The Opposite of Invisible (4 page)

But I’m still not sure if I like Simon seeing me claimed by Jewel, or this new aspect of Jewel that makes him feel the need to do that.

Simon … who knew? We share the same taste in music, and he’s not as tight with the elite crowd as I thought.

Dove Girl, I really want to see him outside school again. On our own.

And I have a plan for how to do that.

Saturday morning, a little groggy from not a whole lot of sleep, I wake to the smell of bacon cooking. I shower quickly and drag on my jeans, stripy sweater, and Pumas. Put my hair in a ponytail. I am uniformed.

When I get downstairs, Mom is cracking eggs and Dad is reading the paper, standing by the coffeemaker, waiting for the brew.

“Scrambled?” Mom asks.

“Of course.”

I sit down at the table in our diner-style kitchen. The walls are painted red and covered in Coca-Cola memorabilia: a clock in the shape of a bottle, a tin advertisement featuring a smiling girl with bows in her hair, a poster of teenagers sharing their drink from two straws in one tall glass. My parents bought the stuff before they started being all organic, all the time.

“To stunt your growth,” Dad says as he puts down my coffee. A joke. I am pretty well developed for a fifteen-year-old.

He goes back to the counter and retrieves his own plate. Mom has arranged his sunny-side-up eggs like eyes with a bacon smile. Cute.

He sits with me. We eat.

“Your mom and I want to go by that coffee shop to see Jewel’s photo show,” he says. “You submitted pieces too, didn’t you?”

“Didn’t make the cut. I did help Jewel, though. Maybe behind every great artist, there’s a girl who knows how to hang pictures.”

“Alice,” my dad says. “Your drawings are getting better all the time.”

“Not really, Dad. But thanks.”

He does know what he’s talking about when it comes to art, but my dad would say nice things to me even if he knew I sucked. Which makes it hard to tell what he thinks sometimes.

Jewel is an artistic genius. Of course only a certain type of person bothers to notice his amazing talent. I get some credibility around the art workshop just for being his friend. Even Mr. Smith seems to think I’m better than I am.

I don’t want to be the hey-is-this-hanging-straight girl forever.

“My glassblowing workshop is next weekend,” I say.

“Looking forward to it?” Dad asks.

“Yep.”

We finish breakfast and Dad heads out to the driveway, where he spends the bulk of every weekend working on his vintage Chevy.

Sometimes I help him, which mostly means handing him tools. But not today.

My parents and I have been out of the Pike Place Market spice tea for two weeks, so it’s a good excuse to go down to the market. I tell myself that this is not a decision to accidentally-on-purpose run into Simon Murphy. And that I’m not inviting Jewel for his own good, because he hates crowds.

I look in my mom’s full-length mirror before leaving. My usual: ponytail, lip gloss, sweater, jeans. But are my jeans shorter now? Definitely, I’m taller. I thought this was supposed to happen when you’re nine, not fifteen. But there it is. Growth spurt. Long legs are a definite improvement, right?

I put on my blue corduroy jacket and head out. I take the 26 bus downtown, get off by Nordstrom Rack. I think about checking out their cheap sneakers, decide against it, and walk down one steep block to the market. The city is gray, as usual, and I can smell salt from the sound; the water is as gray as the sky.

The market, with its giant red neon sign, is always crowded. But I like to take it all in, especially now, in the fall, when sunflowers and dahlias bloom and I can look at them clustered together in metal buckets just waiting to be bought, smiles you can take home.

This place always makes me feel like I’m French or something, like I should be wearing a bonnet as I buy the week’s sheep innards. Definitely like I’m not me. Not a regular girl.

When I asked my Dove Girl for a boyfriend, I was not
expecting anyone like Simon Murphy. Simon can’t be my wish come true. It would throw the whole social stratum out of whack. I’m nobody but Jewel’s friend. And that’s only to the people who bother to notice Jewel.

The nonartist types who do notice him tend to think he’s gay. It’s been a common misconception among the baseball-hat crew ever since middle school. Because Jewel’s best friend is a girl, I guess. And because he’s creative.

Probably most of our class doesn’t know either one of our names, let alone anything else about us. Invisible. For me to go out with Simon would be school-paper-headline-worthy news. Okay, it might not be quite that big of a deal. Simon’s not
totally
the most popular guy in school—that’s Mike Corrigan.

The tea shop is full of big jars of loose tea to buy in bulk. I take the lid off the orange spice blend, move my nose to the rim of the jar, close my eyes, and inhale. India. The painting of this tea would be dark orange and some shade of purple. The shape would be vaguely lotus flower.

I buy the Market Spice and then I wander, keeping my jacket pulled tightly over my sweater. Some of the sunflowers are so tall. They look like really skinny people with lollipop-proportioned heads. Smiling at their own crazy hair. The dahlias are my favorite, though. Such bright pinks and oranges. So many petals. Like the orange spice tea, the dahlias make me feel like I’ve traveled to other places, even to other times.

I stand at the fish and chips counter near the leather goods stall, deciding whether I’m hungry. It’s so weird, the
power of place. I don’t have to try hard to imagine I’m on another planet. Like fish and chips are food for aliens. Because how can so many sensations exist so close to home—the smell of salt water, fish ready to be cooked, the fainter scent of sweet fruit, the colors of everything, the voices of the people, the drum of KEXP playing in the background.

Simon came for brunch, and his family needs time to make it up to Pacific Place for a one o’clock movie. The timing should be perfect, and the crab place is just past the vendors. To get out of the market, he’ll have to pass this way.

I sit at the fish and chips counter.

There he is.

Simon is at the leather stall trying on cuff bracelets. His head is down, the same tilt as when he looks at his Spanish book. I can’t go over there. I manage to not stare at him as I order fries and soda. It takes all my effort to casually study the intricacies of the linoleum countertop.

Simon taps my shoulder. He’s got on his backpack and he’s wearing a tightish turquoise sweater under his bright green Adidas vest, and very well-faded jeans, possibly so well faded that the fading was done prepurchase. His chocolate-colored hair is messy but the look is styled. Lots of gel. I evaluate him like he’s some guy in a magazine.

“I keep running into you this weekend,” he says.

“Yeah, I noticed.” I hear Jewel’s voice in my head. “
That guy is totally stalking you.”
I hope Simon doesn’t think I’m stalking him. Especially since I kind of am.

“Do you come downtown a lot?” he asks.

“I like to,” I say. “It feels like a vacation.”

Oh, no. That was probably a really weird thing to say. What wouldn’t I do for the time-rewind superpower?

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he says. “There’s a lot of stuff to do.”

Phew. “Yep.”

“I volunteer at the aquarium.”

“That’s so cool!”

“I even get to feed the octopus.” He grins like he just won the Super Bowl.

“No way.” The fish and chips guy gives me my food. Simon sits on the stool next to mine.

“I’m meeting my parents later. They’re at the movies now, up at Pacific Place, but it was nothing I wanted to see.” He looks up at the chalkboard menu.

“Oh,” I say, and take a sip of my soda. Brilliant conversation.

“I was gonna do that Spanish sheet as proof of my ability to study in public. Maybe get a candy apple, too. Does brunch have dessert?”

“Any meal can have dessert, as far as I’m concerned. I love that candy apple place,” I say. “Actually, I just like looking in the window. But I’ve always wanted to try it out.”

“I’ll wait while you eat so you can go with me.”

Simon sips a Coke while I try to eat my fries. I offer him some.

“Thanks.” He grabs a five-fry pinch.

“So,” I say. “Tell me about the octopus.”

“We feed her crab bits inside Mr. Potato Head.”

I can’t help chuckling at the thought. “The toy?”

“Yeah. You know, Mr. Potato Head has that hatch for his eyes and nose and stuff? We put the food in there and close the hatch. It’s fun for people to watch her play with it. Only takes a minute for her to get it open.”

“So it’s a girl octopus?”

He nods. “Oh, yeah. Sad thing, though. They mated her. She’ll lay eggs soon.”

“That sounds happy.”

“Not for her. She won’t eat while she’s taking care of the eggs. When they hatch, she’ll die.”

I drop my fry. “That’s horrible!”

“Yeah. But it’s natural for the octopus.”

So cool that Simon knows this stuff.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he says.

I hate when people say that. “Um.”

“The show was good last night.” That, I can talk about. “Robb Moore is a genius.”

“I know, how can you not love the Charm?” I sip my Coke.

“I wouldn’t know.”

He takes another bunch of my fries. He finishes chewing and says, “What’s with your friend, anyway? He is just your friend, right?”

I take the soda straw from my lips. “Yes.” Did that sound too formal? “Yeah.”

“’Cause he’s the only person I ever see you talking to. Practically.”

“We’re good friends.”

“Is he gay?”

Personal, personal. At this point, though, I don’t care; if he’s interested in who I’m dating, and who I’m not, he can say anything he wants. Like I’ve ever even been on a date.

“Jewel is definitely not gay.”

“He’s just … you know. So different.”

“He’s an artist. He’s really talented.”

“Yeah?” Simon says. “You know him a lot better than I do.”

“And you know everyone else in school a lot better than I do.”

Simon eats some fries. “Why are you so quiet at school?”

I certainly don’t announce my comings and goings like the how-was-your-weekend homeroom crowd. But I’m not a mouse. Unless. Unless that’s exactly what I am. Mousy. Boring. Ordinary. A little timid. Easy to miss if not in a state of scamper.

I keep eating my fries.

“You should talk more,” Simon says. “If you showed up to one of our parties and asked for a beer, everyone would love you.”

Gee. Just what I want. The love of keg kids.

But really. I study my plate, then sneak a look at Simon. Maybe the secret to having a lot of friends in high school isn’t a secret at all. Maybe it’s all about being in the right place at the right time. With the right person.

The candy apple shop is right near the original location of Starbucks, the only one to still feature the mermaid logo in all her bare-breasted glory. Apples line the windows: coated in red, in caramel, in chocolate, and in any topping you can imagine, from nuts to sprinkles to full-on candy chunks.

“The one with M&M’s and chocolate is my favorite,” says Simon.

“That’s some heavy-duty apple eating.”

He puffs out his chest. “I can handle it.”

Is he being sarcastic? God, I hope he is, with that macho thing. Tarzan is so not my style. All those grunts. The loincloth.

How about … we are candy-apple Adam and Eve. Tempted.

The loincloth imagery is quite strong for me at the moment. But Adam would have been totally naked.

I so should not be thinking about that.

Being around Simon has got me feeling something tingly in my throat. I want so badly to nuzzle against his neck, my lips against his skin.

Stop!
Stop lusting after him.

I choose a plain caramel apple and Simon gets his favorite.

“My treat,” he says, and pays before I can protest.

We sit on a bench next to a huge stuffed teddy bear.

Simon asks me what I think of Spanish class. “For real,” he says, “does Señora’s accent ever crack you up?”