Oblivion (4 page)

“First of all, it's gross,” Danny said, using scissors to cut out a large pyramid from a sheet of yellow construction paper. “Second of all, since when do Mom and Dad go on dates?”

Isobel shrugged. “They used to go out all the time.” She drew her calculator close, not willing to admit to Danny that it
did
seem strange for their parents to make things sound so official. “Remember all those babysitters you used to torment? I think Mom and Dad only stopped going out when they ran out of cash-strapped high schoolers they could bribe to watch us. Then I became a freshman and, lucky me, I got to watch you for free.”

Danny tossed the scissors onto the table. “Yeah, but they never called it a
date
before. Dating is what you do when you're getting to know someone. Or like, when you're trying to impress them. Not when you're married.”

“Okay, Dr. Phil,” she said, “is there some point you're trying to make?”

“Yeah. I don't like it.”

“Because you're twelve and you think it's gross.”

“I'll be thirteen in five months, it
is
gross, and no, that's not why I don't like it. I don't like it because it's weird.”

“Yeah, well, you're weird but . . . I still like you.”

Danny went silent, staring hard into the open recess of the shoe box. She watched him pick up the glue stick again, and when he went to work slathering the paper pyramid with it, she gave up waiting for a response and tried to refocus on the still-unsolved equation.

From somewhere upstairs, the vacuum kicked on, breaking her concentration a third time. Glancing to the clock on the stove, she saw that the digital numbers read 5:42, and her shoulders tensed. It had gotten late without her realizing. Their dad would be home soon—within the next ten or fifteen minutes, probably with pizza or some other kind of take-out in hand, since their mom hadn't been cooking much.

“You're not going to try to go anywhere while they're gone, are you?”

Isobel's attention snapped back to Danny, who peered at her intently through his mop of black bangs.

“Where would I go?” she replied in a quiet voice, because it was the quickest response she could think of. Because she didn't know if cutting school to attend the funeral tomorrow counted, since that would be in the morning. And because she didn't want to lie to him anymore in case it did.

Danny jutted his bottom lip out, somehow managing to sneer at the same time. “Oh, I don't know. Another state, maybe. Some cult party. Bike-trashing event.”

Isobel ducked her head as heat rushed to her cheeks. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“Promise.”

She tapped the pencil's eraser on the table, taking her turn to say nothing. She glared hard at the equation before her, willing the stupid thing to factor itself.

Above them, the vacuum droned on, creeping across the top landing toward Isobel's bedroom, where Isobel knew her mom would stop and let it run as a sound cover while she riffled through her things.

“Promise,” Danny pressed. “Or I'll tell Mom and Dad not to leave.”

“Jeez, Danny.” Isobel smacked her pencil down. “I said I wouldn't.”

“They keep fighting,” he blurted. “Not when you're around. But they yell at each other over the phone when Dad picks me up from Scouts. I guess they don't think they have to hide it from me. Because I'm not the one who went crazy.”

Isobel's mouth fell open, but it wasn't Danny's comment about her sanity that surprised her. She knew their parents had been fighting, and that the rift she'd caused between them wasn't something that could be healed with her dad's usual trick of flowers, or even a date. What she hadn't been aware of, though, was how much Danny had picked up on. Or that things had degraded to the point of yelling.

“Look, they're going to work it out,” she said, because she wanted to believe it too. And because saying so helped to assuage the guilt that crushed her a little more each day.

Because any other outcome seemed too impossible to consider.

“
I'm
going to work it out,” she added, a vocal reminder for herself as much as for him. “So we're all just going to work it out. Okay?”

“Yeah well,” Danny mumbled, nodding to her papers, “I hope you're better at solving mental issues than you are at math problems.”

Flinching inwardly at the shot, Isobel tried not to let the hurt show on her face.

“You really think I'm crazy?”

“Um,
yes
,” he said. “No,” he amended quickly, hands ducking into the diorama again.

Isobel leaned back in her chair, the sting in her heart easing by a fraction.

She folded her arms. “That sounds suspiciously like something a crazy person would say. I dunno, maybe it's contagious. Or maybe it runs in the family. Ever consider that? You could probably start coming to my sessions with me if you wanted. The worst part is when they hook you up to the electrodes. But I haven't lost any hair yet, so the voltage they're using can't be
too
high.”

“Izzy, I'm scared,” he said, not taking the bait. “I'm scared they're not going to be okay. I'm scared something is going to happen to you again. I keep . . . having bad dreams.”

Isobel sat up. “What do you mean? What kind of—”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

Isobel nervously flicked a corner of her paper, hoping that Danny's dreams were his own, products of internal stress. Memories replaying. But just in case they weren't . . .

“Dreams aren't real,” she said. “You know that, right? They only feel real when . . . when you let them.”

“You die in every single one,” he said. “So you tell me how that's not supposed to feel real.”

Isobel opened her mouth, ready to spew more false comfort. That well had run dry, though, and all she had left was the idea for a stupid distraction.

“Hey.” Leaning over the table, she grabbed the partially shrink-wrapped stack of construction paper sitting by his elbow. Pinching the edge of one pink sheet, she drew it free and folded it on the diagonal. “Check this out. You can use it to impress your girlfriend tomorrow.”

“I don't have a girlfriend, stupid,” he snapped.

Isobel stopped. Abandoning the sheet of paper, she found her pencil and returned the lead tip to the equation she knew she had no hope of answering now.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “Just forget it. I'll go back to solving my mental—excuse me—
math
problems.”

A beat of silence passed. Then Danny straightened in his seat.

“I have
girlfriends
,” he corrected, and placing a palm on the pink paper, he pushed it toward her. “Duh.”

Again, Isobel laid her pencil down, slowly this time, a slight and unexpected smile teasing one corner of her mouth.

As she took up the scissors, Danny went quiet, his glower softening into a concentrated frown while he watched her clip off the bottom strip, making a square. She spun the square on the tabletop and continued folding, pressing a finger hard along each edge to get a crisp line.

Even though she hadn't made any origami since she was Danny's age, Isobel found that her hands still remembered every fold, and the final product took less than a minute.

“There,” she said, scooting the paper butterfly across the table to him. “Hand me another piece and I'll show you ho—”

“Dad's home.”

Despite the warning, she still jumped when she heard the motor for the garage door kick on.

Swallowing hard against the familiar lump that lodged in her throat like a stone every time her father came within twenty feet of her, she leaned down and hefted her book bag into the empty seat beside her. Hurriedly she began pulling out more books, surrounding herself with binders and anything else that would make her appear too absorbed to interact.

“You lost your watch, didn't you?” Danny asked. Picking up the paper butterfly, he twirled it between his fingers. “The one I got you for Christmas. You used to keep it clipped to your backpack.”

Isobel spared a quick glance at her bag, knowing better than to act surprised he'd noticed. What
didn't
he notice?

“I . . . didn't mean to.”

He shrugged like it was no big deal, though she could tell by the knitting of his brow that it was.

“I dropped it by accident,” Isobel said, remembering how the trinket had slipped from her fingers while she'd been in the rose garden of the dreamworld. “I needed to run and . . . it fell out of my hand.”

Danny looked up, eyes narrowing.

Footsteps on the wooden stairs and the muffled sound of their father's voice on the phone sent Isobel's heart skipping. She forced her head down and her gaze squarely on her papers.

“She
said
that?” her dad asked whoever was on the other line as he approached the door.

“I knew you still remembered everything,” Danny whispered, still twirling the butterfly. “I'm not as dumb as the adults.”

I know you're not,
Isobel mouthed as their dad entered the room, a cold breeze wafting in from the garage.

“Hey, listen. I just got home,” he said, his volume dropping. “I'll . . . have to call you back after I discuss this with my wife. Just . . . don't do anything until then, okay?”

Isobel heard the snap of her dad's cell, followed by the sound of the door shutting.

She frowned at the unusually abrupt way he'd ended the call, then blinked as her father set a plastic bag of Chinese food on the table between her and Danny.

“Hey, you two,” he said, actually giving Isobel's shoulder a squeeze. “I need you both to stay here while I talk to Mom. Just . . . go ahead and eat.”

Isobel's hand twitched, and she wanted so badly to place it over his. But her father didn't stay long enough for that to happen. He swept from the room, dropping his keys on the long hallway table and trudging up the steps.

“Jeannine?” he called. Upstairs, the vacuum went silent.

“Wanna take bets?” Danny asked, extracting an egg roll from the yellow, smiley-face-stamped bag and aiming the fried cylinder at her.

“Bets?” Isobel murmured, wishing the fading sensation of her father's warm, forgiving,
protective
squeeze could remain on her shoulder forever.

“My vote is that they're making plans to donate you to a government study.”

Isobel scowled at her brother as he bit into his egg roll, but she knew that on some level he was right. Even if Danny
had
been teasing, the phone call definitely pertained to her.

Midday sunlight streamed through Trenton's tall hall windows.

All around, lockers slammed. Girls laughed, and sneakers screeched against linoleum. Two boys shared a fist bump before splitting off in separate directions.

Isobel recognized faces and voices. Even the sensation of her own breathing.

But she knew she was in a dream. She knew it the moment she saw
him
.

Because
she saw him.

With his back to her, he walked down the center of the crowded hall, his gait even and slow, as graceful as ever.

Unable to move or look away, she watched him while her mind scrambled to come up with an answer as to how she'd gotten here, and how real “here” actually was.

The dusty hem of his long coat swayed at his ankles. His once-black combat boots, now white with ash—as white as the crow emblazoned on the back of the coat she'd come to hate—left tread marks of soot on the floor.

Ahead of him, the other kids stepped out of his path, most without daring to give him more than a sidelong glance. Then the crowd folded around him.

Isobel started forward, keeping her sights on the still-visible line of his angular shoulders. Sleek and jaggedly cut, his jet hair caught a gleam from the fluorescent light fixtures as he passed beneath them. That detail, so minute, so
real
, prompted her to second-guess herself.

Sparing a quick glance at the walls, she checked for the hallway clock that would confirm what she already knew—that she
had
to be asleep.

That there wasn't one at all gave her the last shred of evidence she no longer needed.

When her eyes found him again, however, she saw that he'd traveled twice as far down the corridor as before, as if time had skipped while her gaze had been diverted.

A jolt of terror spurred Isobel to stumble after him on shaky legs. Then her mind caught up to her actions, commanding her to stop, to slip into the crowd so he wouldn't see her.

Wake up, wake up, wake up,
she told herself, even while her feet kept moving, following the thrumming command of her heart.

A deep ache pulsed inside of her, urging her to yell out to him. To repeat the words she'd written that morning, and make him hear what he'd already proven he couldn't.

But then he vanished around the next corner, into the stairwell.

Isobel stopped, her chest constricting with a debilitating mixture of sorrow and fear. Sorrow that he'd once again evaporated. That this glimpse of him had happened within the realm of her imagination, and not in that midregion where she knew he truly dwelled.

The sensation of fear welled higher. It consumed her longing and warned her not to let him discover her here—in
his
world.

Wake up,
she told herself again,
before he finds you.

Her body didn't want to listen, though, and her soul, the part of her that dreamed, moved forward again.

She wove her way between tall basketball players, dodging their book bags. She sidled past girls with rose bouquets who threw their arms around their boyfriends' necks, past teachers collecting papers. The bodies began to squeeze in tighter, closer and closer with every step until she felt herself getting crowded out. Blocked. Shoved back.