Invisibility

by Andrea Cremer

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I was momentarily distracted by all your past lives. Let me focus.”

  She looks at me longer. Smiles.

  “You’re a reader, no doubt about that. You might have read Little Women, but didn’t like it enough to go on to Little Men. That’s okay—I forgive you. Maybe you’re Twain’s bitch. Or Vonnegut’s. Deep in your heart, there’s still a part of you that believes in Narnia and the Chocolate Factory and the Knights of the Round Table. Maybe not the Secret Garden, but I forgive you for that too. Am I warm?”

  “Fiery,” I tell her.

  “Excellent. I have a feeling you might like math as well, especially as metaphor. You used to play an instrument—maybe a violin? You have a violinist’s air about you. But you gave it up. Too much practice. Too much time indoors. You love this park—but that’s not really speculation. That’s already been demonstrated. Of course, this is where you take all the girls. This very spot. They fall for it every time.”

  “Do they?”

  She nods. “It’s that serial-killer atmosphere. It’s an aphrodisiac.”

  “Like oysters.”

  “Wow. I think you’re the first guy I’ve ever gone on a stroll with who knew what an aphrodisiac was. That in itself is an aphrodisiac.”

  I should have an answer to this, but instead I backtrack.

  “Is that what we’re doing?” I ask. “Going on a stroll?”

  She comes a little closer. “It’s undeniable, wouldn’t you say?”

  She’s looking at me again. Studying me. I can’t help but be drawn to this. Such a new experience. Such an unexpected turn. A question rises within my thoughts, and before I can stop it, I find myself asking it aloud.

  “When you look at me, what do you see?”

  I have never had a chance to ask this question before. And even the act of asking makes me shake, makes me feel as if I have opened up my chest and shown her what’s inside. I am not ready for any of this, and I do it anyway.

  “I see a boy,” she says. “I see someone who’s always on the verge of vanishing back into a thought. I see messy hair and full lips. I see the way you can’t stand still. I see the way your T-shirt fits, the way your jeans fit. I see you unsure of what to do. And I can relate to that. Really.”

  “What color are my eyes?” I ask. It’s almost a whisper.

  She leans in to me. “They’re blue. Robin’s-egg blue with a few flecks of brown.”

  There is no way to describe what I feel. This is something I’ve never known. She has told me something I’ve never known.

  We are so close right now. Neither of us knows what to do.

  “What color are my eyes?” she asks.

  Now it is my turn to lean in. Even though I already know the answer.

  “Brown,” I say. “Deep brown. Like coffee without any milk.”

  She smiles, and I don’t know which words are supposed to follow these words, what moment is supposed to follow this moment.

  “I like strolling with you,” she says. Then she steps back, looks around at the trees. “I can’t believe we’re in the middle of New York City. This park is insane.”

  “I know,” I tell her, and start walking again. I’ve lost any sense of where we are. She notices it immediately.

  “Are we lost? I mean, in the middle of Central Park.”

  “No,” I insist. “If we keep going, we’ll hit the Castle.”

  “That’s so Prince Charming of you!” She takes something out of her pocket. “Here. Maybe this’ll help.”

  It happens too fast. She takes the compass out of her pocket and throws it my way. But I don’t realize what’s happening until too late. I realize enough to get my hands there, but not enough to concentrate on making them solid.

  The compass falls right through my fingers.

  She sees it fall right through my fingers.

  “Sorry,” I say. I bend over and very carefully, very deliberately pick the compass back up. I make a show of looking at it. Gauging our direction. Then I hand it back to her. When she takes it, our fingers touch. And the sensation of that reverberates all through my body, my thoughts, and too many of my hopes.

  Did she see it? I wonder. Did she see it go right through me? Or did it really look like I dropped it?

  I hear a jogger coming closer, panting on a late mile. I step away from Elizabeth. I don’t say a word until he’s past. She’s distracted, and waits until he leaves before saying something else.

  “What is it?” she asks when he’s gone.

  “What’s what?”

  “That look on your face. What does it mean?”

  All secrets lead back to the big secret. To give one thing away means to give everything away.

  I must be careful.

  “I’m not used to this.”

  “What?”

  I gesture to her and me. “This. Telling the truth and having someone hear it. Giving words and getting words back. I’m just—I’m not used to it.”

  She’s studying me again. “You keep to yourself?”

  I nod. “Yes. I keep to myself. Only now I’m not keeping to myself. I’m keeping to—you, I guess. I’m keeping to you.”

  Too much. Too fast. Too intense. The glass soul falls to the ground and shatters into a thousand words. The invisible boy becomes visible, and all of a sudden, his emotions blast neon.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “This is just a stroll. It’s not anything. I’m being ridiculous.”

  “No,” she says. “Don’t do that.”

  She reaches out to me, and for a moment I think she’ll go right through. But I’m there. She touches me, and I’m there.

  We are in the middle of a city, but for a minute there is no city. We are in the middle of the woods, but for a minute there are no woods. We are surrounded by people, but for a minute there is no fear of interruption.

  “This is the beginning of something,” she says. “Neither of us knows what, but that’s okay. What matters is that it’s the beginning of something. You feel that, don’t you?”

  I do. And that’s just as surprising as being touched, as being seen.

  She sees it in my eyes. “Good,” she says. “Let’s not go any further than that right now. You have the rest of the park to show me, after all.”

  The woods resume. The people resume. The city resumes. We return to the paths, and the paths lead us to more paths. We wander until dusk settles and the lamps are lit. Every now and then I say something, and every now and then she says something. But mostly we observe. We speculate. We steal glances of each other. Observe each other. Speculate about each other. Then wander some more.

  It is only when I get home that I feel the weight again, of all the things I cannot tell her, of all the things I am.

  Chapter 6

  LAURIE’S LAUGHTER CARRIES THROUGH the closed door as I turn the key. I slide one last glance at Stephen, who’s unlocking his own door. He gives me a quick wave before vanishing into his apartment. I swallow a sigh as my heart pinches now that he’s gone.

  My friend. More than a friend. My hope of something to be.

  My hand rests on the doorknob as I fight the urge to chase after Stephen and steal another hour alone with him. I realize I never really came back to the building. I’m still out in the park with him, throwing wishes up at the angel. Wishes that this metropolis will hand me the life I’d secretly been wishing for. The angel fountain offers a perfect place for those wishes you’re too afraid to admit you’ve locked away, even in the dusky minutes before falling into sleep, when your heart opens up like a night-blooming flower. So hiding your desires is that much harder. But standing next to Stephen in a forest that was quiet and private, qualities I’d thought impossible in this city, my wishes brimmed over and I had no choice but to lay them at the angel’s feet, hoping for her mercy.

  I wish I was still beside him walking through the park as if we were the only two souls exploring its hidden wilds. But it’s late and Laurie will worry if I don’t
make an appearance. I shake off the lingering memory of the park and turn the doorknob.

  I toss my keys on a still-unpacked box in the entryway. Many identical boxes occupy our apartment in various stacks according to the room their contents theoretically will occupy. Theoretically because they have to find their way out of the boxes and resume their function as lamps or art. Theoretically because Mom and Laurie are obviously waiting for me to do the unpacking—after all, I am the one who’s home alone all day—but I resent their assumption. I resent being the only one whose life is on hold, who wades through the sticky weight of summer heat towards fall, where school will pull me back into life’s regular rotation.

  I kick the box, but my mood lightens when I snag the idea that unpacking offers me a vehicle for spending more time alone with Stephen. I almost turn around to skip, and I choke a little when I realize that I actually wanted to skip, over to his apartment and ask him to help me dig our spare sheets out of boxes tomorrow, but Laurie’s call stops my giddy retreat.

  “Hey, stranger!”

  Pivoting, I abandon my impulse and trot into the living room, only to discover Laurie crouched like a cat on the back of the sofa. Sitting beside him is a boy I don’t know. My brother had called me into the room, but I’m not the stranger. When I first walk in, the new boy’s face is lifted up, open and smiling, but when he sees me, he folds up like an origami box.

  “Uh . . . hey.” I try to smile at the stranger, but he’s avoiding my eyes.

  Laurie slides from his perch to settle next to the cagey boy. “Sean, this is my sister . . .” He looks at me, his mouth crinkling. “What are we calling you these days?”

  “Jo—oh, whatever, just call me Elizabeth.” I’m tired of reminding everyone that I wanted to change my name the minute we changed places: both signifiers of a shift vital to our survival. I can be Elizabeth for the sake of ease, but I swear to myself that I will always be Jo on paper.

  Laurie’s crooked smile widens. “Classy. Sean, meet Elizabeth. Or at least Elizabeth for now.”

  “Brat,” I say, and flop into a chair. The chair is next to Sean, and the moment my butt hits the cushion, he pulls back, as if he’s a turtle and the sofa is a shell he’s trying to withdraw into. He mumbles something. I assume it’s “hello.”

  “Nice to meet you too.” My tone is sharper than it should be, but I’m annoyed that Sean is acting like I’ve invaded his space when he’s sitting on my couch. Laurie tosses darts at me with his glare.

  “Sean lives in Five-C,” Laurie says. “Two floors up, one door over. We keep running into each other getting the mail, so I thought I’d get to know one of the neighbors.”

  He smiles one of those only-Laurie-can-pull-off smiles and Sean uncurls a little.

  “You two would be good buddies.” Laurie has taken over the scene and is now directing it with the skill of a professional. “We started talking because he was carrying this around.” I only notice now that Laurie has a comic in his hands, which he waves at me. The flapping pages make Sean flinch, and I like him a little more. He snatches the book out of Laurie’s careless grasp.

  “Fables.” I attempt another smile for Sean. “That’s a good one. Vertigo does a lot of interesting stuff.”

  He kind of smiles back, mumbles something at the same time he scuttles off the couch and heads for the door. Laurie follows him, and I hear my brother say goodbye as the door opens and closes.

  “What was that about?” I ask as Laurie strolls back into the room and rolls himself out full length on the sofa.

  “What was what about?” Laurie says.

  “Why did he leave all of a sudden?” I wonder if I make that bad a first impression.

  “He apologized and said he had to go to dinner,” Laurie says. “Didn’t you hear him?”

  I absolutely did not hear anything Sean said and wonder how Laurie has already tuned in to our upstairs neighbor’s secret language of undertones. But that’s Laurie’s gift: He wins people. Not every time, though.

  “Cute, yeah?” Laurie gazes at the ceiling, but I catch the twinkle in his eyes and my stomach clenches.

  I don’t remember cute. It’s hard to remember much of anything about Sean. I think he has black hair and is skinny but not scrawny. He was too busy trying to become one with our sofa for me to get a good sense of his looks.

  “And he’s a reader,” Laurie says. “So bonus points there. Guess I’ll be waiting for the postman a little more often . . .”

  “Come on, Laurie,” I say. “Do you even know if he’s—”

  I try to stop myself, but it’s too late. The giddy flush of Laurie’s cheeks washes out. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa and looking right at me.

  My throat is closing up, but I force words out. “I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry.” I don’t want to have this type of sucker-punch reflex. When I let fear get the best of me, I hate myself. I react like a dog who’s been beaten; anytime I see a broom, I flinch and snarl.

  He lets me sit in a pool of guilt for another quiet minute.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again.

  “Forget it.”

  The apartment door bangs open. Laurie and I both jump up. Mom stumbles into the living room.

  “I’m home! And I made dinner!” She lifts up bags of carryout Chinese. From the looks of it, she bought the entire restaurant.

  Laurie hoots and bounces over to her. We spread a picnic of cartons on the living room floor. Mom apologizes for never being around, but she’s glowing in a way that makes me know she loves her new job. Laurie chatters about school, and when he mentions Sean, I give him a teasing wink. He beams at me and I know I’m forgiven. When they ask about my day, I make excuses about not unpacking and mention exploring the park. I don’t bring up Stephen. Something he said in the park is still racing through my veins, moving in perfect time with my heartbeat. “I’m keeping to you.” I want that. I’m not ready to let anyone else near it. So I stay quiet while Laurie and Mom sketch out the shape of their lives. We don’t talk about Minnesota. We don’t talk about Dad. And somewhere between pot stickers and moo shu pork, we become a family for a couple of hours.

  * * *

  It’s after midnight, but I can’t fall asleep, having learned that New York mapo tofu is much spicier than the Minnesota rendition. Despite my gurgling tummy I don’t mind being awake and alone in my room. Our apartment is quiet, but I can still hear the city—alive and at work—on the street below. I thought it would be one of the things that bothered me about Manhattan, the absence of silence, but I like the perpetual buzz of humanity. It reminds me of a clock that never needs to be wound; its gears are always turning, always at work keeping the pace of life moving just as it should.

  I’m also not bothered by sleeplessness because I’m thinking about Stephen. I’m lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling above my bed where I’ve tacked up a star chart I got at the Chicago planetarium during our family vacation when I was ten. But I’m not looking at the stars like I usually do when I’m trying to find my way to sleep. I’m rewinding my day, reliving the park, Stephen’s cool touch that leaves me warm all over, the timbre of his voice easing my anxiety at how unfamiliar my new home is. It is the best day I have ever had. I want to be there again and again and again.

  I roll onto my side and reach under my bed, pulling out my case of art supplies. They were the first thing I unpacked. Before clothes, before pillows. I rifle through brushes, paint tubes, and cases of pastels. If I can’t sleep, at least I can save the day in the best way I know. My first thought is that watercolors would be the perfect medium. The blurred colors washing into one another would fit the unsteadiness between us. But I want to feel the weight of the charcoal in my hand when I strike the page, making lines that will become a face I’ve already memorized. Memorized without even thinking about it.

  I go to my desk and get a sketch pad. Settling on my bed, I rub my finger over the suede feel of the charcoal stick, pull it out, and begin to sketch. I
draw for hours and don’t remember falling asleep. I wake up when light hits my room. I’m sprawled across the bed, sheets of heavy drawing paper strewn around me. My fingers are smudged with charcoal, but I must have been dreaming before I had a chance to sketch any image of Stephen or the park. All the pages around me are blank.

  * * *

  I hurry through breakfast and a shower. Mom and Laurie are already gone for the day and I want to follow through with my me-and-Stephen-unpacking date idea. In less than an hour, I’m knocking on the door for 3D.

  “Who is it?”

  Tingles run up and down my arms at the sound of his voice. “It’s me.”

  Unlike yesterday, he doesn’t leave me waiting outside. The door opens almost immediately and he’s smiling at me. I take my time looking at his hair, his eyes, his lips, his hands. My heart is doing somersaults.

  “Hi,” he says softly. It feels intimate, his voice low, only for me. My toes curl into the bed of my flip-flops.

  “Hey.” I am smiling like an idiot, but I can’t help it.

  “Do you want to come in?” He steps back, but I shake my head.

  “I have a favor to ask,” I say. “And it requires your presence at my place. I know it’s a lot to ask, it being so far out of the way and all.”

  I’m laughing, but he looks uncomfortable. I think I know why.

  “Mom and Laurie are gone all day,” I say quickly. “It’s just me and boxes.”

  He smiles at me, and I think I’ve levitated an inch. “Boxes?”

  “I could use some help unpacking.” I try to look sultry. “I promise rewards.”

  He laughs, and that’s when I remember that sultry doesn’t usually work for me; it comes off as maniacal, and now I’m blushing and kicking the frame of his door.

  “I can help you unpack,” he says, but he sounds a little unsure.

  I’m starting to doubt my plan. Why would he want to unpack books and dishware? Yesterday he took me to beautiful places in Central Park, and this is what I suggest when it’s my turn? I suck.