Invisible (9 page)

“Now what would good little Jane Smith know about something like that?” I asked, throwing his own words back at him and widening my own blue eyes to look as innocent as possible. I picked up another book and playfully whacked him with it. “I need to work. Don't you have an ego to polish somewhere?”

He pulled out his camera and snapped a photo of me before I could object. Then he looked down at the screen. “Hideous. Really terrible. You look like—”

I laughed and waved the book menacingly. “Watch it.”

“No, I think we've got a real winner for page one right here.”

In that moment I really wanted to pretend that I'd never overheard his conversation with Lisa Anne.

But I couldn't.

Scott Fraser had already stabbed me in the back once before—I wasn't going to let him do it again.

W
ork was fine.

I cleaned up the kids' section, made a beverage run to Starbucks, and assisted customers until the store closed—all of which I accomplished with a certain photographer snapping photos behind me. Scott was good about backing off when customers needed help. He even distracted a little boy with a LEGO spaceship while I gave his older sister some book recommendations.

But it wasn't like we shared our life stories while shelving. For someone who willingly agreed to shadow me for hours, Scott wasn't exactly a fountain of information about himself. Maybe because he was so focused on his photography. He kept making adjustments to get the perfect shot, but by the time the click came I was a knot of tension. All the scrutiny made me self-conscious. So I flinched and winced and repeatedly pointed out that working at a bookstore wasn't exactly front-page material.

But every time I asked why he had decided to come in the first place, he shrugged and gave me more directions. Turn left. Look right. Gaze a little higher up. Higher. Got it.

He fired out the orders while I did my best not to cower behind a book.

Still, it was only when Mrs. Blake insisted he take photos of us together that I grew seriously apprehensive. Mrs. Blake would never pose and let the matter drop. She'd demand copies and then tack them up in the tiny room that served as the employee lounge. And no matter how badly the pictures turned out, they would go right next to the one of Mrs. Blake hugging her granddaughter, Joy, who had recently gone goth and now refused to smile. The sight of Joy's sullen face staring back at me from the fridge always creeps me out.

Nevertheless, I was stuck waiting for Mrs. Blake to refresh her lipstick while Scott debated the merits of various locations within the bookstore.

“Stand over there,” he directed me as he stared through the lens of his camera. “Actually, move more to the right. Closer to the historical fiction. No, wait, never mind.”

“Okay, stop. Put down the camera,” I ordered. “Mrs. Blake is going to make us shoot it in the memoir section. Might as well spare yourself the trouble and just wait.”

He lowered the camera. “What's so special about the memoir section?”

“Look, it's just a thing. Mrs. Blake is going to demand we take the stupid photos in the M.O.M.S. She thinks it has romantic powers.”

“Because she finds moms romantic?”

I couldn't help grinning at his obvious confusion. “No, that's our private acronym for the memoir alcove.”

“Okay. So what does it stand for?”

No way was Scott going to drop it now. And if I didn't supply him with the answer, he'd ask Mrs. Blake. And
she
would have no trouble giving him all the details. That would be far more awkward in the long run.

“Make-out memoir section,” I mumbled.

“Sorry, I didn't catch that.”

“Make-out memoir section!”

He smirked. “Mrs. Blake wants you to kiss me.”

“No,” I corrected. “Mrs. Blake wants my boyfriend to kiss me. And since I don't
actually
have one of those, she'll just have to live with the disappointment.”

“Sounds like you'll be the one disappointed.”

Somehow I didn't think my fledgling flirting skills were ready to handle that comment. So I chose to ignore it.

“Look, we'll go to the memoir section—”

“Make-out memoir section,” Scott interjected. “It's usually best to refer to a place by its full name.”

“We'll go there, take the stupid photos, and be done with it. And these shots have to be good because the fridge is scary enough already. Joy's picture makes her look possessed . . . although that may have been beyond the photographer's control.”

“Did you just say something mean? I thought comments like that were prohibited for good little Jane Smith. Big step for you, Grammar Girl.”

“Shut up, Scott.” I paused dramatically. “Clearly, I must no longer have a problem being mean. And I've got two fistfights to prove it.”

He shook his head, and I knew he wasn't buying it. “One of those fights was with me, Grammar Girl. Doesn't count.”

“Sure it does! I kicked your ass.”

Maybe that wasn't the smartest thing to say. Scott instantly straightened.

“I had your arm behind your back! If that's your idea of kicking someone's ass, then you seriously need some professional help.”

“I could've gotten out of it,” I lied. “No problem.”

“Oh, really?” Scott set down his camera. “Want a rematch?”

“No, I'm good.” I backpedaled.

He stepped closer. “I'm fine with picking it up where we left off. I believe it was your right arm I had immobilized.”

“All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up!”

Never before had I been so grateful to see Mrs. Blake. She wrapped one ring-laden hand around Scott's arm and tugged him through the maze of the store. Right to the make-out memoir section. As if the proximity to all those true love stories would compel Scott to grab me and commit some massive display of PDA.

So not going to happen.

Still, I wondered what Kenzie would say if I mentioned the flirty vibes Scott had been sending earlier. She'd probably burst out laughing and tell me to get my imagination under control. Too bad Mrs. Blake hadn't responded that way.

“I'm just so excited,” she declared, before puckering her lips into a pout for the camera. “Annette Lovegood always says that the sensitivity of the universe sometimes jumbles her predictions. But she also said that I would have a passionate intrigue after a loved one formed a stable, meaningful relationship.” She did a quarter turn and put a hand jauntily on her hip. “Maybe now my next good one will show up.”

“And this would be number five?” Scott asked as he adjusted his lens.

“Lucky number four. It's all about having the right order of husbands. See, I had a mean one, then a nice one, then a mean one.... Time for another nice one!”

I'd already heard this before, so I wisely kept my mouth shut.

“What about Frank?”

Mrs. Blake repositioned me into a better pose before answering. “Oh, Frank doesn't count. Mean one, nice one, only counts if you
marry
them. It's a technicality, sure, but I like it. Now with Janie here—”

“So, uh, did Annette comment on anyone else's love life?” I interrupted, wanting to keep the conversation as far away from me as possible.

“Sure! Why, just last week she foretold Joy giving me the sweetest little great-grandchildren.”

“J-Joy?” I sputtered. “She's what? Fifteen?”

“Fifteen and a half coming up next week.”

Scott and I just stared at her.

“Well, I don't expect it to happen right this second. It must be one of those out-of-sequence events. Annette told me very clearly that the spirits get confused sometimes. Something about different types of psychic energies . . . Oh, I can never keep it straight.”

“Interesting. Do you see a lot of your granddaughter? Jane, tilt your head to the side a little more. Great.”

I obeyed the command before I remembered my plan not to be such a pushover. If I kept allowing myself to be easily maneuvered, I wouldn't be taken seriously on the school paper. Then again, following instructions was practically a hardwired response for me. Stopping cold turkey sounded next to impossible. I couldn't recall the last time I had purposefully ignored an order—or if I ever had.

“Joy comes into the store every Saturday afternoon and helps me sort books. Then we get frozen yogurt together.” The very mention of her granddaughter put an extra layer of sweetness into Mrs. Blake's smile. “We're working on a novel together.” Her eyes darted from Scott to me so quickly, I wondered if I had imagined a furtive expression flickering across her face. “It's still in the planning stages.”

“Okay.” Scott didn't appear to be listening any longer. “Now, Jane. I want you to put your arm around Mrs. Blake's waist. Try not to stand so rigidly. Just like that, perfect. Don't move.”

“What's your story about?” It was easier to relax into the position when I ignored the way my pretend-boyfriend's disheveled brown hair and camera obscured his face and focused instead on the perky grandmother next to me.

“Oh, it's about a teenage girl,” she said airily. “Scott, can you believe our Janie hasn't told me anything about you? Why, I was sure she would call me the second she started dating. I can see that we have a lot of catching up to do. Tell me how you met.”

“Hmm,” he mumbled distractedly as he tried to capture the perfect shot.

“Um, we met in journalism class.” I wanted to keep the story as close to the truth as possible. “I was editing. Scott was standing around while everyone else worked.”

That
caught his attention.

“It was my first day,” Scott said defensively, “and out of nowhere, Jane told me to sit down before I got into trouble.”

“And you didn't take my advice.”

“I didn't think you were serious.”

I tried to remember what exactly Mr. Elliot had hollered at Scott that day. Something about stepping up his game . . . and making himself useful for the first time in his pathetic life.

Of course, Mr. Elliot hadn't realized at the time that Scott was new.

I shook my head slowly. “I don't joke around when it comes to Mr. Elliot.”

“Well, I know that
now
. You weren't much help at the time.”

My arms crossed automatically as I glared at him. “What? That wasn't
my
fault!”

Who, me? Defensive? Never.

“Oh, this is so romantic.” Mrs. Blake clasped her hands together.

I didn't see anything romantic about being blamed for something that wasn't even remotely my fault. Okay, maybe I should have tried harder to save him from Mr. Elliot since he was the new kid . . . but he wasn't exactly a defenseless toddler. Scott had handled it just fine without me.

He sighed, obviously playing it up for Mrs. Blake. “Mr. Elliot
reamed
me while
Janie
stared silently at her computer screen.”

“As if I could have said anything to make it better!”

“But once the crisis was over,” Scott continued as if I hadn't spoken, “Jane turned to me, introduced herself, and cordially welcomed me to hell. That's when I knew she was special.”

Actually, that was sort of sweet. Especially since I knew that he was trying to tell Mrs. Blake as much of the truth as possible. Okay, so the part about finding me special was a lie. If he had been really honest he'd have said:
That's when I knew she was a neurotic nutcase.

But it was a nice alteration.

“Right. That's how we met,” I blurted out. “I think we're done here. And will you look at the time? My mom will be here to pick me up any minute. So—”

“But how did you ask her out?” Mrs. Blake demanded. “I want the full story for Joy so that we can . . . well, you know what gossips we are sometimes.”

Yeah, I did know. I had intentionally switched to working Sundays in order to avoid the two of them together for that very reason. Well,
that
and because the way Joy stares at me kind of freaks me out.

“Uh, well . . .”

“It's a great story, but we'll have to save it for another time.” Scott continued snapping photos. “Ditch the sweatshirt, Grammar Girl.”

I instinctively unzipped it before I remembered what I was wearing underneath.

“Well, isn't this pretty!” Mrs. Blake cooed as she rested her hand on the pebbled silk of my sleeve. “It feels so nice. Why, Janie, where did you get it?”

I did my best to ignore the way Scott soaked in this alteration before he started snapping in a flurry of activity. I didn't blame him. I bet my blue shirt photographed much better than a beat-up sweatshirt. It just made me feel more exposed. No wonder my dad had freaked out on me earlier.

“Kenzie gave it to me.”

“Oh. And is she still dating that lovely boy I met a few weeks ago?”

“Logan. Yeah, they're still together.”

Scott smirked. “I can't picture Hockey Boy in here. Not unless he was tricked into thinking he'd get to meet Wayne Gretzky.”

There was nothing even remotely flirtatious about the death glare I shot him. “For your information, they were looking at books on U.S. history.”

“Oh, so Hockey Boy's girlfriend was the one interested in the books.” Scott nodded as if that explained everything. “She can do a lot better.”

“Her name is Mackenzie Wellesley, not ‘Hockey Boy's girlfriend. ' And
Logan
had a great time checking out our books on painting. He's actually a very talented artist.”

I don't know why I felt the need to defend Logan. It's not like he cared in the slightest what Scott Fraser thought of him. But their interaction made absolutely no sense to me. Scott hadn't been at Smith High School long, barely over a month, and yet in that time he had somehow managed to alienate the nicest guy at school.

“Sure, beneath those hockey pads beats the soul of a tortured artist,” he scoffed.

“What is
wrong
with you?”

“Erm, why don't I take a photo of the two of you?” Mrs. Blake probably thought she was interrupting one of our lovers' quarrels.

Yeah, right.

But the reminder that we still had an audience effectively silenced us both. I couldn't believe that I had even temporarily forgotten she was there. Mrs. Blake isn't exactly the type to blend into the background.