Boy Proof

by Cecil Castellucci

  “No one ever sees me,” I say.

  “Yeah, right.” He laughs. “You’re invisible, Egg.”

  But that’s how I feel. I’m the Invisible Girl.

  Max approaches me in the quad, hand extended, offering me a bottle of sparkling water. I take the bottle reluctantly.

  “Hey, can I sit here?”

  “I’m not in the mood for small talk,” I say. “I’m studying.”

  But my math book is on the bench next to me and I’m actually reading a novel.

  “Really?” Max says.

  “What does it look like?”

  “It looks like you could use some company,” he says. “Why didn’t you tell me last night that your father is the Sam Jurgen? No wonder those alien faces you drew are so kick-ass.”

  “It didn’t come up,” I say.

  “God. I loved his work in Star King,” Max says. He sits down next to me, uninvited, and opens up his bottle of water. His head tilts back as he swallows most of it in one gulp. “When they cut that lizard alien out of its mother’s stomach and it has the mark of the king. Wow!”

  “I’m kind of reading.”

  “Yeah, I remember when I went through my Dick stage,” he says.

  “What did you call me?” I ask.

  He points to the novel I’m reading. It’s by Philip K. Dick. I feel like an idiot.

  “So let me get this straight. You’re telling me that you prefer to eat lunch alone every day?” Max says.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Okay. I respect that,” he says, tossing his empty bottle into the recycling bin. “You know, you’re a real puzzle.”

  “I’m not something to be solved,” I say.

  “De gustibus non est disputandum,” Max says, and walks off.

  Zach Cross is unhooking my bra and kissing the nape of my neck.

  “What do you think about love, Egg?”

  Just like in the movie, we look up at the sky. There are needleships hovering in place above us.

  “I think it’s all about smell,” I say.

  He breathes in my scent and whispers in my ear, “I think you smell like hope.”

  He kisses me, and unlike in the movie, the needleships fall to the ground, setting off an apocalyptic fireball.

  “The world is a dying place,” I say.

  “I expect it to end hourly,” Zach says. Then he flames out. Dead.

  I wake up. It’s 2:37 A.M. and I’m not sleepy anymore. I pick up my Dick book, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? and begin reading. It must be hours later that I finally fall back asleep.

  “Victoria.” Mom knocks on my door. “You’re late for school.”

  Shit.

  I scramble out of bed and throw some pants on. I don’t bother changing my shirt — it’s too cold to take it off. I rub some jasmine oil on my skin, brush my teeth, and fly out the door.

  Global History is half over.

  “Do you have an excuse?” Mr. Gerber asks.

  “I overslept.”

  “Invest in an alarm clock, Miss Jurgen.” He turns back to the chalkboard and begins arranging all the French Republics onto a timeline.

  I open my notebook and start to take notes. The pages are blurred because I am crying. I have never been late to Global History before. It’s my favorite class and Mr. Gerber is my favorite teacher. It’s the only thing worth coming to school for.

  “You smell good today,” Max Carter turns around and whispers.

  I don’t answer him.

  “Are you crying?” he asks.

  “I don’t cry.”

  A tear falls onto my loose-leaf paper, making me a liar and smudging the words Third Republic. Max Carter’s hand slips a little package of Kleenex through my arms and onto my notebook. The Kleenex is from Japan. It is pink and it has little goofy characters on it. I take a piece out and wipe my eyes. It feels like everyone is looking at me.

  Except Max Carter. He’s leaving me alone, just like I asked him to.

  During the trigonometry quiz, instead of solving any of the problems, I notice that the whole world is made up of angles and arcs. If I squint just the right way, I can make anything look like an angle.

  I can see me in relation to the rest of the world. I am x. The pen in my hand, my elbow, and the distance to my empty brain is a math problem. I can vary the arc. The pen is x.

  The bird in the air, outside the window, flying to the tree is unconsciously measuring the arcs and angles. I can see the math all around me.

  But when it comes to putting it down on paper, I draw a blank.

  One thing I can answer for sure. I’m going to fail another quiz.

  I am in the gift shop, next to Hasan, who is nearly peeing his pants over all the DVDs of TV shows they have. He’s bought nearly everything in the store.

  “If I bought the first season of The Nemesis on DVD, could you get your mom to sign it for me?” Hasan asks.

  “No,” I say.

  “Oh, come on,” Hasan begs. He is so geeky it’s embarrassing.

  “You’ll sell it on eBay or something,” I say.

  “No, he would only do that if he bought two copies,” Martin chimes in.

  “I’m so in love with your mom, Egg. If I was older or she was younger, I would ask her out on a date,” Hasan says.

  “That’s pathetic,” I say.

  “I can’t see any of your mother in your face,” Hasan says. “You must look like your dad.”

  “Ugh,” I say, and roll my eyes at the pins and mugs under the glass counter.

  “Is there really a need for this much Nemesis stuff?” I say.

  In the screening series, they showed the Nemesis pilot. My mom, prancing around in a skintight catsuit before she got knocked up with me.

  It’s embarrassing.

  It’s unfair.

  She was hot and I am not. Under my layers of clothing, there is not such a toned skinny body as hers was. I have curves. I have boobs.

  “I would have loved to have had your boobs,” Mom always says. “Why do you always hide your body? You should emphasize your assets. You make yourself ugly on purpose.”

  “Boy proof,” I remind her.

  “The museum is going to have a Nemesis marathon for its twentieth anniversary,” the gift-shop guy says. “There is going to be a reception and everything. The whole original cast is going to be here.”

  “I haven’t heard about that,” I say. “I would know.”

  “Well, it’s true. That’s why I’m so stocked on Nemesis stuff right now.”

  “Cool,” Hasan says. “Can we come with you to the reception, Egg?”

  “No,” I say.

  I leave the gift shop and slam the door on my way outside to be by myself.

  I wish I smoked cigarettes or had a flask or did something self-destructive to get rid of this burning black feeling inside of me. Instead I resort to biting my nails. If the world were going to end, like in Terminal Earth, I wish it would do it right now on top of me.

  “What ho!” Rue says, offering me half of her tofu sandwich.

  I shift away from her.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” I say.

  “Try me,” she says. She’s being sincere. She’s being genuinely nice. She probably tells people that she’s my friend, but I can’t get past the sprouts stuck in her teeth.

  “No way.”

  Rue’s face sinks, like I’ve punched her. And, in a way, I have. She’ll bounce back, though. I’ve noticed that Rue has somehow acquired those kinds of skills.

  “Ten times, I must have mentioned the invitation to you. I even put it on the fridge,” Mom says.

  “No, it’s not true!” I say.

  “I give up,” Mom says, and leaves the house for her dinner date.

  I walk over to the fridge and there it is, an invitation to the twentieth anniversary of The Nemesis TV show at the Museum of Television and Radio.

  I hate when Mom is right.

  Mental note: When you pick your battl
e, make sure it’s one you can win.

  “How’s the news?” Mom asks, bringing me my dinner, freshly ordered in from the coffee shop down the street.

  “Not good,” I say, cracking open my meal in a box.

  Mom takes the zapper and channel-surfs to E! True Hollywood Story, which doesn’t make the whole wide world look or sound any better.

  I head down the hallway to my room. I’ll do my English homework first. It’s easier. I’ll attack the trig before bed, so that the answers to the problems seep into my sleep.

  English homework assignment: What is your personal philosophy of life?

  I take pen to paper.

  They are destroying everything anyway, so what’s the point?

  I try to fall asleep, but I am filled with the thought that I am powerless. I open my mouth but I have no voice. I cannot scream. The cars on the street suddenly sound like missiles falling, like in Terminal Earth.

  I lie there and I listen, afraid, heart beating fast, so loud in my ears I want to yell, Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!

  What if this is it? What if I have to live through the end of the world, like they do in the movies? To me, this is the end of the world. To me, this is real. I try to get out of the house, away from the bombs.

  I wake up on the living-room floor.

  My knee is skinned and bleeding. I start to laugh at myself for being so stupid as to believe a dream was real. Even worse, I’m still clutching my trigonometry textbook.

  “What’s going on out there?” Mom asks. She’s run out of her bedroom, scared by the noise I am making. She thinks it is an earthquake.

  “Nothing,” I lie. “I just fell.”

  “Well, what are you doing up at this time of night?”

  “I was going to make myself some Sleepytime tea.”

  “Oh, no, Victoria, I don’t want the kettle screaming at this hour. I have to get some beauty sleep. I have a seven A.M. call tomorrow.”

  My mom finally has a new job. She is playing Mrs. Claus in a Movie of the Week. This means freedom from her always trying to bond with me and asking questions. At least for the next little while.

  “Okay,” I say. I will microwave the water. She will never know. I need to sleep tonight. Tomorrow there is another quiz in trigonometry and I have to pass. I am slipping. I feel myself slipping.

  I turn the computer on and log on to the Terminal Earth site.

  Geranium7: Hey Eggtoria. Are you going to the A Dream for the Moon screening at the Cinematheque? Saba Greer is going to be there. I am going to take the train up.

  Eggtoria: yep.

  Geranium7: We are all going to go and try to meet Saba Greer. We have decided to all wear a white rose on our cloaks, so that we’ll know each other.

  Eggtoria: Got it. White rose.

  Geranium7: Ok see you there. Can’t wait to finally meet you.

  Mental note: Do not wear anything Egg-like at the A Dream for the Moon reception.

  Anyway, there is no chance in hell that I would ever wear a flower on my cloak. I am curious, though, to see what everyone else looks like. I wonder if they’re as boy proof as I am. I worry that I am really the most awful girl ever.

  Knock, knock. My instant messenger says, Do you want to accept a message from Catburglar?

  Catburglar. Who is that? I don’t know that name. I am intrigued. I accept.

  Catburglar: Non est ad astra mollis e terris via.

  Eggtoria: What? Who is this?

  Catburglar: That’s my philosophy. It’s a quote from the past. “There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.” I got your info off the Lion contact sheet. I thought I was the only one who couldn’t sleep.

  Max Carter.

  It blinks at me. Begging for a reply.

  His philosophy is so right. So multilayered. I wish that I had thought of it. It even looks good written in Latin. I would like to engage in a discourse about what exactly “earth” and “stars” mean. I want to talk about how even if there is no easy way to the stars, there still is a way. I bet he would have something clever to say about it. But I wonder if my words would look as pretty as his, written and blinking on the computer screen.

  I log off. Suddenly I don’t feel like chatting.

  I grab a PowerBar and head to school.

  “I tried IM’ing you last night. Why’d you log off?” Max walks up to me.

  He hands me a clementine section. I accept it; the juice squirts in my mouth and tastes good.

  “I didn’t feel like chatting. I was studying.”

  “What did you do this weekend?” Max asks.

  The sun is making his eyes glitter. They are blue with flecks of yellow. I put up my defense field.

  “The Science Fiction and Fantasy Club went to the Museum of Television and Radio.”

  I am afraid that Max is going to make fun of me. I am prepared for it.

  “Go ahead, make your lame geek jokes,” I say.

  “Why? I love sci-fi,” Max says. He lifts up the sleeve of his T-shirt and shows me his ankh tattoo.

  I’m surprised at how sculpted his arm muscle is. I didn’t have him pegged as a person who lifts weights. His skin is incredibly white. I reach out and touch the ink. The tattoo looks as though it should feel raised, but it’s not — it’s smooth.

  I feel a shock. He doesn’t seem fazed at all. He goes on talking.

  “It’s from The Sandman and also from Logan’s Run.”

  “I know, death, sanctuary. Whatever. Big deal, you like sci-fi,” I say.

  “One thing that I really love about sci-fi and fantasy is how they talk about taboo issues and open up a conversation about them,” Max says. “That’s how I started to become politically aware.”

  I think about that for a moment. I knew it already but hadn’t really articulated it before.

  “Like Terminal Earth talks about environmental apocalypse and drug resistance,” I say.

  “And fear of the other,” he adds. “So, see, I love it. I love sci-fi. I just love real life, too.”

  Max points at the nuclear radiation symbol on my T-shirt. His finger brushes the side of my breast, though he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he pulls his sketchbook out of his backpack as we are walking to Global History.

  “I wanted to show you this,” he says, and opens the book to a picture of the Gas Pump Lady Liberty. It’s his editorial cartoon for the Melrose Lion. It is the Gas Pump Lady Liberty sculpture draped with furs and boas and diamonds. In the corner of the drawing are the backs of the paparazzi who are taking pictures of her. The caption says “Real Art for the Angelino.”

  “This is great, Max,” I say, looking at him with my real eyes, to let him know I mean it.

  I gently take the book from his hands and run my fingers over the thick paper, feeling the way the ink bumps and scratches. I can tell that the pressure Max uses on the pen is as intense as he is.

  “I wanted to show you first.” He nods at me like a co-conspirator. Like we’re friends.

  “Victoria, do you want to make some money for yourself?”

  “Money is power in this corrupt world,” I say. “What do I have to do?”

  “You would be an Awkwardly Tall Elf,” Mom says. “There are a lot of tall elves at the North Pole, and Santa is beginning to worry. It’s only for one Saturday.”

  I don’t want to be an Awkwardly Tall Elf, but I do want to have my own money. I want freedom. I want independence.

  “Are there prosthetics for the elves?” I ask.

  “Yes, I think so. Why do you ask?” Mom says.

  I look at her, dumbfounded.

  “Two reasons, Mom.” I have to spell everything out for her. “One, I want so much makeup on that no one could possibly ever recognize me. And two, I like special-effects makeup. Try to keep up with the details of my life, okay?”

  “We really aren’t cut from the same cloth, are we?” Mom says.

  “No, we aren’t,” I say. “I’m just like Dad.”

  Mom presses her lips i
nto a line and grinds her teeth. I watch her count to ten and exhale. I know exactly which buttons to push to drive her crazy.

  “Twice they fell between the rocks of Gron Golder. And we would not make the same mistake again,” I say.

  Zach Cross sticks his finger in my mouth and lowers himself to my lips in a kiss.

  “They’re coming,” he says. He is Uno now. He is wearing his tight black T-shirt and patent-leather pants. His hair is gelled back. His sunglasses are on. I hear the enemy scuttling toward the door.

  “No!”

  The guns are out. The shooting begins. Uno crumbles to the floor, and when I turn the body over, I discover that it’s Max that’s lying there dead.

  I wake up in a sweat. I go to the bathroom and splash some water on my face. I know why I am having these nightmares. I go back to my room and pull this week’s trigonometry quiz out from underneath my mattress: 52%, it says. Next to it is a red frowny face.

  It is the worst grade I have ever gotten in my life.

  I cannot fail. Can. Not. Fail.

  I open up my trig textbook and begin to study. There is a whole new chapter to learn. I’ve read it twice, but I still feel weak about it. Astronauts use this to calculate stuff. Egg knows these equations so she can pilot her planes. I should know it, too.

  The worry is eating me alive.

  I always wait until the second bell rings before I begin slowly taking off my street clothes and putting on my gym clothes. I don’t want anyone to see my body, but I have to get out onto the gym floor before the late bell rings. It’s a fine balance of time. And I have to make it work. Six late marks equal failure.

  I slide my eyes over to the girls who know how to stand nonchalantly in underwear, just chatting. The group includes Nelly and Inez. Nelly’s leg is up on the bench between the lockers and she is rubbing glitter lotion onto her calves.

  How did girls like that become so comfortable with their bodies? How did I miss out on that lesson?