Invisible (20 page)

Mom inserts a long-nailed pointer finger into her mop of hair and scratches her head. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this. I’m not so sure it’s all that complicated. Besides what does all of this have to do with your major?” She’s eyeing me suspiciously now.

“
I’m going to major in English so I can be a writer,” I say confidently. “Because writing is what makes me feel the way you did, when you were in beauty school doing makeovers. It’s my creative outlet and it’s what my soul wants to do.”

“
Oh,” she says, disappointment in her voice, eyebrows arching toward her hairline. “Yes, you did mention that before, only…”

“
Only what?” I say flatly. God, is she that dense that she can’t see the parallels between us? I’m trying to connect. I’m trying to make her understand.

She sighs. “Only I thought you’d have given up on that idea by now. Really, Lola, what kind of a living can you make as a writer? You’ll end up in an office job eventually and it’ll be a waste of an education.”

A fire springs up in me, and all the years of not being heard and not wanting to be seen or noticed are shed. I stand and fix her with a stare. “Writing is my talent, Mom. It’s the only thing I know how to do and more importantly, it’s what makes me happy. Don’t you want me to be happy?” I stomp away, not waiting for an answer and take my bowl of cereal to my room.

A moment later, there’s a knock and Mom pushes my door open. “Can I come in?”

I put my bowl down on my night table and fold my arms tightly across my chest. “I don’t care,” I say with defiant anger.

She curls her feet up under her at the foot of my bed and gives her head a little tilt. Her mass of unruly curls tumble over her forehead, giving her a childlike appearance. “I know we’re different, you and I. I try to understand you, and I worry that I never will. But no matter what, you’re my daughter and I love you. I do want you to be happy, but I don’t think I realized until right now, until you told me in the way you did, just how much you want to be a writer. I want for you what you want for yourself.”

My angry resolve melts and I let my arms fall lax, hands settling in my lap. “Really?”

“
Really.”

I’m shocked but I’m beginning to learn that all it takes to make people understand you is to tell them what you’re thinking and feeling. Running from your feelings and keeping things to yourself only creates more distance. It hits me in that moment, what Grandma Rose meant about letting people see me. If I can accept myself for who I am, then others will too.

I inch closer and lean into my mother’s arms. “I’ve waited so long to hear you say you accept me exactly the way I am,” I whisper.

“
I’m so sorry, honey. I should have taken you seriously the first time you told me you wanted to be a writer. I shouldn’t ever have expected you to be a carbon copy of me.” She pulls away. Tears stand in her eyes. “Look at me. I know what I am. I’m a middle-aged woman trying to hang onto her youth. My looks were the only thing I ever had. I never had brains like you. I could never make something of myself like I know you will. Yeah, I suppose my dream of being a cosmetician was my creative outlet, and you know what?”

“
What?”

“
I should never have let that dream slip away.” She caresses my cheek and sniffs back tears. “I don’t want you to have regrets like I do.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

The hairdresser left my curls, like I’d asked. They’re me. My thick, dark locks billow out from under my graduation cap and I run a hand through them. Good hair runs in the family. I guess that’s something to be thankful for. Lately, I’m finding more and more to love and appreciate about myself, and with that has come a sense of weightiness. Not like a physical heaviness, more like a feeling of being grounded. I’m more present, more here, and more alive, like I’ve actually got a future to look forward to.

After arriving with our families, we graduates are ushered into the cafeteria where we put on our gowns and caps. Jon and I are only able to spend a few moments together until we’re arranged into a line, alphabetically by last name.

“
You haven’t lost your nerve, have you?” he whispers. His eyes narrow as if he’s studying me.

“
No,” I answer, willing myself to meet his gaze.

“
Got your copy of his speech?”

I pat my back pocket where one is tucked away.

“
Good girl. Make that asshole pay!” Jon’s voice holds a touch of acid.

A bad feeling begins to ferment in the pit of my stomach and I open my mouth to speak, to test the waters with a protest, but he’s talking again, “Hey, what’s up with Charlie? She’s acting all… weird.”

We’re forced apart and ushered into line. With a shrug I mouth, “Don’t know,” and hope he can’t see the lie in my eyes.

I’m an “S” and he’s a “K”, so we’re too far apart to speak. Charlie’s kept her distance. Every time I look at her, she turns away and when I walked up to her earlier, she brushed me off and found somewhere else to be. Guess she’s happy her last name’s Menardi, only five letters apart but it amounts to too many people between us to be able to chat.

Nino’s at the beginning of the line, acting all cocky with his friends. Everyone knows he’s a shoe in for the athletic scholarship award, and they’re treating him like he’s already won it, with slaps on the back and mussing of hair. It’s one of the biggest deals in school with the largest scholarship. He glances my way – is that fear in his eyes? His cocky smile goes out as quickly as a candle in a windstorm and he whips his head back around. Someone fearing me feels awkward and wrong. It’s true that Eva’s a little scared of me, but that’s different. She’s my sister and despite sometimes hating her, deep down inside I guess I love her. When I beat the crap out of Nino, it only made me feel mean.

“
Okay, people, settle down.” Mr. Hollingsworth, the head of the science department, yells in his baritone voice over the shouts of four-hundred-and-twenty excited teenagers. “One minute to show time.” The decibel level in the room declines noticeably. Mr. Hollingsworth is a no-nonsense kinda guy and is always the heavy in situations like this.

We ready ourselves for our entrance – straighten our caps, make sure the tassel is on the proper side and smooth our gowns. Mr. Hollingsworth herds us into the hallway and lines us up outside the gymnasium. Our families are already settled in the gym. The muffled voices of excited family members and the clang of the school band tuning up can be heard through the heavy metal doors.

The doors swing wide, the band plays and off we march. There’s a swell of applause and though I’m excited to soon be a high school graduate, I’ve got bigger things on my mind.

We follow Mr. Hollingsworth to a section reserved just for us where a program, setting out the itinerary for the ceremony, lies on each chair. I leaf through, searching for the athletic scholarship. It’s one of the first awards to be handed out and a small wave of relief fills me; at least I won’t have to be nervous for the entire ceremony. I just want to get it over with.

Principal Harris takes the podium. “Welcome, graduates, family, friends and faculty to Maple Ridge Secondary School’s 2011 Commencement Ceremony. Before we begin, I’d like to take this opportunity to say a little something to our class of 2011.” He’s a small, slight man in his late fifties with a close-cropped horseshoe of gray fringe. Why he doesn’t just shave off that pitiful little bit of hair is beyond me.

He clears his throat and pulls a small index card from the pocket of his suit jacket. “I hope your dreams take you to the corners of your smiles, to the highest of your hopes, to the windows of your opportunities, and to the most special places your heart has ever known. We are here today to…”

Principal Harris drones on and nothing more sinks into my preoccupied brain. I’m thinking about when Nino’s name is called for his award, and how I’ll have to duck out and quickly vanish so I can follow him to the podium. I’ve got a mental list of things I can call up to help me disappear, from the anger and humiliation of the attack at the park, to the heinous acts Nino had planned for Charlie and me.

To help settle my nerves, I pat the speech through my gown. It’s still there, but will soon be invisible just like the rest of me. When it leaves my hand and is on the podium in front of Nino, somehow, in some magical way, it’ll be back in the visible realm, staring up at Nino, waiting to be read. If he won’t read it, and that’s what I’m betting on, then I’ll throw the gown over his head and yank down his pants, underwear and all. He’ll look crazy; like he’s just stripped naked in front of the entire graduating class, teachers and parents. Nino Campese will know the agony of embarrassment. The same agony I’ve felt for years. The agony that has made me feel insignificant and has fostered my desire to be invisible.

A twinge of conscience troubles me. Do I really want another person to feel that way, even if it is Nino?

The polite applause filling the room tells me Principal Harris’ speech is over and I snap to attention when he and Vice Principal Bevalaqua begin to call our names.

Diplomas are doled out, accompanied by a quick handshake and a photo op. Family members are told to hold their applause until all the diplomas have been handed out. My turn comes and goes and in less than a minute I’m back in my seat. Danny Zuppatto is last and when he leaves the stage, cheers and hearty accolades ring in my ears.

We’re all back in our seats now, gripping the fruit of four years of labor

a rolled up scroll tied with a red silk ribbon. Somehow, it doesn’t seem enough. However, I’m officially a high school graduate and I allow a little pride to rush through me. But this day isn’t just about graduating high school, it’s about an act of forced contrition.

My stomach knots when I think of what’s next on the agenda

the award recipients are about to be announced, followed by the Valedictorian address. That ought to be good and boring since the Valedictorian is Ronnie Smithers, a kid more picked on than even me or Charlie. He’s thirteen, but since he’s a genius, he skipped a bunch of grades. Poor Ronnie. He should be proud, but he’s probably scared shitless right now. He never speaks above a whisper and now he’s got to make a whole speech and a long one at that. Bet he’s wishing he could make himself invisible right about now.

It strikes me that I have nothing prepared on the off- chance I win the writing award. I close my eyes and try to come up with something, but the banging of my heart against my ribcage is too distracting and not a single coherent thought pops to mind. I let the notion slip away with a little sigh of relief. It’s easier if I tell myself I’m not going to win.

Jon turns and looks at me. We’re too far apart to speak, but his eyes say it all. “Don’t wimp out,” he’s saying, “you’ve got to do this. Don’t let us down.” Sucking in a few deep breaths, I drum my fingers on my knee. The girl next to me shoots me a dirty look. It’s Patricia Seaver, the pretty cheerleader I sat beside all year in homeroom. She gives me a
tsk
to go with the look, making me want to stomp on her dainty little foot.

One after another, students are called to the stage. Principal Harris congratulates each with a handshake and the student proceeds to the podium to say a few words. Finally, the next award is the athletic scholarship. Adrenaline shoots through me, sending my heart into summersaults. I quickly look at the students on either side of me and study their expressions. No shrieks of surprise or slack jawed stares, so I guess I’m still visible.

I ready myself for a quick escape.

Principal Harris plucks an envelope from the stack in the Vice Principal’s outstretched hand. His bald pate gleams in the overhead lights and he pastes on a big, phony smile. “The next award is the athletic scholarship award, male. The winner of this award has shown proven leadership abilities as well as outstanding athletic talent in several intramural sports.” He holds the envelope up to the audience before slipping a finger beneath the seal and popping it open. “And the winner is …”

I’m already an inch out of my seat when he calls the
wrong
name.

“…
Paul Chang.”

I fall back with an audible sigh. Nino’s shaking his head and I read his lips. He’s spewing a stream of expletives as he pounds his thigh with a fist.

Jon throws his hands up in resignation and meets my gaze with a concerned furrowing of the brow. Charlie hasn’t turned to look at me.

He’s going to get away without being punished, I think. At first, I’m alarmed, furious even, but I have to admit, a small part of me is relieved. Then I think of Charlie and what he wanted to do to her. There’s got to be another way! Maybe Jon and I can come up with something to spring on him at the dance. My eyes burn into the back of Charlie’s head, willing her to turn around. God, I need my friend right now.

Paul Chang rushes to the stage, takes his award and hoists it over his head to great applause. He looks as shocked as Nino. After Paul’s impromptu ten-second thank you speech, Principal Harris continues, announcing one award after another.

“…
and the winner of the creative writing scholarship award is… Lola Savullo.”

I snap to attention at the sound of my name. All eyes have turned to me. A smile finally forms on my lips at the realization of what I’ve just accomplished.