“Shades please, Mr. Nethers.”
Isobel watched as Varen made his way to his own chair. He moved slower than usual and this time didn’t bother lifting away the sunglasses at Mr. Swanson’s behest. Maybe, she thought, he hadn’t heard him ask? That seemed unlikely, though, since lately it had become a sort of start-of-class ritual between them, a show of their mutual respect. Isobel watched him sink into his desk, almost as though this action took more effort than normal. A quick glance out of the corner of her eye told her that Mr. Swanson was watching too. And so, it seemed, was everybody else.
Varen settled into his seat. A moment passed by in which Mr. Swanson seemed to deliberate on whether or not to repeat his request. To Isobel’s relief, he did not. Maybe it was Varen’s uncharacteristically disheveled appearance. Or maybe Mr. Swanson knew something, or suspected something. Whatever it was, he didn’t ask again.
He called the first group. Todd and Romelle popped in a DVD, which turned out to be a music video about Mark Twain’s life. It was a good idea, so good that Isobel wished she’d thought of it. It wouldn’t have taken that long, and they could have used a song from Varen’s collection.
Soon it was the next group’s turn with Walt Whitman. Next, Richard Wright, then Washington Irving. Between each presentation, Isobel kept trying to catch Varen’s eye. Why wouldn’t he look at her? She thought about passing a note but then decided it was too risky.
“Isobel and Varen?”
Isobel stood, her heart speeding up. She glanced toward Varen, but he didn’t need the cue. He’d stood mechanically, and now they both made their way to the front of the classroom.
Isobel handed him the stereo and cord. When he took them from her, the little red light next to the control buttons on the boom box lit up. White noise fuzzed, then spiked, and Isobel stopped, confused, because she knew she’d taken the batteries out that morning to make the player lighter to carry.
She stared at Varen as he moved to the front of the classroom, the radio jumping through stations. He set the boom box on Mr. Swanson’s desk, and in the moment before he took his hands away, a woman’s soft voice broke through. Far-off and fuzzy, it sounded as though it was coming from an old, scratched-up record. “—centrate,” it said. “Treat it all like an empty page.”
With a stab of unease, Isobel realized that she’d heard this voice before—coming from the attic of Nobit’s Nook. It was that day she and Varen had worked together, when she’d gone back to get the Poe book and found the upstairs room empty. Right before she’d gone into the park.
Unsettled, Isobel swallowed. While Varen plugged in the stereo, she brought two chairs to one side of Mr. Swanson’s desk, taking extra time to straighten the one closest to where their teacher usually sat. She was glad Varen took the hint. He went to that chair and sat. Trying to forget the moment with the radio, Isobel rounded the desk and lowered herself into Mr.
Swanson’s swivel seat. Swanson, who had taken an empty seat out in the room, said nothing.
Isobel gathered up her stack of index cards, taking a moment to breathe. This was it.
She smiled at the classroom, reached out, and pressed the play button. Music blared—a catchy, almost game-showish synthesizer tune from a bonus round on one of Danny’s video games. Everyone stared, faces blank, Varen’s included. The music died down, and Isobel pressed the pause button.
“Welcome to another episode of Dead Poet Discussions,” she said. “I’m your host, Isobel Lanley, and for this exclusive All Hallows’ Eve edition, I have a few special guests in store for you. One of them is with us now. Please welcome Professor Varen Nethers, famous depressed dead poets historian and author of the bestselling books Unlocking your Poe-tential: A Writer’s Guide, and Mo Poe Fo Yo: When You Just Can’t Get Enough. Welcome, Professor Nethers.”
Isobel hit the next track button, unleashing the sound of applause. Varen’s shielded gaze fixed on hers in what she thought might be a pained expression. She gritted through a smile, begging him with her eyes to just play along.
The sound of applause died down. “But that’s not all,” Isobel plowed on, trying to keep her tone encouraging, the mood upbeat.
“We have yet another very special guest with us this evening,” she went on, “all the way from Westminster Cemetery in lovely Baltimore, Maryland.” Isobel paused, keeping her smile.
She held her arm out toward the door in a presentational gesture, like they did on all late-night talk shows.
“Please welcome to the show Mr. Edgar Allan Poe!”
