Invisibility Read online

  And while I don’t subscribe to the idea that anyone sporting a penis should hold doors for me or throw coats over puddles on a rainy-day stroll, he could have at least muttered “oh, that sucks” or kicked the Färm vase back in my direction. Since, after all, it rolled across the space between us and now rests by his foot.

  I’m tempted to snark “Fine, keep it!” and throw the rest of the bags into my apartment, wrapping up the whole scene with a glorious door slam.

  No joy for that plan, though, because I’m still kneeling in a disaster area of picture frames, throw pillows, and water glasses with names like Flukta and Varmt, which I’m convinced are dirty words that the Swedes use to mock us. I grope around the hall, trying to figure out where my keys fell.

  A twinge in my chest informs me that the knee-jerk outburst has passed and now I feel bad about yelling at him, not to mention clumsy as hell.

  He’s just standing there, staring at me.

  Guilt and embarrassment are already flooding my chest, choking my throat, making me wish I was anywhere but standing in this building that doesn’t feel like home but somehow is. Instead I’m stuck; my feet have been bolted to the floor of this claustrophobic hall.

  I miss air that isn’t full of car exhaust. I miss the horizon. How is there a place that doesn’t have a horizon? Humans evolved on a sphere that’s spinning in an ever-expanding universe. Horizon simply is. It’s like gravity. Yet somehow people on this weird island threw together enough steel and concrete to erase the spot where the sky touches the earth. It’s like they wanted to pretend the rules that the rest of us accept don’t apply. Maybe if I’d paid more attention, I’d notice they’re all walking five inches above the sidewalk too.

  You’d think Mom would have mentioned that in her whole New York will be so much better than Minnesota and you want to be an artist and blah blah blah pitch . . . but she didn’t. It’s not like I needed the pitch. After it happened, I was ready to go. We all were. There wasn’t any reason to pretend New York was anything other than an escape hatch for the three of us. But that didn’t make the move easy. Ever since we got here, my teeth have been grinding from the constant noise, nothing smells right, and I always feel like I’m about to get a headache.

  I glance down at my shirt because the last time a boy stared at me this long I’d unwittingly popped three buttons while hauling moving boxes my mom had stacked in the living room, leaving my boobs to wink at the world shamelessly.

  When my eyes shift down, I see my shirt is intact, so flashing isn’t the issue. Maybe the girls he’s used to don’t talk like me. Girls in Blaine didn’t talk like me. Being nice was more important than being honest. Except their definition of nice included gossip that cut like a knife in your back.

  I thought maybe my rough edges would mean I’d fit better here. Obviously my New York girls are tougher theory isn’t going to pan out. I can already hear my mom chiding me. “There’s no need to be abrasive, Elizabeth.”

  That’s the impression I give my mother. Her daughter: the scouring pad.

  I shove my hand towards him. “I’m sorry. It’s just that the subway felt like a sauna and the elevator was busy, so I took the stairs, which was a bad call. The more I sweat, the less civil I am.”

  He gazes at my fingers like they might be leprous and I snatch my hand back. He winces, lifting his eyes to mine. Very carefully he folds at the waist, wrapping his fingers one at a time around the vase. He takes several measured steps as he approaches me.

  “Sorry . . . I . . . sorry.” His words are slower than his steps.

  I peer at him, wondering if maybe he isn’t comfortable speaking English. But he looks American to me. Is that a thing? Can a person look American? Maybe it’s just that he’s what I always thought New York would look like. All sorts of different places and times mashed up into one person’s body. Worldly—I think that’s the word for it. In Blaine, people look like they’ve never left Blaine. And never will.

  My throat is full of cotton and I swallow a couple of times. “No. I was being rude.”

  I gaze at the weird little ceramic piece he gently places in my palm rather than looking up at him again because by now I feel like a bitch, an idiot, and a possible racist because of my whole “looking American” inner monologue. The vase he’s handed me resembles an egg that grew a neck. I’d thrown it into my IKEA cart on a whim, adding an item to my list of quirky tasks I would accomplish when exploring my new island home.

  Find a wildflower to live in this vase. Note: wild—no garden snatching or purchase allowed. Sidewalk-crack flora acceptable.

  I force myself to glance at him. “I shouldn’t have tried a balancing act best left to professionals. I’m no plate spinner.”

  Lame. So lame. I’m blushing now, which makes it worse. Blood coloring my cheeks doesn’t do anything for my complexion. On me it’s not demure and sweet, just blotchy and unfortunate.

  He smiles and a real person breaks through the mask of disbelief he’s worn up to that moment. He’s cute. The floppy kind of cute with dark hair I want to push out of his eyes and overly conscientious body movements, as if touching anything by accident would be a crisis. And his eyes . . . they’re strange, but alluring. It’s a color a painter might create, but only with lots of effort and an infinite palette to experiment with. They’re blue, but not. It’s that shade you catch right before a robin’s-egg sky melts into the rust and rose of sunsets. It’s the horizon I haven’t seen since we entered the skyscraper forest of Manhattan.

  I’m already sketching his eyes in my head and have to force myself to shift my gaze to the rest of him. Nothing else out of the ordinary, but not unpleasant either. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans and makes them look good in a way that only some boys can. I’m a little relieved to see he’s sweating as much as I am.

  “No. You’re right. I was being stupid.” He sounds sorry and he sounds kinda nervous.

  I look down again. Great. My boobs might not be popping out, but all the sweat has turned me into a one-woman wet T-shirt contest.

  Hormone-driven apology. That’s typical. That’s my life.

  I grit my teeth because I can hear my mother’s voice, like she’s steering the boat that is my conscience. Telling me to play nice. Make friends. Introduce yourself to the neighbors. Neighbors are essential in New York.

  She’s been doling out her brand of New York wisdom ever since she announced our move a month ago. I don’t know where she’s getting it from, since her own family left New York when she was five years old. I’m a little worried it’s from reruns of Friends and Seinfeld, which doesn’t bode well for us. But I guess it’s better than the Law & Order marathons she’s also a fan of. If that was her source of info, Laurie and I would have industrial-size GPS trackers strapped to us anytime we left the apartment.

  The boy is staring at me again, biting his lip. He looks like he has a thousand questions brewing behind those watercolor eyes and I swear I’m not that interesting.

  His nerves seem to be getting worse. I can hear the rasp of his quick, shallow breaths. His gaze has become desperate as if he’s paralyzed by indecision. He lunges forward, suddenly on his knees beside me.

  “Hey—” I start to shout, but he’s moving his arm in slow sweeps, guiding the rainbow array of household décor back into the IKEA bags. His touch is so deliberate, so careful, as if he’s transfixed by the process. He looks like he’d enjoy taking each object and giving it a thorough examination before putting it away.

  Okay, weird. But he’s probably just worried I’m still pissed off about him watching me drop all that stuff and I’d just start yelling at him again if he accidentally broke something while trying to help me.

  Chagrined, I gather up the remaining items. When I have one bag assembled, he’s standing up again, holding the other two. One in each hand. He’s still watching me, barely blinking. His eyes have new light behind them, like he’s never had as much fun as carrying someone else’s shopping.

 
; I hesitate, awkwardly looking at him, then at the keys in my hand. Do I owe him another apology? Can I let a stranger into our apartment? But he’s not a stranger if he’s my neighbor, right? He must live here. Mom picked this building because of its location and its security. I guess Law & Order made an impression after all. I think about Mom, already at the hospital for a double shift though we only arrived yesterday. “Somebody has to pay for this swanky place,” she’d said with a grin after peeking in my room at 4:30 a.m. Even in my groggy state, I’d croaked out a laugh at her joke. The apartment was nice, but I was sleeping on an air mattress with a leak in it.

  “Would you like some lemonade?” I ask him. Lemonade strikes me as the ultimate heat-wave peace offering. Though I realize we have none in the fridge. I’m about to say that but don’t say anything because he’s gone pale in that way you do when you’re about to be sick.

  He closes his eyes, and when he does, something weird happens. It’s like I blinked, but I know I didn’t. He disappeared, in the way someone slips out of your peripheral vision. But I’m not looking at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s standing right in front of me.

  I’m desperate to get into my apartment because I’m sure this means I have heat stroke. I wish he’d say something so I could at least accept his refusal of my offer and leave. Then I realize I haven’t introduced myself.

  “I’m Elizabeth,” I say, managing to get my keys into the lock. “But I’ve been thinking of trying out Jo.”

  “Elizabeth and Jo.” He tilts his head and some of the color returns to his face. He speaks very softly. “You don’t like Elizabeth?”

  Ugh. Mom’s infatuation with Little Women will never leave me in peace. I’m in no mood to explain my mom’s penchant for literary homage via her children’s birth certificates. Nor try to puzzle out with this strange boy why she decided it was a good idea to name me after the girl who dies and only made the strong survivor my middle name. Survival as an afterthought. I’m starting to think that if I don’t chug some water in the next five minutes, I’m going to melt like a human Popsicle.

  “Josephine’s my middle name.” I unlock the door, gesturing for him to go in ahead of me. “And Jo is my pen name.”

  He swivels around, walking backward into the apartment like he doesn’t want to take his eyes off me. I probably should change my shirt before I tell him his lemonade will be water. “A pen name? You’re a writer?”

  “I’m not published yet,” I say. “But the work I want to do is still kind of a boys’ club.”

  “Journalism?” he asks.

  I love this part. “Comics.”

  “You want to write comics?” He’s utterly mystified . . . I think. Maybe he’s sure I’m pulling one over on him. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Script, pencils, inks. All or nothing.” I shove back rising defensiveness by asking him, “So you going to tell me or what?”

  “Tell you?”

  “Your name.”

  He does that thing again. His eyes are closed, but I feel like my eyes are going out of focus. Then he’s holding my gaze and for the life of me I cannot look away.

  “Stephen.” I have to lean in to hear him. With the whisper of his name I feel his breath on my face. It’s strangely cool compared to the sticky heat of the apartment.

  “Welcome back!”

  Stephen jumps and drops the bags and it’s like the hallway all over again. He doesn’t stoop to pick anything up. He’s staring at my brother. I can hardly blame him.

  Laurie is sprawled on the hardwood floor surrounded by small fans. He’s shirtless, his arms are thrown over his head, and he’s gazing at the ceiling.

  “How was the subway? Is it as smelly as I imagine? I had this idea that cosmetic companies should abandon their department store posts and start spraying their samples on people on the train. Good, huh? I will rule this city yet.”

  The air conditioner is still in its box behind him and the fans. It looks like the fans are preparing to sacrifice my younger brother—a horde of whirring supplicants offering their victim to the gods of Freon.

  I’m about to yell at him for not installing the window unit, but then I notice the glass of lemonade beside him. Now I want to tell my brother how much I love him.

  “I’ll put it in the window when the sun goes down,” he says, obviously reading my first reaction and preparing for the worst.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I wave off his excuse. “Can you just get me and Stephen some of that lemonade? Also, write down where the store is so I can pick up anything you forgot?”

  Laurie sits up. He’s making the face I’ve never seen anyone else pull off, like he’s smiling and frowning at the same time—a mixture of amusement and worry. “Who?”

  “Stephen,” I say. “He helped me with the bags. Sort of.”

  I throw a smile in Stephen’s direction, wagering that a friendship might spark if we share a joke about our mutual skill at bag dropping. But he’s staring at my brother and his hands are shaking.

  Laurie’s gaze slides to my right, where Stephen is frozen. Laurie’s brow furrows and then he looks at me again. “Okay, Josie, what’s the deal?”

  “Every time you call me ‘Josie,’ it defeats the purpose of my pen name,” I say.

  “Whatever, Betty.”

  I give him the finger. “Come on, bro. As the elder child, I am entitled, nay, obliged to order you about. Two lemonades. Now.”

  “Why two? Aren’t you a little old to have an imaginary friend?” He grins. “I know you’ve dreamed a dream of setting me up with my soul mate now that we’ve landed in this supposedly gay-little-brother-friendly metropolis, but I’m not that desperate . . . yet. Besides, my own imagination serves just fine when needed. I’ll keep you posted, though.”

  I don’t understand. My eyes flit from Laurie to Stephen and back again. It couldn’t be any hotter in this stuffy apartment, but I feel like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over my shoulders.

  “Don’t be rude.” I bite my lip because I sound like my mother.

  “Uh—” Laurie starts to look genuinely concerned. “How long were you out in the heat?” He scrambles up. “I’ll get you that lemonade.”

  My heart bangs around my rib cage like a pinball as Laurie trots towards the kitchen.

  Beside me, Stephen whispers, “It’s okay. I’ll go.”

  Chapter 3

  FOR THE FIRST FEW minutes, I try to convince myself that the curse has been broken. There was a time limit, and I’ve reached it. Just as easily as I disappeared from the world, I have reappeared. Nobody told me this day would come. Maybe nobody knew. But there, in the hallway, for the very first time, I am seen.

  It’s exhilarating and horrifying and mind-blowing. She sees me, and I assume that everyone will see me now. It just happened to be her.

  My curse, my sentence, has been completed.

  I try to remain calm. There is no way to express what I’m feeling. Maybe to a stranger I’d never see again, I’d feel the freedom to blurt out what’s happened. But this is a girl who is now living on my hall. I must act normal. Not the normal of my own life, but the normal I’ve witnessed in everybody else’s.

  This is it, I think. I can do this.

  The curse has been broken.

  I am visible.

  As it sinks in, the exhilaration and the horror and the mind-blowing ordinariness of what I am doing all combine into a fierce static of emotions. Elizabeth doesn’t seem to notice this. To her, I am just a boy from down the hall.

  Extraordinary.

  Somehow I make conversation. Somehow I speak.

  She is seeing the face I never get to see, because no mirror has ever caught me.

  She invites me in for lemonade. I want to see how far I can take this. I feel like I can take it as far as I want.

  Still, picking up her bags requires effort. I must concentrate, make my body present. I figure that perhaps it doesn’t come back all at once. It’s a shock to the system. A complete reorga
nization of the system. This is going to take time. I lift the bags and follow her into her apartment.

  I figure we’ll be alone. We can keep talking. I can continue to get used to the notion of being visible. Then I see Elizabeth’s brother on the floor. Another person.

  I prepare myself.

  I am ready for him to see me.

  I am ready.

  But he doesn’t.

  He doesn’t see me.

  Now the static I’ve been feeling fills the room, fills the world. I see the surprise on Elizabeth’s face, but it’s nothing compared to the surprise that seems to be lashing at my every thought.

  He doesn’t see me.

  But she does. She does.

  “Aren’t you a little old to have an imaginary friend?” he asks her.

  That’s what it feels like. I am trapped in someone else’s imagination. Someone else’s dream. And that someone is about to wake up.

  Somehow, I find words. “It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll go.” Luckily, she’s left the door open. Luckily, she is too confused to follow me. I run to my door, my feet not making a sound. Or maybe she hears them. I don’t know. I feel I don’t know anything anymore. Usually I look at least four times before putting the key in my lock. But now I don’t care. Now I just need to be inside. Now I need to close the door behind me. Lock it. Breathe. Scream. Breathe.

  * * *

  There is a mirror in our front hallway. In all of those years, my mother never understood what it did to me. Or maybe she thought I needed a reminder, and she didn’t want it to always be her.

  I look inside it now.

  I see the wall behind me. The bookshelves. The light from the window, set at an angle.

  That’s all.

  * * *

  It has to be her.

  In the minutes that follow, I realize it isn’t that the curse has been broken. It’s that she’s found a way around it. It’s her, not me.