Invisible Me

Chapter 13

Judy and I plan to catch the 4:00 show at the multiplex theater. Randy is supposed to catch the bus, maybe to see Kathleen, sometime around 3:30. Squeezing in both engagements will be physically impossible, especially for a thirteen-year-old kid with only a bicycle for transportation. I'm not getting my mother mixed up in this. She's got her own problems. Apparently.

The next afternoon I peddle to Judy's house. I sure wish she had a phone and I could have called her. Knocking on the door, I pray Mrs. Lee won't answer. I already feel lousy enough about breaking the date with Judy. The door creaks open and Judy's face appears. She's in weathered jeans and an old T-shirt.

"Portia! What's up?"

I try to look bummed out. It isn't hard.

• • •

Judy takes the news really well. She says it would be fine if we got together tomorrow. Feeling relieved that Judy didn't give me a hard time, but bad about lying, I hop on my bike and head to Denise's place. Her house is halfway across town. Even though it's a small town, I pedal hard. By the time I reach Denise's, I'm panting. I've made up my mind. I'm going to catch that bus and follow Randy if it's the last thing I ever do.

When I pull up to the curb, Denise is standing there, arms crossed, prim as you please.

"Hi, Portia."

"Ugh," is all I can manage. "I assume you have a new spy outfit for me."

"Right. C'mon in." She strolls toward a columned mansion set behind a large green lawn that seems to go on forever.

I roll my bike into the driveway and park it near a hedge. I pick up my pace to join Denise. Up close, the house looks like a palace. Okay, I'm exaggerating a bit. But only a little.

Denise opens the door. We enter a foyer with marble floors and a great big chandelier made of diamonds. Or things that look like diamonds. Sparkly and colorful. Light twinkles off each piece.

I crane my head to gawk at this amazing fixture. It's gorgeous. Like the royal jewels arranged as a lighting source.

"Portia."

I ignore the faraway sound of my name and focus further on the chandelier.

"Portia."

My attention remains riveted on the fixture.

"Hey, Portia."

Pressure on my shoulder. It's Denise's hand.

"Portia," she says. "What's up? You need to catch the bus."

I right my head. Rubbing the base of my skull, I say, "Okay. Where's my disguise?"

Upstairs, in Denise's bedroom-a room so pink, it makes my eyes hurt-I get my new spy outfit, a red wig, baseball cap, and dark glasses. I put everything on and look at myself in the mirror. Today I am a ginger spy instead of a blonde bimbo. Awesome.

"Give me a minute," Denise calls from inside a closet the size of a backyard shed. "I've got the perfect top for you, if you're interested."

I yawn. What are the chances we wear the same size? I look around at the artwork on the walls. It's not what I'd expect in a thirteen-year-old's bedroom. One of them, a landscape in stark, bold colors, should hang in a gallery. Denise sashays out of her walk-in closet with something in her hand. She looks me over. "This color suits you."

"Thanks, I think."

Denise's brow wrinkles. "Portia, is something wrong?"

"No." I avoid her gaze.

We fall silent.

"Hey," I say. "Where's your family?" I'm just curious.

She shrugs. "I don't know."

In a lame attempt to smooth things over, I say, "Your mom seems really nice . . . ."

"Can we not talk about my mom?" Denise's voice is cold and hard as steel. She raises a hand to her mouth. She reddens. "Sorry."

"N-no problem," I stammer.

I remember the moment in the car when Mrs. Laughton leaned in to kiss Denise and how she recoiled.

Clearly, there's more going on here than meets the eye. And I haven't a clue.

*****

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