But I say, “Why is Bobby being followed?”
“Because of me. And because of this…condition we’ve both had.” Again, I can hear the desperation in his voice. “I had a tangle with the police in New York, and I managed to get away. But not before a young officer got a grip on my arm for a few seconds, just long enough to become extremely upset by what he was seeing. Or rather, not seeing. And now the authorities in New York are struggling with an impossible concept—that there’s a transparent man on the loose in Manhattan, possibly more than one. And possibly elsewhere as well. And that scares them, as it jolly well should. And I’m certain there’s a huge push to get to the bottom of it. An invisible-man hunt.”
As he’s talking, I’ve got this sudden urge to get rid of this man, like maybe chain him to a concrete block and dump him off a pier. Not that I’d do that. But the thought comes anyway. Because it sounds like he’s inches away from exposing this secret, which would be awful for Bobby. Awful for me too. Because if this takes one wrong turn, the government will take him. Or the spymasters will get him. Or the physicists and the biologists. Someone will take him, because Bobby is Exhibit A, the living proof that a human being can vanish from sight and then come back. And for anyone who sees the world as an us-and-them sort of place, invisibility offers an irresistible power. I’ve had a long time to think about this, about the explosive effect this information could have if it gets loose, and not just on our own private lives—Bobby’s and mine and our families’. We’ll just be the early casualties.
I push the grim thoughts away, try to refocus on the immediate problem. And I ask, “So…what’s Bobby got to do with all of it, I mean with you and the police? You’re the one they’re after, right? I still don’t get why these people are watching him.”
“Yes, well, that’s the sad bit. Robert and I? We got off to a very bad start when we first met in New York, and I’m to blame for a big part of that. And he…”
Footsteps. On the tile floor, moving toward me from the right, then shuffling to a stop in front of me.
A tall man with a deep voice clears his throat. “Excuse me, miss, I’m Officer Dennison, U of C Security. Are you all right? Can I offer some assistance?”
I smile as best I can, tilting my face toward his voice. “No, I’m fine. Just bundling up before I head for home.”
“Good, ’cause it’s cold out there. Have you got a long walk? I could get a university patrol car here right away. Be happy to help out.”
“No, I’ll be fine, thanks. It’s only about seven blocks. I come here all the time.”
“Oh, I know. I’ve seen you a lot. Well, sorry to bother you. Have a good afternoon, all right?”
I smile and nod. “Thanks again.”
I begin gathering my things again—find my gloves, then readjust my scarf, get to my feet, put the strap of my bag over my right shoulder, and I hear the officer walking back toward the security desk. Poor guy. He got worried, watching the blind girl nodding and talking to herself. I don’t blame him. And I bet he’s still got an eye on me.
“Gertie, come…good girl.”
We start for the doors, and she’s nervous as a sparrow. But we’re on the move, leaving, and she’s glad.
Not me. Because I need to ask that man more questions. About what happened with him and the police. About why he’s here in Chicago. About the men following Bobby. And about that other thing. What Robert said about me. His girlfriend.
I’m straining my ears, hoping to hear a whisper from William.
It doesn’t come.
And a minute later Gertie and I are through the double doors, across the courtyard, and headed for home, walking into a biting wind. And I know that man is not going to be anywhere near us now, not in this cold. Not without clothes.
So my questions will have to wait.
And other things will have to wait as well. Probably.
Because about an hour ago, I did call Bobby—after I worked on my history project. And after more scolding from my inner voice. And Bobby’s picking me up in about an hour and we’re going over to his house. We’ve got a date. We’re going to be alone.
And after that phone call an hour ago, I had it all worked out in my mind. How Bobby and I would find the perfect moment. How we’d sit close together, how we’d talk. Finally.
But now I have to tell him about William. And about the people who are shadowing him.
Because even if I hate it, and even if Bobby and I never get to be truly alone, and even if it means that my heart shrivels up and dies, I still have to deal with things as they are…right? Right.
And the way things are at the moment is rotten.
Because that feeling I’ve been having, that everything’s at risk? It’s not a feeling anymore. It’s a certainty.
chapter 6
orbits
I’m on Ellis Avenue, a little more than halfway home. Physically.
Mentally, I’m bouncing all over the place. I’m in New York, trying to understand what happened there. I’m in the middle of three or four imaginary conversations with Bobby. And I’m back at the library questioning the Englishman. Who is naked. And invisible.
I’m handling that particular circumstance pretty well, I think. Dealing with it calmly, rationally.
If I weren’t blind, I know I’d be having a more severe reaction to that man. But disembodied voices are nothing new to me. I understand William is invisible, but I can only imagine how others can’t see him. Actually not seeing him with my own eyes would be more of a shock. That’s my theory. Plus, I’m one of the few people on earth who has experience in this field—maybe I should have included that as a skill on my college applications: Perfectly at ease with invisible people.
Because I’m not frightened by this man. I’m more scared about the people following Bobby. Because I don’t believe they’re really after him, at least not yet. The police want to get to the bottom of their encounter with William, and there must be some way they think following Bobby will help with that. That’s what I think. Because they definitely want to find William. Because as far as they’re concerned, either a weird and very dangerous phenomenon is for real, or they’ve just got a very crazy New York police officer on their hands—the one who reported that he had his hands around the arm of an invisible man.
So really, the main thing is to keep William from being caught.
Because if they get to William, they’ll want Bobby too. Because he’s taken the round-trip. And they’ll also want to round up anyone else who knows anything at all about the phenomenon. Which includes me, my parents, and Bobby’s parents. And Gwen, the newest member of our little club.
But my thoughts are just chasing themselves around in circles. I need facts. And I need Bobby.
I’ve already reached for my phone four times, to tell him people are watching him. But it’s not like he’s doing anything suspicious or illegal. If I tell him he’s being followed, he might start acting weird or something.
And he might not want to come over and pick me up. For our date. To go to his house.
I haven’t figured out what happens if my mom’s home, what I’m going to tell her about going out this afternoon. She’s not a big Bobby fan. That can probably be traced to the day two years ago when he showed up naked at our front door. Invisible, yes, but naked. Not a good first impression.
Because back then, if Bobby wanted to get out of his house, he had to bundle up, completely cover his body and face. Or do the opposite—like the Englishman I just met.
Mom won’t like me going over to Bobby’s. Of course, she probably doesn’t know his parents are away. And if she doesn’t ask, I don’t have to tell her. That’s my rule. I try not to lie, but I don’t require myself to volunteer sensitive information.
…five, six, seven, eight…
I’ve got this meter in my head that’s always counting steps, always keeping myself located on a mental grid. I’ve turned left onto Fifty-fifth Street now, and I’ve got about 220 steps s
traight ahead to reach Drexel Avenue.
Bobby tells me all the time how great MapQuest is, and how Google Earth is so amazing. And I’m sure he’s right. But I have to make my own maps.
Sometimes late at night when I can’t sleep, I walk through our house in my mind, then I go out for a mental walk. I walk south on Ellis toward the university, noticing my place markers—the smell of the asphalt from the big parking lot at Fifty-fifth Street; the smell of bleach from the laundry dryer vents at the university gym; the little dog with the high-pitched voice who barks at Gertie and me from a ground floor window of the Young Building; loud music from the dorms in the commons. When I cross Fifty-seventh Street, I take a few turns around the main quads, find my favorite stone archways with the deepest echoes, listen for the chimes from the bell tower at the Rockefeller Chapel. And when I’m good and tired, I use my mental compass and I find my way home. I go in the front door, climb the stairs, turn right, go past the bathroom, find my own door, and climb back into the bed I’ve never left. …eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven…
And whenever I walk, for real or not, I feel how my world has shrunk, and I fight that, every day, every second. I refuse to let the whole wide universe become a few small maps folded up inside my head. Because everything keeps trying to collapse inward, the way a dying star goes dense and dark. The gravity grabs all the light. No escape.
But I’m fighting it. And I’m ambitious: I’m going to bring all that brightness back inside. I’m going to include it all. In my consciousness. Which is the only place it ever was anyway. Deep philosophy, right here on Fifty-fifth Street.
And I’m not kidding myself. All this mental chitchat is just to keep myself from worrying about invisible men and professional stalkers. And Bobby. And the whole newsreel drama of my life.
Gertie’s calmed down. A close encounter with a person who smells and moves and talks, but who looks all wrong—can’t blame her for getting edgy. And the more I think about that man, the less I trust him. There was something in his voice that scared me. Maybe the desperation. Because a person who’s truly desperate can be dangerous. And dishonest. And volatile.
But Gertie’s put that behind her now, and she’s just marching ahead. Wish I could say the same. When I grow up, I want to be as mature and stable and single-minded as my dog.
The steps have been stepped and the turns have been turned, and as I open our front gate, I hear the squeak of the top hinge. The picket fence along the sidewalk was Dad’s idea to help me distinguish our front walk from the others on this side of the street.
Up the stairs, open the storm door, take the key out of my bag, find the lock, turn the key and the knob, step into the entryway, and then reach up on the wall to the alarm panel and punch the code before the thirty seconds are up. Which isn’t easy when my fingers are this cold. “System is armed.”
“Hi…I’m home….” My voice echoes up the front staircase. No answer.
Good. Mom’s not here. Which means I might not have to face an inquisition before I go to Bobby’s. If I can get out of here fast enough.
I unclip the handle from Gertie’s harness, hang it on the hook by the tall mirror. Released from duty, Gertie trots back toward the kitchen. Then I put my computer bag on the little bench in the front hallway, put my gloves and hat and scarf on the table beside it. I hang my coat on its hanger and shut the closet door. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Hook, bench, table, hanger. My life depends on knowing exactly where everything is.
Which is another reason that William’s arrival is so upsetting. The newness, the unpredictability—that’s almost more troubling than the invisibility. Because he’s in our orbit now, mine and Bobby’s, floating around like an asteroid or a chunk of space debris. Something else to bump into.
Talking to Bobby ought to help. He can put a few more things in order for me, help me find a hook for hanging up an invisible Englishman.
But not yet. Right now? I’m pushing it all out of my mind. Again.
I want to go up to my room and get ready, maybe shower, change outfits. Because I have a date. And something wonderful could still happen. It’s possible.
I’m holding on to that. My so-called date with Bobby. Today.
No matter what.
chapter 7
gentleman caller
Bobby always says I look great, but he doesn’t know I work at it. Not obsessively or anything. Just enough. Blindness and vanity—bad combination. And this afternoon will be the first time we’ve spent any time alone together in ages.
I’m going to go upstairs and take a shower and stop thinking about everything except Bobby.
And I know I’m being stupid, getting all prettied up. But I’m going to anyway. And I’m going to wear my dark green cashmere sweater and my new tan wool slacks. Maybe even risk a little blush on my winter-pale cheeks. I’m sure I look like a ghost.
Looks. Like I can afford to be worrying about my looks.
But first things first.
Because before anything else happens, Gertie needs a meal. And then she needs to go out. She’s on a special diet that helps regulate how often she needs to do her business. Which seems gross, but me knowing exactly what she needs is part of our deal. She’s been right at my side for the past three hours, being my eyes, taking care of me. So now it’s my turn. Symbiosis.
I get to the kitchen, and I already know where Gertie is. She’s lying down with her nose aimed at her big porcelain bowl, ready for the food ritual.
And after I’ve got the kibbles in the bowl, and added a cup of hot water, and stirred it with a spoon, I straighten up and say, “All right, Gertie. Food.”
She waits until I say that. She’d wait all day, with the meal right there in front of her nose. Once I forgot to give her permission. Daddy came home at nine P.M. and she was lying there, looking at her food. Only happened once.
And thinking of Daddy makes me wonder again about all those visits from Dr. Phillips, Bobby’s dad. All that time they’ve spent out back in the study. I asked Daddy once what they were working on, and he said it was university business, a joint project of the astronomy and the physics departments. Which makes sense, I guess.
I sit down at the table and listen to Gertie. Fifteen or twenty seconds of furious eating, and mealtime is over. She’s beginning to lick the bowl. The last part of the ritual is a trip to the backyard, but before I get up from my chair, the front doorbell rings.
Gertie’s claws skitter on the tile as she bolts past me, through the door and along the hallway, light on her feet for a German shepherd. But she doesn’t bark. She never barks.
Probably Bobby. Twenty minutes early for a date. A good sign. Except I haven’t had time to shower and change. Guess I have to let that go.
I follow my head map along the hallway wall, past the library doors on the right, past the living room doorway on the left, then right to the front staircase banister to get my bearings, and then eight steps straight across the front hall. Gertie whines softly, almost a yawn, to help me find her. I pat her head, and she’s sitting to the left of the vestibule door, patient and sweet, her nose just below the doorknob.
The bell rings again, and I can picture him there, maybe a little nervous, a shy smile on his lips.
And when I open the door, I’m going to act completely normal, even though I know people are watching him. Watching us.
I’m through the vestibule door, then two steps, and I put a hand against the door that opens onto the front porch. Gertie sniffs at the frame.
I’m sure it’s Bobby, but I never just open the door.
“Hello?” The door’s thick, so I talk loud.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m with the FBI, Special Agent Charles Porter. I need to talk with the parents of Alicia Van Dorn. If you’ll take a look through the peephole in the door there, I’m holding up my badge and my photo ID for you.”
It’s a deep voice, confident and official. The voice of a man who carries a gun. The voi
ce of a man with massive reinforcements at his command.
My heart’s beating so fast, I can barely speak.
“I…I’m sorry, but her parents aren’t home.”
A two-second pause. The man says, “Miss, are you Alicia Van Dorn?”
I gulp, and I imagine he heard it, right through the door. And I say, “Yes, I am.” My voice is shaky, and I reach down and put my left hand on Gertie’s head. She leans against my leg. She’s not scared at all.
“Can you tell me when your parents will be home? If it’s possible, I need to stop back today or tonight and speak with all three of you.”
“I…I don’t know when they’ll be home. It could be any minute.” Which is true. Sometimes Mom is home by mid-afternoon on Thursday. And Dad too. And sometimes they both get busy and I don’t see anyone until dinnertime. Or later.
I hear the latch of the storm door, hear it open, then the hinges chirp and the latch clicks shut again. “Miss, I’ve put my card inside the storm door, and I’ve circled my cell phone number. Please ask one of your parents to call me as soon as possible, all right?”
I say, “Yes, sir. I’ll tell them.”
“Thanks.” Then a second later the voice says, “And you did the right thing, miss, not opening the door to a stranger. Have a good afternoon.”
His footsteps cross the porch, go down the steps. And the top hinge on the gate squeaks.
I’m back in the hallway, pushing the vestibule door shut, glad to lean against it, get my breath back. The FBI wants to talk to me. And my parents. We’re going to have an official interview. With the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’re being investigated. All of us.
And I wonder if they’re trying to get in touch with Bobby’s dad too. Because we’re all in this. All of us.
Bobby—now I’ve got to call him.
But can I do that? I mean, safely? Because if the FBI is on a case, don’t they tap the phones, listen in?