get around. “Can I hitch a ride there with you?” she asked.
He shrugged. Okaaay, she’d just go ahead and take that as a yes. Now all she needed was a way to get home afterward. She probably could walk home, as long as she thought up a good excuse for being gone.
She turned her attention back to the Complete Works. On the bottom, she noticed a thin silk ribbon, sticking out like a beige tongue. Following her fingers along the top edge, Isobel pried the book open to the marked page. “Dream-Land,” the title read. Isobel skimmed over the first stanza: By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule—
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE—out of TIME.
Yeah, well, that made about as much sense as Cracker Jacks.
Isobel flipped forward until she recognized one of the titles that Varen had told her to write down at the library: “The Masque of the Red Death.” She thumbed through the story, counting six pages. That didn’t seem so bad. She began the first paragraph: