The Invisible Enemy

by Marthe Jocelyn

  OTHER BOOKS BY MARTHE JOCELYN

  The Invisible Harry

  illustrated by Abby Carter

  The Invisible Day

  illustrated by Abby Carter

  Earthly Astonishments

  Hannah and the Seven Dresses

  Hannah’s Collections

  For Nan—

  thanks for the island

  M.J.

  For Live Oak School

  A.C.

  CONTENTS

  1 • Brownie Brat

  2 • The New Boy

  3 • Yo-Yo Boo-Boo

  4 • Stone-Face

  5 • Detention

  6 • Field Trip

  7 • The Cloisters

  8 • Black Magic

  9 • Hiding the Invisible Thief

  10 • The Haunted Bus Ride

  11 • Hot Air

  12 • Jane and Harry

  13 • Cornered

  14 • Help Wanted

  15 • UFO (Unseen Flight Operator)

  16 • Phone Frenzy

  17 • In the Dark

  18 • Flustered

  19 • On the Spot

  20 • Jody’s New Recipe

  21 • Now What?

  22 • At My Dad’s

  23 • After-Bath Aftermath

  24 • The End

  Epilogue

  1 • Brownie Brat

  On the first day back to school after winter break, I was the only person who knew there was going to be a new boy in the sixth grade. Being the daughter of the school librarian has few benefits, but getting the occasional inside scoop is one of them.

  This was my chance to make good on my New Year’s Resolution Number One: Get more friends! I have a best friend, Hubert, but he’s also pretty much my only friend. I had decided to make an impression on more of the world than just Hubert. I was going to find this new boy and be really nice and help him fit in, and he would be friends with Hubert and me and not with Alyssa.

  Resolution Number Two was to stop letting Alyssa Morgan bother me so much. That one dissolved as soon as Hubert and I stepped into the courtyard. As she stood on the steps, passing around a box of brownies, my sworn enemy looked like a queen tossing crumbs from the castle tower. A typical Alyssa gesture—bribing the peasants in an effort to inspire devotion. Half the sixth grade crowded around her, munching chocolate and screaming praise, their breath puffing out in the cold air like steam on cocoa.

  Crossing the yard, I looked around for a new face, but all I saw were familiar ones with full mouths.

  “These are wicked good!” said Josh, still chewing, so it came out, Ese ur icky goo!

  “You made these, Alyssa?” said Sarah. “They’re awesome!”

  “Get one, Hubert.” Victor drooled brown slime.

  “Oh, uh, no, maybe, I dunno,” said Hubert, glancing at me. I could tell he was weighing the loyalty issue. But the brownies were Rocky Roads, with nuts and marshmallows plunked on top.

  Alyssa waved the box under Hubert’s nose. “Come on, Bertie. You don’t need her permission.”

  “Thanks,” he said, taking one.

  Alyssa looked at me and smirked, like she’d won five points. Then she held the box in my direction. I admit, they smelled delicious. I fell for it and reached out.

  “Oh, sorry.” She snatched the box back, leaving my hand stranded in midair. “I don’t seem to have enough for you.”

  There were at least five left. I saw them! My cheeks burned. Resolution Number Two was now crushed under my boots like old snow.

  Alyssa hopped off the step and spun around on the toes of her silver boots, cackling.

  I stood there like a dolt, hating her. Of course, if I use the word hate, my mother says it’s as bad as swearing, and I should put ten cents in the Bad Word Jar.

  Alyssa has been in my class every year from kindergarten right up till now. In kindergarten, she bit me so hard her teeth made marks through my sweater. Now she bites just with words. She’s so mean to Hubert, I could spit. Last year she stole his idea for the fifth-grade project and then just copied her work out of books, totally cheating.

  Recently I’ve had a couple of good swipes at revenge, thanks to having a secret weapon. But it’s so secret that Alyssa’s not sure I’m to blame, and what’s the fun in that? If I added up all the ten-centses I’ve spent on hating her, I’d have enough money to buy my own portable CD player.

  “Here.” Hubert broke his brownie and offered me half. Alyssa watched me in anticipation.

  “I wouldn’t eat that if it were the last food in New York City,” I said loudly. “She probably didn’t make them herself anyway. She bought them from a deli and just says they’re hers.”

  “That’s a stinking lie, Billie Stoner!” said Alyssa. “I did so make them!”

  Good, her face had that hot, ugly look. I rolled my eyes in a superior kind of a way and caught sight of a boy leaning against the tree near the fence. Even though it was freezing, he was wearing only a bashed-up denim jacket. He had wild black hair and no hat and—oh—it must be him!

  “Hey!” I announced, as casually as I could. “I guess that’s the new boy in our class. The one my mother was telling me all about.”

  Alyssa clapped the lid on her brownie box. Everyone turned to stare at the stranger. Our school is small enough to welcome new blood like a gift at a vampire wedding. Of course, from across the yard, the new boy didn’t know why he was suddenly the center of attention. He glanced behind him, but no one was there.

  “Ohmigod, he’s cute!” said Alyssa.

  I totally agreed, only of course I didn’t say so.

  “He looks like a gypsy,” said Alyssa. That was true, too, partly because of his dark hair and skin, but mostly because he didn’t look American. He looked exotic and confident and— well, cute. He somehow managed to keep looking at us while we inspected him. I would have ducked my eyes in a second.

  After a minute he pulled a chrome yo-yo out of his pocket and zipped it up and down a couple of times, not wearing gloves, of course. Then, with a casual flick, the yo-yo sailed above his head like a tiny, glittering spotlight before whooshing behind him and all the way back up again in front. He had executed a perfect Reach-for-the-Moon.

  “Wow,” said Hubert.

  “Mighty!” gushed Josh, who’d been trying to master that move since September, when everyone seemed to get new yo-yos at the same time.

  “Yep,” I said, “that’s him all right.”

  “What school was he at?” asked Josh.

  “He’s French,” I said. “I mean, he talks French. From Montreal, Quebec.”

  Mouths dropped open all around me. Hubert gaped. I think he was hurt that I hadn’t told him about the new boy. But how could I have explained about my secret plan to recruit him as a friend?

  “I love his hair,” said Alyssa.

  Was he still watching us? I got a crick in my neck trying to see without turning to look.

  “Why did he transfer in the middle of the year?” asked Megan.

  “His mother is part of a teaching exchange at New York University,” I said. “She’s a professor of, um, French.”

  “Well, la-di-da. What’s his name, you know-it-all?” asked Alyssa.

  “He sure can handle a yo-yo,” said Hubert, not even pretending not to look. The bell rang for class. The boy stuffed the yo-yo in his pocket and headed toward the school doors.

  “His name is Jean-Pierre,” I said in triumph. “Jean-Pierre de la Tutu or something. And I think we should say hello.” But Alyssa beat me to it.

  “Bon joor!” she shouted. “Bon joor!” She flipped a shining braid over her shoulder and waved as if the boy were a taxi driver. “Hey! You!” She used her fashion-model waggle to cr
oss the yard. A parade of other kids followed. I shoved my fists in my pockets and watched Alyssa grab my new friend.

  “Voolay-voo oon brownie? I’ve got lots left over!”

  2 • The New Boy

  The desks in our classroom are arranged in a sort of circle, so we all face each other. Mr. Donaldson had squeezed in an extra desk with the name Jean-Pierre printed on a card to match the others. I watched, steaming, while Alyssa guided the poor boy to his place as if he were blind.

  “I speak English,” I heard him say. “And I can see.”

  His voice was a bit husky, which made his accent sound like someone in a movie. He was even cuter close up, with hazely eyes and long lashes. Alyssa just kept standing there, staring at him. Her pal Megan leaned over and poked her to stop making a fool of herself.

  “Take your seats, people. Settle down. Welcome back, everyone. I’d like to officially welcome our newcomer, Jean-Pierre de LaTour.”

  Jean-Pierre saluted and smiled a crooked smile. His desk was directly opposite mine, so I caught the main shine. Hubert is next to me, and Alyssa is three over, well out of smile range.

  “You’ll have plenty of time during the day to show Jean-Pierre how friendly New Yorkers can be.” Mr. Donaldson looked around. “Ah, Hubert? Would you be Jean-Pierre’s buddy for today?”

  Hubert blushed and nodded at Jean-Pierre to introduce himself. In our class, it is well known that Hubert does not like to speak out loud. Especially not to strangers. Mr. D. picked him on purpose—an exercise in torture disguised as social encouragement.

  “Show him around, make sure he finds the cafeteria and other essential facilities. …” Mr. Donaldson always calls the bathroom “the facilities.”

  Jean-Pierre nodded back at Hubert and spun his yo-yo like a top across his desk.

  “Toys are not allowed in the classroom,” said Mr. Donaldson, with a laser-beam squint. “Since it’s your first day, I’ll let you off with a warning.” He laughed to try to show he was a nice guy, but we all knew he was dying to add that yo-yo to the collection of our treasures in his bottom drawer.

  “All right then, listen up, people. We have a busy quarter ahead of us, with the first focus on your projects about medieval life. We have a couple of field trips coming up, starting this week—”

  “Are we going on a school bus or the subway?” asked Josh.

  “—with an excursion, on a school bus, to the Cloisters. That’s Friday, leaving first thing. We’ll be seeing a marvelous reconstruction of medieval architecture as well as—yes, Josh?”

  “Do we have to bring lunch?”

  “You’ll need to bring a bag lunch, no glass bottles, no candy—yes, Josh?”

  “Can we have soda, sir?”

  “Yes, you may have soda. Eyes on me, people. This trip will be very instructive for all of you who—”

  I noticed Hubert was watching Jean-Pierre instead of the teacher. I guess we all were.

  I wrote a note and passed it along with my elbow.

  Don’t worry. I’ll help with the new kid.

  Hubert and I waited after class while Jean-Pierre collected a stack of textbooks from Mr. D. and stuffed them into a plastic shopping bag. Alyssa hovered at the door, trying, as usual, to barge in where she’s not wanted.

  Jean-Pierre saw us looking at the plastic bag.

  “I was waiting to see what the other kids use,” he said, shrugging. “I want to look like a New Yorker!”

  “We all have backpacks.” I turned around to show him.

  “Billie would probably die without her backpack.” Alyssa giggled, tugging on my strap.

  I yanked away from her.

  “See? Taking Billie’s backpack would be like ripping the shell off a turtle.”

  Alyssa has been suspicious of my backpack ever since the day last fall when my puppy, Harry, came to school inside it. Thanks to my secret weapon, he was invisible at the time, but he wiggled enough to nearly give himself away. Now Alyssa pokes my pack whenever she can, just in case it will move. She won’t give up the hope that she might uncover something to get me in trouble.

  What if she knew the truth? I have to keep it hidden from my ever-curious little sister, so I carry it with me at all times. In my backpack is enough Vanishing Powder to make Alyssa disappear from my life.

  3 • Yo-Yo Boo-Boo

  On Tuesday, Hubert arrived at school armed with his own wooden yo-yo. Instead of waiting for me at the gate, he was across the yard with Jean-Pierre, practicing new moves. A few boys were sliding around on the frosty concrete, playing foot hockey with a tennis ball. But most of them were dangling yo-yos and hopelessly trying to do things that Jean-Pierre was doing with no effort at all.

  “Hey, Hubert,” I said, leaning against the brick wall next to the yo-yo seminar. “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, Hubert!” Josh and Victor warbled a duet. “Billie’s here!” They made smooching sounds and shoved each other into the wall, like boys always do.

  “Do you mind?” Hubert muttered to me. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

  “Allo, Billie!” Jean-Pierre flashed his crooked smile, his yo-yo spinning toward me in the same moment. I flinched, and he laughed, showing all his shiny teeth. “Come on, you want to try? I’ll show you how.”

  I surprised myself by blushing.

  “She doesn’t have a yo-yo,” said Hubert— kind of quickly, I thought.

  “She can use mine!” said Jean-Pierre.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” said Hubert. “She’ll only knot the string or something.”

  All the boys laughed. Or, should I say, neighed? My face felt so hot my teeth were cold. I tried to grin like I was in on the joke.

  With his right hand, Hubert dropped his yo-yo into the Sleeper position, rocking it forward and back on the end of the string. Then his left hand slapped his right hand, making the yo-yo jerk straight back to the top.

  “Hey! Look! I did it!” Hubert’s voice sang with pride. “I Spanked the Baby!”

  “Wonderful, Hubert!” Jean-Pierre pronounced it Ooo-bear. He clapped Hubert’s shoulder like a proud papa.

  “Way to go, Hubert!” I cheered. But he was too busy high-fiving Jean-Pierre to notice me.

  The school bell rang, so I had an excuse to leave. Hubert caught up with me outside homeroom.

  “And you know what else?” he said. “This is the best day, already.” He sounded so pleased with himself. “First, I did a Spank the Baby—after only three tries. He’s a really good teacher, you know that? And plus, I asked him if I could call him J. P. instead of his real name, because it’s sort of hard to say? And he likes it! He thinks it sounds like a cowboy. He wants me to tell the other guys, too.”

  Hubert had never said so many words together at one time.

  “The other guys?”

  “Yeah. You know. The guys.”

  “Hubert? Are you feeling okay? Should you maybe go down to the nurse? Because you are acting strange! Since when do you call Josh and Victor and David ‘the guys’?”

  “Oh, give me a break, Billie. You don’t have to be the Queen of the World all the time. I have other friends, too, you know!”

  He might have other friends, but as he stomped off I couldn’t help thinking how I seemed to be losing my only best friend instead of making a new one.

  On Wednesday, Alyssa came to school with her braids cut off. At first glance, I thought we had a new girl as well as the new boy. All her life, Alyssa has worn her hair in two long braids, like Rapunzel. And now here she was with most of it gone and an actual hairstyle—sleek but kind of flippy at the same time.

  “Wow! Alyssa!” the girls buzzed around her. “You look great!”

  The boys all noticed, too.

  “Did you slip with the bread knife?” Victor sneered.

  “Put the wrong wig on?” asked Josh.

  “It’s very moderne,” said Jean-Pierre.

  I didn’t say anything because I didn’t get why her haircut bothered me so much. How dare you! I wa
nted to shout. I got chills just looking at her. Suddenly she seemed way older than the rest of us. Well, me anyway. I didn’t need a mirror to tell me that my freckles and my stringy hair the color of gravy and my stretched-out sweatshirt added up to no more than eleven. But Alyssa looked like a magazine model, or like someone we didn’t know.

  On our way to the library for Independent Study time on Thursday, Alyssa began to issue orders. Her new look automatically seemed to make her the leader. She tossed her flippy hair while she made her announcement.

  “We’re having a contest during I.S. Anyone with a yo-yo is eligible.” It hadn’t taken her long to realize that Jean-Pierre far outshone the other kids in the important skills of Skin the Gat (Écorcher le Chat) and Around the Corner (Autour le Coin). I could tell she already had dreams of throwing her arms around the official champion. But no one else seemed to care; they all dumped their books and pulled out their yo-yos, ready to begin as soon as my mother was out of the way.

  Usually at this time I would have been with Hubert on the yellow chairs by the window. We liked to oversee the traffic on our corner of Sixth Avenue and Bleecker Street, making up stories about the people getting out of taxicabs. Hubert always invented the best names, like Dora Dipple, or Dr. von Tweezer. Sometimes we saw Mr. Belenky sneaking a cigarette between music classes.

  But now Hubert was a yo-yo contestant, and Alyssa was making me sick, giggling and holding on to Jean-Pierre’s arm. I couldn’t bear to watch. I had research to do anyway, on Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. I sat next to the biography shelf, trying to concentrate.

  On her way into the Story Room to read to the waiting kindergarten, my mother sent me a secret wink. I pretended not to see. As soon as she left, there was a chorus of choked giggles from the study carrels and a brief argument about rules. I tried to ignore them, of course, but I couldn’t help overhearing.

  “I think J. P. should go last,” said Alyssa. “Like, save the best for last.”

  “Why are you the judge, Alyssa?” David wanted to know.

  “Because I thought of the contest.”

  “Not much of a contest if you already think J. P is best.”