When Malcolm first went away to college, I was so busy being proud of him that it took me a while to realize I missed him. When he first left, he’d Skype with us, but then he got too busy.
Mama would get so excited if one of his games was televised, but after the first few games, I didn’t want to watch anymore. I didn’t want to see how happy he was without me. Then, one night, while we were watching him on TV, all the sadness and anger and worry and everything just blasted out of me and right at Malcolm. But I never wanted him to get hurt. It seemed like it took forever for the coach and one of his teammates to get him up off the floor.
Bad things happen when I beam a thought out like that, and I should’ve known better.
When Malcolm had to come home to have surgery, I felt so guilty, I could barely look at him.
And now I’ve done it again.
Still, when I leave the bathroom, I’m relieved Red Hair hasn’t rematerialized. I slink to second period, keeping my head down and staying out of people’s way.
I get through second, third, and fourth period without getting called on, or picked on, and no red-haired pest tries to shine a spotlight on me. Being invisible isn’t as hard as you might think. People don’t see what they don’t want to.
Lunch is after fourth period. I didn’t explain to Malcolm, but the quad—with all its eighth graders and noise—was not where I wanted to be. I scoped out the perfect place while he was taking me around. Way across the field, behind a huge metal storage container. It has a first aid symbol on it, so I’m sure it’s where they keep all the emergency supplies. Sitting behind the container is the perfect lunch spot. I’m not hiding. Hiding is actually dumb when you’re going for invisible. People notice hiding. No one notices me.
7
Spectacularly Weird
I sit down on the small strip of concrete by the container and shift to try to get comfortable. My new cell phone is denting my butt. I should put it in my bag, but I wondered what it would feel like to walk around with a phone in my back pocket like I see people do. It feels uncomfortable. I don’t know how everybody does it.
I’m going to have to figure out something to tell Mama about lunch, because she won’t like hearing I ate alone just like I did in elementary school.
When Mama handed me the cell phone the other day, she acted like she was giving me a golden TAP card—a ticket to hundreds of friends. (An actual TAP card gets you on buses and the Metro.)
My phone really is gold, and I guess if I had wanted one, I’d think it was cool. But here’s the thing. When you have no one to text or call, a phone is sort of a mean gift in my opinion. But that’s not how my mother thinks.
“You can connect with people,” she said. Her voice was serious even though she was smiling. I don’t know why she thinks I have some secret horde of friends just waiting to text me.
My phone must’ve heard me thinking about it, because it starts vibrating. At school, the rule is, if a teacher sees your phone out, they’ll take it away, but the odds seem pretty low that a teacher will see my phone way over on the far side of the field, so I risk pulling it out.
I have a message. It’s from Malcolm.
Kick major booty
My brother is quite the motivational speaker.
“I thought we couldn’t use our phones at school.”
I jump, and my phone pops right out of my hand and onto the ground. Now it’s all dirty. I wipe it off and stare up at hair so red it’s like a plate of ripe strawberries. I don’t know how Red Hair saw me way over here, or why he came over, so I don’t say anything.
“I’ve been looking for you.” He plops down next to me and takes out a sandwich.
“Why?” I shove my phone into my bag and pull out my own lunch. Today I went with Gruyère cheese, crackers, and a sliced Fuji apple. I’m very particular about what I eat for lunch. Mama says it seems more like I’m going wine tasting than to school, but at least she goes ahead and buys what I put on the grocery list.
“Why what?”
“Why were you looking for me?” People trying to find me isn’t something I’m used to.
“I wanted to ask you about the Danish thing! I thought for sure you were into Astrid Dane because of your bag.”
“I am, but I’m not a Danish.”
It takes a second for him to process that. “Oh, I get it. It is sort of quack, I guess.”
“Quack?”
“Yeah, you guys don’t say that here? It’s like . . . um, dumb?” The way Red Hair says it, it’s like he’s not sure what the word means himself.
“I’ve never heard anybody say that,” I say. I don’t add that maybe lots of people do and I just don’t know. “Anyway, I don’t know if it’s, um, quack, but it’s weird, since Astrid likes doughnuts. Have you ever seen her eat a Danish?”
“But her last name is Dane.”
Yeah, thanks. “I know, but still.”
Red Hair shrugs. “Whatever. It’s just cool you like her too. In Chicago it was like no one had even heard of her! I was hoping when we moved here it would be different. And then wham! In my very first class, sitting right next to me! There you were with your bag!”
I can’t help notice Red Hair uses a lot of exclamation marks when he talks. And he’s loud. Too loud.
“Hey! You haven’t asked me what my name is,” he says.
I stare at him with my mouth full of the perfect blend of apple, cheese, and cracker, and wait.
“Aubrey,” he says. He holds out his hand for me to shake, which is a spectacularly weird thing to do, but I go ahead and shake his hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” I lie.
“So, what’s the deal here? Like, are people sway? Do they hassle you? Are they big into sports or like doing plays or something? Is there a debate team?” Aubrey’s voice gets louder with each question.
I don’t want to admit I haven’t heard anyone use the word sway before, and besides, I’m pretty sure I know what it means. I shrug. “People are sway, I guess. But I don’t know. I mean, it’s my first day too.”
“Yeah, but you’re from here, right? I’m from Chicago! It’s nothing like Los Angeles. It gets a whole lot colder there, first off, and it’s way louder! When I found out we were moving here, I thought we’d be near the beach.” He looks around as if waves might start crashing over our heads.
I see a way out. “You know, if you want to know all about Los Angeles and what people are like, you should probably find someone else. I’m not the best person to be, um, a tour guide.”
“Why not? Hey, why are you eating way over here anyway?”
I swallow a sigh down with a chunk of cheese. If there is a good, acceptable answer to either of those questions, I don’t have a clue what it could be. For the first time ever, I feel like maybe instead of being different, I’m strange. And I don’t like this Aubrey person at all for making me feel like this.
8
The Opposite of Me
Aubrey is still waiting for me to answer him, and so finally I just say, “I like to be left alone.” I especially like to be left alone by people who make me feel bad.