Invisible (7 page)

“We
are
not
partners.”

“You're right,” Scott said, shocking me with his sudden acquiescence. “As the consultant, I'm really more of a boss than a partner.”

Oh no.

“You are not my boss!”

“Sure I am. Although I'd be happy to call Mr. Elliot over if he wasn't specific enough for you.”

The thought of Mr. Elliot yelling at me in front of everyone
again
had my stomach flipping in tight little somersaults. “That's okay.”

His grin widened, and I knew right then that Scott Fraser had to be the devil. He must have had one hell of a time hiding the triple sixes on his forehead.

“Excellent. So let's talk story concepts then.”

“Why are you doing this?” I demanded. “You had no interest in my story yesterday. One fight and suddenly you're a team player. What's that about?”

He straightened. “I'm here for the photographs. End of story. Which is why, whether you like it or not, I'm taking charge.”

“Oh yeah?” I challenged. “You and what army?”

A pretty lame retort, but it's not easy whipping out snappy comebacks when an athletic-looking, overcontrolling jerk
informs
you that he's in charge. I struggled against the urge to smack that smug look right off Scott's face. Not that I would. Cafeteria incident aside, I've never hit anyone in my life.

Well, unless you count wrestling with Elle for the TV remote.

“Somehow I doubt I'll need my friends in the SEAL teams to get your cooperation.”

He didn't look like he was kidding, but that didn't mean I was about to back down.

“Look, Scott, I have way too much at stake here to blindly follow orders.”

He ignored me. “The paper comes out on Tuesday, so your article needs to be ready by Monday at the absolute latest. That's a tight deadline to meet even for people who know what they're doing. And my photos will make your story look like amateur hour if you don't follow my lead.”

My back stiffened at “amateur hour.” Okay, so I didn't crank out front-page articles like Lisa Anne. . . . That didn't mean my work sucked. In fact, the only reason
The Smithsonian
wasn't riddled with errors was because the articles crossed my desk for proofing first.

But my name wasn't on the byline, so nobody cared.

“Listen, Your Royal Snobbiness,
my
article will be just fine!” I snapped.

Scott smiled, but there was nothing comforting about the expression. He looked like a sleek black panther who knew he was stalking an injured sloth.

“I'm going to make sure of it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Look, I've got it under control. I can't write about the fight, so I'll . . . ”—I scanned the classroom for flyers—“go to the drama club meeting at lunch.”

Scott didn't appear impressed with that bit of quick thinking. “That'll make a thrilling story. I can see my cover shot now. ‘Grammar Girl: A Portrait of Mundanity.' ”

“I am not mundane!”

“You're so dedicated to your stupid routines that you've practically got a schedule stapled to your forehead,” he scoffed.

“Fine, what do
you
recommend? Let's hear those oh-so-brilliant ideas of yours.”

“Try something new.” He leaned closer and the dark intensity in his eyes was kind of . . . attractive.

What was
wrong
with me?

“Try something your friends haven't already pre-screened and selected for you.”

I took a step back, hoping that some distance from him might help clear my head. “So what you're saying is that instead of listening to my friends, who have yet to steer me wrong, I should trust
you?
Gee, why didn't I think of doing that sooner?”

He shot me a pointed look. “You won't get a good story if your friends are always coddling you.”

“Excuse me, if they're always
what?
”

“Oh come on, even you must have noticed it.
‘Oh no, our dear little Jane is in trouble! We must save her!' ”
Scott clasped his hands together while his mouth curled in disgust.

“They aren't like that!”

“Sure they are.”

I wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove this evaluation of my life—but I held myself in check. It didn't matter what he thought of me. All I had to do was write one freaking story . . . and hope that was enough to redeem me from the journalism doghouse.

“Since you're my consultant, I will consider all of your specific recommendations,” I said loftily. “But kindly keep your opinion of my personal life to yourself.”

Scott grinned. “I don't think I will. You forget: I call the shots now. If you've got a problem with that, take it up with Mr. Elliot.”

“That's coercion!”

His smile only deepened. “That's journalism.”

“I will hold you in contempt for this.”

Scott's beat-up leather jacket barely moved as he shrugged. “I'll live. So drama club at lunch and then what I want after school.”

“I can't do that,” I told him, relieved that I didn't even have to make up a lie to avoid him. “I work after school on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. That's non-negotiable.”

He nodded. “Okay. Where do you work?”

I looked at him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Fiction Addiction Used Bookstore.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah, I do, actually.” Just thinking about the store got me smiling. “I still can't believe I got the job.”

I braced myself for him to say something snarky like,
Yeah, I have no idea why anyone would want to hire you!

But he didn't.

Instead, he smiled back and it struck me that for the first time since I'd overheard him talking about me with Lisa Anne, we were actually having something that resembled a nice conversation.

“Were there a lot of applicants or something?”

“Not to my knowledge. But my boss is very . . .
particular
about how her store is run. She won't accept any books with boring covers. She says that it's her store, and she can judge them however she wants.”

“Sounds like an unusual woman.”

I laughed. “Oh, she's that for sure.”

“Good. If I'm forced to go somewhere I always prefer there to be interesting people around.”

I stared at him in outrage. “You're kidding me. You started that conversation so you could stalk me at work? Was that supposed to be some kind of
charm offensive
or something?”

“That depends on whether you found me charming.”

“Not so much.”

“Then clearly it wasn't.”

I wanted to blame my lack of a comeback on my slowly building headache, sore body, and emotional whiplash. Already I'd had to deal with a sentimental mom, an uncomfortable dad, an irate teacher, and now a jerk turned dictator—I didn't want any of the above to follow me to work.

“You're not going to the bookstore with me.”

“Sure I am.” Scott's cocky grin was out in full force. “To the store
and
to the drama lunch. I'm going to make damn sure that we get a story worthy of the front page. See you later, Grammar Girl.”

I could hardly wait.

I
shouldn't have done it.

I knew better than to open my writing notebook during my English class. But I
really
didn't want Scott Fraser tailing me all the way to work, and I thought if I had the bare bones for a drama club story written, then I might be able to dodge that bullet. And, okay, I didn't exactly have a
story
yet . . . but that didn't mean I couldn't prepare some snappy headlines.

Lame.

I tapped my pen restlessly while Ms. Helsenberg lectured on about
Doctor Faustus
. Okay, so maybe Scott had a point about the drama club lacking real potential. Lisa Anne had made it clear that she wanted something sensational. Something shocking.

I could only think of one story with that kind of potential:

 

 

I'm not sure why I even bothered writing the story.

It's not like I could ever turn it in. If Corey wanted to keep his relationship with Tim a secret, my lips (or in this case, my pen) would never spill it. His relationship, his decision—nobody else's. The last thing I wanted was for some magazine editor to spin it into something salacious and then plaster
that
all over the newsstands.

I would just have to come up with something else.

Still, I paused to consider my writing. Stylistically, it was almost as strong as the story where I was . . .

“Stabbed in the eye in a bar fight.”

I jerked up in my seat. “What?”

And that's why I shouldn't drift off during class.

“Christopher Marlowe,” Ms. Helsenberg said slowly, as if that were perfectly obvious—which it would have been if I had been paying even the slightest bit of attention. “He was stabbed in a bar fight under suspicious circumstances. It's possible he was a spy.”

“A spy,” I repeated foolishly. “That's interesting.”

“I think so,” Ms. Helsenberg agreed. “If you're really interested, find me after class, Jane. Now, where was I? Right, Marlowe . . .”

I was so busted.

There was no way I could tell Ms. Helsenberg the truth:
Sorry, not really interested. I read ahead of the syllabus, and Marlowe's death worked its way into my writing. Surprised me for a second there. All better now. Guess I'd better go.

Yeah, I didn't think that would go over too well. Especially since I knew Ms. Helsenberg would try to capitalize on even the smallest display of student interest . . . and I didn't want to disappoint her.

“So, Jane, let's talk,” Ms. Helsenberg said cheerily as she planted herself directly between me and the door.

“Um, I'd love to, but I should really get going. There's only a fifteen-minute break between classes and—”

“I'm sure you'll be fine. You can always run if necessary.”

“Sure, but—”

“I'm curious as to why today's class was the most I've heard from you all year.”

“Um, I guess I find death interesting,” I admitted sheepishly. Then I remembered that when speaking to an authority figure it's generally best not to imply an unhealthy interest in anything even remotely creepy. “Strictly in the hypothetical, of course.”

“I see. So you're doing all right?” It sounded like real concern.

“I'm fine.” The words were automatic.

“Are you sure? I heard about—”

“My little fight yesterday,” I finished for her. “That's already blown over. No big deal.”

And if you believe
that
. . . then my dog totally ate my homework.

“It sounds to me like you might need a creative outlet, Jane. Have you ever considered acting?”

“Acting,” I repeated. “Me?”

“Sure, you can try on a new persona without making anything permanent.”

“Uh, that sounds . . .”

“Interesting. I planned on going to the drama club meeting today, but it wasn't—”

Ms. Helsenberg waved dismissively. “Oh, just come to the auditions for
Romeo and Juliet
tomorrow. I'm providing my Shakespearean expertise, so I'll see you there at three o'clock.”

“Wait, what?!”

“You better start running now.”

I stared at her in confusion. “Running? You think I should join the track team too?”

Ms. Helsenberg smiled. “I think you should get to your next class, Jane. You don't want to be late.”

“Right. Class.”

She gently propelled me out of the door as students filtered in for her Shakespearean Lit class. “See you Thursday.”

I wanted to say something like,
Yeah . . . about that. Not going to happen. But thanks for trying!

But too many students were eyeing me with blatant curiosity for me to get the words past my throat. So I just nodded and scurried away like she had recommended.

Then I spent almost the entirety of my next class trying to figure out what to do for lunch.

The high school play audition sounded a lot more promising than a drama club meeting, so my original plan was out. Which left me debating the merits of giving Scott a heads-up or letting him find out the hard way when I didn't show.

I would have been seriously tempted to stand him up if I hadn't known that he would find some diabolical way to pay me back in full.

So I texted him.

His response was succinct:
Fine.

I pocketed my phone, feeling ridiculous for expecting more. The last thing I wanted was to spend any more time than absolutely necessary with the guy. So for me to be disappointed that he hadn't bothered trying to guess my new lunch plans was patently absurd. Ditto for hoping he might express some concern over my return to the scene of the fight.

Then again, I was anxious enough about walking into the cafeteria for both of us.

I couldn't do it.

Corey's makeover had barely gotten me through my bus ride.... The last thing I wanted was to be the center of the entire school's attention. The very thought of standing in line near Alex Thompson or any of his football team buddies was enough to make me queasy. And knowing that Corey would insist I take off my dad's sweatshirt didn't help matters.

I hid out in the library.

Then I went through the rest of my school day on autopilot. I didn't have to think about my routine because it was just that . . . routine. As much as I hated to admit it, Scott had a point when he called me predictable. I wanted him to be wrong about everything: his stupid photography, his assumptions on my personality—all of it.

But none of that changed the fact that this time he had pegged me.

Not something I particularly wanted to linger on as I shoved two of my notebooks into my locker before I headed downtown—without waiting for a certain photographer. If he was that serious about shadowing me at work, then he knew where to find me. And if I wasted time waiting for him, I might be late. My mom had been unhappy enough about picking me up from school the day before; no way would she be willing to shuttle me to Fiction Addiction for at least a month. I could probably call her en route, begging for a lift, and she would suggest that I run faster. Having a physical trainer for a mother definitely has its share of disadvantages.

Then again, as long as I leave immediately after school, I usually enjoy the walk to work. I can crank up my music without Elle yelling at me to “Turn off that emo crap!” And back when Kenzie and Corey had been primarily ignored by the Notables at our school, I could call one of them up and talk all the way to the store.

I missed those days.

Especially since the walk today wasn't soothing my nerves in the slightest. If anything, I was only growing more anxious about my stupid newspaper story with every step. Which meant it was time to call Corey for advice. I knew the story I had written during class was unprintable, but it was possible he knew something that could be leaked. He had mentioned something a few weeks ago about ReadySet eyeing a potential sound-track job.... That might satisfy Lisa Anne. I tried to convince myself that it didn't count as cheating to use my friend's celebrity contacts to impress Mr. Elliot. It wasn't like I had befriended Kenzie in elementary school because I predicted that someday she'd be an overnight YouTube sensation.

So maybe it was okay if new clothing wasn't the only perk of our friendship.

The possibility pulled me up short, and I tugged off my backpack so I could begin fumbling inside it for my cell phone. Corey would have no trouble coming up with a brilliant idea that would stun even Lisa Anne Montgomery. I was sure of it. That's when a firm, masculine hand gripped my shoulder. I froze in absolute terror.

Alex Thompson.
It was either him or one of his football buddies. And judging by the strength of his hold, whoever it was wouldn't be satisfied with a little catch-and-release action. More like
catch and shove the geek girl around
action . . . if I was lucky. My gut twisted as I mentally berated myself for ever being stupid enough to think that the fistfight had ended in the cafeteria. Alex would never accept being publicly sucker punched by a girl without getting revenge.

Just like I would never accept a thrashing without a fight.

Releasing a piercing battle cry, I swiveled into his grasp and jackknifed my knee into one well-toned stomach. I felt a quick rush of satisfaction at the solid contact and the surprised grunt of pain from my attacker. The grip on my shoulder weakened as he doubled over.

“That's right, scumbag!” Adrenaline pounded through my system like I had just chugged three energy drinks.

“Not so brave without your posse of friends, are you!” I taunted as I stomped down hard on a Converse-clad foot. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to insult an aggressive jerk, but I was beyond caring. “Take that!”

But this time the elbow that was supposed to sideswipe his face was caught in his hand. In a deft move my self-defense classes hadn't covered, he pivoted and drew my arm up behind my back.

“Damn, Jane!” said an all-too-familiar voice. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

My whole body went slack. “Scott?”

“Yeah. Were you expecting someone else?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Let me go.”

There was a long, considering pause. “I don't think so. You might try to throw another punch.”

I tried to yank my arm out of his grasp and succeeded only in wrenching it. Two fights in two days. That had to be a new record for Smith High School. Although we were a few blocks away, so maybe it didn't technically count as fighting on school grounds.

Not that it made me feel any better about the situation.

“Scott, I'm sore, I've got a blinding headache, and I think I can now add ‘paranoid' to my list of winning personality traits. Please release my arm so I'm not late for work too.”

My cool, rational tone appeared to do the trick as he lowered my arm before he unclasped me entirely. I spun around to face him.

“Thanks,” I said with forced politeness. “I'm sorry I hit you. It was an accident.”

“Some accident. That's one hell of a knee you've got there, Grammar Girl.”

I couldn't help smiling at the obvious irritation in his voice. “That's what you get for sneaking up on people.”

He stared at me in disbelief, his green eyes flashing with indignation. “I called out your name
three times,
which you would've noticed if your music hadn't been loud enough to drown out a twenty-one-gun salute.”

“Oh.” I glanced down at the sidewalk where my iPod lay sprawled out like the victim of a sudden hit-and-run. Selecting a playlist for my walk to work was so ingrained I didn't even notice it anymore. Or much of anything else, apparently. “Sorry. My bad.”

“Damn right! What the hell had you wound up that tight anyway?”

“Nothing.”

He shoved his rumpled dark brown bangs out of his eyes and took a good, long look at me. I tried to lock my knees so he wouldn't notice the sudden shaking. I wanted to blame it all on the adrenaline rush from a heated, albeit short-lived, tussle, but a lot of it was from fear. I hadn't been attacked, but that didn't mean a large group of irate football players weren't still out there gunning for me. Maybe Alex Thompson was just biding his time until he was good and ready. Not so reassuring.

“Are you okay?” This time when he asked, his voice was gentler than I'd ever heard it before—which meant he must have noticed the trembling.