Invisible (8 page)

“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.

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.”

Still clutching his jacket, I propelled him into the store in front of me. “We aren't bickering, Mrs. Blake. This is Scott. He's a . . . friend who works on the school newspaper with me.”

I did my best not to choke on the word “friend.” Unfortunately, Mrs. Blake took my hesitation to mean something else entirely.

“Oh, will you look at that!” she cried out, clasping her hands together so that all of her rings clinked musically. “My little Janie has a beau! And such a handsome one too! I can see why you've been so picky now, Janie dear. I bet you had your sights set on this one.”

“Uh, no, Mrs. Blake. No sights whatsoever.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I suppose it is more romantic that he picked you out from the crowd, but I don't see anything wrong with making the first move. Although to be fair, when Frank and I got started, I let him think he was steering the dates.” She winked. “But we went to
my
favorite restaurants.”

“Uh, that's nice.”

I probably should have come up with something better to say, but I've never known how to handle Mrs. Blake when she gets going on a subject that interests her. The worst was back in middle school when she regularly asked if my “monthly visitor” had paid me a visit yet. I couldn't say,
None of your business
because that'd be like yelling at Julie Andrews. Or being mean to Betty White.

“Frank is your husband?” Scott asked.

“Oh no. I had three of those before we got together.” She winked again, but this time it was directed at Scott. “Frank was my partner.”

Scott turned his grin on her—the one that had propelled him onto
The Smithsonian
's elite staff team in a week while I went virtually ignored for three years. “He must have been a very lucky man.”

“Aren't you the charmer!” Mrs. Blake declared. She might be eccentric, but she's always been astute when it comes to people, which was why I had expected her to give Scott a much cooler reception. I hoped it was because she wanted to like whomever she thought I was dating.

Not that we were dating. Obviously.

“The two of you make the sweetest couple. Why, it's just like my psychic told me! I asked her about you the other day, Janie. She said you were in store for a fabulous romance. About time, if you ask me.” She beamed while I forced myself not to wince.

“I guess Annette has, uh, finally gotten something right,” I lied. I couldn't believe I was saying it, especially to Mrs. Blake. But if I didn't produce a boyfriend soon she was going to start creating online dating profiles for me. The woman gives a whole new meaning to the word “persistent.” So I ignored the startled look Scott shot me as I slid my arm around his back. He tensed momentarily and then relaxed into the halfway hug as if he had expected it all along. As if he had always known it was only a matter of time before I'd be unable to resist his appeal.

Although it did feel really nice to have his body pressed against my side. I decided not to focus on that part.

“Yep, Scott's my boyfriend.” I tried not to choke.

“And Janie's my little ray of sunshine.”

I wanted to step hard on his foot again. It may have been my lie, but that didn't mean I wanted him to be having fun at my expense.

“I'm so happy, I'm at a loss for words,” I said, mentally adding,
except for words like “discomfort” and “irritation
.
”
“So . . . did Annette mention anything new about lucky number four?”

“Number four?”

Mrs. Blake smiled at Scott and went into an explanation I'd heard a hundred times.

“I met my first husband in college back when we were both impetuous and full of
joie de vivre
. Then he took a corporate job that started sucking all the
joie
out of my
vivre
. The divorce was perfectly civil, and I met my second husband in a library. We were both reaching for a copy of
Pride and Prejudice
.” She sighed gustily. “My favorite. The two of us were together for fifteen years.”

“What happened to him?” Scott looked so interested in her story, I couldn't tell whether he was putting on a good show for an old lady or whether he found her as enjoyable as I did.

“Oh, we divorced too.” She shrugged and waved her hand dismissively. “It was wonderful while it lasted, and we've stayed very close friends. He actually introduced me to Frank years later. But that was after William.”

“William?”

“Now
he
was a mistake, but a wonderful learning experience nonetheless.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Never marry someone based solely on the sex.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Scott said, clearly struggling to keep a straight face.

I wanted to drop my arm the instant she mentioned sex, but Scott just squeezed my shoulder and pulled me closer. “Especially with this one. She's a tiger.”

Okay, that was taking it too far.

Mrs. Blake looked at us speculatively. “The two of you are just darling. Working together on the school newspaper . . . and is that a camera you've got there, Scott?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Ma'am
. The guy was definitely pulling out all the stops to charm her. Which technically he didn't have to do since it's not like the two of us were actually dating. He could just wander the shelves and send her a vaguely friendly nod. After all, he was really only there to discuss the next move for our story.

“How wonderful! You should take some photos of me! Now wouldn't that be a hoot and a half. Just give me a moment to get gussied up and I'll be ready to go.”

Mrs. Blake is something of a diva.

“That's really not necessary,” I protested.

“A lady should always freshen up her lipstick for the press.”

“Sure. Fine. But we're not taking photos for the press. I'm straightening the shelves today.” I gestured around the store. “I'll just see if anyone needs help first.”

Mrs. Blake beamed at me. “Such a hard worker, our little Janie. I don't know what I'd do without her.” She patted her golden-blond hair, which retained its shape due to her liberal use of hair spray. “Now why don't you show your new beau the memoir section?”

The memoirs reside in a hidden little alcove at the very center of the maze of bookshelves, so it's usually deserted—unless people use it for a semiprivate romantic interlude. Mrs. Blake and I had taken to calling it the make-out memoir section, or M.O.M.S. for short. It seemed appropriate, given that most of the women we caught mid-lip-lock were members of the PTA.

I did my best to pretend that my boss hadn't suggested I go make out with my fake boyfriend.

“No, that's okay. Not for us, thanks. Uh, time for me to work. We'll be in the kids' section.”

I yanked Scott away from her before she could be any more explicit with her suggestions.

It was only when we safely reached the kids' section that I could slump against a wall and close my eyes. “Just . . . Don't. Say. Anything.”

“I don't see why you're so concerned. She doesn't exactly strike me as frail.”

“I never said she was.”

“Then why were you so nervous? Afraid she wouldn't approve of me as your new
beau?
”

I shook my head slowly. “Okay, first of all, never say ‘beau' again. Secondly, that whole pretend-dating thing never happened. Erase it from your memory. Now.”

“I don't know, I might be your cosmic destiny.” Scott smirked as he leaned toward me.

“Forget the psychic stuff too. The closest that Annette Lovegood has ever come to predicting the future is guessing which one of her cats is meowing for kibble. Mrs. Blake mainly goes there to be supportive.”

“So why does she ask about your love life?” His grin widened. “Does Janie have trouble finding a date?”

“Don't call me Janie. Can't we just pretend the last few minutes didn't happen? I only lied to stop Mrs. Blake from trying to fix me up with her best friend's grandson,” I admitted. “Not because I think there is anything wrong with my preference to remain single.”

Well, I guess
preference
isn't quite accurate. Did I want a boyfriend? Sure. But it's not like you can pull up to a drive-through and say,
Hi, I'd like to order one boyfriend. Smart, sweet, and funny with a lot of physical attraction. Yes, fidelity is important to me. And I'd like friendship on the side. Two bucks? Perfect. I'll just pull up to the window.

Not so much.

Although it's entirely possible that the primary culprit behind my permanent single status was my inability to tell when guys were flirting. Kenzie and I even turned it into something of a game. I'd walk her through an incident to check if there were any “flirty vibes” I missed. And then she usually rolled her eyes and said,
No,
the maintenance guy was
not
flirting with me when he was changing a lightbulb in the library.

My mistake.

“Sounds like good little Jane Smith isn't getting many suitors.”

I crossed my arms defensively. “What, are we in the eighteen hundreds or something?”

“No gentleman callers for you.” His green eyes shone with a mocking glee.

I gritted my teeth. This was ridiculous. I didn't have to justify myself. I didn't have to stoop to his level and continue the conversation.

“Maybe I'm not interested in gentleman callers.”

Where had that come from?

He straightened and raised an eyebrow. “So, female callers, then?”

I considered how to react for the briefest of moments before I stepped forward and bit my lip provocatively the way my sister did back when she was dating her Notable boyfriend Jeff.

“If I kissed a girl . . .” I let my voice trickle down to a whisper and moved even closer. “I wouldn't mention it as a cheap ploy to turn you on.”

“Uh. Okay.”

It appeared I had been able to temporarily short out some of his brain cells.

Score one for me.

“I've got work to do.” I picked up the books that were lying on a kiddie table and let my body brush lightly against his. Okay, so I was power tripping. But it's not like I get to rub shoulders with really hot guys every day. And maybe I was feeling a bit defensive over my lack of a love life. Telling myself that my worth wasn't determined by male interest was easy—believing it was harder. Especially now that Kenzie and Corey had entered serious relationships while I sat at home every night.

My friends had fallen in love, and I hadn't even experienced good old-fashioned lust yet. Well, maybe a few mild cases, but nothing major.

And it was definitely in my best interest to use all the leverage I could get with Scott.

Only this time, I guess I oversold my hand. Scott swiveled so that the parts of me that were barely brushing him before were definitely touching now. I felt a spike in my heart rate, and this time it had nothing to do with a football player hunting me down for vengeance.

“Why, Grammar Girl, are you trying to seduce me?”

I instantly pulled back, but I still couldn't resist grinning. “Who, me?”

He only narrowed his green eyes as if I were a puzzle where none of the pieces fit together properly. That beat being dismissed as predictable by a long shot.