Smith High 02: Invisible

by Marni Bates

  I stared at him in outrage. “You’re kidding me. You started that conversation so you could stalk me at work? Was that supposed to be some kind of charm offensive or something?”

  “That depends on whether you found me charming.”

  “Not so much.”

  “Then clearly it wasn’t.”

  I wanted to blame my lack of a comeback on my slowly building headache, sore body, and emotional whiplash. Already I’d had to deal with a sentimental mom, an uncomfortable dad, an irate teacher, and now a jerk turned dictator—I didn’t want any of the above to follow me to work.

  “You’re not going to the bookstore with me.”

  “Sure I am.” Scott’s cocky grin was out in full force. “To the store and to the drama lunch. I’m going to make damn sure that we get a story worthy of the front page. See you later, Grammar Girl.”

  I could hardly wait.

  Chapter 11

  I shouldn’t have done it.

  I knew better than to open my writing notebook during my English class. But I really didn’t want Scott Fraser tailing me all the way to work, and I thought if I had the bare bones for a drama club story written, then I might be able to dodge that bullet. And, okay, I didn’t exactly have a story yet . . . but that didn’t mean I couldn’t prepare some snappy headlines.

  Drama Club: Where Not Everything Is Staged.

  Lame.

  I tapped my pen restlessly while Ms. Helsenberg lectured on about Doctor Faustus. Okay, so maybe Scott had a point about the drama club lacking real potential. Lisa Anne had made it clear that she wanted something sensational. Something shocking.

  I could only think of one story with that kind of potential:

  Rock Star’s New Relationship on the Rocks?

  Timothy Goff, the front man of America’s hottest indie band, ReadySet, is known for holding back information when it comes to his private life. Rumors have connected him to many of Hollywood’s young starlets, including singer Taylor Swift (a rumor that was neither confirmed nor denied by their publicists), but now the truth is finally out! Goff has been quietly dating eighteen-year-old Smith High School student Corey O’Neal, whom he first met backstage at a concert. The two were introduced by YouTube sensation Mackenzie Wellesley, and the couple remains close by regularly texting, calling, and Skyping each other. Still, the distance has definitely become a barrier.

  “It’s not exactly a ‘whirlwind’ romance when you see him more often on television than on Skype,” O’Neal complains. “I want our Facebook profiles to make it clear that we are together. Taken. Committed.”

  Let’s hope these two lovebirds make it work.

  I’m not sure why I even bothered writing the story.

  It’s not like I could ever turn it in. If Corey wanted to keep his relationship with Tim a secret, my lips (or in this case, my pen) would never spill it. His relationship, his decision—nobody else’s. The last thing I wanted was for some magazine editor to spin it into something salacious and then plaster that all over the newsstands.

  I would just have to come up with something else.

  Still, I paused to consider my writing. Stylistically, it was almost as strong as the story where I was . . .

  “Stabbed in the eye in a bar fight.”

  I jerked up in my seat. “What?”

  And that’s why I shouldn’t drift off during class.

  “Christopher Marlowe,” Ms. Helsenberg said slowly, as if that were perfectly obvious—which it would have been if I had been paying even the slightest bit of attention. “He was stabbed in a bar fight under suspicious circumstances. It’s possible he was a spy.”

  “A spy,” I repeated foolishly. “That’s interesting.”

  “I think so,” Ms. Helsenberg agreed. “If you’re really interested, find me after class, Jane. Now, where was I? Right, Marlowe . . .”

  I was so busted.

  There was no way I could tell Ms. Helsenberg the truth: Sorry, not really interested. I read ahead of the syllabus, and Marlowe’s death worked its way into my writing. Surprised me for a second there. All better now. Guess I’d better go.

  Yeah, I didn’t think that would go over too well. Especially since I knew Ms. Helsenberg would try to capitalize on even the smallest display of student interest . . . and I didn’t want to disappoint her.

  “So, Jane, let’s talk,” Ms. Helsenberg said cheerily as she planted herself directly between me and the door.

  “Um, I’d love to, but I should really get going. There’s only a fifteen-minute break between classes and—”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine. You can always run if necessary.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “I’m curious as to why today’s class was the most I’ve heard from you all year.”

  “Um, I guess I find death interesting,” I admitted sheepishly. Then I remembered that when speaking to an authority figure it’s generally best not to imply an unhealthy interest in anything even remotely creepy. “Strictly in the hypothetical, of course.”

  “I see. So you’re doing all right?” It sounded like real concern.

  “I’m fine.” The words were automatic.

  “Are you sure? I heard about—”

  “My little fight yesterday,” I finished for her. “That’s already blown over. No big deal.”

  And if you believe that . . . then my dog totally ate my homework.

  “It sounds to me like you might need a creative outlet, Jane. Have you ever considered acting?”

  “Acting,” I repeated. “Me?”

  “Sure, you can try on a new persona without making anything permanent.”

  “Uh, that sounds . . .”

  Awful. Terrible. Like a disaster waiting to happen.

  “Interesting. I planned on going to the drama club meeting today, but it wasn’t—”

  Ms. Helsenberg waved dismissively. “Oh, just come to the auditions for Romeo and Juliet tomorrow. I’m providing my Shakespearean expertise, so I’ll see you there at three o’clock.”

  “Wait, what?!”

  “You better start running now.”

  I stared at her in confusion. “Running? You think I should join the track team too?”

  Ms. Helsenberg smiled. “I think you should get to your next class, Jane. You don’t want to be late.”

  “Right. Class.”

  She gently propelled me out of the door as students filtered in for her Shakespearean Lit class. “See you Thursday.”

  I wanted to say something like, Yeah . . . about that. Not going to happen. But thanks for trying!

  But too many students were eyeing me with blatant curiosity for me to get the words past my throat. So I just nodded and scurried away like she had recommended.

  Then I spent almost the entirety of my next class trying to figure out what to do for lunch.

  The high school play audition sounded a lot more promising than a drama club meeting, so my original plan was out. Which left me debating the merits of giving Scott a heads-up or letting him find out the hard way when I didn’t show.

  I would have been seriously tempted to stand him up if I hadn’t known that he would find some diabolical way to pay me back in full.

  So I texted him.

  His response was succinct: Fine.

  I pocketed my phone, feeling ridiculous for expecting more. The last thing I wanted was to spend any more time than absolutely necessary with the guy. So for me to be disappointed that he hadn’t bothered trying to guess my new lunch plans was patently absurd. Ditto for hoping he might express some concern over my return to the scene of the fight.

  Then again, I was anxious enough about walking into the cafeteria for both of us.

  I couldn’t do it.

  Corey’s makeover had barely gotten me through my bus ride.... The last thing I wanted was to be the center of the entire school’s attention. The very thought of standing in line near Alex Thompson or any of his football team buddies was enough to make me queasy. And knowing that
Corey would insist I take off my dad’s sweatshirt didn’t help matters.

  I hid out in the library.

  Then I went through the rest of my school day on autopilot. I didn’t have to think about my routine because it was just that . . . routine. As much as I hated to admit it, Scott had a point when he called me predictable. I wanted him to be wrong about everything: his stupid photography, his assumptions on my personality—all of it.

  But none of that changed the fact that this time he had pegged me.

  Not something I particularly wanted to linger on as I shoved two of my notebooks into my locker before I headed downtown—without waiting for a certain photographer. If he was that serious about shadowing me at work, then he knew where to find me. And if I wasted time waiting for him, I might be late. My mom had been unhappy enough about picking me up from school the day before; no way would she be willing to shuttle me to Fiction Addiction for at least a month. I could probably call her en route, begging for a lift, and she would suggest that I run faster. Having a physical trainer for a mother definitely has its share of disadvantages.

  Then again, as long as I leave immediately after school, I usually enjoy the walk to work. I can crank up my music without Elle yelling at me to “Turn off that emo crap!” And back when Kenzie and Corey had been primarily ignored by the Notables at our school, I could call one of them up and talk all the way to the store.

  I missed those days.

  Especially since the walk today wasn’t soothing my nerves in the slightest. If anything, I was only growing more anxious about my stupid newspaper story with every step. Which meant it was time to call Corey for advice. I knew the story I had written during class was unprintable, but it was possible he knew something that could be leaked. He had mentioned something a few weeks ago about ReadySet eyeing a potential sound-track job.... That might satisfy Lisa Anne. I tried to convince myself that it didn’t count as cheating to use my friend’s celebrity contacts to impress Mr. Elliot. It wasn’t like I had befriended Kenzie in elementary school because I predicted that someday she’d be an overnight YouTube sensation.

  So maybe it was okay if new clothing wasn’t the only perk of our friendship.

  The possibility pulled me up short, and I tugged off my backpack so I could begin fumbling inside it for my cell phone. Corey would have no trouble coming up with a brilliant idea that would stun even Lisa Anne Montgomery. I was sure of it. That’s when a firm, masculine hand gripped my shoulder. I froze in absolute terror.

  Alex Thompson. It was either him or one of his football buddies. And judging by the strength of his hold, whoever it was wouldn’t be satisfied with a little catch-and-release action. More like catch and shove the geek girl around action . . . if I was lucky. My gut twisted as I mentally berated myself for ever being stupid enough to think that the fistfight had ended in the cafeteria. Alex would never accept being publicly sucker punched by a girl without getting revenge.

  Just like I would never accept a thrashing without a fight.

  Releasing a piercing battle cry, I swiveled into his grasp and jackknifed my knee into one well-toned stomach. I felt a quick rush of satisfaction at the solid contact and the surprised grunt of pain from my attacker. The grip on my shoulder weakened as he doubled over.

  “That’s right, scumbag!” Adrenaline pounded through my system like I had just chugged three energy drinks.

  “Not so brave without your posse of friends, are you!” I taunted as I stomped down hard on a Converse-clad foot. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to insult an aggressive jerk, but I was beyond caring. “Take that!”

  But this time the elbow that was supposed to sideswipe his face was caught in his hand. In a deft move my self-defense classes hadn’t covered, he pivoted and drew my arm up behind my back.

  “Damn, Jane!” said an all-too-familiar voice. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  My whole body went slack. “Scott?”

  “Yeah. Were you expecting someone else?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “Let me go.”

  There was a long, considering pause. “I don’t think so. You might try to throw another punch.”

  I tried to yank my arm out of his grasp and succeeded only in wrenching it. Two fights in two days. That had to be a new record for Smith High School. Although we were a few blocks away, so maybe it didn’t technically count as fighting on school grounds.

  Not that it made me feel any better about the situation.

  “Scott, I’m sore, I’ve got a blinding headache, and I think I can now add ‘paranoid’ to my list of winning personality traits. Please release my arm so I’m not late for work too.”

  My cool, rational tone appeared to do the trick as he lowered my arm before he unclasped me entirely. I spun around to face him.

  “Thanks,” I said with forced politeness. “I’m sorry I hit you. It was an accident.”

  “Some accident. That’s one hell of a knee you’ve got there, Grammar Girl.”

  I couldn’t help smiling at the obvious irritation in his voice. “That’s what you get for sneaking up on people.”

  He stared at me in disbelief, his green eyes flashing with indignation. “I called out your name three times, which you would’ve noticed if your music hadn’t been loud enough to drown out a twenty-one-gun salute.”

  “Oh.” I glanced down at the sidewalk where my iPod lay sprawled out like the victim of a sudden hit-and-run. Selecting a playlist for my walk to work was so ingrained I didn’t even notice it anymore. Or much of anything else, apparently. “Sorry. My bad.”

  “Damn right! What the hell had you wound up that tight anyway?”

  “Nothing.”

  He shoved his rumpled dark brown bangs out of his eyes and took a good, long look at me. I tried to lock my knees so he wouldn’t notice the sudden shaking. I wanted to blame it all on the adrenaline rush from a heated, albeit short-lived, tussle, but a lot of it was from fear. I hadn’t been attacked, but that didn’t mean a large group of irate football players weren’t still out there gunning for me. Maybe Alex Thompson was just biding his time until he was good and ready. Not so reassuring.

  “Are you okay?” This time when he asked, his voice was gentler than I’d ever heard it before—which meant he must have noticed the trembling.

  “I’m fine.”

  What else could I say? The way my luck has been going, I’m probably going to be beaten up tomorrow. Thanks for asking, Scott. And how have you been lately?

  I thought not.

  He nodded. “Look, I’m only going to say this once. If you’re in serious trouble, then you should tell your guard dogs about it.”

  I tried to imagine how my friends would react if they knew my level of Alex Thompson–related fear: Kenzie would panic, Corey would look concerned, Isobel would feel guilty, and Logan would arrange for a hockey player to escort me down the halls between classes. Good intentions, but they would smother me. I’d never noticed it before, but my friends can be a bit overwhelming . . . when they aren’t so busy planning romantic dates for two that they ignore me completely.

  “I’m fine,” I repeated. “Just a touch jumpy. I’m going to buy some mace. Maybe a stun gun. That should do the trick.”

  “That’s all we need: you armed and dangerous. You’d probably zap some little old lady asking for directions.”

  I laughed, but it still sounded shaky even to my ears. “Don’t worry, Scott. I’ll make sure it’s you before I zap.”

  “I bet.” He stooped to pick up my iPod before he slung my backpack over his shoulder. “How far away is this bookstore?”

  “Only another ten minutes. I can carry that,” I said, gesturing to my bag.

  “Let’s just walk it off, Grammar Girl.”

  And since our fight really had brought all my aches and pains from yesterday right back to the surface, I decided to let him haul my textbooks without protest.

  Hey, he volunteered.

  Chapter 12

  I considered the
bookstore my second home . . . only quirkier.

  Every wall was painted a different color, nothing in the place matched, and the twisting maze of bookshelves should have struck me as bizarre. Instead, I’d always found it comforting. Probably because as a kid my choice was either to hang out there or join my sister for ballet classes. Elle then threatened to throw a royal tantrum if I didn’t pick Fiction Addiction. She needn’t have worried. Even at that age I saw Mrs. P’s School of Ballet for exactly what it was: a secret program designed to mold Notable girls. From there it’s just one short step to world domination, or at least total control of Smith High School’s social scene. Case in point: Chelsea Halloway.

  And my older sister.

  So I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of sharing my safe zone with Scott Fraser. In fact, the nearer we came, the more determined I was to defend the store.

  If he makes one wisecrack about the décor, I’ll punch him, I decided impulsively. One snarky comment about getting the owner checked for color blindness and his shiny camera will be ground into the sidewalk.

  I couldn’t even convince myself that I meant it.

  Which left me with no other option than to grab onto his leather jacket and wait for his full attention before I attempted to communicate the gravity of the situation.

  “Mrs. Blake is working with me today. If you so much as look funny at her, I’ll, uh . . . I’ll make sure that you don’t get any good photos.”

  Scott looked thoroughly unimpressed with my threat. “Relax, Grammar Girl. I won’t make you look bad in front of your boss.”

  I gave him a long, hard look to make sure he wasn’t just trying to placate me. “Good, because if you—”

  “Hello-o, Janie,” Mrs. Blake called out, waving at us through the store window and effectively cutting me off. “Why are you bickering with that young gentleman out there?”

  “Not. One. Word,” I ground out to Scott.

  “Sure, Janie.”

  That wasn’t any better than being called “Grammar Girl.”