Invisible (6 page)

His words made my blood run cold. “But—but I don't
want
to be . . .”

Corey just ignored me. “Listen, Jane. You're going to be the center of attention tomorrow. That's just what happens when the school good girl sucker punches the bully. The real question is whether you're ready to make the situation work in your favor.”

I sucked in a huge breath, while I did my best not to completely freak out. This was what I wanted, wasn't it? A little more attention from my peers. Some respect.

That concept had been significantly less terrifying when it was theoretical.

“Well, I guess if you put it that way . . . I'm not so sure.”

Corey laughed. “That's why you've got me. Just sit tight, Jane. We'll be over there soon.”

I stared at the phone. “Um, are you using the royal ‘we,' or are other people actually coming over to my house with you?”

“I'm bringing everyone,” he replied vaguely. “Don't get all melodramatic about it.”

Right. Because
I
was the one blowing the situation out of proportion.

But Corey wasn't quite finished. “Stay put, Jane. We'll fix everything. You'll see.”

“Corey, wait, what are you—”

But he'd already hung up on me. Note to self: Never let the most impulsive person you know shake up your life.

Even if that person happens to be your best friend.

I
'd underestimated Corey.

That's what I discovered when he barged into my house while I was loading up the dishwasher after dinner, with Kenzie, Isobel, and their mutual friend Melanie sheepishly trailing behind him.

Melanie looked particularly uncomfortable entering my bedroom, probably because she was hyperaware of the fact that the two of us weren't exactly friends—just two girls who happened to know a lot of the same people. And while I knew Kenzie and Corey never would have befriended her if she wasn't sweet and nice and all that good stuff . . . I couldn't help feeling a tiny twinge of resentment that she was one of the many reasons
my
best friends no longer had as much time for me.

But I couldn't start obsessing over it since all four of my visitors began dumping bags full of clothing onto my bed. My AP Calculus textbook slid to the floor with a muffled thump while I stared at the growing mountain in disbelief.

“Um, so what's going on here, guys?” I asked apprehensively.

Corey beamed. “We're here to bust your rut.”

“A rut? I don't think I'm in a rut. Well, maybe a small one—actually, now that I think about it, my rut is barely a dip. Not even worth noticing.”

I slowly panned their faces to see if any of them were buying it.

Apparently not.

I fought down a sudden rush of claustrophobia and focused on Isobel, who was shifting her weight uncomfortably.

“You're in on this too?” I found that hard to believe. Isobel is even less fashionable than me. Of course, she also doesn't have a Notable older sister who critiques all her outfits on a scale between hideous and dumpster dive.

Elle's words may sting, but she has prevented me from wearing a few things I would have regretted.

Argyle tights with denim shorts. Not a good look.

“I'm just here for moral support,” Isobel said, eyeing the pile of clothing warily.

“Um . . . thanks. But I really don't think this is necessary.”

“Are you kidding me?” Corey exclaimed. “Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do this? Don't answer that. Now sit, and I'll take care of everything.”

“But . . . where did all of this come from?”

“I was famous for two weeks, remember?” Kenzie replied as she tossed a pair of jeans to me. “These are the designer clothes that were too small on me. And since you cowered when Corey gave me
my
makeover, I'm thinking of this as karmic retribution.”

I couldn't help grinning. Kenzie's the only person who could say,
Yeah, I'm throwing you to the wolves
and make me laugh while getting ripped to shreds. Okay, gross mental image. But when you've been best friends since elementary school, you can't get mad over one makeover. Especially since she was right: I had chickened out when she was the focus of Corey's attention. Of course, that was only because I didn't want Corey focusing on me next.

Karmic retribution sucked.

“Now, are you going to put those on or do I have to force you?” Corey demanded.

“Like you could.”

He had a few inches on me, but my mom's idea of good, clean, family fun is to discuss caloric intake while hiking. On the plus side: I know all about weight loss.

Then again, who really wants to know that much about broccoli?

He sighed. “Just get in the pants.”

I waited for him to turn around first, not because I cared if he watched me change since (1) he's just a friend, (2) he's in a relationship, and (3) he's gay. However, my mom is prone to entering without knocking, and I prefer to avoid awkwardness like that whenever possible.

“So, uh . . . how was detention?” Melanie asked tentatively as she sat down in the chair by my desk.

Even when she was nervous it came across as sweet instead of geeky.

“Not bad.” I toed off my sneakers and started unbuttoning my jeans. “Do any of you know Sam?”

“You'll have to be more specific.” Corey scrolled through the music on my iPod, which meant any second Lady Gaga would start pumping out of my speakers. I kept her on a playlist just for him.

“She's got short black hair, lots of jewelry, compact frame, intense but in a good way. Oh, she also tapes up condoms in the bathrooms.”

“Oh, her! She's in my AP U.S. History class.” Kenzie looked thoughtful. “She seems cool but rather . . . extreme.”

“Yeah, well, she saved me from boredom.” I zipped up the new jeans. “Okay, so what's the consensus?”

Corey pursed his lips. “Well,
obviously
the shirt has to go. Here, try this one on.” He tossed me something silky and blue.

“You sure about this?”

He glowered at me. “Yes! Now, could you please stop asking that and just
do what I tell you?
”

“Okay.” Definitely not the time to ask if he thought the shirt showed off more cleavage than our school dress code (strictly speaking) allowed. I just kept my mouth shut as I wrangled it into fitting correctly even as the butterflies in my stomach viciously beat their wings against me instead of fluttering.

“And . . . how do I look now?”

Kenzie grinned. “You look amazing and nothing like yourself.”

Corey pushed me across my room toward my mirror. “Meet Jane Smith 2.0.”

“Great. I've always wanted an upgrade,” I said sarcastically before I took a deep breath and faced my reflection.

The whole look was subtly glamorous.

The dark gray jeans fit like a glove, and the shirt gleamed a watery periwinkle. The texture of the pebbled silk had me fighting the urge to stroke the material forever. It also showed far more cleavage than . . . oh, anything I'd ever worn before.

I tugged at the hem. “You guys don't think I look, erm . . . slutty?”

“Are you kidding me?” Corey exclaimed. “You look phenomenal. Now try this on.” He thrust a deep purple dress at me. “We have a lot of work to do.”

“We do?” I traded my outfit for the one in his arms.

“Shoes, hair, makeup, accessories—the works. What'd you expect?”

Isobel, Melanie, and I all exchanged nervous looks, although I don't know why Melanie was concerned. If Scott had spotted Melanie, he definitely would be asking her to model for him. He would probably be tripping all over himself to talk her into it. The only explanation for why that hadn't happened that I could come up with was that as a transfer student in his junior year, he might not be paying much attention to underclassmen.

I had a feeling that two minutes with Melanie would have him reconsidering that policy.

“Sorry to bail so early, but I've got to head home.” Melanie waited for Corey's back to be turned before she mouthed, “Good luck!”

Then, with a quick little wave, she skirted the pile of clothes that had now taken up residence in front of the door and vanished.

She was too nice for me to even resent her properly.

So instead I focused on obeying all of Corey's commands, with the end result that I eventually collapsed on my bed, the slightly freaked-out owner of an entirely new wardrobe from Kenzie's designer castoffs. Kenzie kept insisting that she
wanted
to get rid of the stuff, but I couldn't help imagining the price tag attached to each Valentino dress and BCBG blouse.

It was only when Isobel found a pair of funky gladiator sandals for herself that I started to get into the whole makeover thing. I didn't even try to roll my eyes when Corey insisted we cover up all evidence of my fight with pounds of makeup. Not even when he pulled out the stuff my mom had purchased as my birthday present in the hope that I would become more feminine like Elle. The old photos of my mom rocking a cheerleader uniform paint a very clear picture: Like mother, like . . . one of her daughters.

Corey finished applying my eye shadow before he handed over the tube of sealed mascara.

“I'm amazed you've never touched this stuff. Your mom has a real eye for makeup.”

Nodding seemed dangerous, given how easy it was for me to jab myself in the eye with the wand. “Um . . . reality check? It's not like we go clubbing on the weekends.”

Isobel waggled her toes in her new shoes. “Just because you don't go to clubs doesn't mean you can't wear makeup.”

“Well, yeah,” I agreed. “I guess. It just doesn't seem like
me
.”

Corey rolled his eyes. “That's because you give a whole new meaning to the term ‘wallflower.' ”

Okay, that sort of stung.

“She punched Alex Thompson today,” Isobel pointed out. “Not that I'm thrilled about what happened, but . . .”

“She held her own,” Kenzie finished when Isobel trailed off. “Logan said he was impressed by some of your punches. I warned him that you've also got a mean right hook.”

I grinned and decided not to comment on her abrupt change of attitude from this afternoon. Maybe she had just needed a few hours to cool down.

“And if you show up tomorrow in one of these outfits, your social standing is going to skyrocket,” Corey enthused. “Just don't forget about us when you're hobnobbing with the Notables.”

I snorted. “
Hobnobbing?
Yeah, right. Chelsea Halloway and I are going to become lunch buddies. Get real.”

“Well, my work here is done.” He flapped a hand in the direction of the mirror. “Go admire yourself some more.”

It was strange feeling like I was at the part in a movie when the camera zooms in to capture the expression that says it all: a mixture of doe-eyed innocence, confusion, amazement, and nerves on the plucky heroine's face. That's kind of how I looked—a little panicky, but pretty nonetheless. And “pretty” is not a word that ever gets applied to me. Unless I put a lot of work into it and hit “cute,” I usually land squarely in the “all right” category.

But the girl staring back at me in the mirror looked more like the leading lady instead of the trusty sidekick.

One thing was obvious: I wasn't going to be Invisible anymore.

I
was careful to follow Corey's instructions the next morning.

Well, most of them.

I put on the dark gray jeans with the pebbled silk blouse, then added a chunky necklace because despite what Corey thought I wanted to display a little less cleavage. I applied makeup until my bruise was barely visible. My goal was to become virtually unrecognizable. I wanted to fool myself into feeling like a top-secret spy poised to break into an underground vault, crack a high-level security system, and gain access to nuclear launch codes.

All of which sounded less stressful than walking through the doors of my high school.

“Jane?” My mom stared at me when I entered the kitchen like I'd been replaced by a Jane Smith from a parallel universe.

“Yeah?”

My outfit clearly had her flustered. “I, well. You look . . . oh, sweetie. You look nice.” Then her eyes started watering. “
Very
nice.”

Oh no.

“My little girl is all grown up,” she snuffled. “Do you have your camera, Janie? We should take pictures.”

“No, it's, uh . . . not charged, Mom,” I lied without guilt. She was acting like it was my first day of high school all over again. If I'd known that she would make such a big deal out of it I would've done my primping at school.

“Morning, ladies.” Then my dad saw me and pulled up short. “You're not going to school like that, are you?” he demanded, jerking his gaze from me to my mom, then back to me again. “She's not going to school like that, right?”

I grabbed my frozen waffles from the toaster and decided to leave before my mom started sobbing, my dad ordered me to change, or Elle commented on my new look.

“Here—” He pulled off his sweatshirt and handed it to me. “All yours. Keep it. Wear it. Enjoy.”

“I've got to go. I'll see you later, Dad.”

On impulse I pulled him into a hug. I don't know which one of us it was supposed to reassure, but I left him blinking in confusion while my mom continued to sniffle. All I wanted was to sprint back upstairs, tug on my discarded pajamas, and sink beneath my covers. I couldn't let go of my dad's sweatshirt. It was like being handed a stuffed animal before going to sleepover camp for the first time. I knew it was weak, but I just couldn't resist taking it with me. On impulse, I zipped up the sweatshirt so that it entirely concealed my upper body. Cleavage issue resolved. I felt guilty for chickening out—but not guilty enough to unzip.

Especially when I climbed onto the bus only to be met with open-mouthed staring. The news of my fight with Alex Thompson must have spread like wildfire. Either that, or everyone around me had witnessed the whole thing firsthand in the cafeteria. I wondered how the story was being relayed. I definitely preferred to be known as the
totally awesome girl who punched the jerk from the football team
versus
the freaky girl who randomly went berserk in front of everyone.

All the attention made me appreciate Corey's meddling the night before—I couldn't have hidden my bruises otherwise. The rest of his style upgrade . . . well, I'd just keep that under wraps until I felt a little more confident.

In the meantime, I tried to distract myself with another fictional death, since Isobel was nowhere to be seen.

 

 

Hmm . . . death by air duct lacked a certain
je ne sais quoi
. Maybe—

“Smith!” Mr. Elliot roared, interrupting all thoughts of fictional deaths the second I walked into class. As he stormed toward me, everyone nearby shrank away.
“What the hell were you thinking?”

I knew Mr. Elliot wasn't going to lower his voice. He didn't care if the entire school heard him blast me. I just hoped he would segue into one of his motivational
you need to show more leadership
rants instead of anything more personal.

No such luck.

“Fighting with a football player! You better have a damn good explanation. And don't you
dare
say this has anything to do with your story!
The Smithsonian
does
not
condone this kind of behavior!”

My mouth gaped open. I knew word must have spread among the students, but I kind of expected the faculty members to be too insulated due to their budget-cut drama to pay any attention to it.

“How did you hear about that?”

He looked at me with disgust. “Word travels when you
attack
someone, Smith.”

“I didn't just spontaneously attack him!” I protested.

“You mean you planned it?”

“Of course not!”

Mr. Elliot's scowl never lessened. “Did he punch you first?”

“Well . . . no. I was, uh, taking initiative?”

I trailed off as Mr. Elliot began a deep-breathing exercise that sounded rather like the snorting of an outraged bull.

“Why did it happen, Smith?”

I weighed my words carefully. “Irreconcilable differences? It was . . . personal. Although I could type some—”

He slammed his hand down on a nearby table. “You are
not
writing about that for my newspaper!”

“Are you sure? Because I thought maybe if I—”

“Fraser!” he bellowed, cutting me off. “Get over here!”

I closed my eyes briefly.
This isn't happening,
I told myself.
This. Can't. Be. Happening.

Scott glanced up, then walked over without looking even slightly cowed. It was like he hadn't noticed Mr. Elliot was practically foaming at the mouth.

“Congratulations, Fraser. Due to Smith's utter
stupidity,
you now get to consult on her piece.”

“What?”
I gasped. “Mr. Elliot, I can handle this!”

But he just ignored me and continued speaking to Scott.

“You want to show me what you can do, Fraser? Go for it. From here on out, I give you complete authority to shape this story.”

“But this is
my story!
” I protested weakly. It was my chance to prove that I could be more than Grammar Girl or Mackenzie Wellesley's little friend.

Mr. Elliot turned to me. “You should've thought about that earlier! Just be grateful I'm not making you cover the football team for the sports section, Smith.”

I hate the whole
girls don't like sports
stereotype. Plenty of girls are die-hard sports fanatics who would absolutely love to get that assignment. Then again, plenty of girls also hadn't been on the receiving end of a football player's fist.

“I'm fine with sports,” I blurted out. “I'm happy to interview Logan Beckett about the hockey team. It'll be a hard-hitting piece. Just . . . please don't put Scott in charge.”

Scott leaned back against a desk, as if he were perfectly content to just enjoy the show. Even though he had to realize that it would force us to work together even more closely.

“Not going to happen, Smith,” Mr. Elliot told me coolly. “Consider this your punishment for making the school principal ask if I was
encouraging my students' violent behavior!
”

Okay, I could see why he'd be mad . . . not that he ever needed an excuse to yell.

“Look, I'm really sorry about that, Mr. Elliot. But please, you can't—”

The flash of a camera momentarily rendered me speechless. I blinked a few times to clear the blotches of color from my vision while Scott proceeded to snap another shot.

“Say cheese.”

“Mr. Elliot, please don't do this to—”

He didn't even give me a chance to beg. “The two of you better make an excellent team.”

Then he marched off to lecture someone else, leaving me alone in my own personal worst nightmare. Scott lowered his camera, revealing a Grinch-like smirk.

“Well, this is an interesting development,
partner.
”