Kelly Creagh

“You're a dream. Like everything else.”

“A tall, thin boy with choppy black hair stood next to her. He eyed Isobel as she approached, sizing her up, grinning like he found something funny. She glared at him in return, ready for him to say just one thing about her cheer uniform, because she knew he must have pulled the black jeans he wore straight from the girls' rack at Target.”

“She glanced down at the contents of her plate. Just tell him what it is. Simple. Look at it and say what it is. "Sloppy Joe," she managed."Hmm," he said, sounding doubtful. "May he rest in peace.”

“She had just enough time to take in a breath, to blink, to part her lips before he took them with his own.”

“It is naught but pain and regret when we think of the things and people we will never have, the opportunities we may never get.”

“This should make him happy. This should change him. But it doesn't. It can't. He's been changed already. And I don't know what to write anymore, because I'm afraid of what it will be. Because I can't think, and she asks me to write, but I won't know what to write. I can't think. I can't think. Isobel. Isobel. Isobel.”

“You can touch me, but you can't hurt me.”

“There is always that fine line between doing what we want and doing what we're told.”

“Just because I wear black and keep a private journal, that doesn't mean I'm going to blow up the school. Or terrorize mindless cheerleaders, for that matter.”

“They know you lied.”

“Holy granola!”

“Why the snap-crackle-pop didn't you call me?”

“Death always wins.”

“She'd never been kissed like that before - like the shell of her soul had evaporated.”

“Please," she murmured at her burger, her voice no more than a squeaky whisper, "Don't do this.”

“She stood in the mist, waiting for him again.Always in the same place.”

“Just because I live in the sunlight, enjoy being blond, and wear a cheerleading uniform, that doesn't mean I'm stupid. I'm so sick of that.”

“You need to just drop dead, okay?”

“Holy granola. He's coming over here.”

“As if. You so got it for him. I mean, can we say, 'Uhm, urh, durh, Sloppy Joe'? Psh. Please. Can't hide it from me.”

“She could just hear her little brother asking all sorts of stupid questions, like if his underwear was black too.”

“Whoa," Danny said, taken aback, "You broke up with Meathead?”

“Don't let the elegance act fool you," Varen said, drawing out his notepad. "She farts.”

“I'll come back to get you, too, okay?""Why?" he snapped."Because," she said with a gasp, unable to fathom the source of his question, or his tone. "Because I love you, that's why.”

“My beautiful, my Isobel. My Love. You ask me to wait. And so I wait.For all of this, I know, is but a dream.And when, in sleep, at last we wake,I will see you again.”

“When there is no way, you must make a way.”

“She edged away from him, trying to put a greater distance between herself and Creepy McCreeperson. She bent down, careful not to let her eyes leave him, and plucked up a hairbrush from where it had fallen on her floor. She held it at arm’s length in front of herself, a stupid weapon feeling better than no weapon at all. At the very least, she could give him style.”

“So." [Isobel] cleared her throat. "What are we doing?""We," [Varen] said at last, "are doing a project on Poe.""Didn't he marry his cousin or something?""The man is a literary god and that's all you have to say?”

“Hands quivering, she reached toward him. "Don't." He turned his back to her, facing the door. That word had stopped her once before. But not now. Not now that she had glimpsed through the funeral front of Varen's own eternal Grim Facade. Despite all the dark armor, the kohl eye liner, the black boots and chains, she saw him clearly now. She peered through the curtain of that cruel calmness, through the death stare and the vampire sentiments and angst and, behind it all, had found true beauty.”

“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.”

“Wasn't he the one who sliced off his ear and mailed it to his girlfriend?""Van Gogh," said Varen, in a monotone that suggested he might be in pain."Van Gogh," Gwen said, leaning away, waving the apple. "Edgar Allan Poe. Close enough!”

“In love. In love with the stoic, the sullen, the eternally morose Varen Nethers?He would never allow it.”

“Why couldn't she just come out and say she liked him?Maybe it was because she more than liked him.”

“You're really a blond," she said, her tone just short of accusatory."And if you tell anyone, I will come to you in the night and smote your everlasting soul.”

“His eyes remained on Isobel as he began a slow backward walk. He was doing it again, speaking to her with his eyes. She remained trapped in his stare, trying to hear him, to read the underlying message. Finally his gaze broke from hers and he turned away, walking off through the cafeteria doors.There was a pause before Gwen spoke. "Let me guess," she said. "Right now, you're trying to decide if that was hot or annoying." She paused, as though formulating her own opinion.... "It was so totally hot.”

“Gwen," he said in acknowledgement."Your darkness-ship," she returned with a bow.”

“He turned his head and caught her with his eyes. She froze, locked by the intensity of his stare. His eyes were stark and cold, the concentrated green of pale jade. Outlined in smudged black kohl, those eyes focused on her, unblinking through the feathery strands of his jet black hair, and it was like being watched through a cage by a complacent and calculating cat.Discomfort welled in her, thick and black as an oil spring. Who was this guy and what was his royal problem? Her gaze flicked briefly to the small metal loop that hugged one corner of his bottom lip.He blinked once, then slowly lifted one hand and crooked a beckoning finger at her. Isobel hesitated but then as though spellbound to obey, she found herself leaning in.“What are you staring at?” he whispered.”

“For the briefest moment, they came face to face. Their eyes locked. Then he broke the stare, swiveled, sank into a sitting position, chains clanking, with his knees up. She watched him speechlessly as he set a cooler bag between his boots, like he was settling down to a picnic or something. An image of the contents as hospital blood bags, complete with juice straws, flashed through her mind. Unfolding her legs, she made herself as comfortable as she could on the cold outer edge of the sill. An intangible and unnameable charge electrified the space between them, and at first, neither of them said anything. [...] Finally she heard him unzip the bag and watched him pull out a small cylinder."I thought you might like some crappy ice cream," he said.”

“Her fingertips reached to trace the damage, but he grasped her hand with his own. He leaned down, far enough that the dark ends of his hair brushed feather-light against her face, caught in her lashes.”

“He smiled like he couldn't help it. She couldn't believe it. He was actally smiling, teeth and all. Had she ever seen him smile before? No, she realized, because right now, it was such a jarring thing to witness that for a moment it felt as though she was sharing the car with a stranger.”

“Danny, give me the phone." Isobel thrust her hand out for the receiver. "And you can forget the five bucks." "I was gonna charge you three-fifty anyway," he said, holding the phone just out of reach. "He knew he hadn't dialed the wrong number, so I had to tell him you were on the crapper.”

“The more this guy talked, the more he sounded like a fortune cookie.”

“Yeah, well, I tried to explain that my mind powers don’t work on Tuesdays.”

“At last he stopped, and she stared down at the printed column of words, unable to comprehend a single one. His hand, warm and steady, wound its way around hers, wrapping it like a spider would its prey. She surrendered it to him, unable to watch even as his thumb traced the place, just above her knuckles, where he had once written his number in deep violet. Isobel ceased to breathe. Her heart pounded in her chest, her thoughts shattering into senseless fragments. All the while, her eyes remained trained and unblinking on the open page. Lines without meaning stared up at her, little more than black sticks in an otherwise white world.”