Actually Invisible, page 3
“I quite literally do not give a shit,” Amanda replied, tossing her wavy dark-brown hair behind her shoulders. “Mom is gone for this entire week, and I promised myself and my friends I would have a party every single night. I have to clean up from last night before they come over tonight.”
I scoffed. “Do you actually think that your slimy friends care if there are still beer bottles laying around?”
“It’s embarrassing enough that I still live with my mother at the age of twenty-two. I don’t also want to be a slob.” Amanda bent down and began collecting beer bottles by their necks, the glass clinking rhythmically.
“Whatever, Mands.” I considered helping but decided against it. “Can you still give me a ride to the polling place? It’s freezing outside. I’ll walk to Dad’s afterwards if you just take me to the church first.”
She tossed the bottles into an empty garbage bag, and we both jumped slightly at the noise. “As long as you promise not to show your face at home any night this week. Dad is still okay with you staying with him, right?”
I shrugged. “He gave me a key. He’s been working every night at the bar, and I’ve been asleep when he gets home, and he’s been asleep when I get up for school. I’m kind of worried about him, actually, because there has been an excessive amount of beer bottles in his garbage can. You might as well invite him to your party, so you can drink together!”
“Please,” she tied the garbage bag closed, “the only thing worse than living with my mom would be drinking with my dad. Why does he think you’re staying with him this week?”
I shrugged again. “Honestly, he didn’t ask. You’re still taking me to rehearsal tomorrow and Thursday night, right? That was the deal. I can’t ask Emily again. I’ll seem desperate to be in a car with her.”
“You are desperate to be in a car with her.” She narrowed her eyes at me and smirked.
“Shut up.” I shoved her not-so-playfully forward as we ascended the basement stairs to the kitchen. When we reached the top, Amanda dropped the garbage bag next to a few others near the back door. “You know what I mean. I’ll bum a ride home from someone, but I just feel weird asking anyone to come get me beforehand.”
“You are weird. Weird and desperate.” Amanda grabbed her car keys, and I followed her out back to where the car we shared—a 1987 wooden-paneled station wagon named Woody—was waiting in the alley.
I stomped my foot. “Amanda! Will you give me a ride or not?”
“A deal is a deal. Now get in the car to go fulfill your civic duty. I don’t have all night.”
We drove in silence to the church that was serving as the polling location.
“Remember when we used to come here every Sunday as a family?” Amanda asked quietly as she pulled up to the front entrance of the banquet hall. “Then we would go out to brunch at that place with the buffet?”
“Of course I remember. Those hash browns were the bomb.”
“I don’t mean the food, fatso.” Amanda rolled her eyes, and I pictured myself asking for her leftover hash browns. She always left food on her plate, which probably explained why she could pull off bikinis and crop tops. She sometimes enjoyed pointing this out to me since she had started hanging out with her party friends. Before Dad left, she never would have said anything like that to me, but callousness was her new normal. “I mean, like, being a family. Before Dad left.”
“You think I don’t remember being a family before Dad left?” I unbuckled my seatbelt, aware that Amanda’s didn’t have to stretch as far as mine did across my middle. “Do people forget that kind of thing?” I still hate when Amanda asks me questions like I’m a toddler.
“I don’t know. I think Dad has.” Her voice was still quiet.
I felt myself get defensive. “He has not. He just didn’t want to be with Mom anymore. Mom seems to be surviving just fine without him, so I guess it worked out.”
Amanda stared straight ahead at the setting sun. “Yeah. I guess. See you tomorrow.”
“Don’t be a dumbass tonight,” I said as I closed the car door.
Looking up at the stained glass window above the banquet hall, I remembered the stiff church shoes that Mom made me wear every Sunday. The memory flooded me like a familiar, long-ago scent.
Stepping into the banquet hall felt surreal, like stepping back in time. Not one thing had changed in the four years since I had last been there. The coat racks lined the entryway, and the gray marble floor shone like someone had just waxed it that morning. I took a deep breath and smelled distant incense and old lady perfume. Yep, that was the right place.
Suddenly, I felt nervous I was going to do something wrong. I had my driver’s license and the key to Dad’s apartment, but I felt like I was forgetting something. “Probably my childhood,” I thought as I rolled my eyes, remembering my sister’s dumb questions. I spotted the line of people waiting to vote and joined the end of it, reminding myself to breathe and that it was okay to do something for the first time. It was even okay to ask questions if I didn’t know how to do something.
The line went quickly. I took note of how everyone checked in first by signing a paper before going over to a voting booth. My palms felt clammy as I approached the girl sitting behind the table who looked like she wasn’t much older than I was.
“Name and license please,” she said cheerfully.
I took my license out of my pocket, not making eye contact with her. “Josephine Michelle Rein,” I told her, eyes on the hand taking my license.
She chuckled and said, “You don’t need to say your middle name.”
I looked up, feeling my ears turning red, and started to say, “Sorry—”
“You’re new to this. I can tell. I can spot a newbie from a mile away.” She raised her eyebrows with amusement.
I smiled sheepishly as I signed my name—first and last only. She handed me my license and told me to step to the last voting booth on the right. “Have fun!” she beamed.
As I approached the voting booth, I felt her eyes follow me before she asked for the name and license of the next person in line. The voting process itself was easier than I expected. When I finished and looked up victoriously, the girl who had signed me in was giving me a half-smile. I watched her lean over to the man next to her and whisper something to him. Then, as I was walking toward the front door, she caught my eye again, grabbed her coat, and motioned with her hand for me to follow her out the back exit.
We both stepped out into the back parking lot where she lit a cigarette, offering one to me. I shook my head and watched her squint as she inhaled slowly, exhaled at the same pace, and then said, “I’ve been here all day. It may not look like hard work, but it’s hard to smile at people who are about to vote for someone you wish they wouldn’t.”
That took me off-guard, and I smiled. “What makes you assume anyone is voting for a certain person?”
The sun had fully set by that point, and we were standing under a lamppost in an empty lot reserved for church services. Under the bright light, I could see her striking blue eyes. I wondered how I hadn’t noticed them inside of the banquet hall but then remembered that I had felt too awkward to look at her much.
“I can tell.” She looked around conspiratorially. “Some people just have that look—like their noses are turned up. Your nose isn’t turned up at all, Josephine, so I know we are on the same team.”
I don’t like being reminded of my larger-than-average nose, which I absent-mindedly covered with my hand just then. She laughed. “I didn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with your nose. It suits your face perfectly.”
The red ears returned. I wanted to cover them at that moment, too, but I didn’t have enough hands. I just laughed quietly and didn’t know what to say.
“I’m Cameron, by the way,” she stuck her right hand out to gesture for a handshake, cigarette in her other hand. I took it tentatively, always worried my handshakes are too damp or weak.
“I’m—oh, you already know my name. But not many people call me Josephine, aside from my grandma who died last year. Most people call me Josie.”
“Nice to meet you, Josie,” Cameron smiled. She looked like she was going to say something else when a white pickup truck pulled into the parking lot and right up to us.
“Hey, Cam.” The driver was a male who looked to be about the same age as Cameron. His eyes were disconcertingly intense, but I couldn’t make out much else about him from that lighting.
“Hey, Brad.” She stepped on her cigarette. “I told you I’m not done until eight o’clock.” She looked down at her watch, a few strands of straight blonde hair falling into her face, so she pushed them back and looked back up at him. “It’s only 7:20.”
“I know, babe, but I couldn’t wait to see you.” He flashed her a smile so intimate that I slowly stepped back into the shadow of the brick wall, embarrassed to be the third wheel.
“I’ll call you when I’m done. I told you I was driving myself here, anyway.”
“I know, but I thought you might want to leave your car here and go grab a drink with me.” He looked at her expectantly.
“I’ll probably end up cleaning up here after we’re done. I promised John I would help.”
He pouted. “Fine. I’ll be expecting your call by 8:30, and you can meet me wherever I am.”
“I’ll do my best!” she smiled sweetly at him. He blew her a kiss and pulled away.
Still in the shadows, I started to quietly make my way toward the corner of the building, in the direction of my dad’s apartment complex. It was about three blocks from there, so I put my hands in my coat pockets to brace against the cold wind I knew would hit me when I lost the protection from the church building.
“Hey,” Cameron called. “Where are you running off to?”
I stopped and looked back at her apologetically. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to stick around for so long. You clearly have to get back to work. I bet the line is out the door by now.”
“Oh no, my shift is done. Do you need a ride?”
“But you told—”
She snorted. “Yeah, I know what I told him. That was Brad, my ex-boyfriend. He hasn’t exactly come to terms with the fact that we aren’t together anymore, so he still kind of acts like we are.”
“Um, okay. You could have fooled me.”
“Eh,” she shrugged, “it’s just easier to play along sometimes. If I would have called him out in front of you, he would have flipped. Not worth it.”
I half-turned to face her, uncommitted to staying. “I don’t even think he noticed I was there.”
“Trust me—he noticed.” She looked certain.
“But I didn’t say a word.”
“I’m standing alone in the dark with a beautiful girl. He noticed.”
My voice caught in my throat. The only person who had ever called me beautiful was my dad. I wasn’t sure if I had heard the words correctly.
“So,” Cameron asked again, “do you need a ride?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. It would be nice to get out of the cold, but I was always worried that I was inconveniencing people. “If you don’t mind,” I replied shyly.
“Not even one little bit.” She reached for and grabbed my hand to lead me in the opposite direction. I tried to will my palms to not start sweating. Who was this girl? A fresh, sweet scent floated from her hair, and I was dizzy with anticipation.
We arrived at a beat-up old red sedan parked near where Amanda had dropped me off.
“This,” Cameron gestured to the car, “is the Red Rocket. Rocket, meet Josie.”
I laughed. “Nice to meet you, Rocket.”
“Hold on.” She got into the driver’s seat and leaned over to open the passenger-side door. “It only opens from the inside.” She shrugged, and I laughed again.
Once we had both settled into our seat-belts, she asked, “So where are you headed? You must live pretty close if this is your polling place.”
“My dad does. He lives about three blocks that way,” I pointed, “on Highland Avenue.”
“Cool. That’s not too far from my folks. It’s barely even out of the way. I was going to ask you to get out if your destination was going to be more than a mild inconvenience.” She gave me a side-eye and started the car. The radio immediately began blaring a Dave Matthews Band song, and she reached quickly to turn down the volume. “Sorry about that. I guess I was jamming.”
I smiled. “I do the same thing in my car, except it’s more likely to be someone like Tori Amos or Jann Arden.”
“Who?”
“Which one?”
“I kind of know who the first one is, but I have no idea who the second one is.”
“Yeah,” I chuckled, “a lot of people say that. She’s Canadian and not exactly famous here, but you would probably know one of her songs.”
“Sing it for me.”
I felt my blood start pumping. Singing was my thing. I did it on stage several nights per week and did it for fun by myself. I did it in my car and in the shower and while cleaning my room. But, for some reason, I froze.
“I don’t want to.” I felt the urge to bite my finger but resisted it.
“Why? Can’t you carry a tune? I mean, I really can’t carry a tune, and I don’t even pretend to be able to, so I respect it if you can’t, either.”
I winced at the idea of myself not being musical. “No, I can. I’m just not emotionally prepared to give you a concert right now.”
Cameron snorted. “A concert? I’m asking for a few lines from a song, not an entire album! Wow, you are dramatic.”
“You’re not the only person who has told me that.” I grinned.
Dave Matthews serenaded us quietly as I considered what to do next. This gorgeous girl—who had called me beautiful—had asked me to sing for her. It would be epically stupid to say no. I leaned forward and turned the volume all the way down and sang the chorus to the most famous Jann Arden song, which just so happens to reference driving someone home. I stopped and said, “It’s funny to sing that to someone who is actually driving me home.”
Cameron blinked a few times and said, “Damn, you’re beautiful, and you can sing. Now what am I supposed to do with that?” She stopped at a stop sign and looked over at me. I felt my entire body start to tingle, and my mouth became incapable of forming any words. I had no idea how to react in such a situation. I had never been hit on by a girl before, and I was pretty sure that was what she was doing—hitting on me. I had come out of the closet when I was fourteen years old and still had yet to meet one other lesbian in my small town—let alone a sexy one who was looking right at me with intrigue in her stunning blue eyes.
“Well, what do you want to do with me?” I realized how brazen that sounded after it left my mouth. Cameron laughed loudly again and continued driving.
“How old are you, Josie? I don’t feel like I’ve seen you around, and I’m pretty sure I would have noticed.”
Eighteen suddenly felt like eight, but I was honest. “I turned eighteen last month. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-two. Are you still in high school?”
“I’m a senior.”
She nodded. “So am I … in college. I’m doing my student teaching in a second-grade classroom about fifteen minutes from here.”
“Oh, you’re going to be a teacher? That’s awesome! I’m going to go into education, too. Not for little kids, though. I want to teach high school English. Writing and grammar are my second and third loves after music.”
“So why don’t you go into music then?”
“It’s not that easy. I would love to record my music in a studio—”
“Wait,” she glanced at me, “you actually write your own music?”
I suddenly felt shy again. My music was emotional and private and so not professional enough to even be talking about it. “Yes. It’s not great, but it’s my favorite thing to do. To write it. So I figure I can write music for my entire life in my free time when I’m not teaching writing.”
“Well, I’m here to tell you that teachers don’t actually get much free time, contrary to popular belief!” Cameron sighed. “I have, like, three lessons to plan for tomorrow, so I know I won’t get to bed until close to midnight.”
“Yikes. Well, I hope you get some sleep. This is my dad’s apartment complex.” I pointed to a gray brick building coming up on the right, and she pulled into the parking lot. “Thank you so much for driving me here. My sister has kidnapped the car for the week because she insists that driving her loser friends around is more important than—well—anything in the world.”
“Wait a minute,” Cameron parked the car. “You’re Amanda Rein’s sister? I don’t know why that didn’t occur to me when I saw your last name.”
“The one and only,” I shrugged. I didn’t know what she was going to say about Amanda next; in fact, I almost didn’t want to know. Ever since Dad had left Mom a few years before then, Amanda had gone haywire. She used to be a straight-A student and a great basketball player, but she suddenly barely got C’s and spent all of her time either with a boyfriend (not always the same one) or with her stoner friends. I missed her. I missed everyone in my family in different ways, but Amanda was the one who hurt the most because weren’t siblings supposed to stick together in the face of a divorce?
“Huh,” Cameron said in a well-what-do-you-know revelation. “Where did you get that blonde hair? Your sister’s hair is practically black.”
“Everyone always asks us that, and I have no idea. Both of our parents have dark hair.”
“Ahhh, so you’re the milk man’s daughter,” she teased.
“Yep, that’s me,” I smiled at the joke I had heard many times before, certain that I am both my mother’s and father’s daughter. “How do you know Amanda?”
“I don’t actually.” She shrugged. “I just used to see her around school sometimes. She wears really short skirts, so it’s hard to miss her.”
I felt defensive of both my sister and myself; people were always noticing Amanda before they noticed me. That’s just the way it was.
“Well, thanks again for driving me.” I put my hand on the door handle, ready to resign myself to being swallowed whole by my sister’s reputation yet again.
