Invisible (18 page)

I
love Powell's.

So spending two hours there with Scott wasn't exactly a hardship. Then again, I could go into the bookstore with
anyone
and leave smiling. Even two noxious Notables like Fake and Bake. Still, I was surprised to find myself relaxing as we discussed the merits of movie adaptations of our favorite books, especially when I accidentally told him about my love of romance novels.

I hadn't intended to mention it, but once my little secret was out, there was no taking it back. Scott wouldn't let it go. He kept prodding at me until I confessed that I'd been hooked ever since Elle handed one to me in the Portland airport. She hadn't exactly done it selflessly—I think her exact words were, “Read this and shut up already!” but she definitely succeeded in distracting me. Unfortunately, I became so paranoid that all my fellow travelers knew what I was reading, I couldn't handle even skimming the sexy parts in public.

That's when Scott laughed and asked if I still skipped over them.

I declined to answer.

I also completely forgot about the concert until Scott reminded me, by which time the threat of rain had materialized into a reality with fat droplets splattering against the sidewalk.

“Um, yeah. Give me a second to change and then we'll—”

Scott didn't even give me a chance to finish my sentence. He just grinned and started walking toward his car, leaving me torn between changing in the Powell's bathroom and getting a ride to the concert. Not much of a choice, since I seriously doubted Scott would stick around waiting for me and I couldn't afford a cab. So I scurried right behind him, shivering in my stupid little skirt while the rain plastered my hair against my face. Elle would probably say that I looked like a drowned rat.

Not quite what I was aiming for when I woke up that morning.

The instant Scott unlocked his car doors, I crawled inside and began pawing through my bag of spare clothes. “Close your eyes.”

He narrowed them instead. “Why?”

I toed off my shoes, hoping that tugging on jeans over the tights would help me warm up.

“Most people prefer to pull on more layers in private. Strange, isn't it? It's a total mystery to me why some people don't want to be caught with their pants around their ankles.”

“It's a little late for you to start worrying about your image.” Scott appeared utterly unfazed by my sarcasm, but at least he shut his eyes. “Especially after your audition for the musical.”

“I'm trying to forget that ever happened.” I yanked and wiggled until my jeans slid up past my nonexistent boyish hips, where I should've been able to button them if my skirt stopped flopping in the way. “But thanks for that reminder.”

He began to drum impatiently against the steering wheel. “You know, in Powell's they have these remarkable things called bathrooms. Completely private areas. It's amazing how far society has come.”

“I didn't realize it would be this wet outside.”

“It's Portland.”

“Thanks for the geography lesson. I also don't ever wear tights.” My unbuttoned skirt pooled on the floor as I swapped out my shirt in two fluid movements. I only did it because I thought that the layer of steam from the warm air now filling the car provided sufficient privacy from the outside world . . . and because even if Scott peeked, my bra was far less scandalous than most bikini tops. “Done.”

Scott wasn't in any hurry to start the car now. “You look more like the girl I first met.”

I shrugged. “That's because this was the only outfit in my closet preapproved by Corey before Kenzie's YouTube video changed everything.”

“Yeah, that's pretty obvious.”

I glared at him. “Meaning what,
exactly?
That I need my friends to dress me?”

The pathetic part was that I did need Corey, or Elle, or
someone
telling me what not to wear; otherwise I would settle for my favorite sweatshirt and a baseball cap. But everyone really needed to stop giving me a hard time about it.

It's not like I was incapable of dressing myself.... I just couldn't do so fashionably.

“Wow. I guess I struck a nerve.”

“Shut up, Scott.”

“Since you've got body-image issues, you probably shouldn't continue modeling professionally.”

I rolled my eyes. “And I had my heart set on a modeling career. I guess this means I'll never walk a runway with two million dollars' worth of diamonds on my bra. Such a shame.”

Scott pulled out into the line of traffic. “Every now and then you can be pretty entertaining, Grammar Girl.”

I decided to take that as a compliment.

 

But even at my most outrageous, no way could I compete with the sheer chaos of being backstage at a concert. Lighting technicians and assistants sprinted around double-checking things before waving their arms and yelling about the placement of the amps.

Madness.

By the time we navigated the craziness and found the ReadySet room we were fifteen minutes late. Not that anyone had worried. Corey and Tim both looked deliriously happy on the couch where they were snuggling, so they must have figured out a way to make the whole long-distance thing work. The other guys in the band, Dominic and Chris, were laughing with Kenzie and Logan as if the four of them had been best friends for years. I instantly felt like a total third wheel. Fifth wheel, really, since both of my best friends looked so . . . couple-y. But I just stood there while Scott snapped pictures of my obvious discomfort.

Great.

“Scott,” I muttered. “I'm begging here. Photograph someone else.”

He snapped one last shot of me before taking stock of the scene.

“They really seem like a unit.”

I had wondered how long it would take for him to comment on Corey and Tim as a couple. The way that Corey was resting his head on the rock star's shoulder was something of a giveaway. Still, I didn't intend to make that line of questioning easy for him.

“Who do you mean?” I asked innocently.

“Kenzie and Logan.”

“Mackenzie.” My instinctive correction surprised even me, but I couldn't let it go without comment. “Kenzie's my private nickname for her.”

“Oh yeah? Why is that?”

“It's just . . . we've been best friends since elementary school. It's our thing.”

That's when Kenzie spotted us.

“You made it, Jane!” She smiled gratefully at Scott. “Thanks for giving her a lift. I completely forgot to confirm with you about the ride situation.”

Scott smiled back at Kenzie, without a hint of the smugness I always saw when he looked at me, but he didn't say a word. Probably because he expected me to start filling Kenzie in on all the details of my date. I would've confessed everything if I knew how to do it with even a modicum of subtlety.

Yeah, that would have been
real
subtle.

Even when Logan walked over and slung an arm around my shoulder, I kept my mouth shut.

“Let's get you a drink, Jane.”

Then he steered me over to the selection of soda cans on the table. Clearly, Smith High School's hockey captain didn't plan on letting me anywhere near the hard stuff.

Not that I actually wanted any alcohol . . . just the option.

“I don't trust that guy,” Logan muttered, when we were safely out of earshot. “He watches you too much.”

There was no point in explaining that was Scott's job as school photographer, since no excuse was going to satisfy Logan. Not when he clearly thought of me as a geeky little sister in need of defending.

So instead of patiently trying to make him come around to the situation, I grinned. “Are you trying to protect me?”

Logan's expression became panic-stricken when he realized there was no right answer. Either he lied or he implied I couldn't take care of myself; either way he was treading in dangerous waters. “Er . . . maybe? Yes.”

“Yes, you want to protect me?”

He squared his shoulders as if bracing for the full-blown rant that Kenzie would've delivered. I figured the guy already knew he was being a bit on the overprotective side, but I decided to let it slide. This time.

“That's right.”

“Looks like Kenzie snagged the last decent guy at our high school,” I mock sighed. “Are you sure I can't convince you to run away with me instead?”

He ruffled my hair like we'd been hanging out for years instead of weeks. That's just part of Logan's charm. The guy can defuse tension in any social encounter—a good skill to have when your girlfriend is famous for being America's Most Awkward Girl.

I couldn't resist messing with him, though. Just a little bit.

“Maybe you should set me up with one of your friends. Is . . . I dunno, Spencer seeing anyone?”

Somehow Logan managed to pale even faster than my dad had over the condom in my backpack. “Oh
hell
no. That's never going to happen.”

“Why not?” I teased. “Am I not his type?”

“Spencer's type is female,” Logan said, confirming all my suspicions about his best friend. “You, however, are off-limits.”

“And why is that?”

Logan stared at me in disbelief. “Because he's not looking for anything even remotely serious, and you're . . . uh . . . you?”

I laughed even though I no longer found the situation funny.

Other people could look for something fleeting and fun, but not me. I was automatically disqualified before I could even decide if I wanted to play. It didn't matter that I didn't actually want to date Spencer.... It was the principle of the thing.

I wanted
somebody
to tell me what they thought I couldn't handle.

And then I wanted to prove them wrong.

T
he ReadySet band manager simultaneously hustled the boys onstage and hassled Kenzie.

Would she be willing to perform a few numbers with the band? Just one?

Maybe she could just dance around the stage for a while?

The guy obviously didn't know my best friend. Kenzie politely insisted that she would enjoy the show a whole lot more from the wings. It wasn't a false show of modesty either; Kenzie knew exactly what she was giving up—and gaining—every time she decided not to capitalize on her YouTube fame.

The cons simply outweighed the pros for her.

Which was really lucky for me, because without my best friend around, Smith High School would quickly go from annoying to intolerable. Then again, if she was traveling on rock tours and attending movie premieres, at least she wouldn't be able to make as many assumptions about my life.

She might even call me from the road so we could catch up.

That would be nice.

Thankfully, the manager's phone rang not long after the guys took the stage, and he left to go pester someone else. Which meant that the rest of us could enjoy watching ReadySet prove that it didn't matter if they were opening for a concert or headlining one—all they needed was a stage.

I forgot about the stupid journalism article while they performed.

Instead, I simply enjoyed the intensity of the crowd, the crackle of excitement in the air, and the pounding beat of the music in the floorboards. I wanted to suspend that moment forever, but when Wilco took over the stage, our small group in the wings became significantly bigger. Corey instantly glued himself to Tim while the other band members, Dominic and Chris, went right back to hanging out with Kenzie. A clique must have formed when I wasn't looking.

Making me officially invisible even around my best friends.

I pretended not to find Wilco's hit song “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart” extra poignant, given the circumstances. Instead, I stood there with a big smile plastered on my face, trying to fight off the urge to start running again. Sprinting all the way to Powell's in my annoying little heels probably shouldn't have sounded so appealing, especially since I was literally surrounded by rock stars . . . but I wanted out. Even before Wilco finished their encore I felt like if I had to fake it any longer I might combust.

I couldn't actually say that to any of them, so I tugged on Scott's sleeve while everyone else was still clapping, cheering, and wolf whistling.

“Mind getting out of here a little early?”

“Fine by me.” He raised his voice to be heard over the chaos. “Jane and I are heading out. Nice to meet you all.”

Logan's head jerked up. “Mack and I can take you home later, Jane. It's no problem.”

Except I couldn't maintain the pretense that I was fine with remaining Invisible.

“No, it's fine. You guys have fun. I've got homework waiting.”

“On a Friday night?” Logan asked skeptically.

I nodded and then swallowed past the lump of emotion forming in my throat as Kenzie pulled me into a brief hug. “Okay. Well, I'll see you later.”

In this case, I assumed “later” meant lunch on Monday, because between homework and tutoring Logan, Kenzie wasn't going to be hanging out at my house anytime soon. Not anymore.

“Right.”

That's when I would fill her in on my date with Miles too.

Later.

Except it was only fifteen minutes into the drive home from Portland that Scott asked me the one question I needed to hear from Kenzie. The one I wasn't sure I could even answer honestly to myself.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure. The concert was great.” I tried to bump up my level of enthusiasm, but it wasn't working.

I was running on empty.

“You look like a Hummer just ran over your dog.”

“I don't have a dog.”

“So what's the problem?”

I stared out the window at all the lights twinkling above the Willamette River.

“I don't have a problem, okay! Nothing life-threatening or—”

“Just spit it out already, Grammar Girl. I don't want to deal with this crap all the way home. You have ten seconds to stop sulking.”

“I'm not sulking!”

“Could've fooled me.”

I glared at him. “It's simple: My friends have moved on. They don't need me. They have boyfriends and concerts and this whole other world that doesn't include me. And it has never
once
occurred to them that I might feel left behind!”

I don't know where all of that came from. It was the truth . . . but I hadn't meant to share it with Scott. He nodded slowly and kept right on driving.

“Not belonging sucks.”

I leaned back, feeling drained from my outburst. “Yeah. It does.”

“It's kind of like moving. Suddenly, everyone who matters isn't there, and you have to build a sense of history from nothing. Half the time you're stuck waiting to understand the inside jokes.”

I fiddled uncomfortably with a damp strand of my hair. “Are you trying to make me feel guilty right now? Because if this is your idea of a pep talk—”

He laughed. “I'm just pointing out that you're not alone in feeling . . . alone.”

“Yeah, you looked superlonely in journalism when Lisa Anne and Mr. Elliot promoted you. Admit it: You fit in better than I do now.”

“I could still make room for another friend.”

“And you think we could pull that off?” I had a hard time believing it. We spent most of our time insulting each other—not exactly a firm foundation for friendship. Especially not after he'd shot me down with Lisa Anne. “Funny. It didn't seem like you were interested in that when we met.”

He stiffened, and I instantly regretted even remotely referencing the whole using-me-to-get-access-to-Kenzie thing. The last thing I wanted to deal with was a big confrontation.

“Yeah, I guess you're right.”

I stared at him, absolutely speechless. When I'd imagined Scott admitting that our friendship had been a ruse, I'd thought he would say something more like:
It only started as a way to photograph your famous best friend. Then it became real to me!

Then I kind of liked to imagine he would cry and beg for my forgiveness.

Still, at no point did I ever expect to hear Scott Fraser say that I was right.

“Any reason we can't be friends now?” All traces of his customary cocky grin were gone.

“You mean it?”

“Yeah, why not,” he replied flippantly. “It's always useful to befriend the copy editor. If Mr. Elliot makes me write a story, you'll check my grammar, right?”

I laughed. “Nope. I'm retiring from the scintillating world of commas. Thanks for sticking me with that nickname, by the way.”

“Oh, it was no trouble.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help hoping the whole being-friends thing would work. Partly because I could use all the journalism support I could get, but mostly because of his speech. It did suck being alone, but it wasn't like I had no control over that situation. I chose to pine after my friends and wait for them to come around.

As far as plans go, that one hadn't been working out too well for me.

Maybe instead of feeling sorry for myself because my best friends were moving on without me . . . I needed to do some branching out of my own.

 

I wasn't about to start joining in trust exercises until after I finished catching up with my homework and writing my article, however. It turned out that those two tasks sucked up my entire weekend. Still, I thought my lack of a normal social life completely paid off when I strolled into the journalism classroom on Monday, story in hand.

Success.

Even watching Lisa Anne prowl around the classroom didn't scare me—I was
that
confident my piece was onto something good.

“Your time is up, Grammar Girl.” She smirked. “What have you got for me?”

I opened my notebook and handed Lisa Anne a single loose page. Maybe it's stupid and old-fashioned of me, but I enjoy writing first drafts by hand. It makes the words feel more personal to me.

And until my writing had the Lisa Anne seal of approval, I was choosing to consider it a first draft.

Lisa Anne barely scanned the page. “You're kidding me with this, right?”

“Um . . . no.”

She laughed but not an amused,
that's funny
laugh. “
ReadySet Is Ready to Rock with Wilco.
This is all you've got?”

“Well . . . yeah? Wilco is a huge name in the indie rock world, and teaming up with a more mainstream rock group like ReadySet could mean lots of cross-genre enthusiasm and sales revenue. It's all there in the article—”

“What part of
Get me a great cover story
did you not understand, Grammar Girl? Scott says you got a
backstage pass,
and this is the best you could do? Pathetic.”

“But I thought—”

“No. See, that's the problem: You didn't think. You wrote a fluff piece. And now you get to continue your career in commas. Congratulations.”

“But it wasn't . . . I mean, I didn't. That's not—”

“Hey, Grammar Girl! Mind looking this over for me?” Brad Crenshaw thrust his article at me. “Thanks.”

“Uh, sure.” I was
not
going to cry in front of the whole class. “Fine.”

I sat down and began focusing on basic sentence-structure stuff. Comma here. Apostrophe there. All the while I tried to block out my sense of utter stupidity for believing that Lisa Anne would ever like my story.

Scott had sat silently in his chair the whole time I was publicly reamed. Sure, we could be friends . . . if he understood the meaning of the word. It didn't help knowing that he had pegged me as a failure from day one of the assignment, and that in the end, I proved him right.

“Just don't say anything, okay?” I kept my eyes glued on the sheet riddled with grammatical errors even as I felt Scott hovering behind me.

“What happened? You
crumbled
.”

Apparently, even that one simple request was beyond him.

“I did not!”

“One second you were fine, and the next, you disintegrated.”

“What do you want, Scott?” I ran a frustrated hand through my hair. “To gloat? You were right, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I can't hack it. You were right.”

I handed Brad his stupid football article on my way out the door.

Scott was the only one who even noticed me leave.