The Invisible Boy

by Alyssa Hollingsworth

  He wasn’t at the party. He’s not supposed to meet anyone.

  “You okay?” Aunt Lexie asks.

  I nod automatically. I need to think. I need to talk to him. Get him to tell me the truth.

  Aunt Lexie rubs my shoulder. “This has been heavy. Let’s finish up and head out to meet your parents, yeah?”

  I move with her. My gaze slides over pictures of parades, marketplaces, holidays. Tourists take selfies, and on the street below someone’s playing a flute. The sky continues blue and brilliant.

  How could I even wonder whether Eli is a slave? It’s impossible. Even if slavery still exists, it wouldn’t be on my street. Only a few miles from the capital of the United States! And it wouldn’t happen to my friend. We’re nearly the same age—he’s just a little older. He’s a normal boy.

  But he’s not, whispers a quiet part of me. He’s not normal.

  I catch Aunt Lexie’s hand. My voice sounds hoarse. “I have a stomachache. Can I just go home?”

  She looks worried and settles her arm around me. “Of course. Let me call your mom to let her know. Then we can get James.”

  I nod. This new information hurts my head, clenches my chest, squeezes my lungs. Memories and images overlap, crowding my thoughts. It’s like a scene in Man of Steel when Superman doesn’t know how to control his powers yet so he sees and hears everything and there’s so much going on and—

  Slavery. Everywhere.

  Make it small, I think, reciting the line Ma Kent used to calm Clark in the scene. Hold it in your hands. Focus.

  Everywhere.

  Make it small.

  In the United States.

  Smaller.

  In my neighborhood.

  Smaller.

  Eli.

  The pressure eases. Eli.

  The paralysis changes. Eli.

  My whole body starts to shake. But I’m not afraid.

  I’m determined.

  Aunt Lexie’s on the phone with my mom. I stop beside her. Numbness turning to fire, my fingers open my notepad. I stare at the page where I had been writing about walls torn down and journalists running into disaster.

  In dark, firm letters, I write:

  Is Eli a slave?

  Aunt Lexie and James wait with me outside the Newseum. Mom picks me up, and Aunt Lexie goes back in with him, saying something about wanting to see the exhibit we’d missed. I can hardly concentrate. I can’t talk. Over and over, while Mom and I drive home, the question repeats in my head: Is Eli a slave? Is Eli a slave? Is Eli a slave? It clamps my mouth shut, fills my brain. I need to know. I need to see him.

  By the time we pull into the driveway, I can barely sit still. I need to take my questions straight to the source: Eli. And I want him, and only him, to tell me what to do about it.

  “You’ve been really quiet,” Mom says, parking the car. She casts me a concerned look. “Did you not like the Newseum?”

  “It was great!” I unbuckle my seat belt and bolt from the car. “I’m taking Wonder Dog for a walk!”

  I grab Wonder and her leash and sprint back down the driveway before Mom even reaches the front door. She was reading something on her phone, but she catches my arm. “Hold up. I thought you weren’t feeling well.”

  “I’m fine. I—uh—I just wanted Aunt Lexie to hang out with James.”

  Mom smiles faintly. “Funny you should say that. Just have a look at all these texts I got during our drive.”

  She passes her phone to me, and my gaze skims over the screen.

  Mom grins at me. “Good work, Nadia.”

  I force a smile and hand the phone back. “See? Everything’s fine. I just want to go on a walk now.”

  “Well…” Mom tilts her head. “Okay. I need to order pizza or we’ll be eating leftovers … But don’t stay out too long. Maybe after dinner, we can talk about the blog and the ba—”

  I cut her off. “Yep. Be back in a bit.”

  Wonder Dog and I hurry to the street, and I turn to the right, toward Eli’s house. I’m still not exactly sure what I think is going on—slave slave slave thrums through my head—but I have to see him. Now.

  The sun is creeping closer to the treetops. It’s way later than one thirty, and for all I know Candace might be home soon. If she’s his “trafficker,” like Aunt Lexie called those sorts of people, I don’t know what she’ll do—to him or me—if she finds us together. That must be why he freaked out yesterday. Swallowing, I quicken into a jog.

  No car in the driveway. That’s a good sign.

  At the back gate, I cup my hands to my mouth. “Woo WOO ooo ooo ooo.”

  No response.

  I look into the backyard, but it’s empty. A cloud covers the sky. Without sunshine or the path lights on, the garden seems expectant. Ominous.

  Coming around the side of the house, I try the signal again. “Woo WOO ooo ooo ooo.”

  I pace to the front, making the call over and over. Wonder Dog paws my leg, probably worried I’ve lost it. Somewhere, a window scrapes.

  “Nadia,” Eli hisses from behind the bushes. “What are you doing?”

  I check the shrubs. Eli has opened one of the basement windows and is frowning—no, scowling—at me. Fast as I can, I squeeze between the wall and the bush and squat in front of him. Wonder Dog wags her tail and goes to give Eli a lick, but Eli moves out of reach. I use the chance to slither through the window.

  “What are you—?” he gasps.

  I land with a thump beside him on a table pushed against the wall. Wonder Dog crouches, sniffing the windowsill, checking to see if I want her to follow.

  “You can’t be in here!” Eli whisper-yells. His dark eyes dart toward the street. “You can’t be around at all, but you definitely can’t be here.”

  “I know—I know it’s against the rules.” Standing on the table, I study him close, really close. A lean, odd shallowness casts shadows under his cheeks, and in the dim light the skin under his eyes has colored from purple almost to black. His hair lies in its usual haphazard cut, but now that I’m really looking, I can tell it’s dirty, wet-looking, flecked with dandruff and dust. His clothes are the same I saw him wearing yesterday—no, they’re the same he always wears.

  All this time, he wasn’t invisible because of some superpower. He’s been invisible because I couldn’t—wouldn’t see the truth.

  But hiding from the truth isn’t what a journalist does. It’s not what Lois Lane would do.

  It’s not what I want to do.

  “Nadia,” Eli prompts impatiently, glancing past the bush toward the road again. “I don’t have time to talk.”

  “Are you a slave?” I blurt. “A—trafficked person?”

  He turns and stares. My face heats, but my body stays cold. Wonder Dog leans through the open window and nudges Eli’s head with her nose.

  “No.” Eli says it like I’ve gone mad, like he’s talking to someone who thinks the earth is flat or Lex Luthor is Superman. “There aren’t slaves anymore. Not here.”

  I can’t stop now. “Do you actually do school?”

  He frowns. “I don’t have time.”

  “Does Candace pay you for your work?”

  “No. Why would she?” He crosses his arms. In his old T-shirt—without the hoodie—I can see the circle scars below his wrist gleam faintly. There are a few more up his arm, where they would normally be hidden. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Where do you sleep?” I look around the basement for the first time, realizing I haven’t actually seen it since the botched party investigation. The big room is bare concrete, with storage boxes and spare furniture pushed out of the way. Before, I thought maybe this was his room—but there’s nothing to sleep on. There’s a small camera in one corner of the ceiling—the sort of security camera you might find in an old mall or something. A red dot blinks next to the lens.

  I push back against the wall.

  “It can’t see you right here,” Eli says. “And the audio quit working about a week ago.”
>
  “Why—?” I start to ask as I trace its angle to the other wall. There’s a door left about two feet open. I lean to get a better view of the room beyond—except, there isn’t a room. It’s a closet. Maybe, barely big enough for a kid Eli’s size to lie down in. A sleeping bag sprawls on top of lumpy pillows.

  My heart thumps in my chest. “You sleep in that?”

  Eli jumps off the table and pushes the door shut. With his back to the camera, he says in a voice as calm as a weather announcement, “I’m here because I decided to stay. And you need to leave.”

  I have to know the truth. Even if Eli doesn’t want me to. Even if Eli doesn’t know it himself. “Is Candace actually your aunt? How did you end up here?”

  Eli moves back to the table—out of the camera’s view—and rakes his fingers through his hair. We’re eye to eye now—or, my eyes to his chin—but he still won’t meet my gaze. “It isn’t important.”

  “Of course it is!” My voice explodes out of me. “None of this is normal!”

  “It’s safe,” he hisses. “I’m lucky, okay? Candace is predictable. There’s a certain way things work. Everything has a pattern. Everything’s under control.”

  “Including you.”

  “That’s not the point,” he snaps.

  I hurry on, hardly knowing what words I’m going to use but unable to hold them in. “My aunt said that human traffickers isolate their victims.”

  “I’m not a vic—”

  “Is that why you never go out front? Unless someone’s in danger and you can help. You’re always—”

  “That doesn’t have—”

  “—in the backyard.” A new thought pops into my head. “And the party! During the party, you were down here, in that, when I was—”

  “I only—”

  “—looking for you. Are you even allowed to be seen? My aunt said traffickers don’t take care—”

  “Your aunt—”

  “—of their victims and they keep kids from going to school and they threaten people with debts to keep them obedient. What will happen if—”

  “Stop!” Eli grabs my shoulders and shouts in my face. “She’ll send me back to him, okay?”

  The questions clog in my throat. I stare at him—at his face, angry and fierce. His fingers pinch and his grip hurts. A wild pain lurks in his eyes.

  I open my mouth.

  “Don’t ask who. Don’t ask anything.” Eli takes a shaky breath. His grip loosens and his eyes go dull. All the life drains out of his voice. “Candace takes care of me, all right? I’m here because I want to be here. Because I haven’t found anything better.”

  “Better?” The word comes out in a trembling breath.

  He drops his arms and steps back. “Maybe I’ll leave someday. Okay? When I know I can without Candace involving—him. But until then, I make the decisions. I know how to survive.”

  My heart starts to beat again. Harder and harder. “You can come to my house. Stay with us!”

  Eli shakes his head, hopping down to the floor. “I’m not running. Not yet.”

  “Why not?” I demand, reaching through the window to grip Wonder Dog’s harness. “It doesn’t have to be like this. It shouldn’t. You should be free.”

  A car rumbles down the street. We both stiffen. But it continues past the house. Not Candace.

  “I am free,” Eli whispers. “I’m not losing this, too.”

  I want to grab him. Drag him out of the basement. I want to make him see himself, ragged and drooping with his hands limp at his sides. I want to show him his own smile, the one that flashes all at once and turns him into an entirely different boy.

  “Leave,” Eli says. “Now.”

  “You saved Wonder Dog, and me.” I lift my chin.”I won’t give up on you.”

  He says nothing.

  I crawl through the window again, nudge Wonder out of the way, and head toward the road. But this isn’t a retreat. With every step, I’m thinking:

  Journalists don’t run from disaster. They run toward it.

  Chapter 17

  AUTHORITIES ARRIVE ON SCENE

  I walk Wonder Dog home and slip her inside without Mom noticing. Through the front window, I can see Mom sitting at her desk, typing on her computer. It’s like nothing’s changed. The world’s turned inside out, but everyone is acting the same.

  I made a promise to Eli not to tell anyone, but that was before I knew he was in danger. I have to do something and I need help.

  I sit on the porch steps and pull out my phone, scrolling to Aunt Lexie’s number. If anyone can fix this, she can.

  It goes straight to voice mail.

  Right. She’s at a movie.

  After I push the phone into my backpack, I rub my eyes with my palms. Eli is a slave.

  I’m almost sure.

  No, I correct myself, forcing my brain to stop making excuses before it can start. He is a slave.

  I squeeze my arms and glance at the office window again. Mom’s staring at the screen, reading something now. If I talk to her, what would happen? I know she’d be skeptical—Nadia and her big imagination—she probably wouldn’t even believe me. Or, if she did, she might try to use this for her blog somehow. Livestream the dramatic reveal of her daughter’s friend’s secret identity. Either way, Mom would for sure be mad that I’ve been sneaking over to Eli’s without permission, and probably embarrassed, too—like she was at the house party.

  And Dad’s not home. Even if he were here, he’d just talk to Mom about it, and then I’d be back where I started.

  I look around the street. Who else? In her texts, Aunt Lexie said Mrs. B is gone. So I jog down to Kenny’s house instead.

  Lights shine from inside. I run up and poke the doorbell. A minute later, the door swings open, and Kenny’s mom is there. She’s dressed fancy and putting in earrings.

  “Oh,” she says, surprised. “Hello. I thought you were someone else.”

  “Um, hi.” I shift from foot to foot. “Is—erm—Pa—Kenny here?”

  She shakes her head, then pats her hair down. “He’s with his dad for the night. Sorry.”

  “Oh. Right.” That’s why he had to leave yesterday. He’s not supposed to be around again for a few days. “Um—thanks. Have a good evening.”

  I walk back out to the street but stop to let a car go by. It loops around the median and pulls into Eli’s driveway. Candace gets out, on the phone with someone. I freeze, watching. The clip-clip of her heels seems to echo through the silence.

  What would Lois Lane do?

  She’d have her photographer-friend Jimmy Olsen activate his emergency signal watch and get Superman’s attention. Or, without the watch, she’d throw herself off a building or something so Superman would have to show up. He’d swoop in and take Candace straight to jail, then say something kind and meaningful about the whole situation. And Lois Lane would write the story with a killer headline.

  Reaching into my bag, I find my Lois Lane press pass and grip it in my hand. The hard plastic bites my palm, but it makes me feel prepared.

  Like it or not, I’m pretty sure there aren’t actually superheroes in this dimension known as “the real world.” And I am very, very much in the real world now.

  But there are other types of heroes. And I know the number to call them.

  911.

  * * *

  Even though Mom might worry about where I’ve gone and Dad might get home before me, I don’t go to my house. Still holding my press pass, I find a hidden spot near some trees at the edge of the median and lie on my stomach near the top of the ditch. The dark clouds have thickened and the neighborhood hovers in dim light.

  I can see Eli’s house, but I’m pretty sure no one can see me. Candace’s silver car is still in the driveway. Lamps shine behind the curtained windows. With my notepad and pen in hand, I wait. A steady thrum builds in me, loud enough to drown out my pounding heart. Whatever happens next, I’m here to record it.

  Five minutes pass.

 
I told the 911 operator that I thought my friend was a victim of human trafficking. She said she would send a dispatch.

  Ten.

  I described Eli and gave them his address. Maybe I should have said more. Maybe then they would hurry.

  Fifteen.

  Finally, a police cruiser rounds onto the street. I had expected screaming sirens and flashing lights, but the car is dark, quiet, leisurely. Nothing about it says, Someone’s in danger! The world’s gone wrong!

  I chew my lip, watching while the car pulls to a stop in front of Candace’s house. Two officers get out—one young, lanky, and dark-skinned; the other about my dad’s age, with silver-flecked hair.

  The older man goes up the walkway and rings the doorbell, and the younger one takes a look around while he follows. I crawl farther up the ditch’s side on my elbows.

  Candace opens the door. Her eyes widen, but she smiles. “Oh, hello! How can I help you?”

  “Good evening, ma’am,” the older officer says. Both he and the younger one show their badges. “I’m Officer Tom Harrison and this is Officer Jay Paul. We had a call about some suspicious activity. Do you have a boy in your care, and could we talk to him?”

  “Of course, just a moment.” Candace turns and calls in a sweet, relaxed voice, “Elijah, you have some guests!”

  For a few long minutes, nothing happens. I lean up on my arms, craning to see around the officers’ bodies and into the house. Eli emerges, slowly, without his hoodie. He’s wearing jeans that aren’t as torn up as his usual pair, brand-new looking tennis shoes, and a clean blue shirt with long sleeves. He tugs the cuff over his wrists, even though the air is warm and humid. He still looks shabby next to Candace—in her prim business clothes and perfect hair—but without his usual outfit, he might just pass for normal.

  The older policeman—Officer Harrison—asks some questions, his voice lowered so I only catch a couple of words. Eli answers so quietly I can’t hear anything at all.

  Biting my lip, I crouch-run to the police cruiser and hide behind the back right tire. Balancing myself with my hands on the warm pavement, I lean around the bumper to get a better view.

  “Would it be all right if Officer Paul talks to Eli alone for a moment?” Officer Harrison asks Candace. “I’d like to ask you a few questions inside and see your foster paperwork, if that’s okay.”