Invisible (2 page)

Oh yeah. She'd be a media darling . . . and a complete terror to work with when she wasn't broadcasting. I could imagine a never-ending rotation of interns burning out under the strain of her demands.

I gulped. “Yeah, we're clear.”

“Excellent.” Lisa Anne straightened the collar of her button-down shirt. She was the only senior who always appeared ready for a Harvard admissions interview. I thought just the number of preppy argyle sweaters she wore on a regular basis ought to qualify her for admittance: After all, she already looked the part.

“Obviously, you aren't ready to take on this challenge alone,” Lisa Anne continued. Even though I had been thinking the exact same thing, hearing the words drip disdainfully from her perfectly glossed lips put me on the defensive.

“I can wri—”

“If I thought the matter was subjective, I would have refrained from using the word ‘obviously.' This is
not
up for discussion.”

I didn't like it, but I couldn't contradict her. She held the power and we both knew it. Then again, Lisa Anne never doubted her abilities: She pushed until she got what she wanted. And even when she shut me down with a single sentence, I couldn't stop myself from envying Lisa Anne's extreme self-confidence.

Nobody would ever dismiss Lisa Anne Montgomery as the unimportant best friend.

“Scott!”

My head snapped up.

“What are you doing?” I hissed. “I'll be fine. I don't need him. I'm good. The story will practically write itself.”

Lisa Anne raised a single eyebrow, waiting for the rest of my lies to fade out.

“Really, that's not necessary. Please. Don't.”

“Grammar Girl, I don't care whether you think it's necessary. My priority is the paper. Front-page stories require front-page photographs.” She paused and together we watched my nemesis, Scott Fraser, walk over. All five feet eleven inches of rumpled hotness in black Converse sneakers, dark blue jeans, a slightly wrinkled black T-shirt, and a gray jacket, with his ever-present Nikon in hand. “Scott, Jane is your new assignment.”

His green eyes were speckled with brown, and he made no attempt to hide his derision.

“Lucky me.”

He went heavy on the sarcasm.

Lisa Anne shrugged. “Well, you're in charge of making sure she doesn't bomb, since I don't have time to babysit. The issue goes out on Tuesday. So do whatever is necessary to make this work.” She turned back to me. “Don't forget, Grammar Girl, screw this up and you'll never write for
The Smithsonian
again.” She smiled. “No pressure.”

I was so dead.

“S
o what's your angle?”

I couldn't get over the weirdness of sitting across from Scott Fraser, as if nothing had happened between us. As if I hadn't tried to befriend him when he transferred from some private school in Los Angeles . . . only to be stabbed in the back when he told Lisa Anne, “Jane? She doesn't have what it takes to become a reporter.”

Direct quote.

I guess if you're an attractive seventeen-year-old guy with a talent for photography you can blow off the geeks as soon as you get settled in. That's probably how Scott viewed the situation, anyway. Not that I called him out on the whole “she doesn't have what it takes” thing. Isobel was right: I'm not good with confrontation.

So I didn't stalk over and yell:
How do you know I can't hack it as a reporter? I haven't written so much as a muffin review! Thanks a lot for trashing me, jerk!

Instead, I did a silent 180-degree turn and headed straight to the library without saying a word. The worst part was that I had honestly thought we were becoming friends. That's why I had arrived early to our journalism class, to see if he wanted to hang out with Corey, Kenzie, and me in Portland. I thought he might enjoy a brief respite from the boredom that is life in Forest Grove. I was just about to invite him when I overheard him talking to Lisa Anne. I fled without being noticed at all, because even in the midst of a verbal trashing, I was still a freaking master at the art of invisibility.

Too bad I felt like crap.

Still, I had wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Even though the likelihood that Scott would apologize and explain that it was all just one big misunderstanding . . . not exactly good betting odds. I mean, part of me knew that was never going to happen. Not in this lifetime.

I just hadn't wanted to accept it.

At the time, Kenzie's fame was skyrocketing, and it was just starting to sink in that no matter how her newfound notoriety worked out, nothing would be the same again. The American public would either love her or mock her mercilessly, but in either scenario, the spotlight would follow her every move.

Relegating me back into the shadows.

That's why I had hoped that the whole thing with Scott had been blown out of proportion in my head. I didn't want to believe anything bad about my one new friend—someone who hadn't known me since elementary school, who didn't care about my sister's popularity, who never treated me like the pathetic sidekick.

I couldn't have been more wrong about the creep.

Turns out the reason he spent his first week at Smith High School fiddling on Photoshop next to me had nothing to do with my wit, my personality, or my dimpled grin. He had only
pretended
to like me because he wanted access to Kenzie.

I should've guessed as much from the very beginning.

Instead, I was blindsided when Lisa Anne congratulated him publicly on his amazing photo of
my
best friend, frozen in fear, as the media mobbed her. The one he must have snapped the day I attempted to introduce them to each other.

In the end he hadn't even needed my help to capture his front-page-worthy photo—rendering me even more obsolete than before. Unbeknownst to me, that must have been the day he completed his metamorphosis from The New Kid to the well-accepted jerk. So when Lisa Anne led everyone in a round of applause, I blanched, mumbled some excuse, and fled to the bathroom. Scott and I had scrupulously avoided each other ever since. On the rare occasion that the limited number of computers forced us to sit next to each other, we both pulled out our iPods.

It was actually kind of amazing that the two of us hadn't been forced together sooner.

I just wished my luck had lasted a little bit longer.

Rubbing my forehead tiredly, I told myself that armed with my plan I could handle Scott Fraser. It might even have been true if Mr. Elliot hadn't effectively derailed me fifteen minutes before.

“I'm sorry, can you repeat that?” I muttered when I finally noticed him looking at me expectantly.

That was one way to make it clear that I refused to be intimidated on this assignment.

Not.

“I said, what's your angle?” Scott sounded half bored, one quarter irritated, and one quarter smugly certain that I could never pull off a front-page story.

“I don't know yet,” I admitted.

He crossed his arms, and I would have loved to say something—anything—to remove that stupid smirk from his face. Unfortunately, I had a feeling he was absolutely right: I wasn't ready for this.

“Do you have any ideas?”

“Erm . . . no?” I probably shouldn't have let my answer sound like a question.

“Well, that's helpful, Grammar Girl.”

I glared at him. The only time our sportswriter, Brad, had asked him to edit an article, Scott had waved dismissively in my general direction and said, “Grammar Girl can fix it.” That stupid nickname had spread like wildfire and successfully removed the necessity for anyone on the newspaper to actually learn my name.

But I couldn't do anything juvenile for payback. I had to be the bigger person if I wanted to prove that I could do more than apply basic rules of punctuation. Then I'd be taken seriously when I suggested adding a fiction page to the paper.

I just had to nail this story first.

“Could we hold off on the animosity? I got this assignment all of
five minutes ago!
Just . . . give me a second!”

Scott's smirk never wavered. “Want me to come back sometime next week? Think you'll have processed it by then?”

I took a deep breath and pictured him as a toothy iguana that I could blow up with the help of a handy grenade. Much better.

“Regardless of what you think, Scott, I'm writing the front-page story. And since your reputation is on the line, you should want it to succeed every bit as much as I do.”

I was bluffing, of course. Our stakes were nowhere near the same. If he took crappy photos it'd be disregarded as a fluke. If
I
bombed I'd be Grammar Girl for the rest of high school, or worse, I might be ignored completely.

But Scott didn't need to know that.

“You think you can mess up my place on the paper?” His grin widened as if the thought were too ridiculous for words. “Not in this lifetime, Grammar Girl.”

Had it been anyone else I might have felt bad about lying right to their face to suit my own needs. But since it was Scott Fraser . . . not so much. I leaned forward and met his gaze evenly.

“We both know you're still considered the newbie. And a few decent photos for the paper—”

“Decent!”
Scott interrupted.

“Yep. Average shots at best, really,” I lied. “Definitely not enough to prove that you're consistent. So if
we
don't deliver a killer front-page spread, get ready to say hello to the bottom corner on page four.”

Scott's smirk vanished.

Maybe I should reconsider joining the drama club. Sure, my sister starred in every theater production before she graduated, leaving a legacy I'll never be able to fill . . . but it might not be the worst extracurricular activity for me. If I could make Scott buy that line of total crap, then maybe I did show promise as an actress.

Or maybe I had a future as a psychologist, because I knew
exactly
how to maneuver Scott into helping me out. Time to pound on some of his new-kid fears and watch as his apprehension about the wildly unpredictable Mr. Elliot took hold.

At least, that's how it would have worked with
anyone
else.

He gave me a look of pure, smug confidence. “There won't be a problem with my photos. If you have a story, I'll have a shot. Come up with anything yet?”

I tried to recall Lisa Anne's instructions. She wanted something sexy for the front page. Something provocative. Something that positively reeked of scandal.

Yeah, I had nothing. But lying to Scott's face was becoming startlingly easy.

“Sure. I've got ideas.”

He looked at me expectantly.

“I'll—uh, I'll just . . . go undercover.”

He didn't even try to hide his derisive laughter. “Right. ‘Jane Smith: Undercover Girl Reporter and the Case of the Missing Lunch Money.' ”

He had a point. Going undercover sounded exciting in theory in a spy-next-door kind of way—but it's sort of pointless if you don't have an objective beyond writing . . . something. There has to be a target before there can be an infiltration, which left me right back where I started: screwed.

“I can do this!” I insisted.

“Sure you can, Nancy Drew.”

“Nancy Drew was a detective, not a reporter. Get your stories straight.”

“
My
stories aren't the ones you should be worrying about, Grammar Girl. You're the one with a front page to fill. So either figure it out or scurry back to your editing cave. I don't care what you do as long as you don't waste my time.”

I straightened my shoulders and mentally ground his precious camera into the gum-littered pavement sidewalks of Smith High School. “I'll have something for you by the end of the day. At the latest.”

Hopefully.

He nodded. “Then I'll see you at lunch.” And before I had the chance to veto
that
idea, he snagged his backpack and moved to an empty computer where he could tweak his photos in privacy.

Nothing like digging up a front-page story under the sharp photographic lens of an archnemesis while having lunch with my newly famous friends.

Oh yeah. Nothing could possibly go wrong there.

“U
h . . . Jane? Don't freak out, but I think Scott Fraser is stalking you.”

Isobel's eyes widened in surprise when I merely tried to brush off her words with a shrug. But she couldn't just leave it alone. Instead, her voice lowered to a whisper. “Wait, did you actually talk to Mr. Elliot today? Is that why Scott Fraser is—” Isobel cut herself off and planted her hands on her hips. “I'm missing something, right?”

I peered over Isobel's shoulder and saw Scott standing patiently in line for a sandwich, his trusty camera slung around his neck. I scanned the cafeteria slowly so he wouldn't think I was paying any extra attention to him. No need to inflate his already overblown ego. Although it was hard to be inconspicuous with Isobel pushing up her glasses so that she could get an even better look. None too discreetly, I might add.

“It's complicated. I'm sort of an undercover reporter on probation right now. Scott's hanging around to supply the photos.”

Isobel's whole face lit up. “Jane, that's fantastic! Congratulations!”

I was too nervous about my ability to avoid Lisa Anne's wrath to feel like celebrating my promotion. Not yet. Not until I had dotted my i's, crossed my t's, and handed my grammatically perfect article to Mr. Elliot himself.

“Thanks, Isobel. Now I just need a story. Something controversial.”

Isobel looked dubious. “Uh, Jane? You don't
do
controversial.”

All of this “Jane,
you
can't do
that
” crap was starting to seriously piss me off. Sure, I expected it from Lisa Anne and Scott, but I had hoped that Isobel would have showed a little faith in me. Especially considering that I
had
spoken up in class.

And, okay, I hadn't mentioned my idea to add a fiction page to the paper. But I would . . . eventually.

“
I
don't have to be controversial,” I pointed out, perhaps a bit too defensively. “I just have to find the story. Two completely different things.”

“And Scott's going to be tailing you for the photos?”

“Yep.”

Isobel nodded thoughtfully. “Well, frankly I don't know how you're going to get anything done with him watching your every move.”

“You mean because he's such a jerk?” I shrugged. “I'll deal with it.”

“Actually, because he's so cute. It's distracting.”

I stared at her in disbelief. Isobel has always been the rational member of our group, who observes everything objectively.

“Nothing about Scott is cute. Trust me, beneath that thin veneer of polish lies a raging egomaniac.”

She studied him carefully, almost clinically. “You're right: He's not cute.”

“See!” I reached for the ketchup to add some to my french fries. Our high school cafeteria leaves much to be desired in the way of nutrition.

“His features are too classically shaped to be ‘cute.' He has a strong nose, but it doesn't appear disproportionate. The disheveled, short, dark brown hair, green eyes combination usually falls under the ‘hot' category—and either he has an incredible metabolism or he gets some kind of physical exercise on a regular basis. The guy is in excellent shape.”

Isobel wasn't wrong, and I had definitely noticed. Which didn't mean anything. Stuff like that is bound to happen when your hormones don't get the message that the insanely hot guy adjusting his camera is slime.

Backstabbing slime, to be specific.

“Yeah, well, I tend to choose substance over surface. I'm picky that way.”

Isobel shrugged. “So have you told Mackenzie or Logan th—”

“Move your ass, fatty!”

No, I didn't say that to Isobel. That honor would have to go to Alex Thompson—football player, Notable, and the all-time-reigning king of the jerks at Smith High School. His mile-long rap sheet makes my grievances with Scott look petty in comparison. Although even if Alex Thompson's only crime had been outing my best friend Corey in our freshman year of high school—I would still have hated his guts.

The memory of that afternoon still haunts me sometimes.

I had been standing right next to Corey when Alex Thompson yelled, “Here comes the homo!” in the cafeteria.

Corey blanched, his skin taking on a deathly waxen sheen as the
entire
school tittered uncomfortably. At him. Nobody stood up and yelled at
Alex
for being a jerk. They just stared expectantly at Corey—probably hoping that he would burst into tears, since that would make the story even more intense.

And I knew that within hours the whole school would be abuzz with speculation on Corey's sexual identity. That changing for P.E. in the boys' locker room tomorrow might no longer be a safe option for him. Not with all the rumors that he was secretly trying to sneak a peek at everyone around him.

“Are you going to
cry,
fairy?” Alex continued mockingly. “Pathetic.”

I was gripping my stupid plastic cafeteria tray so tightly my knuckles turned white, caught in the crosshairs between the bully and my best friend, and yet . . .

I did absolutely nothing.

Alex Thompson had a nasty smirk plastered across his face—daring us to try to take him down. And I just stood there, utterly powerless, staring at this broad-shouldered football player who was capable of such senseless cruelty.

If Corey hadn't dragged me away, I probably would have stayed glued to that spot, gaping at Alex in horror. I wasn't even able to find my voice outside the cafeteria. I had just nodded numbly when Corey swore me to secrecy. I didn't even try to talk him out of hiding it from Mackenzie.

I merely nodded and pulled him into a hug. And when Alex Thompson bodychecked Kenzie in the cafeteria line—two
years
after his altercation with Corey—I proved that I was still too much of a nonconfrontational wimp to speak up.

Instead, I did my brilliant imitation of a statue.

So I shouldn't have been surprised that Alex Thompson would insult Isobel in the cafeteria—especially since it was one of his favorite locations for dweeb hazing. Still, I had hoped that Alex would back off now that Logan—aka the captain of the hockey team and Kenzie's boyfriend—had ordered him to quit messing with us. Which was still something of a sore subject with Kenzie, since she doesn't like other people fighting her battles.

Normally, I would agree with her, but when it comes to bullies like Alex Thompson, I care a lot more about ending the geek hazing than about the kind of relationship precedent it sets.

But either Logan's message didn't stick or Alex didn't think Logan's shield of protection extended to Isobel. After all, she was a
freshman
and hardly connected to either Logan or Mackenzie.

Easy pickings.

And maybe if I hadn't spent the last few days mentally psyching myself up for a confrontation with Mr. Elliot, he would have been right.

“Excuse me?” I squeaked, before fighting to keep my voice level. “What was that?” I gave him my strongest, most withering glare (which I had aimed at Scott without any positive results only a few hours earlier) and hoped with every fiber of my being that he would mutter:
I didn't say anything,
so that we could let the matter drop.

“I said:
Move your ass, fatty!
”

Except this time he didn't just say it. He practically yelled it for the whole cafeteria to hear. Isobel was seconds away from tears as she pushed her glasses up higher on her nose with shaking fingers. Worst of all was the dull, resigned expression in her eyes—as if she had known all along that her day had been too good to last.

That's when I snapped.

I dropped my tray on the counter, pulled back my fist, and slugged Alex Thompson right in the face.

Hard.

The bright shock of pain that radiated from my hand took me by surprise. All I could think was:
Holy shit, that hurts!
The whole thing felt like a surreal out-of-body trip, like something out of a cheesy body-swap movie. If it hadn't been for the pain and the murderous look on Alex Thompson's hard-as-granite face, I might have even been able to convince myself that I had made the whole thing up.

Except then his fist came hurtling in my direction. I threw my hands up, but was unable to block the punch, the force of which sent me sprawling backward. My mind was numb, but my body sure felt it when I connected solidly with the cement of the cafeteria floor. Searing pain had me gasping for breath as I hauled myself off the ground. Everyone around us started chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Well, everyone except Isobel. I think she was too shocked to speak.

Alex moved in for another attack, making my (rather limited) Women's Self-Defense training kick in and my brain switch off. I punched, pinched, clawed, grabbed, and kicked as much of him as I could reach. I only dimly felt the arms separating us as I struggled to get in one last good swipe, but the Autoshop teacher had an iron grasp and forcibly dragged me away. I heard Kenzie and Logan shout my name, but I didn't actually see them since Scott switched to flash, temporarily blinding me. I had heard the incessant
click, click, click
of his camera during the fight, but I hadn't paid much attention to it. Actually, I hadn't given it a second thought. When a football player built like a tanker has a fist plummeting toward your eye, the smaller details in life tend to fall by the wayside.

The last thing I saw inside the cafeteria before I was hauled out, caveman-style, were my three best friends (and Logan) trying to run to my aid. Well, that and Scott snapping more photos of my dramatic exit.

And Isobel wondered why I didn't like the guy.