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“Don’t worry, Izo,” came a male voice, one Isobel had not heard for a long while, but one she knew well all the same. “I got this.”
Another arm appeared, reaching out from the blanket of shadows behind Varen. Its heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and the connection sent a ripple through the scene Isobel had created, causing it all to rupture.
The goths and the doubles and the stage and the walls all dissipated to vapor. The dance floor became pavement.
A nighttime blackness took the place of flashing lights, pierced only by the single streetlamp that sprouted from the leaf-strewn parking lot.
Even in the darkness, though, Isobel could discern whose hand was tightening its grip on Varen’s coat.
Dressed in his letter jacket, his frame once more hulking and rigid—strong, unlike the last time she’d seen him—Brad Borgan, Isobel’s ex, made quick work of tossing Varen backward into the side of the Cougar that materialized just as Varen collided with it.
Slam!
“No!” Isobel screeched.
Varen collapsed onto hands and knees. Behind him, the words YOU’RE DEAD FREAK now blazed in reverse on the Cougar’s driver’s-side door.
Isobel broke forward in a run, but she wasn’t fast enough to stop Brad from sending a sharp kick into Varen’s side.
“Stop!” she yelled, but the faster she charged, the farther the scene withdrew, the pavement elongating in front of her.
A pair of walls rose on either side of the road as it became a familiar stretch of hallway.
Brad grabbed Varen again and, hauling him to his feet, swung him straight into a row of blue lockers. Varen’s head bounced on the metal.
With the echo of the sharp bang, everything shifted yet again.
The walls smoothed, turning mauve as the ceiling dropped, pitching up in the middle. The fist fastened around Varen’s collar changed too, swelling in size, its sleeve cuff bleeding gray.
A slatted door materialized to block Isobel’s view and her path. She skidded to a halt in front of it as, simultaneously, walls lifted on either side to seal her into the dark and narrow space of Varen’s closet.
“You’re never going to wake up!” boomed Varen’s father.
Isobel shoved against the door, but it only rattled in its tracks.
She shouted to Varen that none of it was real. But a low hum like a roll of thunder rose to nullify her voice.
Helpless, Isobel could only stand and watch as a horrible scene she had witnessed once before began to replay itself.
31
Reversion
“Look’t this waste—your goddamned life.”
The muffled roar continued, underscoring the deep voice as it resounded through the attic.
Isobel recognized the words. Mr. Nethers had spoken them the night he’d stormed up to Varen’s bedroom—the night before everything had spiraled out of control. But now the phrases were jumbled.
Did that mean Varen was reliving this moment as he remembered it? Or was this all just a series of snapshots? A flipbook of old wounds reopened, each with a single pinpoint stab?
Isobel shoved her fingers between the wooden slats, trying to snap them, but they refused to even bend. Through the gaps, though, she saw Mr. Nethers fling Varen away, his face splotched deep red in a furious scowl.
“What did you do?” Varen’s father demanded, his voice slurring.
Varen retreated from the figure. When his back met with the wall, the room tipped, slanting downward on his end.
Teetering, Isobel threw her arms out to brace herself. She tried again to call out to Varen, if only to remind him she was close. But no sound could penetrate the pervading rumble.
