The Invisible (14 page)

As we make the rounds and grab mushroom balls, caviar on toast, and cheese puffs from the small silver platters carried by the cater-waiters, I realize we’re moving closer to the shrine set up to honor Martha. Below a row of lit candles and blown-up pictures of Martha in her riding helmet, her school uniform, her prom dress are family photos. One of them draws me toward it—ten-year-old Martha on the beach with Manny and Belinda, all three of them squinting at the camera, grinning and sunburnt. Martha’s gap-toothed grin and blue eyes. Her whole life in front of her. Gone, now. Because of one lunatic.

A ripple of anger moves through my chest, and I sway on my green satin high heels, turning away quickly, looking for Ford and Zahra. The mayor and Belinda are notably absent at this event. Nobody’s seen them since the mayor issued a statement immediately following Martha’s death.

I move along in the crowd, shaking thoughts of vengeance from my mind as best I can. Telling myself to relax for now, to enjoy the party. The huge room has filled up, and bejeweled, begowned women and men in black tie are swirling all around me, so many of them that for a minute I’ve lost sight of Zahra and Ford.

The cater-waiters thread between everyone, quickly emptying their trays and heading back for refills.

When I find them again, Ford hands me a glass of pink champagne. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says.

“Just thinking about Martha.” I smile, straighten up. Trying not to look like someone who wants to throttle and choke anyone. “I’m good, really.”

I take a sip, then a gulp, and feel the bubbles dissolve on my tongue. I drain the glass and feel a tiny bit lighter in my heels, the champagne hitting my mostly empty stomach hard.

Zahra’s laughter in my ears, Ford’s arm around my shoulder, the pink champagne—all of it feels good enough to be in the moment.

“This kid has some serious poise,” Zahra reports. “Even Olive Ann didn’t rattle him.”

“Everyone’s really nice.” Ford grins, and Z and I burst into laughter.

“What?”

Nice
isn’t how I’d ever describe Cathedral kids, but I’m glad he thinks so. “Nice to
you
,” I finally say. “That’s great. I’m so happy you came.”

Just then I notice my mother gliding toward me in her black lace gown, her face calculated and deceptively calm as she eyes Ford.

“Are you ready to meet Helene?” I lean in and whisper in Ford’s ear.

“You mean your mom?” he whispers back.

I nod. Then I grab his glass and down half his champagne as my mother says hello to a series of gray-haired men between us and her.

“I’m looking forward to it.” He straightens his tie. The look he gives me is all reassurance and ease, but still, I worry. What if she’s snobby and mean to him? What if he says the wrong thing?

“You’ve
got
this,” Z says, standing on my other side, giving my hand a squeeze. The quartet in the corner starts playing Beethoven, and it must be a sign. “He’s every mother’s dream.”

And then she’s here. A glass of chardonnay in her right hand. “Hello.” My mother eyes Ford, eyebrows raised. “I’m Anthem’s mother, Helene. I’m so glad you could join us here tonight.” I can read her mind—she’s thinking
handsome
. Also,
stranger
. Also,
sneakers
.

“I . . . Mom, this is . . . my . . .” I open my mouth and stammer a minute. The champagne has done nothing for my powers of speech.

Ford saves the moment from total awkwardness: “I’m Ford. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fleet. And thanks so much for the invitation. You’ve raised an amazing daughter.” Then comes his smile. His twinkling, sincere brown eyes.

Z is right. He knows how to charm people.

“Please, call me Helene,” she says brightly. “And thank you for saying so. We’re very proud of her.”

Ford starts asking her all about her fund-raising efforts for the museum, and she answers him, then asks him about himself, his hopes and dreams. Pointedly not asking him where he’s from. Or how we met.

And then my father saunters over, all smiles. His teeth white and bright, hair gelled into a swish. I sneak a look at Ford, and he’s respectfully sticking out his hand.

“This must be the mystery date,” my father says, winking at me, giving Ford a slap on the back, shaking hands with him.

“Mr. Fleet. An honor to meet you.” Ford clears his throat and stands up straighter so that he’s almost as tall as my father.

“You too, m’boy.”
M’boy?
I shoot a look at Zahra, shrugging, my eyes wide. This is going so much better than I’d imagined. Even my father seems to be holding back, making polite conversation, not invading Ford’s privacy or mine. “How long do you think it’ll take the museum to rebuild the missing wing? Think they can do it in nine months?”

“Hard to say, sir,” Ford says with a laugh. He doesn’t know the first thing about construction, and doesn’t want to say the wrong thing.

“Because we’re going to bid on it and say nine months. Even though between you and me I think it’ll take eighteen, ha ha!” My father’s had some whiskey. He’s relaxed and chatty. The thousand-watt Harris Fleet grin is beaming out from his face like the lights of a spaceship seeking intergalactic fellowship.

“I’ll bet you can pull it off,” Ford says, matching my father’s playful banter. Nobody’s grilling him, so he can relax. Nobody’s asking where he came from, or what his intentions are.

South, North. None of it seems to matter, suddenly. At least not now, not tonight. Maybe my parents learned their lesson with Gavin and are just hoping it isn’t serious with Ford, or hoping not to get into an argument tonight. One or the other. Whatever the reason, I’m glad.

Z elbows me hard in the ribs as my father asks him what he thinks the best way to rebuild the museum is, and actually listens as Ford suggests multiple cranes, all lifting in a row. He uses his arms to show how they’d do the job. My father nods, rubbing his chin, suggesting additional tractors, wedges, and pulleys they’d need to use. “If we get the job, I’ll call you, and you can remind me what you said tonight,” he jokes.

Ford laughs, and it doesn’t sound fake. I’ve always liked his laugh, the way it’s from his gut.

“Parents’ dream,” Zahra whispers. “Told ya.”

“I’ve read a lot about Fleet Industries, the new stadium project,” Ford says.

He has? I look at him sideways, but he presses on. “You’re breaking ground soon, right?”

My father nods. “After many headaches. If you’re interested, come down to the office one day; I’ll give you a tour and show you the plans for the stadium.”

“Wow, really?” Ford shoots me a look, and I shrug. I’m just as surprised as he is. “Thanks, Mr. Fleet. I’d like that.”

“Call me Harris.” My father smiles at Ford, then turns to me and winks almost imperceptibly before he breezes away, waving across the room to two old men.

“Excuse me.” My mother smiles at Ford. “Those investors look like they want a minute,” she says, then follows my father into the crowd.

“I think that went okay,” Ford says. “They’re nice.”

I nod. They can be nice, when they decide to be. And I’m relieved they put on their charming personas, just now, with Ford. Who knows, maybe my parents genuinely liked him. Maybe they’d want to spend more time with him, in the future. Maybe he can come over to the apartment and hang out and it doesn’t have to be a big deal, or awkward, or anything.

It’s a happy few minutes, my feet
pas de bourr
é
e
ing under my long gown as I move around the party with Ford and Zahra, a cater-waiter politely replacing my empty champagne glass with a full one, the champagne starting to make all of me fizz and effervesce. I let myself wonder if the pieces of my life are coming together, becoming something new and better.

I’m not immediately on my guard when a tower of champagne glasses shatters on the far side of the room. A woman screams, but I don’t think twice.

Then I notice four of the cater-waiters—three young men, one woman—moving quickly toward the center of the room. Which wouldn’t be so strange, except they’re not holding trays anymore. And there’s something odd about the black aprons they wear tied around their waists. They look lumpy, weighted down with something.

Across each of their faces is a creepy, pasted-on smile.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

“Please step back,” one of the smiling cater-waiters says, his voice clear and loud as a bell. They form a horizontal line as they move forward.

“You heard him; step back, please,” repeats another, this one unsmiling, his mouth twisted into a grimace. Though they say “please,” their tone is insistent. “There will now be a short film from our sponsor.”

As the lights dim and the room goes dark, I scan the crowd pressing in on all sides until I see my mother. She is making her way to the back of the room, her face clouded with anger, her stride long and effortful. She must be going to get security. She knows the program, and this is obviously not on it.

I look to the doors. When we came in, there was security everywhere. Bulky men in tuxedos with wires in their ears and blank expressions. But I don’t see any of them anymore.

Behind the line of four grinning cater-waiters, a huge white screen lowers down from a small slit in the ceiling on the far wall. “I don’t think we want to see this,” Ford hisses. “Where is security?”

I put a hand on his arm and signal that we should split up, cover more ground. “Let’s go look.”

Zahra is three people over from me. She looks ready to be amused. I whirl around, moving backward through the crowd, conscious of a thin white beam of light coming from a projector at the back of the room. I thread my way through people clumped in groups, everyone looking worried in the darkness. Ford heads the opposite direction.

Then the film begins to roll behind me.

No.

My heart sinks when I hear the static, though a part of me knew this was what was coming. I whirl around again and am met with the drawing of Invisible’s placid, all-seeing eye emerging from gray and white, growing darker at the bottom, lighter at the top.

And then the dark curls framing the white mask, the crude, crayoned-on features.
It’s him
. The person who is supposed to be in the maximum security wing of Bedlam Prison. “It was touching how you thought I’d been locked away. You were all so happy.” A staticky laugh, the chuckle coming through the plastic of the mask. Did he escape? Was he set free?

“But I’m not as easy to catch as you all thought.” His words slice through me like a knife. Suddenly it’s obvious. It was all too easy. The person I captured was a decoy.

My heart thrumming louder than an outboard motor, I start to creep toward Ford, past dozens of people who’ve known me for years. I can’t attack the cater-waiters. There are too many witnesses.

“We need to disable the projector,” I hiss when I reach Ford. “I need it to be dark so I can stop them.”

I move around a cluster of older women. There are just a few more rows of people to move through before I reach the back of the room where the projector is. I can feel Ford beside me in the darkness.

“I like to think we can all be happy together, don’t you?” the masked man drones in that computer-altered voice of his. “Once the city is evened out, everyone can find a little piece of happiness.”

I thought I took care of you
, I think as I glare at the masked man.

“And I’m afraid most of you haven’t begun paying your share,” he continues. “I asked for half of your money, but it appears you need a little help handing it over. So today, we’ve come to collect.”

I’m almost to the projector when there’s a commotion in the center of the crowd. Three cater-waiters—not the ones at the front of the room, but others I hadn’t accounted for—lift a white glass globe full of cash off a pedestal in the middle of the room. This is the globe people have been putting money into all evening, for charity. For the museum. A roar goes up from the crowd as tuxedoed men start shoving the waiters in an attempt to grab the globe, and for a moment there are so many bodies I can’t see what’s happening.

The roar gets louder a second later, when the globe smashes to the floor, along with several guests, shoved down or clocked by the cater-waiters. It’s horrible, but at least it creates a good distraction. Nobody will notice us in the back. Nobody’s going to see a girl jumping much too high. Nobody’s paying attention.

When we reach the back of the room, I look at Ford and gesture with my chin toward the ceiling, the beam of light.

He nods, dropping down on one knee and turning his back to me. I take a running start toward him and jump, bouncing off his back and shoulders and up, up, flinging myself into the air, my heart spinning, legs pumping air, my arms straining until I’m high enough to reach out and grab the lens. I grab the black eye of it and yank as hard as I can. It snaps, creaking for a split second before it pops off in my hand.

Blackness fills the room. People are yelling. Screaming. We move toward the edge of the room to avoid the crowd, feeling along the walls. I race to speed up, and in a moment I’m at the front of the room, just a few feet from one of them. Shaking, I leap onto the cater-waiter nearest me. It’s dark. He doesn’t make a sound, barely struggles. Nobody can see my hands battering him, reaching around his throat . . .

But then, just behind me, there are a series of clicks. A hissing sound. And I feel my grip on his neck start to weaken inexplicably.

“All of it,” I hear under the crowd’s shouting. “Now.”

And then, directly in front of me, a series of clicks, metal clattering on the wood floor. And the whoosh of something sinister opening up.

Just then, someone turns the lights back on, and I see too late what’s all around us.

Two of the cater-waiters are fastening gas masks on as they fling several white, shiny cylinders into the air. Thick plumes of pink smoke spew from each one. I am already surrounded with the gas. I stagger backward, away from the one I’d been choking. He grins and slips a mask over his head.