The Invisible Day (2 page)

“Are you cleaning the bathtub with your tongue, by any chance?”

“Mom!”

“Jane has to pee, honey; could you hurry up?”

I stuffed the bag back into my pack and marched out of the bathroom. Jane crashed past me to the toilet.

“I’ll hang this up for you while you get into your jammies,” said my mother, scooping the pack from my shoulder.

“Uh, no, no, I’ll do it.” I grabbed toward my treasure.

“Billie Stoner, not one more word. Get ready for bed.”

I lay in bed, twitching. I could hear my mother brush her teeth and gargle a long gargle. I heard her drawers open and close and then the soft flap of her duvet.

Go to sleep. I was sending brain signals. I heard the click of the remote control and a
burst of TV sound before she turned down the volume and watched the news, just to torture me.

I was trying to remember how many different things there were in the bag, counting them in my head. Trucks rattled by outside. Finally, the TV went off and her light went out. I practiced breathing like a burglar. I slowly counted to three hundred and then climbed down my ladder. I took eight steps. The floor creaked like in a haunted house. I took three more steps.

Suddenly the light flashed on and my heart jumped out of my ears. My mother stood in the doorway to her room with her eyebrows squeezed together.

“I’m thirsty.”

She glared. I hustled over to the sink and got a quick drink. I almost ran back to bed. My mother just stood there.

My bag might as well be in jail. I put a pillow over my head and begged for sleep.

M
y mother wakes us up in the morning, singing a cheery little song about greeting the sun. Jane likes it, but I think it is as annoying as the kitchen timer.

I slept through it this time, and she had to shake me awake. As soon as I was conscious, I had one goal in mind: Get alone with the bag.

Monday is early chorus rehearsal. We have to be there by 8:15.1 dragged on my jeans and purple sweatshirt in two minutes and combed my hair in two seconds. I snatched my bagel from the counter to eat on the way.

I took my backpack from its hook and quickly checked inside. Then I slid it onto my shoulders like an enchanted cloak, ready for anything.

“Come on, you guys!” I was already in the elevator while Jane was still nibbling her three
bites of Cheerios. And she couldn’t just put on a jacket. She had to add a scarf and a bandanna and a purse full of rubber mice.

“Jane, that’s enough. You are a fashion disaster!” Even my mother was impatient today. She was taking a group of second-graders to the Central Library this morning. The idea is
to introduce them to a real library, but mostly they want to climb on the giant stone lions beside the steps on Fifth Avenue.

Finally, we headed out into the world. Getting to school with Jane is like taking a pet snail for a walk. And we have to poke along at her pace because my mother goes crazy if I go even half a block ahead on the street. What if an out-of-control taxi jumps the curb and plows me over? What if a bad guy in a helicopter swoops down and kidnaps me? What if an earthquake cracks the sidewalk and she has to watch me being swallowed? You get the idea.

My best friend, Hubert, was already in the music room when we got there. He was leaning against the piano, chewing gum and looking through our favorite book,
The Human Body
. It has pictures of people with their skin peeled off, showing veins and muscles and eyeballs. It also has chapters on nasty diseases and babies being born.

Hubert is the one person on earth who has a name that is worse than mine. My name is Isobel. Isobel! In this day and age!
What
were they thinking? According to my mother, she had a great-great-aunt who was very, very rich, and when she was on her deathbed, she said if the firstborn was named after her, she would bequeath a fortune to the blessed infant.

“So where’s my fortune?” I ask.

“Her name was Rose,” she tells me.

Luckily, I called myself Iz-bill as soon as I could talk. And that turned into Billie. So that’s what I’m really called.

But poor Hubert. He is Chinese, and he claims that when his parents arrived in New York with their brand-new baby, a helpful government official with five daughters convinced them to give him his own “all-American” name, knowing it would be the last kid ever called Hubert.

My mother was gabbing to Hubert’s mother and Sam’s dad. I gave her my quality half smile,
and she blew me a kiss. I ducked. She winked and went off happily toward the library stairs, leaving me to my own life for a few hours.

“Hubert,” I called from across the room. “I have something so important to tell you.”

H
ey, Bertie!” As usual, seeing us together, Alyssa couldn’t miss the chance to be mean.

“I said, Hey, Bertie!” she hooted, knocking his arm so that the book slammed to the floor. I stared at her coldly. Hubert’s problem is that he doesn’t stand up for himself. He’s too polite. He doesn’t even like to talk out loud to more than one person.

“Hey, Bertie. Did anyone ever tell you that your hair looks like a lawn that someone
mowed in the wrong direction?” Hubert rolled his lips around and stood on one leg. I think his hair is cute. It stands straight up and looks like the glossy pelt of a panther you’d like to pat.

“Alyssa,” I snarl, “did anyone ever tell you that your face looks like oww!” Hubert kicked me. He was reminding me not to stoop to her level, as tempting as it might be.

“Hey, Bertie, good thing you brought your baby-sitter along. Too bad she’s got breath like a garbage dump.”

“At least I don’t sing like a seal.” I had to have the last word, even though she actually sounds like a real singer, all clear and trembly.

She smirked and turned away to look for other victims, flicking her perfect braid over her shoulder.

“What did you want to tell me?” Hubert retrieved the book from the floor. I signaled that Alyssa was lurking too nearby. He caught on quickly. That’s why I like him.

“Um, did you choose your country?” He changed the subject. He was talking about the Small World Project, which Ms. McPhee had been explaining on Friday. Each of us had to choose a country and do research to find out all about it and then pretend to be from there and tell the rest of the class everything we’d learned. We were supposed to be improving our research skills—using the encyclopedia and other information sources.

“Yeah, I got a really cool idea. I chose Liechtenstein because it’s the smallest country in the world and it has a population that is way smaller than New York City and I thought I could use that for a comparison.”

“Hey, and mine has the biggest population in the world! That’s cool!”

Everybody knew that Hubert was going to do China.

Mr. Belenky strode into the music room and immediately tapped his baton against a music stand.

“Places, please.”

I had one second to decide.

“Come along, sopranos, tidy up that row.”

“Hubert,” I whispered, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

I dashed for the door while Mr. Belenky fumbled with the song sheets. I suddenly felt hot all over my head. I went straight to the girls’ room at the end of the lower hallway.

One tap was dripping, a steady
plink, plink, plink
. Otherwise, it was completely quiet.

I stood between the two sinks and took the little bag out of my pack. The zipper stuck again but I teased it open. I unscrewed the lid of the first pearly pot. Inside was a pale green cream that smelled like cucumbers too long in the sun. The next jar held a buttery-colored lotion that smelled like pudding. The compact sprang open when I touched the gold clasp. The mirror inside the lid was shaped like a heart. The powder in the shallow dish was loose and shimmery.

I stirred it a bit with my fingertip and patted some onto my nose. It was soft and thick, like crushed chalk or cocoa powder. I rubbed more on my cheeks and arms. It had the faint smell of stale toffee. I felt, not exactly a tingle, but a warming. For a moment, it made my skin gleam.

Then, even though it’s impossible, I seemed to get fuzzy, like a photograph out of focus. And then, before my very own eyes, I began to disappear!

It was the strangest feeling I’ve ever had, watching myself fade away to nothing. Even when I was gone, I could see. I mean, my eyes still worked so I could look in the mirror, but it was the toilet stalls I was looking at. The ugly green painted doors, the gray tiled walls, and the paper towel dispenser. I was just not there anymore!

“This,” I said aloud, “is really weird.” I could talk and I could hear!

“This is as weird as it can be.” My voice sounded hollow, but maybe it always sounds that way in the bathroom and had nothing to do with my body disappearing.

I stared into the mirror. I tried to swallow. What was I supposed to do now? Walk into chorus practice and start singing? Go out and confess? “Uh, yeah, I found this bag and kept it for myself. I used the stuff inside and now, well, now I’m gone!” I imagined the look on my mother’s face. I decided to keep thinking.

Maybe if I washed it off?

It was a relief that I could grasp and turn the tap without visible fingers. I could feel the water splashing over my hands and face, but nothing happened. Except that now I had drippy hands and a wet face.

Suddenly I heard voices outside the door. And a giggle that could only be Alyssa’s. I scooped up the powder and the other jars in half a second and nearly screamed when they vanished at my touch. I dropped them into my pack like burning matches. They reappeared instantly.

The bathroom door swung open. Without thinking, I dove for cover in one of the toilet stalls, just as Alyssa burst in with Sarah right behind her.

I had left my backpack on the floor beside the sink.

I
know she’s in here,” said Alyssa in her bossy way. “I saw her go in. Billie! Billie? Aha!” She had spotted my pack.

“Her pack is here,” said Sarah helpfully. “So she must be, too.”

I was an ice statue, cold with fear and as still as a toilet. I clenched my hands and closed my eyes, waiting for Alyssa to see my feet.

Then I almost choked, trying to hold in a laugh. I was invisible!

Alyssa poked her nose under the stall door, trying to catch me balancing on the toilet seat, but she looked right through me. I stuck out my tongue at her upside-down face.

“She’s not here.” I could hear her disappointment. “How did she get out? Come on, Sarah, let’s get her in trouble. She’s late for chorus.”

“She’s probably
in
chorus, Alyssa,” I heard Sarah grumble. “We’re the ones who are late.”

Sarah is new this year. Her family just moved here from Wisconsin. Alyssa snatched her up instantly so she would have a slave-girl. So now nobody else really hangs out with her. Other than being friends with Alyssa, her only mistake is that she hasn’t realized yet that fifth-graders in New York City do not wear pink. She’ll catch on.

“Maybe I won’t snitch just yet,” said Alyssa. “But I’m taking this hostage.”

Her shiny boots clattered out the door, with Sarah trailing.

I knew without looking that she had my backpack.

I had to get Hubert right away. I glanced in the mirror to check that I still wasn’t there. I left the bathroom and tiptoed down the hall to the music room. There he was, in the alto section, gazing up at Mr. Belenky like a choirboy.

Sarah’s head was bowed and Alyssa’s cheeks were bright pink so I knew they’d gotten the evil eye. Too bad I missed it. Lucky for me, Mr. Belenky would never stop a song to listen to Alyssa. He just glares if you’re late and usually glares at the parents, too, assuming it’s their fault. My pack was between Alyssa’s feet at the end of the second row.