Things Not Seen Read online

  I say, “Yeah, I guess.” But then I say, “How come we don’t just do detective work? Because it could have been anything that caused this, right? Like maybe I ate a chunk of irradiated beef at the school cafeteria. Or maybe we lived too close to some big power lines down in Texas. Or maybe I inherited something from you, because you’re the one who’s been smashing atoms for twenty years. Shouldn’t we just start looking for clues?”

  Because I’ve been thinking too. Dad’s not the only guy in the world with a brain.

  Dad says, “Yeees,” drawing out the word while his gears are turning, “you’ve got some good points there—but we have to start somewhere, and for me, that means finding a theory.”

  Who’s surprised? With Dad, it all gets back to theory. That’s what he does all day long: He theorizes. Has he ever actually even seen one of these atoms he studies year after year? No. He looks at made-up pictures of things that are invisible and comes up with theories. I don’t want theories. I need some action.

  I’m not saying anything, and it’s too long a pause, so Dad starts talking again. “Maybe you could go online this afternoon, Bobby. You could go to the website of the journal Science and do some poking around, search their database for articles on light, do some reading—okay?”

  I don’t want to argue with an invalid, so I say, “Yeah, I’ll check it out.” But when we hang up, I turn on the tube and tune in to a John Wayne festival on AMC. Because a John Wayne movie is an almost perfect cure for Dad’s kind of thinking. With John Wayne, it’s all about action.

  My big event for Wednesday is when Mrs. Trent comes to the front door about two o’clock—just as the Duke is revving up his War Wagon. The doorbell rings, and I trot to the front hall. I can tell it’s her. She makes a very wide shadow on the frosted glass.

  She rings a second time, and I make my voice sound kind of weak, and I call out, “Hello? Who’s there?”

  “Bobby? It’s Mrs. Trent…from next door. I heard about your parents. You poor dear, are you all alone in that big old place? I saw the lights come on last night, so I thought you must be there, but I didn’t see you leave for school this morning, so I’ve been worried about you, and I thought I would bring over some cookies.”

  It’s the old “get your foot in the door with some cookies” trick. She really does bake amazing cookies. With Mrs. Trent, sometimes it’s cookies, sometimes it’s a question about how to make her VCR work, or maybe it’s a piece of our junk mail that got delivered to her house. Anything’ll do. And once Mrs. Trent gets into the front hall, it takes at least twenty minutes to get her out again.

  I’m not sure what to say, but I guess I have to go with what Mom told the hospital, so I say, “My great-aunt Ethel is staying with me till my folks come home. She came late last night. And I’m at home because I’ve got the flu. And Aunt Ethel told me to come to the door because she’s in the bathtub, but I shouldn’t open the door…because of the flu…and because it’s cold.” Sounds lame to me, probably to Mrs. Trent too.

  But all she says through the door is, “Well, that’s fine. I just wanted to be sure you were all right, Bobby, so I’ll leave the cookies here on the porch, and your aunt can fetch them inside a little later. Now, you run along and get back into bed.”

  “Okay. Thanks a lot, Mrs. Trent. And I talked with my mom and my dad today, and they’re both doing fine.”

  But she’s already down the steps and waddling across the brown grass on her tiny front lawn. I peek through the glass, and I can see that she put the cookies down about five feet from the door. That’s because Mrs. Trent is smarter than she looks, plus she has a big nose. With the cookies that far out on the porch, Mrs. Trent can sit in her front window and get a sideways look at whoever comes out to retrieve them. She wants to have a gander at Aunt Ethel.

  About ten minutes later Mrs. Trent sees the storm door swing open on our front porch. Then this short plump person with stooped shoulders wearing a long pink terry cloth robe and fuzzy blue slippers shuffles out to the cookies, bends down slowly, picks up the plate, turns around, and shuffles back to the door. Mrs. Trent doesn’t get a good look at Aunt Ethel for three reasons. First, the collar on the pink robe is turned up; second, there’s a bath towel wrapped around her head; and third, the real Aunt Ethel is about twelve hundred miles southeast of here.

  And as a reward for my first major acting role, I have a whole plate of chocolate-chip macadamia nut cookies to myself. They’re gone by the end of the third John Wayne movie.

  But apart from my big performance on the front porch, Wednesday is mostly boring. But I don’t get scared at all Wednesday night.

  And then it’s Thursday.

  Wake up. Shower. Eat. Worry. Watch TV. Talk to Mom. Worry. Watch TV. Worry. Talk to Dad. Read. Worry. Eat. Worry. Read. Worry. Talk to Dad. Worry. Talk to Mom. Worry. Listen to jazz. Talk to Mom. Worry. Worry. Worry. Nap.

  I even worry during my nap.

  So Thursday is pretty much like Wednesday, only worse.

  Besides the worry, it’s worse because it’s a beautiful day outside, one of those trick days near the end of February in Chicago when it feels like spring, except you know there’s going to be six or eight more weeks of cold and snow and sleet. But a day like this actually makes you want to go outside and throw a Frisbee or something.

  And it’s worse because Mom and Dad are doing a lot better and they feel like they have to call me all the time now—which is something new for them.

  And it’s worse because I’m starting to see what’s happening to my life.

  Because it’s not like I wanted this. It’s not like I’m some mad scientist who planned and studied and dreamed about becoming invisible all his life, and now it’s happened, so now I can use my powers to take over the world. It’s not like that, not when it’s really happening.

  And I can just hear some guys at my school talking about this. They’d go, “Whoa! You’re invisible? And you’re bummed about it? Like, what’s your problem? Go with the flow, dude. Check out the girls’ locker room. Check out the jewelry store. Go to the bank and learn some codes, man. Go work for the CIA, you know, like James Bond, only better. Invisible. That’s so cool!”

  Because if that’s what some kid is thinking, that’s because it’s not happening to him. He’s not facing it all day and all night, what it really means. This isn’t a movie where you watch it for two hours and then it ends, and then you climb into a car and you talk about how the movie was while you go to get pizza with some friends.

  This isn’t like that. This is my life.

  And what’s happening means that suddenly my life is completely off track. It’s like a train wreck, and I’m pinned down, trapped. And it’s starting to feel like this is permanent. What if I never change back to the way I was? What then? Do I have to keep it a secret forever, like a spy who can never tell his wife and kids who he really is? Hah! What wife and kids?

  Right now it feels like I’m never going to get to be on my own. Like, never even get my driver’s license, or go away to college. Never buy a car or get a job or have my own apartment. Never!

  And how would I live?

  And where? Am I going to have to stay in this house with my parents? Forever?

  I’m pacing back and forth between the kitchen and the TV room, back and forth, and my whole life is on hold. I’m waiting for something to happen. I’m waiting for Mom to come home and Dad to think and Mrs. Trent to bake more cookies and the school to call and the sun to go down and the sun to come up again tomorrow. It’s like my life is supposed to be playing, but the VCR is on pause and the screen is blank and maybe the whole rest of the tape is erased.

  So I go down the steps from the kitchen and out the side door. That’s the door away from Mrs. Trent’s house. I turn off the alarm. I peel off my clothes, all of them. I take the key out of my jeans pocket, and I go outside and tuck it inside the drainpipe beside the steps.

  And I go around the front corner of the house and walk west, right past
Mrs. Trent’s window. The weatherman said it was going to be unseasonably warm, and for once it was the truth.

  It’s about 65 degrees, so it feels like when the air conditioner is up on high. I can bear it, so I’m going for a walk. Today. Right now. In the sunshine. Because I can. Because I want to. Because I’m not going to just sit around and wait for stuff to happen anymore. I’m still me, and I have a life. It’s a weird life, but it’s still mine.

  It’s still mine.

  chapter 9

  LONE WARRIOR

  Last year our world history teacher told us how the ancient Greeks used to go into battle naked. Fighting with swords and shields and spears. Naked. And how they used to hold their athletic contests naked. Running and wrestling and throwing the discus. Naked.

  Tough guys.

  Tougher than I am.

  Walking west toward the university, I miss my clothes. And not just the warmth, not just because it’s only about 65 and the breeze is picking up. I miss the feeling of protection.

  But I think that maybe I get what the Greeks were up to. Because being naked outside, out here on the battlefield, it’s like I’ve never been this charged up, this alert, this ready for anything. There’s no chance I’m going to make a mistake, because I’ve got no armor. There’s only this thin layer of naked skin holding my life inside it, so am I going to let a sword or a spear or some kid on a skateboard take me out? No way.

  And if I have to run a marathon or jump onto a brick wall to get out of the way of some girl in spandex on a mountain bike, why should I carry a single ounce of extra weight?

  Those Greek generals weren’t stupid. Want your warriors and runners to be fast? Want ’em to fight like crazy and be extra careful and completely awake all the time? All you have to do is take away their clothes.

  Yeah, so I’m thinking deep thoughts. But mostly I’m having fun. Because after three days of building a prison around my head, I’m out on the town. I’m a free man. Me and John Wayne, we’re men of action.

  In real life, no one looks at anyone else very long. I can always tell if someone is looking at me. Most people can, I think. Because when someone does look at you, and you notice it, you look back at them, and they look away, right? Especially strangers. I could never be on one of those reality TV shows where a camera keeps staring and staring, watching everything I do.

  But today I can stare at people as long as I want to. Bobby, the Human Hidden Camera. Up close and personal.

  Like this guy who’s walking the same direction I am. He’s about eighteen, and he’s got on baggy blue jeans and a snowboard sweater and a beanie, and I’m watching him. When some other kids come toward us, he gets this look on his face, very cool, very into his own head. He swings his shoulders, and he bobs his chin up and down. When the kids are past us, the dudewalk stops, switched off. Then the kid scratches his head, picks his nose, wipes the booger onto his jeans, and takes a kick at a pigeon on the sidewalk. Because no one is looking. Except a lone Greek warrior.

  I feel like I’m hurrying, and then I know why. In the back of my mind I’ve known since the second I left my house. It’s because I’m at Fifty-ninth and Kenwood, and the timer in my head tells me that classes at the lab school are just about over for the day and, if I hurry, I can go stand out front and see what’s happening.

  Turns out it’s a fairly dangerous idea, because I’m in front of the entrance at dismissal, and there’s no place to keep out of the way. Four doors are draining straight at me with about three hundred kids streaming down the steps and across the lawns, headed for the cars and buses and sidewalks that take them home. Three days ago I was right in the middle of the herd. It’s hard enough to keep from getting trampled when everyone can actually see you, so I scramble to one side and use a bike rack as a safety zone. I lean backward, but only for a second. The metal bars feel like icicles against the backs of my thighs.

  I spot Kenny Temple, and I smile because I know he’s saying something funny. He’s always funny. He’s talking with Jay Bender, and they’re laughing and shoving each other. Kenny’s got his backpack over one shoulder and his jacket’s open, flapping. He’s got his sax case in his right hand, and that big red book in his left hand. It’s the fiftieth-anniversary edition of The Lord of the Rings. Kenny hasn’t let it out of his sight since he got it for his birthday three weeks ago. The best part is that the book comes with a full set of maps.

  Then Kenny’s onto his bus, and the kids keep coming. A gang of sophomore girls, the popular ones. Maya, Leslie, Carol, Jessica, and three or four others whose names I’ve never learned. Because what would be the point of that? I know Jessica from my honors biology class. But she doesn’t know me.

  The girls glide down the front steps like a unit, like airplanes in formation. Jessica’s the wing leader, tossing her head, lips curled in a smile. The others take their cues from her. Jessica’s talking, and the squadron is listening. They’re listening like Jessica is telling them the secrets of the universe, those funny, clever, precious secrets, the secrets that make them the chosen ones. And I’m not the only guy—or girl—looking at them. And they know it.

  But I turn away. Because I am a Greek warrior, and they are beneath my notice.

  My eyes are pulled back to the steps. Right behind the girls come the soccer gods. In Texas it was the football. At the lab school it’s the soccer. Season’s been over for months, but not the swaggering. That lasts all year. I could easily step out and trip Josh Ackerly, see him stumble and sprawl down the steps. But why should a great warrior stoop to even notice such a pathetic creature? Besides, watching Josh fall might make me laugh out loud, and I have taken a vow of silence.

  The traffic thins, and a few teachers mill around the doors. Dr. Lane. Mrs. Berg. Mr. Kaplan. And then the buses pull away, and the flow trickles down to a few stragglers.

  Show’s over. School’s out.

  I’ve been standing still too long. Now the warrior is cold. I’m tempted to go inside and warm up, but I know I wouldn’t feel comfortable in there. Still, it would be fun to find Mr. Stojis, maybe do a little floating trumpet act for him down in the band room, see if he wants to work it into the program for the spring jazz concert.

  But Mr. Stojis will have to wait. I have other things to do. Like keep my feet from freezing out here on the battlefield. If I go a few more blocks, I can relax in a place where I always feel at home, a place with no gray linoleum on the floor, a place that won’t smell like cafeteria food.

  So I double-time it toward the big university library. I need to walk on warm carpet for a while. If the ancient Greeks had lived next to Lake Michigan instead of the Mediterranean Sea, maybe they’d have reconsidered the nakedness thing.

  Walt’s at the check-in desk again, but he has no authority over me today. Warriors don’t ask permission. I march past his guard post, hidden behind my shield.

  Warmth. Heat is a good thing. Cold makes it impossible to relax. Cold plus naked is even worse. But this, this is nice. Cozy and bright. And clean, soft carpets. No broken glass to step around, no dog poop, no half-melted slush.

  I burst into the stairwell, and I feel like I’m flying, running up the stairs two at a time. It’s like this body I can’t see weighs nothing. And I know where I’m going. To the third floor. The perfect place, a little fortress where a soldier can get some R & R. I’m headed for one of those soundproof listening rooms. I should be able to smuggle a good CD into one of those rooms somehow. How tough could it be? A CD isn’t that big, right? Maybe hide one under my arm? Then I can block the door and settle into a big soft chair and listen to Miles Davis while my feet thaw out. There are four rooms. All I need is one.

  There’s a study group in the first listening room, five serious people, grim. I’m thinking they’re in law school, maybe pre-med. In the second room a guy holding an orchestra baton is facing the wall opposite the door. He’s on his feet, swaying with the music, conducting with all his might. Two people are pacing around in the third room, a man a
nd a woman practicing a theater scene. Very dramatic.

  The last room is being used too. But it’s just one person, and she’s only using a laptop. I feel like pounding on the door and yelling, “Hey, this is a listening room, sister. You can tap on that thing anywhere, so beat it!” And I’m about to turn away when I recognize her.

  And I pause, and I gulp, and I tap on the door softly and then step inside the room quickly and shut the door behind me.

  Because I know this girl, and I’m feeling brave right now. Brave enough to break my vow of silence.

  That’s because the girl tapping on the laptop is the girl I met on Tuesday. It’s the blind girl.

  chapter 10

  PUSH AND PULL

  The girl is startled, and so am I. Because she’s not just typing on her laptop. I didn’t see the slim tape recorder on the table next to her computer, and a man’s voice is speaking:

  …he had almost gone by before Hester Prynne could gather voice enough to attract his observation. At length, she succeeded.

  “Arthur Dimmesdale!” she said, faintly at first; then louder, but hoarsely. “Arthur Dimmesdale!”

  I know those names. She’s listening to an audiobook. She’s reading.

  My hand is still on the doorknob. She’s turned toward me in her chair, her face a mix of curiosity and concern.

  I could still back out. I could turn around and go silently out of the room and she’d never know it was me.

  But it’s been three days since I’ve talked to anyone except Mom and Dad. And Mrs. Trent and Dr. Fleming. And a couple of cabdrivers. So basically, it’s been three days with no human contact.