Invisible (24 page)

“So are you together again?”

“We came to an understanding.”

I groaned while he laughed at my obvious impatience. “Now you're just torturing me.”

“You can take it. I told him that we need to have regularly scheduled Skype dates—not just random text messages—to make this relationship work long distance.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan.”

“And I said I couldn't hide with him. Full disclosure: Facebook profile included. He wants to officially come out during the interview Ellen's scheduled with the band.”

“Wow, that's . . . huge.”

“I know.” Corey's voice lost some of its excitement. “It scares me. Not the interview, but the public reaction to it. At this point, I'm just praying that his manager isn't right about it destroying his career. About
me
destroying his career.”

“What did Tim say about it?”

“That he talked it over with the guys, and they're behind the decision. No matter what happens.”

“Then at least he's going into it knowing the risks.”

“Yeah. He's incredible. My boyfriend is coming out on national television, and I'm worried about dealing with one football player. Pretty stupid, right?”

My voice took on an edge of steel. “No, it's not stupid. It's dangerous. You should have told me earlier that Alex wasn't leaving you alone. You always smile and pretend nothing affects you, and I honestly started believing you were impervious to his bullshit.”

Corey laughed. “Yeah, not so much.”

“Well, you have a whole support network behind you. Given my suspension, I'd rather not be the one to punch Alex next time, but I'm sure Logan would happily do the honors.”

“No fighting necessary. Not when my parents can simply file their lawsuit. I didn't want one at first, but . . . well, if it continues, then I will.”

“Good.”

“I asked Tim to do me a favor.”

“Yeah?”

“He's going to tell Ellen that he was outed when my good friend made a mistake. No medication involved. Although I still think we should make the guilty party pay.”

“I really appreciate the public name-clearing, but that's enough. Let's forget the payback.”

“
What?
Are you serious?”

“Nothing good can come from it. Best-case scenario, we screw up someone's life. I don't know about you, but I'm hoping we can just let karma do the zapping.”

“Hmm.” Corey didn't sound convinced. “Well, my parents think I should wait for the story to die down a little more before going back to school.”

“That sounds smart.”

“Yeah, too bad I'm already getting cabin fever. They keep checking up on me. It was nice at first, but now I'm getting sick of the interruptions.”

“Dinner, Jane!” Elle hollered from downstairs.

I laughed. “I know exactly how you feel. And on that note, I'll talk to you later, okay?”

“Sure, but first . . . you know how I've told you to stand up for yourself?”

“Yeah, I remember hearing something about that a time or two
thousand
.”

“I'm proud of you for doing it, even if it was to me. I guess we needed to clear the air. And judging by that ensemble you wore to my house, you definitely need me in your life.”

“There was nothing wrong with my sweatpants/sweatshirt combination.”

“Never wear anything with the word ‘sweat' in public, Jane. Promise me.”

“What about
sweat
er?” I challenged.

“The one exception.”

Elle started hollering again.

“I have to go, Corey. Although, for the record, I need you in my life for a whole host of reasons that don't include fashion. I think I can handle that myself now. I'll see you later!”

Then I hurried downstairs to appease my family.

I
refused to let my two-day suspension scare me back into being a pushover.

And I saw no reason to hide that fact from everyone at Smith High School, starting with my outfit. Opening my closet, I barely glanced at the options before I grabbed my most comfortable jeans and a silky designer shirt from Kenzie.

Problem solved.

I pulled them on, and for the first time since I had been assigned to write an article for
The Smithsonian,
I didn't stress about it afterward. No second-guessing myself on something as insignificant as the selection of a freaking
shirt.
Leaving me free to obsess over questions that actually deserved my attention, like figuring out how to act on my feelings for Scott.

I had a thing for a cranky photographer.

It didn't even seem to matter that he was the anti-Romeo who was every bit as likely to dare me as he was to kiss me. That he was more likely to smirk than he was to smile. It didn't matter if he was annoying my friends, charming my nemesis, cringing at my singing, crashing my date, or meeting my family—he made me feel alive.

And I thought it was quite possible that I did the same for him.

Not Elle's geeky little sister. Not Mackenzie's best friend. Not Grammar Girl.

It was time for me to finish what I'd started, which was why I walked past Scott, who didn't even bother giving me a nod of recognition, straight up to Mr. Elliot's desk and stood there patiently until I had his full attention.

Of course, by that time I had everyone else's attention too. Well, except for Scott. He was staring at the computer screen in front of him as if he found it endlessly fascinating. But all of my other classmates were eyeing me appraisingly.

“Can I write fiction for the paper, Mr. Elliot?”

“You mean you don't already?” Brad sniggered. “That's what Timothy Goff is saying. Did you forget to take your meds today, Grammar Girl?”

I forced myself to ignore the jerk and concentrate solely on my teacher.

“Of course you can't, Smith. This is a
newspaper
.”

I nodded. “So there is no way I could convince you to approve adding a page for short stories and poems?”

Mr. Elliot shook his head. “Not going to happen, Smith.”

I paused for a moment, letting that sink in. “Well, okay then.”

And surprisingly, it was okay. I had believed enough in my project to fight for it. To demand that he really consider what I had in mind. Sure, I wanted him to get onboard and tell me that it would breathe new life into
The Smithsonian,
but that just wasn't going to happen.

Which didn't mean I couldn't pursue my fiction writing anyway.

“I'm ready to step up,” I informed Mr. Elliot, who looked rather confused by the sudden turn in the conversation.

“Ahem, that's good. I mean,
it's about time you did, Smith!
”

“I totally agree. Past time, actually. But for me to step up, you've got to do it too.”

There was a collective gasp as everyone in the journalism classroom eyed Mr. Elliot warily.

“
How
dare
you
—” he began to bluster.

“We have some problems that only you can fix.” I forced myself to continue looking him squarely in the eyes. “And I'm not going to continue copyediting if certain conditions aren't met. You've got to require everyone to learn at least the basics of grammar.”

Brad crossed his arms smugly. “Isn't that your only contribution?”

“Subject-verb agreement, Brad.
They
don't
runs,
okay?
They run!
” I turned back to Mr. Elliot. “I don't care who gives the tutorial, but it's not going to be me.”

“That's a tremendous waste of valuable class time,” Mr. Elliot grumbled.

“No, it's not. Because when I refuse to edit—and I promise you, I'm not going to crack—then you'll have no one doing the grunt work. Unless
you
want to be stuck making all those corrections?”

We both knew the answer to that was a resounding
hell no
.

“I want a place at staff meetings and a voice in deciding which stories we pursue.”

He nodded his consent, and Lisa Anne couldn't restrain herself any longer.

“She can't just
waltz
into a senior staff position! She—she's
Grammar Girl,
for crying out loud!”

“I
was
Grammar Girl,” I corrected politely. “Now I'm chief editor. Deal with it.”

The satisfaction I got from saying those simple words was so much better than the shove that had landed me with a suspension.

Apparently Mr. Shelder had a point with nonviolent conflict resolution. It could be quite gratifying on its own.

“But, Mr. Elliot, you can't possibly want her after what she did to—”

“You don't want to go there, Lisa Anne. Believe it or not, there are now several newspapers that might find my story rather interesting. Especially the part about how my article landed on the front page.”

I had her and she knew it. Ms. Perfect wouldn't want anything to mess up her shot at Harvard or Yale. If I came forward accusing her of cruelly outing America's favorite rock star . . . that wouldn't impress the people in admissions. Especially if I had Timothy Goff and the rest of ReadySet backing me up.

She stared at me mutely before flouncing over to a computer and pounding on the keyboard as she typed.

She was probably writing a little death fiction of her own, but I suspected I was the one gasping for my last breath.

“One more thing.” I paused, relishing the moment. For the first time I wished Scott was taking photos of me with his camera, because I wanted all the details of this perfectly preserved forever. “Since you refuse to allow fiction into the paper, I'm going to start a school publication of my own. And you're going to agree to be my advisor or I walk right now.”

He stared at me in disbelief. “I don't really have the, uh, time for another project right now, Smith.”

“You don't have the time to handle this paper without me. And trust me, I'm ready to take full responsibility for this project.” I grinned. “I'm thinking of calling it
The Wordsmith.
But we can figure out those details later. Do we have a deal, Mr. Elliot?”

He sputtered momentarily, probably hoping that Lisa Anne would somehow throw him a lifeline out of this mess. But when no rescue appeared, his massive shoulders straightened, and he began speaking in his regular booming voice as if being blackmailed by his most timid student was a regular occurrence.

“Of course, Smith! You know I've always encouraged this kind of initiative in my students.” He whistled for everyone's attention, not that he didn't already have it. “Everyone,
this
is what I'm talking about when I tell you to step up!”

I smiled, but being the focus of so many appraising stares only increased my need to make a quick escape. “On that note, I'm going to borrow your photographer. Temporarily.”

Reaching out, I snagged Scott's camera off the table and didn't stop walking until I reached my hiding alcove in the school library. The place I always went when I needed to disappear. Except this time I had one seriously pissed-off photographer trailing behind me.

His unreadable green eyes studied me. “Give me back my camera.”

My throat felt parched, and my stomach lurched. Talking to Mr. Elliot was nothing compared to dealing with Scott, but I held my ground.

“I fixed things with Corey,” I blurted out.

“Great. I don't care. Give me my camera, Jane.”

I continued as if he hadn't spoken. “Things are fine with Kenzie too. You know why?”

“Give. Me. The. Camera.”

“I went to Corey's house yesterday and yelled at them because of you.”

Scott crossed his arms. “Of course, so that's all my fault now too, right?”

“Hear me out, Scott. You're dead wrong about the whole tease thing, but you did say something in the car that rang true to me.”

“Get to the point, or give me back my camera, Jane.”

I took a deep breath. “You pointed out that my willingness to settle for so little was sad.”

He didn't exactly look impressed. “Your point?”

“Shut up, Scott. This is hard enough already. I want you to know that I broke up with Miles.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything.

“Well, okay,
technically
he broke up with me. Although I don't even know if the word ‘breakup' applies, because we only went out once, and it's not like we were ever official.”

I caught myself mid-ramble and forced myself back on topic before he could comment on it.

“Anyhow, Miles and I are just friends now. And I don't expect that you and I can have that because”—I gestured between us—“of all the, uh, tension. The article is finished, and I understand if you don't want to spend time with me, but . . . I'm not ready for this thing between us to end.”

He shifted, and I knew he was going to say,
Sorry, not interested. I prefer girls who aren't neurotic kissing disasters
.

So I panicked.

“I jump to conclusions and love romance novels and compare myself with Elle and . . . you met her, she's the popular one. But I just thought—”

“Hand me the camera, Jane.”

So that was it. No second chance for me.

At least I now had terrific material if I ever wanted to write a death by rejection.

I straightened my spine and told myself that it was his loss. If he couldn't look beyond a few of my flaws, then I deserved better anyway. That's what Kenzie, Corey, and Isobel would tell me. Chelsea would probably toss her blond hair and give me flirting advice while Sam handed me yet another condom. No matter how much his words hurt, I wasn't pathetically going to try persuading him to like me back.

Not when he obviously never felt that strongly about me in the first place.

So I handed him his camera and watched in silence as he unscrewed the lens cap, briefly adjusted the settings, and then snapped a photo of me.

“What was that for?” I demanded.

“I wanted a photo of Jane Smith asking me out on a date.”

“I didn't—”

“Yeah, you did.”

It was mortifying enough that I had been rejected. I didn't need him rubbing it in.

“Okay, I did. But don't worry about it. I don't want things to be awkward in journalism class or—”

But I never finished my sentence because his lips connected with mine. This time I felt the sizzle in every part of my body, as I wrapped my arms around his neck and rose up on tiptoes. Only when the heroines on the covers of my romance novels did stuff like that, they never appeared to be struggling to maintain their balance.

Unlike me.

Then again, they also weren't able to use their wobbling as an excuse to press against their heroes even more tightly.

Not that I needed an excuse.

“So when is this date going to happen?” Scott asked, when we came up for air.

“Um—” I struggled to remember how to speak. It seemed so unimportant when his lips were within kissing distance. “I, uh, I'm grounded.”

“You're grounded, huh?” He paused to consider this new development. “How long are you going to be under house arrest?”

“Just the next two weeks.”

“That's too bad.”

I stiffened momentarily, in case he said,
I'm not waiting
that
long for you, but this was fun. Let's do it again sometime;
then I ordered the stupid, insecure voice in my head to shut up and relaxed again. I trusted Scott. Even more importantly, I trusted my instincts too much to sabotage us over a few nerves.

“You know, I promised Mrs. Blake that I would bring in those photos of the two of you.”

A grin spread across my face. “That's right. You did.”

“So I might drop by while you're working.”

“It's a bookstore. Everyone's welcome.”

“Of course, I'd just be there to hand over the photos.” The wicked glint in his eyes said otherwise.

“Of course.”

“But I distinctly remember some parts of the bookstore being pretty secluded.”

I laughed. “I'll have to reacquaint you with the memoir section.”

“Great, I'd love to read all about the lives of—”

“Scott?” I interrupted.

“Yeah?”

“Can we go back to the part where you were kissing me?”

“Definitely.”

And that's exactly what we did.