Invisible (11 page)

Scott:
See you then.

Jane:
At the auditions?

Scott:
All of it.

Jane:
You're not after more photos of Kenzie, right? You seriously need to stop bugging her.

Scott:
I'm taking photos of you, not Mackenzie. Or did you somehow forget that
we are stuck working on a journalism assignment together?

So maybe I was being a bit overly protective of my friends . . . or maybe he was getting prepared to stab me in the back again. It wouldn't be the first time he tried to use me for access to Kenzie.

Jane:
You seem to be making a habit of inviting yourself along to my meals.

Scott:
Afraid I can't manage a civil meal with your goons? I mean . . . friends.

Jane:
Where are you getting this goon stuff? They're really not.

Scott:
Right. Some
other
hockey players warned me to keep my distance.

I stared at the words in disbelief.

Jane:
WHAT?

Scott:
I thought you called out the hit squad.

Jane:
NO!

Although I had mentioned his whole “she doesn't have what it takes to be a reporter” thing. I remembered it vividly because it was the first time in a long while that Kenzie had asked about my day, and I had seized the opportunity to vent. But I never expected any of it to go beyond our lunch table.

Apparently, part of it had.

Scott:
Easy on the capitalization, Grammar Girl. Caps lock is not the solution.

Jane:
WHAT HAPPENED?

Scott:
Nothing.

Oh, sure. A conversation between Scott and hockey players where
I
was the topic of conversation: no big deal. Except that it was also the most exciting thing ever to include me—pre-lunchroom fight with Alex Thompson—and I hadn't heard anything about it until now.

Jane:
What did Logan say to you, Scott? If you even think about holding out, I will use the sappiest pet names I can come up with over dinner on Monday. Consider that, honey-dumpling sugar-pie!

Scott:
Never call me that again.

Jane:
WHAT HAPPENED?

Scott:
Your white knight and his friend mentioned that people who upset you don't tend to have the most agreeable high school experiences. They left it at that.

Jane:
I'm going to kill him.

All I had to do was tell Kenzie and then Logan would be a dead man. Primarily for not including us in his decision to warn off Scott before he had leaped to my defense. Not that I had any intention of mentioning it to either of them until I had sorted out my emotions. Was I irked at Logan for his involvement? Pleased that he obviously cared enough about me to confront Scott? Annoyed that he thought me incapable of standing up for myself?

I didn't know.

I couldn't brush off the fact that Logan must have assumed I was incapable of standing up for myself. Or maybe it was the fear that he was
right
that bothered me. Sure, I had punched Alex Thompson in the face, but I hadn't even done that for myself. Not really.

I did it for Isobel.

Scott:
Can I watch the fight?

Jane:
No. So does this explain your coldness toward me, or are you naturally like that?

I probably could have phrased it better, but at that point I wasn't thinking too clearly.

Scott:
It comes naturally.

Jane:
Great.

Scott:
See you at lunch then.

Jane:
Right. Wait, what?

But he'd already logged off.

I
was very careful with my school prep the next morning.

And not in my usual way, by double-checking that all my textbooks and assignments were perfectly ordered in my backpack. Instead, I took one step closer to becoming a
Seventeen Magazine
–reading, makeup-wearing, certified girlie girl, by assembling my own outfit. My sister would be so proud if she ever managed to watch me succeed at anything without wincing.

This time I had a better idea of the look I wanted to achieve—something significantly tamer than what I had worn beneath my dad's sweatshirt the day before. Something I could wear in public without inwardly wanting to cringe. Especially since I planned on attending the auditions for the school play. I needed a look that said,
Oh, I could totally handle being up on stage. I just
choose
not to perform.

Despite the fact that I'd rather be deployed with Scott's SEAL friends than speak in front of an audience.

Hopefully, nobody would think of me as a wimp for declining Ms. Helsenberg's invitation to try out if I wore Kenzie's very stylish boots. I toughened up the look by pairing her dark-rinse skinny jeans and BCBG military-style jacket with my Beatles
Rubber Soul
shirt. That, plus my stupid
hide the black eye
makeup routine, and I was good to go. I glanced over at the clock in disgust.

It had taken me well over an hour to prepare for school.

The whole process made me nostalgic for the days when I would stumble out of bed, throw on whatever was cleanest, and be out the door in fifteen minutes. It was weird realizing that those days I missed, yeah, they had ended roughly two days ago.

At least I still had Isobel. She greeted me with a confused smile as I boarded the bus.

“Did I miss something? The last time I saw you, Corey was trying to go for a more, erm, feminine style. Now you look like an assassin.”

I tried to play it cool. “I thought the clothes went with my black eye.”

“So you're telling me that this look is meant to hide the fact that a football player punched you in the face this week?”

I lightly touched my face and felt the now-familiar dull throb of pain. Still, it could've been a hell of a lot worse.

“What, this ol' thing? Why would I want to hide it? It's no big deal—my badge of honor.” I used up all my reserve of false bravado. “The clothes make it look more normal, right?”

“R-ight.”

I slouched against my seat. “How bad is it?”

Isobel smiled sympathetically. “You're not fooling me with the clothing and the makeup, but that's probably because you don't have a convincing attitude. And I couldn't help but notice that you bailed on lunch yesterday.”

I knew exactly where this was going.

“You can't avoid the cafeteria, Jane. Trust me: If that were a viable option I would have done it already.”

She had a point: Hiding in the library the day before had been a moment of weakness. Even if I had only done it to avoid making myself an easy target. The only way I was going to convince anyone that I could stand up for myself was if I stopped cowering.

“You're right, Isobel. No more hiding. It won't be so bad. Compared to finding a newsworthy story and breaking up with Scott . . . it's a minor-league concern.”

“You have to
what?
”

It felt like my brain was spinning. “I'm going to call Corey for advice. Lisa Anne wants something sexy and controversial, and if there is one member of our group with access to something like that, it's him. It's not wrong of me to depend on him, right? That's just utilizing a source.”

“You're dating
Scott?
”

“No!” I stared at her in disbelief. “Where did you get that idea?”

“You just said that you have to
break up with him!
”

“I did?” I was having a hard time keeping track of my own words. “It's nothing. I pretended that we were dating to get Mrs. Blake off my back. Then my mom showed up. So now I have to fake break up with him, but I can't let it look staged because if Elle ever finds out she will never let me live it down.”

“Wow, breathe, girl.”

I sucked in some air. “But none of that matters. I'm going to focus on this article, and that will make everything better.”

She shoved her glasses higher up on the bridge of her nose. “You just told me that you're in a fake relationship with one of the hottest boys at school. You're right: totally doesn't matter.”

I laughed. “No, it doesn't, because it doesn't
mean
anything.”

Isobel hesitated. “Not that I want to add any more complications to your life right now, but . . . I'm not convinced. I don't think you would even
pretend
to be in a relationship with someone if there wasn't an underlying current of interest.”

“Yeah, there was definitely a current of interest . . . in getting Mrs. Blake off my back!” I scoffed. “There's nothing going on between me and Scott Fraser.”

Isobel bit her lip thoughtfully. “I don't know. That's still quite a stretch. I just think—”

Whatever she was about to say was lost in the shuffle of students as we disembarked from the bus.

“Jane!”

My head snapped up as I searched for whomever had called out my name. A small part of me hoped it was Kenzie. That she had been waiting by the bus ramp for a chance to walk me into school.

Then my eyes connected with Sam from detention.

“Uh, hey, Sam,” I replied, hoping that she wouldn't notice the sudden flush of embarrassment on my face.

I couldn't stop thinking about the condom she had given me . . . and the way I had announced it to my family.

“Have you, uh, met my friend Isobel?” I had trouble visualizing the two mixing in the same social circle. Especially since Isobel is a khaki-shorts-and-oxford-shirts kind of girl, while Sam clearly favored her knee-high leather combat boots.

“No, I haven't.” Her eyeliner-rimmed gaze assessed Isobel slowly. “I'm Sam.”

“Right.” Isobel pushed up her glasses again. “I figured that part out.”

I knew that she didn't intend to be sarcastic because that might provoke someone like Sam . . . and alienating
anyone
was the absolute last thing Isobel wanted.

The words just seemed to tumble out against her will.

Sam grinned. “You're the girl Jane got into a fight over.”

“Uh—” Isobel turned red. “Yeah, well, I was the catalyst. Actually, I'm not so sure about that anymore. My theory is that Jane wanted to do something dangerous and that she used Alex Thompson's behavior as a convenient excuse.”

“What?” I protested. “That's not what happened!”

She shrugged. “It makes sense to me. Although it's really more of a working hypothesis than a theory right now. But I still appreciate that you feel strongly enough about me to jump to the rescue, Jane. It was stupid, but nice.”

“Your hypothesis needs a lot of work,” I grumbled.

“I will take that under consideration.”

Sam laughed. “The two of you are freakishly similar.”

I wasn't sure how to respond to that particular statement. I mean, sure, Isobel and I were both complete geeks in the same social circle, but beyond that . . .

“Nope,” Isobel disagreed, before I had so much as opened my mouth. “We're actually very different. For example: Jane is torn between remaining in the background and joining her friends in the spotlight. I'm not.”

This was getting to be
way
too much psychoanalysis first thing in the morning, and I half expected Sam to laugh it off and change the subject.

Instead she looked intrigued. “So you have no interest in getting attention?”

“Oh no, I get plenty of attention.” Isobel shrugged. “It's just limited to stuff like my AP scores.”

“Aren't you a freshman?”

“Yes.”

“Then how could you have any AP scores?”

Isobel suddenly appeared very interested in examining her shoelaces. “I took two courses last year in middle school.”

“Why would you do something like that?” Sam demanded.

She shrugged. “I had nothing better to do.”

It was pretty obvious from the way Sam's mouth hung open that she hadn't anticipated that answer, but it made sense to me. In fact, that was exactly how I felt about homework most of the time. I didn't study hard before my tests because I wanted to impress colleges with my valedictorian status. That's the kind of reasoning that Lisa Anne probably used. Studying was just the only thing for me to do . . . and at this point everyone expected it of me.

Sam whistled. “We really need to get you a social life.”

“Uh, sure. I mean . . . what does that entail for you, Sam?” Isobel sagged a little in relief when she finally formed a question.

“Usually that entails socializing, but I got an extra week of detention for passing out condoms yesterday. Then again, you never know the friendships you'll form in detention.” Sam grinned at me. “Every now and then I meet someone cool. I'm also a founding member of the baking club. Any interest in joining? We've got a meeting at lunch today.”

I shook my head apologetically. “I have to eat in the cafeteria today. Time to return to the scene of the crime.”

“What about you, Isobel? Interested?”

Isobel looked stunned. Probably because she doesn't often get invited to things—even low-key events like baking club meetings. Meanwhile, I was still trying to process the mental image of Sam in a floppy baker's hat. I guess there were way more layers to my new raccoon-eyed friend than I'd initially thought.

The bell rang, and I had to scurry off to journalism before I heard Isobel's response. I found myself hoping she declined. I knew it was selfish, but I didn't want her to go without me. It was just that . . . my oldest friends didn't have much time for me anymore. I didn't want that to happen with my newest ones too.

But I had way more pressing issues to focus on when I entered the classroom and Lisa Anne pulled me into a secluded corner. The whole thing felt very mafia-esque, especially when she cracked her knuckles impatiently.

“How's the article going?”

So much for easing into the conversation with small talk. I guess,
Hello, Jane. How are you today?
was too much to hope for coming from Lisa Anne.

“Erm, great!” I lied. “It's really starting to take shape.”

She shot me a look that made it clear she wasn't buying it.

“What's it on?”

“The high school play?” I couldn't keep my voice from wobbling.

“Oh, how sweet,” Lisa Anne said mockingly. “Except we're not in elementary school anymore. I want something hard-hitting, Grammar Girl. Or do I have to remind you again what's at stake?”

“No. I've got it.”

“You get me that story by Monday, or I will personally—”

“—destroy my writing career,” I finished for her. “I've got it.”

She looked momentarily rattled by my interruption, but she recovered quickly. “Good, because I'm not covering for you.”

As if I ever thought she would.

I restrained the urge to roll my eyes. “Understood.”

“So how are you working with Scott?”

Now where had that come from?

“Fine,” I hedged. “Why?”

“As our best staff photographer, it's imperative that his talents are being utilized to their fullest potential.”

“Uh . . . okay.”

“Your article has to showcase his work.”

I was starting to think her list of demands would never end. It had to be fresh and fun, modern and mature, smart and sexy, and now it also had to be a showcase for Scott's photography. It sounded like she expected me to be a freaking magician so I could also whip a rabbit out of my hat.

But if I commented on it, I could kiss my fiction page good-bye.

“No problem.”

“Good. Oh, and Jane? Scott can take pictures of anything he wants. Is that clear?”

“Uh, no.” I shook my head. “I'm sorry, what are you talking about?”

Lisa Anne couldn't even be bothered to meet my eyes. Instead, she concentrated on straightening the collar of her shirt so it was perfectly aligned with her form-fitting sweater.

“He's creating a portfolio based on his photos of you.” She rolled her eyes in a way that implied,
There's no accounting for taste.
“And even though I personally think he has chosen the wrong model,
The Smithsonian
is giving him its full support. As am I.”

I wondered if that was her way of attempting to capture his attention. As a flirting technique I thought it had potential, since the only thing Scott appeared to care about was his stupid camera. Something I should have kept in mind when he'd mentioned a portfolio on Facebook, but instead I had dismissed it as his warped idea of a joke. Surely he valued his photography too much to waste time documenting someone he actively disliked. So I assumed he was making up a portfolio to mess with my head. Apparently, none of it had been a joke.

And I definitely wasn't laughing.

Lisa Anne held up a hand to silence any potential protest. “A good newspaper requires teamwork. I expect your full cooperation on this.”