Chapter One
I know a lot about being unnoticed. Most of my life I’ve been increasing my expertise on both sides of that coin—watch others without being watched.
For research purposes, obviously, I sit at my regular table in a position that has a clear line of sight to Brendon’s usual spot where he has sat for the past two years, moving up the high school hierarchy with precision each August. The “cool” tables are arranged along twenty-foot floor-to-ceiling windows on the east side of the cafeteria. Glass doors at the bottom of each column of windows open onto the commons area, with picnic tables surrounded by grassy hills, also suitable for lunching when it’s not too hot. And in Henderson, Nevada, that means only in the winter, unless you don’t wear makeup and you feel quite secure in your deodorant choice. The tables on the north end of the room are for A-list seniors then juniors like Brendon then sophomores, and the furthest south are for worthy freshmen. My friends and I sit on the other side of the cafeteria.
Tifani waves at me from across the room. I wave and smile back. She’s a freshman, and she sits at a cool table. I’m okay with that.
Liar! It’s pathetic, I know. If I could feel another way, I would. And I do love my little sister, at home, when her friends aren’t around, but I don’t want to share my school with her. I tried talking her into going to a charter school across town. But why would she, when she’ll own this place in a couple of years? We haven’t been in the same school since I was in sixth grade and she was in fourth. Now I’ll get to watch her bubble and shine for my last two years of high school. I already feel a neon sign pulsing above my head reading, “You don’t know me, but I’m Lexi, Tifani’s sister?” Ugh.
How does she know that’s the spot where cool is made? It must be the same way butterflies find Santa Cruz, or turtles find the Transatlantic Current. If you’re meant to know, then it’s part of your DNA to gravitate toward it.
And the radar in Tifani’s DNA is incredible. I would have wondered if we had the same contributing parents if we didn’t look so much alike. We both have shoulder-length brown hair, fair complexions, just a few freckles, and brown eyes. Even still, she wears my face better than I do.
But wait, there’s more. At five, I wanted to be a dancer. She was a natural. At seven, I wanted to learn to ride a two-wheeler. After I crashed, she jumped on my bike and zoomed off. At ten, I wanted a pet. My parents bought me a dog, but every night it whined at my bedroom door so it could go to sleep on Tifani’s bed. At thirteen, I wanted to take piano lessons—right—she has a concert every six months. When I started high school, I wanted to stand out and be noticed, and she became a cheerleader at her junior high. Okay, so my theory falls apart a bit there, but the principle is the same: My wishes equal her life.
And those are just the big events. Lately, even my small wishes happen to her before I ever get a chance to have them. I would never admit I feel jealous—no, too strong. Resentful? Maybe. Really, both. That’s why I’m sitting here torturing myself, making a list of her accomplishments again.
I can’t help it—I’m a lister. Each August, I make a list in my diary of the things I want to do during the school year, my own little New Year’s resolutions. My current list includes having a real date to a dance, with flowers and longingly looking in each other’s eyes. The second bullet point is that I want to be noticed. I don’t know if I should have written that one down at all. I was feeling bold that day, while I usually feel like standing back or disappearing.
The one thing I have is my writing, my only gift, my hobby and my escape. Writers spend large chunks of time alone, typing, considering how another life might be if they were the ones living it. Ooh, that sounds more like the result of a compulsion spell than a talent—especially when I compare my life to Tifani’s.
She has it all—a cheer uniform, control of the microphone at the assemblies, and loads of friends. She’s one of the social directors of Red Rock High School.
Maybe I imagine the coincidences because I’m good at observation. A small voice in my brain wonders if it’s the same as being a spectator. Do I even know the difference? Tillie and Asha, my best friends, sit at our table before I notice their approach. So much for my observational superpowers.
I shove my notebook into my backpack, hoping neither of them see it.
“Too late. What are you writing?” Asha leans over the table to take a look.
“Nothing,” I lie, as always. She smiles encouragingly as my stomach cringes from lying or from fright at being caught. Not that I’m bad at writing. Well, I don’t really know. My teachers are complimentary, but they’re teachers—they’re paid to encourage kids.
Asha opens her lunch, which is always an event. Last year she was on a hummus binge for almost a month. She blended her own garbanzo beans then mixed in something different each day. The day she tried it with sardines, the stench cleared all the tables near us for the whole lunch period. I lean over to get a look at today’s surprise. Thinly sliced carrots, celery, cucumber, and…
“What is that?” Tillie gasps, covering her nose with her hand.
“Sashimi.” Asha’s lunch looks like it popped out of a pescatarian Pinterest board: vivid colors, artfully arranged, and uniform in size and shape.
“Looks like raw fish,” Riker comments, dropping in next to Asha, sliding his trumpet case under the table.
“Dude, it is.” Gabe rounds out our group, sitting down next to me. Tillie shoots Gabe a slight smile and raises one eyebrow.
What’s that about? Gabe’s been sitting next to me since eighth grade. In fact, we’ve all been sitting in the same order since eighth grade. We don’t change much. Tillie doesn’t even try to be sneaky any more. Gabe’s ears used to turn red whenever she teased him. Now he just ignores it and looks away until the subject changes.
“Ooh, I know, let’s play a game.” Tillie bounces in her chair. Gabe looks suspicious, but we’re all quiet since there’s no stopping Tillie. If we choose not to play her games, she plays anyway and makes up our answers. It’s never good. We all look at each other and Tillie launches into the game.
“Riker, what if you could go see any band, who would it be?”
“Dead or alive?”
“Who’s that?” I ask and immediately regret it as Riker laughs. I laugh with him like I was teasing, which makes everyone at the table laugh even more since we all know I’m clueless about music.
“No, I mean can the band be dead or would they have to be alive now?” he asks.
Everyone looks at Tillie to answer since she’s the game master for this. She plays up having all of our attention, looking up and tapping her chin as she thinks. “Dead or alive—doesn’t matter.”
“Jimi Hendrix.” Riker acts like that’s enough and stuffs a corndog in his mouth. The name sounds familiar to me, but I’ll have to Google it later.
This might be the easiest game Tillie has thought up so far. But she’s not done yet, and you never want to be the last person in her games—that’s when she changes the rules. Tillie turns to Asha. Oh no, that means either Gabe or I am the target today. “If you could choose your next family vacation, where would you go?”
“Easy. I’ve been trying to get my family to go to Tanzania for years to help build wells. Clean water should be a basic human right. We take it for granted that it’s something everyone has. There are people who have to bathe in the same water they drink from and wash their clothes in.”
Tillie looks disgusted. I’m probably wearing the same look when she continues, “Asha, vacation. Where would you go on a va-ca-tion?”
“That’s the answer. We should do that for our senior trip. We could all go together.”
“Yes, well no, Asha.” Tillie pats the back of her shoulder. “Oh! So cute, you think I would have a vacation outside of a hotel. Love you, really, but a luxury hotel is not optional.” She spins to face me. Poor Gabe, he’s going to be last. “Lexi, if you could choose any car you wanted, what would you choose?”
I’d love to blurt out a Mini-Cooper convertible. It never rains here, or next to never, so I could drive around with the top down. And the gumball blue color is amazing. “Maybe…” Do five people even fit in the car though? I would have to leave out one of my friends. “A Honda Accord.”
Tillie’s eyebrows scrunch a bit. “Okay, that one surprises me. You never look twice at those. I thought for sure it’d be a Cooper.”
I’m a little offended that she asked me a question that she knew the answer to.
“It’s a sensible choice. Maybe you could get the hybrid model.” Trust Asha to see the possibilities of saving the planet in my car of choice.
I try to save a bit of my true dream car. “In blue, with a moon roof.” Yeah, even that wouldn’t make it less lame.
Tillie launches the next question at Gabe. “What if there’s this guy, who’s a junior, and he secretly loves a girl who thinks they are just friends, but he’s in love and won’t say anything. He’s good looking, blond and tall. She’s pretty too—which he knows because he’s always stealing glances her way and smiles at everything she says. In fact, he pretends he’s not in love, but his friends see how he looks at her when she’s not looking, and it is soooo obvious. Should he say something?” Tillie smiles sweetly, props her elbow onto the table and rests her chin in her palm, staring across the table. “Like soon?” She begins nodding a yes, as if she’s giving him the right answer. Her eyes are fixed on Gabe, but he never looks up from where he seems to be studying his knees. Tillie prompts again. “Like now? Now would be good.”
Gabe ignores her question, at least officially, but the tips of his ears begin turning pink. Yeah, Tillie has a talent for the most random thoughts. Gabe finally begins speaking, but instead of answering the question he says, “Hey. It’s on for wakeboarding next Saturday. You’re all coming, right?”
Tillie and Asha slump a little and exchange glances. I chuckle a bit at the way he got out of the game without having to answer. Riker throws props toward Gabe. “Yeah, I’ll be there,” he says as their knuckles tap.
“I’m in,” Asha adds.
“Me too. How ‘bout you, Lexi?” Tillie asks, her eyebrows quirked up again.
Checking the clock, I rise from my chair and gather my lunch trash. “Yup. I wouldn’t miss your birthday, Gabe.”