“What? Who is this?”
“It’s Gwen.”
“Gwen? Gwen who?”
“Gwen Daniels. Our lockers are next to each other? Let me guess, you never knew my name to begin with, did you? Again, I fail to be surprised.”
“Uh, how did you get my number?”
“I looked you up online.”
“You can do that?” Isobel asked with a twinge of unease.
“Internet White Pages. Duh. What the heck is going on with you? Are you okay? Half the school thinks you’ve killed yourself.” There was a pause before Gwen added, “The other half thinks you and Varen eloped.”
“What?”
“Wait . . . Nobody told you what happened?”
“Happened? No. What happened?” Who exactly did Gwen think would tell her? Hello, news flash. Had she not witnessed firsthand her social demise in the lunchroom?
“Hold on,” Isobel murmured. Quickly she left the kitchen and went up the stairs. In her room, door closed, Isobel didn’t have to prompt Gwen to continue.
“So did you know your boyfriend knows your locker combination?”
“You mean Brad? We broke up. I thought that was obvious.” It irked her that people at school might still think they were together, or worse, just on the fritz.
“Oh, you know what I meant. That’s not the point. Did you really tell him your combination?”
“He knows it,” Isobel grumbled, getting more annoyed by the second. Was it any of Gwen’s business who she gave her locker combination to? They were locker neighbors, not locker roomies. “What does that have to do with what happened?”
“It was right after last period. Your big football player ex-guy—did you say his name was Ben?”
“Brad.”
“Right, well, for some reason, that guy was in your locker. Now, I wasn’t there yet, so I can’t say exactly what the deal was. I sort of figured out this much after the fact—from what other people said they saw.”
“Other people?” She cringed.
“Well, apparently, this Brad guy was getting stuff out of your locker, planning to take it with him, it looked like.”
Isobel tried to remember exactly what she’d stored in her locker. All she knew she had in there was her binder, some books, and a box of tampons—what could he want with any of that? Evidence, she realized at once. He must be looking for some kind of proof about her and Varen. Maybe. What else would it be?
“But then guess who shows up.”
“No.”
“Yeah.”
Something in her middle turned a wobbly somersault. Varen approaching Brad? Bad. Very bad.
“What happened?” Her voice almost cracked.
“Well, this is the part that I saw. Apparently, Varen wanted Brad to give him all your stuff. Then Brad grabbed a fistful of Dr. Doom’s shirt and slammed him into the lockers. Hard. I mean, I saw his head bounce. One-handed, too—Bruno never even had to put your stuff down.”
Isobel gasped. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. The room around her seemed to tilt. She cringed, and the hand holding the phone felt weak.
“And that’s what triggered it, I think.”
Oh God. There was more? Isobel needed to sit down. She sank onto one corner of her bed, waiting for the worst. How bad could it be? she thought. If Varen had called her from work, then he had to be at least somewhat okay. He couldn’t be in traction if he was at work, right?
“Well,” Gwen said, her voice flattening out, “let me just say that when he banged into the lockers—the lockers banged back.”
“What do you mean they banged back?”
The line went quiet and fuzzy for a moment. Isobel squished the phone in hard against one ear, blocking her other ear with a finger. She turned her head to one side, and another roll of static fizzed against her eardrum.
“All the lockers . . . they knocked back,” Gwen said. “One right after the other. Everybody hit the floor, because it sounded like gunfire—I swear. I saw some of the locks jolting around. It happened so fast—and it wasn’t like some sort of crazy chain reaction that had been set off or something,” she interrupted herself to say, as though she’d already wrestled with this theory in her own mind, “because it started at the total opposite end of the hall, on the other side. It only stopped when it reached your locker. Which slammed shut—by itself. And even though he tried, Goliath couldn’t get it open again.”
“Gwen,” Isobel said, standing, a note of hysteria in her voice. Her eyes fell to the Poe book still sitting on her carpet where she’d left it. She kicked it under her bed. “You’re making this up.”
