Invisible Girl (15 page)

The word
tuition
falls out of her mouth and sits in a prickly lump between us. It’s like when Uncle Michael reminded me that he was paying for my food and stuff. I wasn’t even thinking that anyone would have to spend money for me to go to school because all kids have to go to school and I thought that was just what grown-ups made us do because it was the law. Now, I’m falling down a mountain with the porcupine of tuition clutching at my throat, sticking needles in my hands when I try to pull it off. Aunt Sarah wants me to know they’re not just putting me up and buying me food; they are spending lots of money to educate me. And there’s no doubt, she wishes she were done with me so she could just focus on her perfect family of popular, attractive kids.

I feel profoundly embarrassed, like I’m a kid on a milk carton that Aunt Sarah heroically rescued from a trash can, only to discover that the parents don’t want it and now she’s going to have to let something of a vague and dirty origin live inside her pristine home. Ever since she had the conversation with Uncle Michael in the gazebo, she watches me all the time, especially if Megan’s around, as if I might try to slip alcohol into her milk or teach her drunken swear words.

I make a vow that I will repay Aunt Sarah and Uncle Michael every penny for my tuition and for all the food I’ve eaten here and the uniforms she’s bought for me.

She keeps looking at me with eyes that take in everything from the scabs on my knuckles to my ragged fingernails. “Thanks so much for everything,” I say, but I have to look down at my hands when I say this because I’m ashamed and sorry that she’s stuck with me.

“Oh, that’s okay, of course,” she says, but it’s really not okay and we both know it.

She closes the door behind her and I hold up the uniform and try to beat back the dread. We start tomorrow. Annie told me that Monday and Tuesday are only for orientation which is a total joke. She’s planning a big sleepover on Monday night so that everyone can gossip about the first day. I already have nothing to say.

Annie ignores me and talks nonstop to Aunt Sarah while she drives us to school. She’s excited that this year she and her friends will rule the school because they’re finally the oldest.

I already spent a year being the oldest—in middle school. Not once did I feel as though I ruled anything.

I can tell that she and Aunt Sarah had another fight when she found out I was starting school with her. I don’t think she ever imagined I’d still be hanging around when her precious school started. When I walked out onto the patio last night, she and her mom abruptly stopped talking and then she asked me some fake question about whether I was ready for the big day.

I feel sick to my stomach. I don’t want to go to this school with uniforms that are an expensive soft wool and not plaid at all like at Catholic school, but maroon with white shirts trimmed in maroon piping. I won’t have a library to hide in here and a Father Patrick who knows I just want to read and be left alone. I’m going to have to sit with other kids in the cafeteria. Kids who act like they like you to your face and then talk about your fat behind your back.

Aunt Sarah pulls up a winding road off of Mulholland. A sign in white letters on a black background says CHAPMAN ACADEMY. She and Annie keep referring to the “campus.” I don’t even know what that is, but as Aunt Sarah pulls up, I see four different buildings with athletic fields, tennis courts, and an actual stable and horse ring.

I feel a surge of panic like a waterfall of acid in my stomach. Annie’s dutifully telling me who I have for chemistry and algebra, but her voice comes at me in muffled clouds. I have a piece of paper with my schedule on it in my hand. It’s already soft, like a baby’s blanket, because I’ve been rubbing it together so much. I want to beg Annie not to leave me, at least not for the first day, but I know if I did, her eyes would become hard and she’d look at me like I was a bug with thick, hairy legs.

“Okay, girls,” Aunt Sarah says. “Have fun.” She pulls her car to the curb. Annie jumps out, not even waiting for me as she pours into the sea of students, all knowing exactly where they’re going.

I hurry to keep up with Annie, whose uniform is hemmed as short as the school regulations allow. She walks quickly, tall and erect, fully aware that the flash of her blond hair and movement of her hips earn her glances from both girls and guys. She walks straight for the building closest to the tennis courts. It’s brick, covered with ivy, like a college building in a movie. There’s a bunch of guys hanging out on the steps. She slows to let me catch up and I know it’s only because she needs to be able to pretend she’s engrossed in conversation so she can pretend to ignore them.

“We have Specter for algebra,” she whispers to me, but her eyes stay on the guys. “He’s, like, so lost.”

I nod, holding down pure terror as I mount the stairs next to her.

Our first class, social studies, has fifteen kids. Mr. Baker has two assistants, one young woman with short, blond, fake-messy hair, who knows a lot of the kids from last year and gives out a lot of fist bumps, and another woman who’s older and wears metal glasses that are too skinny for her face and couldn’t give a fist bump if her life depended on it.

We don’t get any work today. Mr. Baker tells us to get “acclimated.” I think how the nuns would scorn him with his wasted workday and his hip, spiky hair, how they would see right through to his desperate clinging to youth, with his tailored shirt that shows off his muscles but also forces his gut to strain against the fabric.

All seats are assigned by the alphabet. I’m on the opposite side of the room from Annie. I look around at the kids sitting next to me, but they just glide their eyes over me, looking to make eye contact with someone important.

Mr. Baker has passed out what he calls our “syllabus.” We’re supposed to be reading it. I can tell that Annie isn’t, because she’s whispering and giggling. I keep my eyes glued to it, but then all the noise is sucked out of the room and I look up to see Amal the bombshell, who just walked in late.

In Catholic school she would have been in so much trouble, even on the first day. Mr. Baker acts like she’s the guest of honor at his tea party. He personally escorts her to her seat. The other kids all watch her and I notice with horror that Andrew is also in my class, sitting in the far back of my row.

Annie waves to Amal and gives her a huge “Hey,” but I can see, even from where I sit, that Annie didn’t really want such a burning comet in her private Milky Way.

We have the same section, with the same kids, for all our classes. That means I’ll see Annie, Andrew and Amal all day long. I’m beginning to hate the letter
A.
I don’t know which section Emily, Leslie and the other guys are in; there are three sections in each grade.

I look down at the syllabus but I can’t read a word. Whispers and giggles punch me. I think all the kids must be looking at me. Their laughter sounds cruel, as if they can see how lonely I am and it only makes me more ridiculous. I turn around to look at the clock in the back of the room and I see Andrew shoot a tiny plane at Amal.

Mr. Baker claps his hands together to get our attention and then tells us what he’s going to expect from us this year. His words are muffled and they come at me from a million miles away. It’s hard to breathe in here and I feel as if I might suffocate. There’s a pounding in my head and I know it must echo the heartbeats of Amal and Andrew that pulse with excitement, desperate for the time when they can be alone together.

Annie walks down the hall with the strong steps of ownership, with Amal right beside her. I’m right behind them, because Annie said, “Come on” to me in an irritated voice as we walked out of class because I’m sure Aunt Sarah told her she has to help me the first day. They stop in the middle of the hall when two really cute guys wave and walk toward them. Right before the guys get to them, Annie clutches Amal’s arm and whispers, “They go away every summer. They’re cousins. Only in our grade, but totally gorgeous.”

I’m sure Amal can see that for herself. They both have wavy brown hair, blue eyes and strong-jawed, summer-on-the-sailboat tans. The one on the left says, “Hey,” and they both stop. I’ve caught up with Annie and Amal by now. Annie stands in the middle with Amal and me on either side.

Both guys stare at Amal. “New?” the one who said “hey” asks.

Amal blushes and looks down. “Just moved,” Annie reports. “Bet you wish you stayed here for the summer,” she adds, making herself unthreatened by Amal’s beauty by becoming an amused commentator.

“I’m Gary,” the one who hasn’t said anything yet says.

“And this is Chandler,” Annie adds, not wanting to slip out of focus during any introductions.

Amal picks her eyes up, but keeps her head down a little. “I’m Amal,” she says.

“She’s from Georgia,” Annie fills in.

“I didn’t know Amal was a southern name,” Gary says.

Amal’s head lifts just a little. “It’s actually Arabic.” She looks down, embarrassed.

Both Gary and Chandler are enormously charmed. Chandler steps a little closer to her and makes his voice come out in sort of a fake whisper. “So, tell me the truth, are you really an Arabian princess?”

“She’s—” Annie starts to offer but Amal cuts her off. “Not even close” comes out in a voice so soft the guys almost have to lean forward to hear.

Gary and Chandler laugh as if this is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. Annie has two high spots of color on her cheeks. “Let’s go,” she says brusquely.

“Wait,” Gary says, clearly wanting to prolong the moment. “Who’s this?” and he jerks his head at me.

“She’s not here for very long. My parents just have to take care of her for a while,” Annie says impatiently and starts to plow forward. “Come on, we’re going to be late for class.”

Amal hurries with her. I stumble after them, willing the tears not to fall.

The English teacher’s name is Mrs. Applebaum, but she tells us to call her “Wendy.” At first I hate her. She’s too informal-California like the rest of this horrible city. I miss the nuns who don’t accept nonsense. “Wendy” passes out her syllabus. At first, I don’t even read it because I’m scorning her and everything she stands for. Then I look down and I see the names of the writers sprinkled down the pages like an assembly sent to meet me at the airport, all bearing the smiles of Auntie Em and Uncle Henry when Dorothy wakes up. My tears almost tumble down now, not from loneliness but from happiness. I have read every book on this list. There may be a refuge for me after all.