The Opposite Of Invisible Part 8

She looks at me from under her heavy black eyelashes. "That city I made."

The city is cardboard boxes painted in metallics. She made them somehow look heavy and solid. Jewel mentioned wanting to photograph the city. It's good. Unique. "Cool."

"You?"

"Nothing special."

We're standing here in the art room, talking. Why do I feel so uneasy?

I pick up my bag and get out of the room. Vanessa's schoolbag is made out of silver duct tape. She follows me.

"Did you make that bag?" I ask her.

"Yeah," she says. "It's easy."

It reminds me of doing magazine collages with her on my bedroom floor; we ran out of glue and resorted to masking tape. The results weren't pretty. I smirk at the memory.

"What?"

"I was just ... do you remember those collages we did?"

She stops walking and looks at me.

"Collages? For Smith's cla.s.s?"

I guess she doesn't remember. I guess it doesn't matter. "Never mind."

We keep walking and, at the door, go our separate ways.

I can't stay away from the art show completely. I do care about it. Any event that brings out the curlicue toothpicks is something I don't want to miss, pathetic as that sounds. I don't get into the coffee shop art shows like Jewel does; I've gotta take what I can get.

Thursday night, I'm staked out on the brick side of the school, kneeling in the garden by the big window. I've worn a black sweats.h.i.+rt, hoping I won't be spotted.

Inside, Mr. Smith is gesturing at Vanessa as everyone mills around, eating the cheese and drinking the punch. Clara and Jeremy hold hands.

No one is standing in front of my painting. I kind of want to bite the bullet and go in.

I watch Jewel in front of his exhibit, up-close photos of the troll. Like the one with my note. They show the troll's fingers, his one eye, the VW. The grooved details of his wavy hair. The pink graffiti.

Vanessa walks up to Jewel, smiling.

They talk.

He touches her upper arm, bare because she's wearing a black sequined tank top. Just once. But it's enough to make my stomach jump.

I'm pretty enough; Vanessa's maybe prettier. I'm an okay artist; she's great. I'm out here in the shadows.

We have a lot of cla.s.ses together, which is just the way it works. The person you want to forget about, the G.o.ds of scheduling make sure you spend your high school years constantly seated behind.

Our friends.h.i.+p was just a kid thing. I guess what we are now is more ... compet.i.tive, if anything. She probably doesn't think about me. Except maybe in one way.

I've always had one thing that she wants like crazy. Jewel. The most creative guy at school. The artist. And I had the ability to inspire him. His only friend.

Until now.

Friday, in art workshop, I stand at an easel by the window, looking out toward the empty courtyard. I busy myself with the painting I've already started as a Christmas gift for my parents. It's a portrait of them, but I'm trying to do it all in little dots, spots of watercolor that add up to being people. I spend most of the cla.s.s trying to swirl a good blue for my dad's eyes.

Vanessa is quiet today.

When Mr. Smith announces that it's time to clean up, I see what she's been working on. She's cut up a bunch of soda cans. The tops, with their tabs, litter her table. She's fas.h.i.+oned a crown and a scepter.

It's a scary thought, a world where I turn my back and Vanessa becomes royalty.

Chapter Nine.

I wake up and think, Dove Girl, tonight's the night Dove Girl, tonight's the night. Bloodbath night. Halloween.

Part of me feels like my witch dress is appropriate because I'm being a witch to Jewel.

The other part of me is totally excited. Showing up with Simon will be a major thing. People are about to see me differently. The new Alice. Interesting. Tonight I will turn heads. Vanessa won't outs.h.i.+ne me. No girl will.

I'm grateful that my gla.s.sblowing cla.s.s is today; otherwise, I don't know how I'd pa.s.s a whole Sat.u.r.day before the dance without exploding.

The front of the studio is a store, selling beautiful, swirly-colored lamps and bowls. I check out a green bowl and can't help imagining Jewel's hazel eyes.

No. Today is not about Jewel, or missing him, or how I might've screwed up our friends.h.i.+p.

I finish browsing and head to the back of the shop.

The only person there is a guy in a tie-dyed T-s.h.i.+rt, with a long ponytail. His back is to me. Must be Jim.

I'm nervous. Where are the other students? What am I doing here?

He turns around and smiles at me.

"Welcome," he says. "You are?"

"Alice Davis."

"Welcome, Alice Davis. Happy Halloween. I'm Jim." He's very much a hippie; he seems blissed out.

I hear footsteps and turn to see a middle-aged woman walking in, wearing hiking pants and a white tank top.

Right behind her is Mandy Walker. From the elite who sit at Simon's lunch table. Just what I didn't want.

"Hey," she says. "Alice, right? I'm so glad I recognize someone here!"

She's here, so she can't be all bad.

"Yeah. Alice. Hey."

Jim asks us all to sit down. Folding chairs wait underneath a shelf full of tools.

Only three people signed up for this cla.s.s? I guess we'll each be getting a lot of attention.

Never stop spinning. The liquid gla.s.s glows orange like the sun, with green and yellow swirls, as I control it at the tip of the blowpipe. It turns in the furnace. I'm spinning hand over hand over hand. This is my best try yet, after three hours of instruction. Jim yells, "Feel the weight of your piece!" "Keep turning!" "To the bench!"

So I go to the bench, turning, quick before the gla.s.s hardens. Sit on the bench, spin the blowpipe on the chair's rail, spin, spin. Shape. "Chill the bottom half with air!" Jim shouts. I keep spinning with one hand and grab the air hose with the other. It feels awkward, but I manage to let air out of the hose and keep spinning the gla.s.s.

The gla.s.s is cooling.

Back to the furnace. Make the gla.s.s orange again.

The heat smells like burnt marshmallows. "To the bench!"

Heat it up. Then cool it. Use air. Use water. Heat it up. Everything has to be perfect or my piece will be destroyed.

But that's okay. I am in control of this.

Sweaty and flushed, but happy, I say thank you to Jim and walk out to the store. Mandy is admiring a pink lamp. "How long do you think till we're this good?"

I think of Dale Chihuly. "Years and years." Neither one of our first attempts at a bowl survived. Jim says that's normal. He's a cool guy-went from blissed out to kind of militant the moment we got our hands on the tools, but that makes sense. I was a little terrified of getting burnt or burning someone else.

"Are you doing the follow-up cla.s.s?" she asks.

It's only twenty bucks to come back in for a private or pairs session with Jim. "I think so. I really liked it."

"Me too."

Talking to her, with her standing there just as sweaty as me, I almost forget who Mandy is at school, one of the kids Jewel and I always thought seemed silly, kind of stupid. She's not like that.

We walk out together. "Raining again," she says.

"As always."

We pa.s.s the scone shop and I'm dying for a latte. She says, "Want to go in?"

"My need for caffeine shows?"

She grins and opens the door.

Chunky Gla.s.ses isn't here; the weekend girl is a pink-haired baby-doll-dress-wearing punk girl. Her nose stud looks a lot like Vanessa's. She gets our lattes and Mandy and I sit at a table.

"So," Mandy says, "I have gymnastics in an hour. Can't stay long."

"Cool." I wonder what it's like to be able to use your body that way. "That must help with cheerleading."

"Oh, yeah. Been doing it my whole life, practically."

"Like me and art."

"But this was your first time gla.s.sblowing?"

"Yeah. I usually paint. Well. I try to paint. What about you? I've never seen you around the art studio at school."

"The art studio?" Mandy looks straight at me. "I wouldn't fit in. The art crowd is ... kind of intimidating. Like there's a weirdness factor that I don't have?"

Mandy Walker, cheerleader, is intimidated by us? us?

"Well ...," I say. "Some people are like that, I guess."

We sip.

"So I heard you're Simon's date to the Bath?"

I almost choke. "Yep."

"He's such a nice guy."

"Who are you going with?"

"Solo." Wow. I have a date and Mandy doesn't? "I'll just dance with whoever."

If I went by myself, I'd stand as close to the wall as possible.

"Cool. What are you dressing as?"

"b.u.t.terfly." I think back to my conversation with Jewel about the Beautiful People using the dance as an excuse to wear leotards in public.

"Cool."

We finish our lattes and head out. It's not until I'm almost home that I realize she didn't make a big deal at all about me and Simon. Maybe he was never as far out of reach as I thought he was.

After I shower off the studio grime, I eat lasagna with my parents. "I really liked it," I say. "Definitely going again."

It's hard to let them know how bubbly excited I am about the whole day. Simon. The Bath. A new art medium. A possible new friend. A possible whole new future. I just say, "It was great."

Mom sits on the edge of the dry bathtub as I attempt to slide my feet into her two-inch black special-occasion heels.

She used to work at Nordstrom, so she knows a lot about fas.h.i.+on and beauty.

Seeing her sitting there reminds me of the time I had a horrible flu in third grade. She drew me bath after bath because it was the only thing that would keep me from feeling my fever. I'd wait for the tub to fill, sitting naked in a towel against the sink cabinet, sucking on purple Popsicles.