The Invisibles (8 page)

He straightened up and leaned against the doorframe. “No, actually. I'm not looking for her at all.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear and fiddled with her earring. She'd seen this boy a hundred times in the hallways over the past two years, and yet it occurred to her that this was the first time she'd had a clear, unobstructed view of him. He was always surrounded by a group of people, usually his track teammates, who seemed to enjoy racing from class to class at breakneck speed. He was even more handsome than she realized with his lean, aquiline nose and wide eyes.

“Well, I can't help you,” she said finally. “There's no one else in here.”

“No one?” The left side of his mouth lifted in a grin.

She bit the inside of her cheek and looked back down at her book. The words swam in front of her. He wasn't flirting with her, was he? No, of course he wasn't. No boy had ever looked at her, much less flirted with her. That kind of thing was for pretty girls like Jenny Packer and Carolyn Meyers, who had big chests and perfect teeth. “Just me,” she said, hoping she sounded irritated. “And I'm busy, if you haven't noticed.”

She held her breath as he walked into the room. His track pants made a faint rustling sound as he moved, and one of his neon-yellow shoelaces was untied. He stopped at a desk next to the far window, dropped a backpack at his feet, and then plopped down into the seat.

Nora lowered her eyes again and pretended to read as he looked at her. It was impossible. She could feel the weight of his stare on her like some kind of living thing, boring into her
skin, whispering through her hair. “Did you need something?” she asked without lifting her eyes. The irritation in her voice was gone.

“Maybe.”

She looked up quickly.

“Whatcha reading?”

She held up the book, hoping he could see the cover.

“
Mrs. Dalloway,
” he recited. “Who's that, Virginia Woolf?”

She nodded, secretly pleased by his guess.

“You reading that for fun? Or for an assignment?”

“For fun.”

“You must read a lot for fun.” He leaned back a little, crossing his feet at the ankles. “Your head's always in a book. Even in the halls.”

Her heart skipped another beat. He'd noticed her before? When?

“You like to read more than you like to talk.” It was a statement, not a question.

She shrugged, embarrassed.

He laughed, a sweet sound that made its way across the room to her like a bubble. “We should go out some time,” he said. “Like to a movie or something.”

She raised her eyes, too quickly this time. Did he really just say what she thought he said? Or was he making fun of her?

He stood up and walked through the narrow line between the desks until he was directly in front of her. “I've been wanting to ask you. I just haven't gotten the chance to find you alone anywhere until now.”

She tried not to look at the string that clutched at the material in front of his pants, or the way his hips, narrow as a bow, curved beneath it. “You have?”

He nodded.

It didn't seem possible. And yet here it was, finally, for the very first time. A boy who had seen her. Who had not only seen her, but thought about asking her out. Who had, just this minute, gone and done exactly that.

She could have wept.

H
ere, sweetie.” Nora started out of her thoughts as Monica handed something over the seat. “I thought this would go well with your eyes.” It was a cobalt blue scarf, threaded with tiny gold filaments that gleamed when the light hit them.

“You brought us
gifts
?” Ozzie asked, glancing over her shoulder. “I didn't bring any gifts. Norster, did you bring any gifts?”

Nora shook her head, her cheeks reddening as she ran her palms over the front of the scarf. “No.” She pressed it against her cheek and closed her eyes. “It's so soft,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“It's cashmere,” Monica said. “I got you one in red, Ozzie, and one for Grace in yellow.” She placed Ozzie's scarf in the space between her and Nora. “I'll put yours right here. You can try it on later.”

Ozzie glanced down at the scarf. “It's gorgeous,” she said. “You shouldn't have, Monsie. Now I feel like a rube.”

“Me, too.” Nora still had the scarf pressed to her cheek. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize,” Monica said. “It was just something I wanted to do.”

“Heading. North. On. Route. 19.” The GPS's voice crackled. “Stay. In. Left. Lane.”

“Gotcha, Myrtle,” Ozzie said. “I gotcha.”

“So.” Monica sat forward again, draping her slender arms over the seat. “Is anyone else nervous about seeing Grace?”

“Nervous?” Ozzie eyed Monica in the mirror. “Why would you feel nervous? We didn't do anything.”

“I know we didn't
do
anything.” Monica settled her chin on top of her hands. “That's not what I meant.”

“I'm nervous.” Nora almost laughed at how calm she sounded.

Monica gave Nora a grateful smile. “It's just been such a long time. I think I'm scared that she's turned into someone I won't recognize anymore. Especially after everything she's been through.” A moment of silence passed. It occurred to Nora that Monica could have been talking about any one of them. “What if she cries the whole time we're there?” Monica asked.

“Then she cries the whole time.” Ozzie watched Monica in the rearview mirror. “It won't kill us.”

“But . . .” Monica rubbed her forehead with her fingers. “I don't know . . . I mean, I don't think I'll be able to handle that.”

“Of course you will.” Ozzie jerked the car to the right. “It's just crying. It always stops eventually.”

“Yeah.” Monica looked out the window. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”

Nora brought a finger to her mouth and began to gnaw on the edge of it.

S
he had cried after her first date with Theo. She'd felt it coming as soon as he arrived (two minutes early, no less), a tight lump that pressed against the back of her throat as she noticed that he was dressed in clothes he'd obviously taken time to think about: pressed khakis, a dark blue polo, green-and-white sneakers. It moved her to know that he had wanted to look good. For her. For her and no one else.

“You're early,” she said, smiling shyly.

“Punctuality is the politeness of kings.” He shrugged, grinning. “Something my dad always says.”

The feeling swelled as they sat together in the movie theater, their forearms resting on their individual seat rests, barely touching, and yet creating a heat between them that shocked her. He'd leaned over at one point, his breath already masked with the cloying sweetness of Twizzlers, and asked, “Are you having a good time?” She'd turned, looking at his elongated face in the dark, a narrow column of white perforated with green eyes and pink lips, and nodded. “Do you like the movie?” he pressed. “Or should we go?”

We should go,
she thought.
We should go and lie down somewhere soft and press ourselves against each other until we can't breathe.
“I like the movie,” she lied, extricating another Swedish fish from her packet. “It's good.”

They'd gone to Jitter Beans afterward for coffee. He ordered a frozen mocha drink for himself, a vanilla cappuccino for her, and a gigantic Rice Krispie treat for the two of them to split. The hour had been full of the heady rush of discovery, each of them unearthing themselves one detail at a time. He was the oldest in a family of four boys—all overachievers. He was planning to apply
to several colleges early next year, hoping for early admission or maybe even a track scholarship. He had a good shot at one: he'd already set a school record in the 200-meter race and ran the anchor leg in the 400. All of his college choices were far away; he wanted to leave Willow Grove and settle down in a city—Los Angeles, perhaps, or New York—where people could be who they really were and not something others thought they should be. He hoped college would lead him into a profession that helped people, but also afforded him a living—maybe psychiatry or law. His favorite food was his mother's Irish stew, which she served with real biscuits and, on very special occasions, a mug of Guinness. On the rare day when he had nothing to do, he preferred to put a pair of earphones on and walk down to the small pond a short way behind his house, where he would sit and listen to Bruce Springsteen and think about nothing at all.

Nora took it all in, relishing details like the Guinness and the pond behind his house and trying to ignore the pang in her chest when he talked about college and moving away from Willow Grove, but the largeness of his life made her acutely aware of the holes in her own. She felt lopsided as she launched into her own excavation, telling him about her first-line collection, her love of reading, and (without getting into any of the Turning Winds details) her friendship with Ozzie, Grace, and Monica. She didn't have a favorite food unless you counted Swedish fish, and she wasn't very close with her mother, either. That was all there was, really. No, she didn't have any plans after high school. Maybe she would take a few classes somewhere; maybe she wouldn't. Mrs. Ditmer had mentioned something about applying for a scholarship next year at the local college, but she
still needed time to figure out what it was she wanted to do first; what it was she
liked
to do aside from reading books. She ducked her head after she stopped talking, praying that he would stop looking at her.

Except that he didn't. He ducked his head down instead until his eyes were level with hers. “What's your favorite first line? Like, of all time?”

She felt a flutter of panic as the line she loved best emerged inside her head:
“Don't never tell nobody but God.”
There was no way she could divulge that one. It was private, with a meaning known only to her, sacred by this point.

“Um, ‘All children, except one, grow up,'” she lied. It was number eight in her book.

“‘All children, except one, grow up,'” Theo repeated. “I like it. What book's it from?”

“Peter Pan.”

“No
way!”
His eyebrows arched skyward. “I love that book! Well, I used to love it. My mother read it to me when I was little; the real one, a chapter every night. And I went through a serious, year-long period of wanting to be Captain Hook. Like, I made an actual hook for myself out of tin foil.” He stuck his fist out, pointing to the space between his first and second knuckles. “Kept it right in between there, even when I went to bed.” He smiled at her, as if they'd just shared something intimate. Which, she thought later, they had, in a way.

He leaned in a little closer. “Why's it your favorite?” His knee bumped hers under the table, and she felt a thrill of pleasure at the contact.

“It says so much,” she answered. “Don't you think? Just in those few words? Who doesn't grow up? And why? What happens?”

“Yeah.” Theo nodded, looking thoughtful. “I hadn't thought of it that way, but yeah. It's true.”

“Okay, now you,” she said, desperate to steer the conversation away from herself.

“Now me what? I don't have first lines. I don't think I even remember the last book I read.”

“How about your favorite Springsteen song?” Nora prodded.

Theo's face lit up. “Oh, now that's something I can do!” He rubbed his palms together greedily. “Just one?”

“Just one.”

“Song? Or album?”

Nora shrugged. “Either, I guess.”

“I'll have to do an album. It's impossible to narrow Springsteen's songs down to just one.”

“Okay.” Nora sat forward expectantly. A vein along one side of Theo's forehead had started to pulse; she'd noticed it before, when he got excited about the movie, too. It looked like a fluid stream of jade beneath his skin, and she restrained herself from reaching out to touch it.

“My top Springsteen album would have to be . . .” Theo sat back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head. His face took on an anguished expression, as if Nora had asked him to donate a pint of blood instead of recall his favorite music. He rocked back on the heels of his chair and stared up at the ceiling. “Okay!” The word came out of his mouth at the same time his chair clunked back down, and Nora jumped a little. He reached
out and touched her arm. “Sorry. Top album of all time would have to be
Darkness on the Edge of Town.
”

She watched his mouth as he talked, the way the lines around his eyes eased and tightened at the end of each sentence, and she wanted nothing more at that moment than to lean forward and press her mouth against his. Instead, she said, “Never heard of it.”

He looked incredulous. “You're kidding, right?”

She shook her head and pressed a fingertip against a stray Rice Krispie. “Music's not really my thing, I guess.”

“Well, we'll have to change that.”

She looked up sharply then, as if he'd criticized her.

“If you want to, I mean.” He shrugged and looked away.

“Might be fun,” she said, hoping her voice sounded contrite.

“Might be.” He grinned.

L
ater he walked her back to the bus, which was where she had told him she would meet him earlier. No need to go into the truth about where she lived; no reason to add anything to the mix that might lead to unnecessary questions and spoil it. It had begun to drizzle, and the metallic smell of rain and asphalt mingled in the air. He'd gone back to talking about the movie, things she had already forgotten, lost and unimportant, but she nodded anyway, and said things like yes, yes, I know. She did not know, not really, was thinking only of the way his fingers felt against her arm when he had rested them there at Jitter Beans.

“Anyway,” he said as they reached the bus stop, “I guess it wasn't the best movie we could've seen, but now that we saw it, I'm kind of glad we did.”