All the Invisible Things

by Orlagh Collins

  She glares at me from under her fringe. ‘Is that what you do?’

  I stare back at her, but she doesn’t flinch and I finally crack. ‘It’s what I plan to do,’ I say. ‘From now on.’

  ‘Right,’ she says. ‘Then I’ll do it too.’

  I place my hands on her shoulders. ‘It’ll be fun, I promise.’

  ‘Mmm …’ she says, squinting at me like a cowboy.

  I take her hand. ‘C’mon, let’s go make those pancakes.’

  10

  I get back from dropping Arial off at the square for her first day of camp and dig out some of Dad’s photography books. I spread them out all over the floor of my room to pore over the glossy images I know so well. I’d love some new pictures to look at and I’m thinking about what we’d need to rejoin the library when my pocket starts to vibrate. Given Pez is the only person who’s likely to make an actual phone call outside of emergencies, I’m sure it’s him. At least he was the only person who made calls, when we still spoke … before. I glance at the screen but it’s not his number.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Vetty?’

  Ohmygod. ‘Rob?’ I sit up.

  ‘I got your number from Pez. Hope you don’t mind?’

  I shake my head in the mirror until I remember he can’t see me. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t mind.’ I want to ask whether there really is an emergency but I manage to tone down a bit before opening my mouth. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘I’ve been trying to think of an excuse to call you, that’s all.’ I bite my lip. ‘Still haven’t found one,’ he says, and then, ‘Hope you don’t mind?’ His words sound shy but he’s really good at saying them.

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘I’m not great on the phone, but Pez said you were into talking, so I thought—’ He stops. ‘Um, anyway … I was wondering whether you’d like to do something.’

  ‘What, like hang out?’ Soon as I’ve said it my eyes squeeze shut. I’ve watched way too many of Arial’s cheesy TV shows.

  ‘On Saturday you said you’ll watch anything and Pez told me you like films, so I thought maybe we could go to the cinema?’

  ‘But he’s locked up. Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘I was thinking … just the two of us,’ he says softly.

  I lean back against the bed and let this sink in. So, whatever Pez said the other night hasn’t put Rob off. Maybe I overreacted?

  ‘OK,’ I say, slowly. It’s not that I’m not up for it. I’m surprised, that’s all. Nicely surprised.

  ‘Actually,’ he says. ‘Can I be honest?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I didn’t ask Pez for your number. I took it from his contacts.’

  ‘Oh, I see …’

  ‘I wasn’t sure how fair it’d be, him knowing we’re out and about while he’s incarcerated. I was thinking maybe we don’t need to tell him for now and when he’s released, we can explain. He’ll laugh about it then.’

  While I’m not sure about conspiring with Rob like this, I can’t pretend this interest in me doesn’t feel good. I can’t pretend this doesn’t feel like a delicious two fingers to Pez’s line about me not being like other girls. ‘I guess. When?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  I stop myself saying I’ll check my diary. ‘Great.’

  ‘Anything you’d like to see?’

  I haven’t been to the cinema for ages. ‘Nah … Like I said, I’ll watch anything,’ I say.

  I picture him smile. ‘Safe,’ he says.

  ‘K.’

  ‘K. Bye.’

  So, I’m going on a date, with Rob. It seems so simple. Straightforward almost, but then I look at myself in the mirror, sporting a T-shirt Fran got at a molecular biology conference in Lisbon years ago and my leggings with their hole between the legs. Gah! The urgency for a whole new wardrobe has gone from amber to flashing red with accompanying warning sounds. I need decent clothes more than ever, clothes that say something about me, but for that I need money. So, I guess this means I need a job. And quick. And since I’ve never written a CV before, I pull out my laptop and start typing. One hour and forty-six minutes later I march into the kitchen, where Dad is bent over his enormous shiny PowerBook, still in his pyjamas. ‘Shouldn’t you be in an office somewhere?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, boss,’ he says. ‘I’m about to jump in the shower.’

  ‘I’m going to look for a job.’ I announce it loudly.

  ‘That so?’ he says, not listening.

  I step in front of him, crashing my crappy laptop down. ‘It’s just … I need money.’

  He looks up and starts kneading his grey face. ‘You and me both,’ he says.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘So am I,’ he says, pushing his coffee mug forward. It leaves dark rings on the countertop and I rub at them to see if they’ve marked. ‘What do you need it for?’ he asks, more gently, but still staring at his screen.

  ‘Trips to the cinema and, you know … clothes.’ I don’t offer further specifics. I can’t bring myself to.

  He looks up then continues to type. ‘You’ve got loads of clothes,’ he says, like this solves everything.

  ‘None that fit any more.’ My lip trembles and I look out of the window at the silk tree, hoping this might help, but thinking about Mum makes it worse. I dab at my eye with the hem of my T-shirt and mumble something about an eyelash. When I turn back Dad is nodding, like he might get it, like he sees what’s really going on.

  ‘OK,’ he says, slowly. ‘But if you get a job who’ll look after Arial while I’m at work?’

  So, this is how it is? Without Wendy or Fran for backup, I’ll have to check my sister’s childcare arrangements before I make any plans whatsoever. Dad shrugs like he’s reading my mind and I walk around, leaning over his shoulder. ‘That from Wendy?’ I ask, reading the email open on his screen.

  He huffs. ‘It’s the list she promised, about the wedding. Surprise, surprise, we’ve all got jobs. Arial and I are on balloon-blowing duty.’ He’s only pretending to be pissed off. ‘And you,’ he says, tapping at his trackpad, ‘need to pick a reading.’

  I squint and lean in. Vetty: choose a reading – something fun to read between the speeches. Thanks! xxx

  ‘Something fun?’ I say it out loud. I love Wendy, she’s the best, but for someone who’s so uber forthcoming and direct she can be hard to read. Fran’s the one who I’d call genuinely silly and fun so it’s hard to know how to interpret this. I’d get it if Wendy said cultured or profound, then I’d have a sense she really wants something cultured and profound but somehow dressed up as fun.

  Dad sighs. ‘She’s a bloody nightmare. For years she wrote poems in my birthday cards and was always disappointed not to get lengthy sonnets back. She’s no idea how hard that stuff is for normal people.’ I give him a shove. ‘Anyway, she better order one of those gas cylinder things,’ he says, closing his laptop. ‘I don’t have the puff I once had.’

  He’s looking at me like he’s forgotten why I’m standing here. ‘There must be a job that will fit around Arial’s camp,’ I say, reminding him. His shoulders drop and he gives one of those low groans he’s so fond of lately. ‘You don’t think it’s a good idea, do you?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he says. ‘The camp’s only a few hours each day, and you’ve no qualifications so it won’t be easy, that’s all.’ I don’t mean to look sulky. It just happens. ‘Don’t be like that,’ he says, but I can’t go out with Rob looking like this. Thankfully he pushes his laptop aside like he can read my mind. ‘Go on then, give us a look.’

  I drag my laptop towards him, studying his face as his eyes dart up and down the page. His silence is torturous. ‘What do you think?’

  He rubs at his chin. ‘What kind of job are you after?’

  I shrug. ‘You know … babysitting, dog walking, all the exciting shit.’

  ‘Vetty!’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, and he returns to the screen for a few more excruciating minutes. ‘
I’ll even do ironing.’

  He smiles. I can’t iron. We’re a strictly folding household.

  ‘Can I be honest?’ he asks, but he barrels on before I can answer. ‘It could do with fleshing out. A little more detail about the job with Wend, maybe. Mention punctuality too. And,’ he says, brushing frizzy hair out of my eye, ‘I’d really love to see you use your full name.’

  I pull away. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Plus a cool girl with a rad name like Helvetica can’t submit her CV in Times New Roman. That’s gotta go.’

  ‘Rad, Dad? You’re so far from being down with those kids.’

  ‘Painful, isn’t it,’ he says.

  I fold my arms, smiling. ‘Not to mention superficial.’

  ‘These things matter.’

  ‘Only to insane people like you, who call their firstborn after a font.’

  ‘You were conceived in Switzerland,’ he says, eyes ahead.

  I rest against a neighbouring stool. ‘I was?’

  He looks up. ‘Yeah. We were in Zurich for a design fair. Mum worked out the dates. She loved the Swiss style and she thought the name felt right.’

  ‘But—’ I stare at him. I’ve lived for sixteen years thinking he was to blame for our crazy names. I thought he’d tricked her; got her at a vulnerable moment. ‘It was Mum’s idea?’

  ‘Typefaces were her thing and Helvetica was her favourite sans serif. She thought it was iconic. She suggested it as soon as we found out you were a girl.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ He nods. ‘She’d wax lyrical about Helvetica’s strength and clarity. She said it was modern yet timeless. Helvetica can do it all, she said. Helvetica can be anything. Then I took one look at tiny you and decided she was right.’ He looks out to the garden and smiles, like he’s hearing her voice. My lip trembles again and I look away, letting this all sink in, but I refuse to cry today. ‘She was always right,’ he says then, snapping from his reverie and returning to his laptop. ‘Look, you sound like a nice kid. I’d give you a job, if I had one.’

  I want to walk off, but I stand there, sniffling. ‘Um … this might sound like a stupid question,’ I say after a minute. ‘But what am I supposed to do with the CV once it’s time to upload it?’

  ‘In my day, we walked around and handed them to people. You know, the people we wanted a job from.’

  ‘Actual hard copies?’

  He rubs his chin, sucking in his cheeks like I’m unintentionally hilarious. ‘Crazy, huh?’

  I think about this for the rest of the day while watching back-to-back TV shows. It might not be the worst plan.

  11

  I skip across the road with toast in hand, excited to be close to some sort of summer-slash-life plan: get a job, earn money, buy interesting new clothes and go on potentially fun date with chisel-faced cute boy. I don’t want to talk too soon but today might be the start of a less complicated life.

  My tummy is full of butterflies as I press the bell, thinking about the optimum time to disclose details of my upcoming cinema trip with Rob. It doesn’t feel right to keep anything from Pez, but I’m still a bit pissed off with him for saying what he said. Even if Rob isn’t bothered, I can’t help wondering whether Pez was trying to warn him off me. Most of all I’m pissed with myself because I don’t have the guts to confront him with any of these theories.

  Luna answers. ‘Hey, Vetty!’ she says, enveloping me in a sumptuous caramel-coloured cardigan before standing back into the doorway. She’s barefoot and wearing jeans, with her hair pulled high, shining with a polish that only famous people have. Her dark brown skin is clear without a touch of make-up. I don’t know if this applies to everyone you see on TV but in real life Luna is way smaller. She’s not much bigger than me.

  ‘Hi, Luna.’ I mumble because my mouth is still full of half-chewed food. Also, eye contact is tricky given what Pez told me about Harland and the talk they were all having earlier. Should I say something or simply pretend everything’s normal? It’s also weirdly unclear whether I’m invited in.

  ‘So nice to see you,’ she says.

  ‘You too.’

  ‘It’s been way too long?’ I’d forgotten how many of Luna’s sentences turn up at the end regardless of whether or not they involve a question. ‘Gosh, you’ve hardly changed,’ she says, softly shaking her head, and I don’t know whether or not to be pleased by this. ‘Settling back?’

  I say stuff about how great everything is, smiling and gesticulating, trying to non-verbally convey that I’m appropriately sympathetic about the Harland business without making too big a deal of it, unlike Pez, who crashed his car, which – by the way – had NOTHING to do with me. The way she’s looking at me makes me think I might be overdoing it. Finally she steps back to let me pass. ‘Go on up,’ she says, gently placing her hand on my back and directing me up the stairs.

  When I reach the top step, I hear loud music playing on the other side of Pez’s door. I take a breath and barge in.

  ‘How’s the prisoner?’ I have to shout it out.

  There’s a thud from over by the window. ‘Jesus,’ he says. ‘Do you ever knock?’

  I always used to waltz into this room but I quickly remind myself that things have changed. I see him in the mirror first. He’s wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and holding a kettlebell. Seriously? I had hoped those things were ornaments, for show, but no, judging by how much he’s sweating, this is a thing.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise you’d be—’ How do I finish this sentence? He looks more embarrassed than me and it’s hard to look right at him. Then I remember who all this iron pumping is for and I can’t help myself. ‘Guess I’d probably start working out if I was going out with someone that good-looking.’ He looks confused, but I decide this is put on. ‘Duh, March!’

  ‘Oh, right,’ he says, quietly.

  He dips down to change kettlebell arms and I sit down at his desk, straightening my legs out long. ‘D’you reckon she knows it?’

  ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘She’s cool, she’s …’ He trails off, searching for a word that never comes.

  ‘Of course she knows it.’ He makes a face at this but it doesn’t stop me. ‘I mean, she’ll have looked in a mirror at some point in her life.’ LEAVE IT, VETTY. He returns to his reps, lifting his left arm high, pushing the kettlebell up in the air and then extending it. His face is a knot of concentration, but his long arms look impressively muscly as they flex in and out. It’s hard not to stare. ‘Out of ten?’

  He looks up. ‘What?’

  ‘Like, what would you give her out of ten?’

  He rolls his eyes out loud. ‘She’s not a new Mentos flavour, Vetty.’

  ‘I know, but we haven’t played this for years.’

  ‘I haven’t seen you for years.’

  ‘OK, fair point.’

  ‘And, that was a game … for food or films,’ he says. ‘Not … girls.’

  ‘Well, I want to play.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’d like to know.’

  He looks at me warily. ‘What I’d give March out of ten?’

  ‘OK, if not March, then me. What marks would you give me?’ STOP, STOP, STOP! I’m changing the rules, I’m being a total arse, but his not like other girls comment is like a scab I can’t stop picking.

  He’s whispering to himself again, pretending to count, but I know he’s not and he puts down the kettlebell. ‘C’mon, Vetty,’ he says, scrunching up his forehead so tight a tiny blister of sweat swells and drips down his skin.

  I tip his kettlebell over with my foot and it topples on to the wooden floor. His eyes look unsure and he turns to the window. ‘I’m prepared to work on a few physical things, but let’s keep it realistic.’

  He gets up and grabs a towel from the bed, smothering his face in it. ‘I forgot how exhausting you can be sometimes.’ His voice is muffled but I hear every word.

  This hurts, but still not enough to stop me. ‘Not a ten then, I take it?’ TOO FAR!
It’s too late. It’s out.

  He pulls the towel down and although there’s a trace of a smile, I know by his eyes that he’s tired of this, tired of me. ‘C’mon,’ he says, peeling a blue fingerless glove off his hand. ‘Let’s not do this, yeah?’ The glove is practically glued on and he has to dig at it with his free hand. I let the uncomfortable silence happen, but my words play back to me and my face gets progressively redder.

  ‘How did the talk go earlier?’ I ask, suddenly remembering myself. ‘How was it having Harland and Luna in the same room?’

  He sucks his teeth. ‘Seems Mum knew about … the affair. He’d told her it was over but … well, you saw.’

  ‘D’you think they’ll work it out?’

  He shakes his head. ‘He’s getting his own place when he gets back from New York. He’s staying with my uncle until then.’

  I rack my brain for something kind to say but all that comes out is, ‘That sucks.’ By the time I look up he’s halfway out of the room.

  ‘Want a Coke?’ he says.

  I don’t want a drink, nor do I want him to walk away, but at least if he leaves I can rearrange my beetroot face while thinking of something to cheer him up. ‘Sure,’ I say, trying to sound upbeat.

  As soon as the door closes I sit on the bed, but I can’t keep still, and I get up to check my Dutch braids in the mirror. I put them in this morning to make myself look neat and tidy on my job hunt. Over my shoulder, in my reflection, I spy his huge iMac and I think of the funny video of the diva owl that Arial shoved under my nose earlier and I reckon that’s sure to make him smile, at least.

  I’ve only tapped the trackpad when the computer springs to life. YouTube is already open, and I scan the page he’s on; nothing interesting, just football stuff, far as I can see, but my eyes trace along the other open tabs at the top of the screen. There’s at least twenty! I’ve a momentary pang of how intrusive it is to look, but I quickly convince myself it’s not that bad. It’s not like I’m snooping through his search history, besides I could do with some intel on where his head’s at right now. I soon spot Tumblr and I’ve been toying with starting a proper photo blog for ages so I hover the cursor along. As soon as I click the screen fills with images and I lean in. These aren’t just any images though and my eyes fly all over his dashboard, which is filled with small squares and inside these squares bodies pump and thrust and flail about; naked bodies, boobs and bare bums everywhere!