The Opposite Of Invisible Part 7

He writes me a pa.s.s.

Just by avoiding Jewel right now, I feel like I'm breaking the rules.

I get out my notebook, tear off a piece of paper, and write a note.

I ask him to meet me at the troll after school.

I walk down the empty hall, fast so I won't flip out, and I slip the note into his locker.

The VW's rear winds.h.i.+eld is newly decorated with a Day-Glo heart, spray-paint pink, filled in with squiggles. A garnish of love graffiti for the beast's meal.

I lean against the troll's fist, out of the misty rain, waiting for Jewel. I think about what to say to him. I love you as a friend.... It's not you, it's me... I love you as a friend.... It's not you, it's me....

Jewel walks from the direction of school, his hood up against the drizzle and his eyes down.

He gets to where I am. He doesn't talk. He doesn't look at me.

"I got your note."

"I figured." He moves his gaze to the pink heart.

"I don't know what to say." I close my eyes, then open them and speak to his forehead. "I can't go with you. I have ... a date, sort of."

I let my gaze meet his. My eyes instantly water. "But I still want to hang out with you. You're ... my best friend."

He finally looks at me. He's heard. It's obvious. His eyes are empty. Someone slapped Simon five on a new chick or something, in front of Jewel. Possibly on purpose.

In this instant, I want to erase everything with Simon and just go back to normal with Jewel. But I also know that it's impossible. Because now Jewel and I have our own kiss-weirdness so even if there weren't a Simon Murphy in my life, there would not be normal with Jewel, either.

"Why don't you come for dinner," I say. "Lasagna. Sat.u.r.day before the dance."

He looks back at the VW. "Wouldn't your boyfriend be p.i.s.sed?"

He turns, keeps his head down as he walks through the rain.

I don't think about it; I just run after him. "Hey," I say. "Hey."

He turns around.

"That's not fair. For you to be mad at me for having a date to the Bath."

He just looks at me, rain falling between us.

I go on. "I know we were supposed to go together. We do everything together. But you know ... I'm allowed to have a date who's not you. Isn't that okay? And you might ... go out with someone."

Jewel and someone else? The thought is like someone stealing from me.

He stands there.

"Is it because Simon's ... what? Popular?"

"Alice, that's so not it." He walks away again. I don't follow him.

I walk home feeling like something so low. Like I deserve to be eaten by the troll.

Because what Jewel really meant was: I'm breaking his heart.

Chapter Seven.

When I go to bed and close my eyes, I hear Jewel's voice, shaking. So I sit up and trace my Dove Girl with the tip of my finger, starting with her eyes, extending to her long nose, her uneven heart of a mouth. Then her head; lastly, the place where her skin turns into the wings of a dove. I try to memorize this shape. Peace. What it is to be still, calm.

I've tried drawing her in my sketchbook. She ends up too pointy or too mean-looking. Mean like me, according to Jewel. Maybe. Probably.

What if it were two weeks ago? What if Jewel had kissed me then and Simon and I had never hung out? And kissed? Then would I go with Jewel to the Bath as his date? Would I become his girlfriend?

What ifs. That's all I've got because my Dove Girl doesn't talk back. She just sits there, looking like the Buddha or something.

The Buddha reminds me of Vanessa's new Zen thing.

I wonder what Vanessa would say about my boy situation. As if I would ever ask her.

I already know the answer, anyway. Deep down. Yeah. Yes. If Jewel had kissed me and Simon hadn't, I'd be with Jewel. I'd be his.

We'd stay in our coc.o.o.n.

Tuesday morning, I take a quick shower, put on my sweater, jeans, and orange puffy vest, grab an apple in the kitchen, yell goodbye to my parents shuffling around in their room, and start my walk.

Dad used to drive me to school on his way to the university. But I like walking. School is one mile away, almost exactly, which gives me enough time to mellow before hitting the hallowed halls.

I head down Phinney and almost step on a slug. I think it's a fat stick at first. Then I stoop to look at it. It's a teeny alien, with those eyes on top of its head. Now that I think of it, I I feel a little alien: a strange girl on an even stranger planet that should look familiar but doesn't. feel a little alien: a strange girl on an even stranger planet that should look familiar but doesn't.

I remember the Chihuly slug from the museum. I have gla.s.sblowing on Sat.u.r.day.

I keep walking, careful where I step.

Jewel and I usually meet at Thirty-fourth and Phinney.

He's not here.

Still mad, then. Still ... whatever. Hurt.

I keep walking, having an imaginary conversation with him.

"Morning," I say, in my head.

"Morning," he says. "How's my girl?"

And his eyes s.h.i.+ft toward me.

I smile.

And then maybe he'd touch my elbow and we'd walk along. He'd tell me his dreams.

I reach Ultra Convenience, four blocks from school, and Simon's car is parked out front. I stop, considering running into him.

He walks out of the store.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"I'll drive you the rest of the way."

Nothing wrong with this.

I ignore the swarm of bees in my stomach as I get into his car.

He gives me some Juicy Fruit from his fresh pack. You can totally smell that stuff on his breath all day. Now it'll be on mine, too.

We drive slowly past the park.

"I wish I could still play at the park," I say.

"Like a kid?"

Maybe I'm being weird, talking about this stuff. Maybe he wants to talk about parties or something.

Before I know it, we're in the school parking lot. Then he's holding open the front door for me.

I don't think anyone even saw us come in together. Good. Or maybe not.

Mr. Smith asked me to come up with a design for the cover of our "portfolio showcase," which will come out right before Thanksgiving break. I'm doodling.

For the showcase, Mr. Smith takes photos of our paintings, drawings, and sculptures and then gets the portfolio made at Kinko's. If we have a few bake sales, we can get color copies.

I guess it's an honor to be asked to do the cover, but really I think Mr. Smith suggested it because lately I've been doing more staring at the wall than actual art.

I doodle the shape of an artist's palette, but that's lame.

Apparently, Vanessa thinks so too. "Creative much?" She peeks over my shoulder.

"Constantly."

She raises the red oil-soaked brush in her hand over my paper and for a second I think she's going to ruin my scribbles.

She lets the brush dangle only millimeters away from my paper.

"Va-" I start, but before I can finish she's walking toward the sink.

That night after dinner, Mom and Dad ask me to walk to the cafe by the railroad tracks to see Jewel's photos on the wall.

"All right," I say.

"Think he'll want to come with us?" Mom asks.

There's no way I can invite him anywhere right now. "He's in the darkroom."

At the cafe, I sip ice water while my parents drink decaf Americanos as they walk around to each of Jewel's photos. I stay close. I spend as much time looking at my feet as I do looking at the photos.

"Grayfur is so cute," my mom says.

Hearing the cat's name makes me flash on such a vivid memory of tying on her superhero cape; I feel stricken. "Yeah."

Mom puts her arm around me. "Sick of these photos?" she asks. She thinks I'm bored. My own mother can't even tell when I'm sad.

"Not at all," I say.

Part of me wishes that Jewel would come in right now and we'd just face each other. It has to happen sooner or later. If I haven't lost my best friend forever.

Chapter Eight.

It's like Jewel and I had agreed to avoid each other.

He misses two days of study hall.

I plan to skip the school art show on Thursday night. My entry is one of the watercolors of the ca.n.a.l that got rejected by the Green Bean. It could be hanging with Jewel's photos there right now, but it's not good enough. So it's tacked to a bulletin board in the school lobby. I wish I had a beautiful gla.s.s sculpture to display-something colorful and amazing.

Mr. Smith expects us all to go, but I hope he won't notice if I'm not there. In a pinch, I could mention what's going on. Not that I'd tell him everything, but he'd probably understand that if Jewel and I are fighting, it would be officially not cool for us both to go to the show.

The people from my workshop set up for the show during cla.s.s on Thursday. I mix up fruit punch while Vanessa cuts a block of sharp cheddar into little cubes and sticks toothpicks in the middle. The toothpicks have those sparkly cellophane curlicues at their tops, some kind of fancy.

I remember a time in fifth grade when she was at my house and we made cookies with whatever we could yank out of my cupboard: marshmallows, hot cocoa mix, b.u.t.terscotch chips, walnuts.

We leave everything on Mr. Smith's desk so he can put it in the staff room fridge.

"Hey, Vanessa," I say. "What are you putting in the show?"