by Ross Welford
With water bottles. How innocent is that?
Not water pistols, or Super Soakers, or anything like that. Just water bottles, with those sports tops that have the little hole in them.
I see Jesmond out of the corner of my eye, but I’m too late.
He already has the water bottle raised, a stupid grin all over his stupid face. He hands something to his sister – his phone, I think. Then he squeezes the bottle, a jet of water firing directly towards Boydy. It’s just a thin spout of water, but it gets me right in the face and on my hair.
Beside him, Jarrow is holding the phone, filming.
I don’t think anyone notices at first.
Jesmond fires again, and again the water hits me. He could hardly miss – I am only about a metre away.
This all happens in a matter of seconds. I know, though, that I have been made slightly visible.
I throw the guitar, shouting ‘Catch, Boydy!’, regardless of what will happen when people hear a voice from nowhere. The hubbub in the hall will be enough, I hope, that no one will be able to tell where my voice is coming from.
Except, at the exact moment I shout, the people nearest notice a strange watery shape appear, where the pistol’s jet has hit me, and a silence falls over that part of the hall.
Aramynta Fell, who is in the next row up, just goes: ‘Oh my God. It’s there again!’
Boydy catches the guitar by its neck, but by now I’m running up the aisle.
A few people are getting out of their seats to follow or simply craning their necks to get a better view of this weird thing. I think they probably think it’s part of Boydy’s act, another illusion.
Behind me I hear Mr Parker shout, ‘Sit down, everybody, sit down! Let the performers perform – show them a modicum of respect!’
But he’s never had a lot of natural authority, and the hall is now in a sort of pack frenzy, with people spilling into the aisle to see what it is that is causing the commotion.
The lighting guys brought up some of the lights in the auditorium as soon as Boydy started his move off the stage, but it’s still not exactly bright.
Meanwhile, Jesmond Knight is firing his water pistol like it’s a proper gun battle, and someone on the other side of the aisle, who has been hit in the crossfire, is returning fire from their own water bottle. Enough of it is hitting me to keep me at least partly visible to the mob advancing up the aisle.
I can hear people saying, ‘What is it?’ and ‘Look – there’s a hand!’, but mostly ‘Oh God!’ and a few other much more extreme expressions. Mainly, though, no one is quite sure what they are seeing, and there’s quite a few people saying things like ‘Awesome!’ and ‘Whoa!’
Riley Colman, who won last year’s physics prize, says loudly, as if he knows everything, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake – it’s a trick of the light!’ (He’s right, of course: my invisibility is definitely ‘a trick of the light’.)
I’m ahead of the crowd by a good few metres. If I can get outside and run, people won’t be able to see me, I’m pretty certain.
There are double safety doors leading out of the auditorium, with one of those metal bars that you push to open.
I do open it, and I stop dead.
It’s pouring down outside – like, monsoon style. One step into the rain and I’ll be totally visible, a rainy ghost figure.
I turn round, and there are about a dozen people right behind me.
I’m not even sure what they can see. A few drops of water on my face and hair? What does that look like?
Behind the small crowd I can see Boydy, fear contorting his face. At that moment he does something completely brilliant. He screams.
‘Aaaagh! It’s got me! It’s the ghost of Jimi Hendrix and he’s punishing me!’
Brilliant! Instantly, the crowd turns round to see Boydy waving his arms around, pretending to be attacked, and they all laugh.
I take my chance to edge along the back wall of the theatre. I’m wiping water from my face and anywhere else I can, and I think I’m doing OK.
But then Jesmond turns back from Boydy and points at the ground.
‘Footprints!’
I have left a trail of wet footprints, and they lead straight to me. Without waiting, I sprint to the main door of the theatre and burst through it into the school corridor.
Checking behind me, I see I am no longer leaving wet footprints, and the gang, led by Jarrow Knight, don’t know which way I’ve gone. They stop in the doorway, and I can hear Mr Parker and some other teachers trying to restore order.
Cautiously, I open the door of the girls’ toilet.
A couple of minutes later, I’m dry, thanks to the hand dryer, and I have checked everything in the girls’ big bathroom mirror.
I truly am invisible again, every last inch of me. I’m working out my options when the bathroom door bursts open and smashes me in the face, hard.
I let out a howl of pain and collapse on the floor, clutching my face as three girls rush in. I crouch down, holding my nose, and I can’t see who’s saying what. The hardest thing is making sure I don’t moan in agony.
‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t … Hey? Did you hear that? What was that? Did you hit something? I heard someone … Jarrow, did you just scream?’
‘This is too freaky for me,’ says Jarrow.
I can feel the blood start to well up in my nose, and then it just bursts out. I remove my hands in time and jerk my head forward so that it doesn’t drip on my skin. Instead it forms a long crimson splatter, becoming visible as it hits the floor, a growing red pool seeping over the white-tiled floor. Even to me it looks very creepy, and I both know what it is, and am distracted by the agony in my face.
The one that’s called Gemma notices it first.
‘Oh, God. Jarrow, look. Blood!’
‘Eeugh! Where’s it coming from?’
I can’t even look up, because to look up would involve lifting my head and that would mean blood dripping down my face, so I’m stuck in this weird crouch. The pooling blood forms a little river through the spaces between the tiles and trickles towards their feet.
‘There’s more of it, Gemma. Oh, God. That’s gross. It looks like someone’s … eughh! I’m going to get Mrs McDonald.’
Two of them immediately leave the bathroom.
I can tell by her shoes that Jarrow is left behind. Her foot moves, tentatively kicking in my direction. She wants to see … what? I don’t know. But she’s getting too curious.
It worked with Aramynta Fell, so it might just work again.
I open my mouth and let out the throaty gargle again. With the blood gathering in my nose, it’s a more bubbly sound, and a fine spray of red with a few bigger globs land on Jarrow’s shoes.
That does it. She screams and runs out, stepping in the pool of my blood as she goes and leaving a red footprint on the tiles.
I can hear the sound system from the theatre playing some thumping house music, and a microphone crackling, and Mr Parker going, ‘Order! Come on, let’s have a little order.’
I’m just crouching and staying still, silently groaning as my nose throbs with pain and tears of agony sting my eyes.
That’s when the tingling starts in my skin, and the early headache.
It’s wearing off.
I’m going to be naked. In the middle of school.
Only, this time I’ll be totally, one hundred per cent, visible.
I don’t really have any choice, do I?
I have not exactly picked the best time to wander through the school naked, though, because as I open the door from the girls’ bathroom, the bell goes and about half a dozen classes start emptying their students into the main corridor, as well as the audience for Whitley’s Got Talent.
There are two ways I can go: back through the Performing Arts Block, or follow the main corridor along to the big glass-walled reception area, which is already filling up with students.
I consider waiting in one of the toilet cubicles until the break is over
, but the tingling on my skin is intensifying, and – based on the last time – I figure I have five minutes tops to make it back under the rhododendron bush to retrieve my clothes.
I check myself one last time in the mirror, and remove a crust of blood from my nose.
‘All clear,’ I say to myself, and then – despite my nerves – I smile. Because that’s what I am: like a glass of water, I’m all clear.
I’m out of the bathroom door just before four sixth-form girls barge in, and I narrowly avoid a second collision.
From now on it’s a race against people and my soon-to-expire invisibility.
Dodging and weaving through the mass of bodies, I make my way down the corridor. I bump into people; I knock their bags. Some turn round and say, ‘Hey! Watch it!’, but there’s enough of a crowd for no one to be quite sure who bumped them.
In reception, the rain is hammering on the glass roof and I’m immediately gripped by my old fear, but now it’s bordering on panic.
Stop it, Ethel. Not now, not now, I tell myself.
I dodge behind a large potted fern where I’m kind of out of the way, and I take deep breaths, digging my nails into my palms until they are sore, and that distracts me from my fear.
I need someone to open a door so that I can squeeze through. Trouble is, no one is going outside. Why would they? It’s bucketing down.
My head is throbbing, and my skin feels like a million ants are crawling beneath the surface. And …
Oh no.
No, no, no.
If I peer really closely at my hand, I can see the faintest beginnings of a shape.
A minute? Less? Until I’m actually living the world’s most common recurring nightmare, and I’m naked in public.
I swallow. I take a deep breath and then …
I. Just. Run.
I’m at the side door in a second and I push it open. It seems like a hundred pairs of eyes turn to the noise of the door slamming back on itself as the rain gusts in.
Someone says, ‘What’s that? Look!’
I’m out and running through the rain.
I can see the raindrops hitting my arms and legs and forming a brief translucent outline that shifts and changes as I move.
In twenty metres I can turn a corner past the Science Block and be out of sight of the people in reception. Before I turn, I look back: faces are pressed against the glass walls, and some people have come through the door that I left open, trying to get a better look at this ghostly shape moving through the rain.
And now I’m round the corner and heading to the main gate. It’s shut.
The only thing I can do is open it with my thumbprint and deal with any consequences – whatever they could be – later.
I can just see my transparent thumb as I press on the sensor pad. The gate swings open and I’m through, ducking under the rhododendron leaves to safety.
I’m done in, and I just collapse, flat on my back among the dead leaves and cigarette ends. I can hardly breathe, my brain feels like it’s going to explode, and I screw my eyes up before I roll over and throw up.
Then I sit up and look down.
I look down at me. I’m here; I’m back. There’s my thigh. Here’s my hand. I close my eyes and everything goes black, just as it should.
I’m visible.
I retrieve my plastic bag from where I left it, get dressed, and wait under the dripping rhododendrons until the rain stops, leaning back against a metal pole.
I’m back home before Gram gets in, and change into my school uniform as if I’ve had a normal day.
Normal day? Ha!
There’s a text from Boydy.
That was AWESOME! Can u come round tonite? I’m cooking.
Seems like I’m forgiven then. Plus, I’m super-curious to see what sort of house Boydy lives in.
Tea with Gram that afternoon is a strained affair, mainly because I’m dying to tell her what happened today but – obviously – I can’t.
‘Are you all right, Ethel?’ she asks more than once.
‘Yes, thanks, Gram. I’m just tired.’
That, at least, is the truth. I’m exhausted. Otherwise, though, I feel fine. I keep checking myself over every time I pass a mirror to make sure everything’s in place. It seems incredible, but I really do seem to be able to do this invisibility thing without any ill effects, apart from being sick afterwards.
Best of all, my skin has improved even more. I have a slight rash of spots on my chin, but other than that, the acne has more or less gone. I grin at myself in the mirror. Gram catches me as she passes.
‘Vanity, Ethel, dear. Too long in front of a mirror can be bad for you.’
‘Have you seen, Gram? My skin?’
‘I told you it would clear up in time, darling.’
She’s off out this evening: another meeting, another committee, apparently. At least, that’s what she says. I’m beginning to wonder.
Would you put on make-up for a committee meeting? Well, obviously, no, you wouldn’t if you’re a kid. But an adult? Especially if you’re like Gram and don’t often wear it?
And the thing is, she doesn’t do it in her room. She says goodbye, that she’ll see me later, and gets in her car, where, from my window, I see her adjust her rear-view mirror and apply blusher, lipstick and mascara. Then she drives off.
Months ago, when I first got my smartphone for Christmas, Gram insisted on installing a tracker app – ‘Just for safety, Ethel, darling.’
I’m pretty certain that she doesn’t know that FindU works both ways.
Tonight will be the first time I use it. I’m going to find out where Gram is going.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. I suppose the ‘Smelliot’ thing still had me wondering if he lived in a horrible house, but …
Boydy’s house is totally normal. Much smaller than I expected, what with his dad being a lawyer, but normal. With a very distinctive smell of scented candles.
‘Sorry about the smell,’ he says, completely unself-consciously. ‘Mum’s got a client in.’
He says that his mum is a reflexologist and reiki therapist, neither of which I have a clue about, except that they clearly involve scented candles and whale-song set to music, which you can hear everywhere in the house.
Boydy’s dad isn’t around much. I’ve never seen him. I ask Boydy where he is and he answers quickly.
‘He’s away. He works away a lot. Will you pass me that knife, Eff?’
Boydy cooking is pretty impressive to watch, and I sit at his kitchen counter while he chops and fries. Because his mum is a vegan, Boydy’s learned to cook stuff for himself, otherwise, he reckons, he would ‘starve’.
She draws the line at having meat in the house, but doesn’t mind fish so that’s what we’re having. Personally, I don’t see the difference between meat and fish. I mean, if you don’t want to kill something, fair enough, but what about the poor fish, gasping for life in the hold of a fishing trawler? I don’t say this, obviously.
Anyway, Boydy’s chopping up veggies for a prawn stir-fry and his hands are swift and deft, just like Jamie Oliver on telly.
‘You should have seen it!’ he gushes, when we get to talking about that afternoon’s Whitley’s Got Talent, which takes about two seconds.
‘I did. I was there!’
In case you were wondering, Boydy didn’t win. I know: it seems crazy. The best illusion ever and he didn’t win.
‘I think it’s because I told them it wasn’t me playing the guitar.’
‘You what?’
I’m dreading what he’s going to say: has he spilt our secret?
‘Everyone was raving. People were talking about ghosts. Mr Parker was in a right old state – it was nearly a riot. Honestly, Eff, I thought I was going to be burned at the stake.’
I thought back to the bunch of people who were advancing on me, and the chaos in the hall. It certainly wasn’t an orderly performance, if that was what they had wanted.
‘Mr Parker took m
e to one side and said, “Mr Boyd. While I appreciate the theatricality of your rrrecital and the preparation that went into its execution …”’
I start to laugh because it’s a brilliant impression.
Encouraged, Boydy goes on: ‘“The invisible fishing line that you undoubtedly utilised to effect the levitation of the guitar was indeed wily, but as said instrument was out of your hands, I can only assume that the music was generated with more than a degree of artifice. Am I right?”’
‘He reckoned you faked the music?’
‘Right. But what could I say? “No, Mr Parker. It was Ethel Leatherhead except she was invisible”? I said I had a recording on my phone and it was stuck with Blu Tack inside the hole of the guitar.’
‘And he believed you?’
‘Occam’s razor, Effel, Occam’s razor.’
I give him a blank look.
He’s buoyed with confidence now, and he dumps the veggies and prawns in the wok.
‘Occam’s razor. It’s philosophy, innit? “Once you eliminate the impossible, what remains – however improbable – must be the truth.”’
‘What’s that got to do with a razor?’
‘Dunno,’ he says, expertly shaking and tossing the stuff in the pan without a spoon. ‘And he didn’t say it anyway. It was Spock in Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country, quoting Sherlock Holmes.’
‘So who’s this Occam?’
‘Doesn’t matter. The point is, so far as Mr Parker’s concerned, the only way it could have happened is with some sort of ultra-fine thread and a recorded track inside the guitar. And thus, as I was supposed to be a musical act, I was disqualified from winning.’
‘That totally sucks.’
I feel angry that Boydy was denied his rightful prize, but he doesn’t seem to care.
He shrugs. ‘Big deal. It was worth every second to see the look on Jesmond Knight’s face when he fired that water at me and it hit you instead. It was like I had an invisible force field around me! Now, I hope you’re hungry.’
I’ve got to hand it to Boydy. His stir-fry smells delicious, and I am super-hungry.
