Transparent (2 page)

“You’re going to kill them.” His voice is firm, and it fills me with resolve.

“I will, in front of Juan if I have to,” I say.

He smiles. “That’s my girl.”

Later that night, when the penthouse is dark and Dad’s charm has worn off, I shake and cry and curse myself for what I promised. It’s always like this. Why didn’t I say no? Why didn’t I disappear into the Vegas crowds when I had the chance?

My door clicks, and I go silent.

“Fiona?” Mom says. “Are you awake?”

“Of course I am.” I never sleep the night after a job. Too much guilt. Too much self-loathing for giving in to Dad’s power once again.

“Good. Pack your things.”

I sit up. “What?”

“We’re leaving.”

Normally, I would groan at yet another one of her pathetic attempts to escape, but not tonight. Tonight I am running; it’s the only way I won’t become a murderer. I grab the nearest bag and shove things into it. She doesn’t say anything else, only watches me in the scant moonlight. We work better without words, anyway.

Once I have what I need, she leads me to the garage, disabling cameras and locks all along the way. She revs the engine without a key, and we’re gone.

I run a brush through my hair, checking out my clothes in the mirror. At least the bright yellow shirt and eggplant-purple jeans show off my figure. I grab a few strings of black beads and wrap them around my neck. Then I pick some cat-eye glasses. They don’t have lenses, since my vision is perfect, but I wear them so people know where to look. The more I stare, the stupider I feel. Sure, the clothes look great—I still look like nothing.

All I know about myself is that I’m five foot eight, a hundred and forty pounds, and the owner of one rocking wardrobe. When all anyone sees is your clothing, it’s important.

Eye color? No clue. Skin? I try to keep it soft. Hair? A wavy mess. It might be curly if I had any clue how to style it.

It’s not so bad. That’s what people say if I complain, but there’s no way they can possibly understand how it feels. Sure, no one can ever tell me I’m ugly, but no one will ever call me pretty, either. It’s easy to be comfortable naked, but I don’t even know what my own body looks like. I can literally disappear when I don’t feel like dealing with stuff, but sometimes it seems like I wouldn’t have problems in the first place if people could see me.

Letting out a long sigh, I debate changing outfits. I can’t believe Mom’s making me go to a real school after just three weeks away from Dad. I wish I could at least take a stand by putting on sweats and refusing to leave, but I can’t. The truth is, a little part of me wants to know how people live outside of Dad’s syndicate. The normal world seems so foreign, without constant threats and fear. It’s strange to think the people in this minuscule town have real jobs that don’t directly involve crime.

There’s a knock at my door, and then a soft click as Mom opens it. She’s in her yoga gear, her morning coffee in hand. Her hair looks wild, and she seems free and untamed, even though she’s the complete opposite. She holds up an untoasted blueberry Pop-Tart, the best possible breakfast. “I’m guessing you’re hungry.”

“Sure.” I grab it, eyeing her. I hate when she tries to take care of me, like it makes up for everything she does wrong. Minus the fight over school, we’ve spent most of the last few weeks in silence, me vegged out on the sofa with a DVR full of romantic comedies and her in the garage sculpting. I prefer it that way.

“Ready to go?”

I stiffen. “No.”

“You look ready.” She takes a long drink from her mug.

“Why are you making me do this again?” I don’t know why I’m asking, since she won’t tell the truth.

It’s always the same. Dad is a drug—a mutation in his pheromones makes him practically irresistible to women. The longer they’re around him, the more addicted they get, until they’d do anything just to make him happy. Mom’s known him since she was my age, so it’s a joke that she tries to detox at all. Even I’m not immune, though it’s not as bad. I think it’s because I’m his blood. I can at least get through the withdrawals without begging him to come back.

The worst part? I
miss
him. I hate him and miss him at the same time.

“I thought you’d want to go to school, make friends,” she says.

I let out a wry laugh. Why would anyone want to be around someone like me: a thief, a threat, and a freak? “Dad will find us because of this.”

She shakes her head. “Not necessarily. This is a really small town, and he doesn’t have much sway in Arizona. This is Juan’s territory. Considering the last order he gave you, he’ll assume we ran somewhere else. There’s no safer place.”

I stuff half the Pop-Tart in my mouth, hating that she has a point. It’s true that Dad’s gold-and-jewelry “business” doesn’t reach this far south of Las Vegas. He covers more of the northern West, anything from Sacramento up to Seattle and over to Boise. Juan Torres controls the Southwest, and Valerie Sutton owns small-but-important Southern Cali. Technically, Dad would have a hard time getting to us here, since the news reported that Juan has tightened his borders “for unknown reasons.” We only got through because we left that night. Mom and I can guess Dad killed the henchmen I knocked out, which would put Juan on the defensive.

“Don’t you want a future, Fiona?” Mom says.

“I didn’t realize I had a choice.”

Her lips bunch up, as if she’s about to cry. “Why do you think we’re here?”

“Whatever. Let’s get this over with.” I stuff the rest of the Pop-Tart in my mouth.

“Try to have fun.” Her fingers move gracefully, and a black-and-white checkered bag floats to me from the closet. “I think this goes well with your outfit, and your books should fit perfectly.”

I grab the bag, hating that it’s exactly what I would have picked.

When I used to indulge in fantasies of normal teen life, Madison High School was not what I envisioned. It’s smaller than Dad’s suite at The Clover—and a lot less glamorous. The front office looks like it was plucked out of a brown-and-orange nightmare, complete with oak paneling on the walls. The yellow lights don’t help.

Mom sits next to me in an orange chair, filling out papers. I blink a few times, wondering if this is some kind of dream. It definitely can’t be real. She’s acting too motherly, looks too normal outside our usual routine of slinking through dark alleys and stealing. Any minute she’ll look up and tell me she can’t believe I fell for it.

She turns to me, smiling. Here it comes. “What electives do you want?”

“Huh?” I try to find the joke in her expression—she always has this glint in her eyes when she messes with someone. Nothing. She’s serious. I can’t figure out if the knot in my stomach is excitement or terror. Dad never let me go to school. He didn’t want anyone swaying me but him. Personal tutors sounded like a good idea when he said it. I didn’t need friends or a real education or a boyfriend. All I needed was a lockpick to open doors and a Swiss Army Knife to disable security cameras.

“Electives. I have you signed up for the stuff you need: English, math, biology, history, and PE. I just don’t know what you’d like to take for fun.”

“Fun?” Starting school for the first time doesn’t sound as fun as it did in my imagination. Because in my dreams I wasn’t the invisible syndicate baby walking into a tiny school where everyone probably knows one another. Four weeks late, no less, so I stick out even more.

“Look at the list and pick.” She shoves a mustard-yellow paper at me.

The classes are just words. I don’t know what I like, what I’d be good at, or whatever reason someone picks an elective. Surprisingly, there’s no class called Stealing 101. I’d ace that. “How many of these do I need?”

“Two. Don’t you like any of them?”

“I don’t know.” I hand the list back, wishing I could leave. “This is stupid.”

Her brow furrows. “Can’t you at least try?”

I look away, only to find the secretary staring at me. Or rather through me, as if I don’t have eyes to notice how jarring she finds my presence. “What do you think I should take?”

“What about art?”

I groan. Talk about going right to her passion. No thanks.

She frowns. “Fine. Home ec? They’ll probably have sewing. You could design your own clothes.”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Spanish?”

There’s not much else on the list, unless I want to be in performing arts like dance or music or drama. An invisible girl acting? Yeah, right. “That might be handy.”

Mom hands the forms to the secretary, who takes forever to print up my schedule. She holds it out for me with a wary smile. “Here you are, Miss McClean. Third period is starting shortly. You should have just enough time to find your locker.”

“Great.” I grab the papers, already wishing I didn’t have to carry around the map like a dork.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Mom asks.

I stare at her. What am I? Five? I might die if she pulls out a camera to take a picture of my first day of school. “I think I can handle it.”

She straightens, her eyes watering. “All right. Have a good day, hon.”

Once she leaves, I search the halls for my locker. A few neon posters hang on oatmeal-colored walls, advertising upcoming dances or club meetings or other events I never imagined myself going to. The bell rings, and the halls fill with students. It’s not a flood like in the movies. I bet there aren’t even sixty students in my junior class.

Still, there are enough people staring at me. Eyes roam over my missing arms and head. Mouths gape open. Whispers fill my ears. I wouldn’t be surprised if even here they vaguely know who I am, who I belong to. Which means there’s no chance anyone will ever talk to me.

Normal life. Right.

I barely make it to third period on time: algebra. Seeing as I hate math more than anything else, it’s only fitting to start here. The teacher, Ms. Sorenson, is a mousy thing with bright pink eyes. She jumps when I come up to her, like I might mug her on the spot. “D-do you have your schedule?”

“Yeah.” I hand her my paper, and she looks it over as I try to ignore my silent, curious classmates.

“Everyone, this is F-Fiona McClean.” She turns to me. “Is there anything you want to tell us about yourself?”

“Isn’t it pretty obvious?”

The class snickers, and I’m glad they can’t see me blushing.

The teacher holds out an old book. “Here’s the text. Take a seat next to Miss Navarro, please.”

I search the classroom, not wanting to ask who that is. Instead of finding the girl, my eyes lock on the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. He’s all muscle, with a spattering of freckles and a mop of carrot-orange hair. He oozes confidence, smiling right at me with a one-dimpled grin. At least there’s one great thing about being invisible—I can enjoy the view without him knowing.

The girl next to him nods at me, which is when I realize she’s probably this “Miss Navarro” I’m supposed to sit by. I rush over and plop down in the creaky desk.

“I’m Bea,” she says, searching the space between my glasses.

“Or Trixy,” Hot Guy says.

Bea smiles. “But never,
ever
Beatrix.”

“Okay …” I feel bad for kind of hating her, since she’s at least playing nice. But she has perfect tan legs, and her mess of dark hair makes it seem like she doesn’t try. Her eyes are gorgeous and playful. It’s not fair for a girl to be that beautiful.

She motions to Hot Guy, who must be her boyfriend. “This is Brady.”

The teacher starts class before I can answer, which is fine because I wasn’t sure what to say anyway. “You have until the end of the period to finish the exam.”

My mouth goes dry. A test? The blue paper lands on my desk. “But I …”

“I’d like you to take the test, if you don’t mind,” Ms. Sorenson says. “It will help me gauge your understanding.”

Nodding, I turn the cover page. I was technically in a certified homeschooling program, so maybe I do know this stuff. I pick up the pencil and stare at the first problem for what seems like an eternity. Nope. Don’t know this. I scribble something down. It’s wrong, but I don’t know how to make it right.

The bell rings, and I pass my test forward, positive I failed. Bea turns toward me, but I’m not interested in another awkward conversation. I grab my bag, rushing for history before she can begin her sentence. I make a wrong turn on the way, since I can’t bring myself to look at the map. When I open the door, I’m greeted with almost the exact same faces as math, right down to Bea and Brady sitting in the back next to each other.

I get introduced. Again. The only free seat is by Bea, of course. She doesn’t look at me, but she seems upset.

“Group discussion today,” Mr. Abbey says. His skin is a pleasant sky blue, just warm enough that he doesn’t look dead. “Topic: Radiasure.”

My blood goes cold. I’d rather talk about algebra than that stupid drug, and that’s saying something.

Radiasure was invented as an anti-radiation pill during the Cold War, and people popped it by the dozens in hopes of surviving a possible nuclear holocaust. About five years later, the mutations came. They weren’t much at first. Most people didn’t have anything close to invisibility or flying or telekinesis. A green person here. A woman with a man’s voice there. People figured it was an equal trade for immunity to radiation.

At least until they discovered the mutations would affect their children. Babies who’d never had a drop of the drug were born smelling like roses or covered in a thick layer of hair. It didn’t even matter if their parents had stopped using. The distorted genes were already at work, and the mutations just got stronger and stranger. By the seventies some people were flying, reading minds, and emitting fatal sound waves.

The FDA pulled Radiasure, but that didn’t stop everyone from trying to get it. Most people wanted the mutations—superhuman strength, iron-tough skin, diamond-sharp teeth, infinite endurance, and mind control. They wanted to be superheroes like in the old comic books. Or supervillains. Everything has pretty much gone to hell since then. Governments try to regulate things, but everyone knows it’s the criminal syndicates and vigilantes that control the Radiasure, and therefore the world.