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A guy came tearing around the corner clutching a bright pink backpack that I had a sneaking suspicion was not his. He pushed a few people out of his way, veering to the side and clipping me with his shoulder before I could move away.
“Watch it, jerk!” I muttered, not quite loud enough for anyone to hear.
Then I realized he was running straight at the girl on the floor. He was looking back over his shoulder, so there was no chance he would see her before he ran right over the top of her.
“Hey!” I yelled, pushing past a guy in front of me. I had to warn her. Or stop him.
But she just rolled her eyes and pulled her arm out of the way an instant before his Eckos pounded down right beside her head. “Look out, asshole,” she said without flinching.
Jerk didn’t even glance back.
I rushed forward. “You okay?”
She looked up at me with wide, surprised eyes. “Are you talking to me?”
Right. Any girl who could look that hot in a black skirt and plaid vest and had the guts to lie in the middle of the hallway was not going to tolerate being talked to by some brand-new nobody like me. “Forget it,” I said, and turned to look for my assigned locker. Again.
“Wait!”
I stopped walking but didn’t turn around.
“Were you talking to me?”
I turned and gave her my best I-don’t-care-that-you’re-rich-popular-and-gorgeous look. I admit: I haven’t had much practice with it. “Yeah. And?”
She sat up. “You can see me?”
So that was a pretty weird conversation starter. Still, a hot girl was talking to me; I’m not one to question these things. “I sure can.”
“What color is my skirt?”
What? “Black,” I replied hesitantly, trying to figure out where she was going with this.
She sighed. “Stupid uniforms. What color are my eyes?”
I looked. She fluttered her lashes dramatically. Was this some kind of trick? “Blue?”
“Is that a question?”
“Your eyes are blue, okay?”
She stared at me for a long time in a way that made me want to look over my shoulder. She was . . . impressed. And that certainly didn’t make any sense. I had to be missing something. “You really can see me, can’t you?” she said, sounding—of all stupid things—awestruck.
Our conversation had sailed straight past run-of-the-mill weird and docked in crazytown. Hot or not, I was ready to get away from this girl. “Yeeeeah, well,” I said, looking down at my schedule, “it’s been fun and all, but I have to—”
“Nobody else can see me,” she said. The seriousness in her voice was kind of freaking me out. “No one in this entire school, except you.”
“Sorry, I didn’t notice your invisibility cloak,” I said, edging away. Was everyone in California this nuts? I could feel the crowd around me staring as they walked by, and despite the crazy coming out of her mouth, I had a feeling they weren’t staring at Blond Girl. Fabulous. My chance to make a decent first impression in this school was swiftly and surely melting away.
“How many?” the girl said, holding up two fingers like rabbit ears, then changing her mind and switching to four.
“This is ridiculous.” I was still trying to look cool—or, barring that, casual—but I was on the verge of exploding at her.
“Answer the question, freak.”
Just my luck—it had taken a whole five minutes for the school nut job to latch on to me. Don’t judge a book by its cover, I guess. Or a girl by her hotness. “I’m a freak? You’re lying in the middle of the floor pretending to be invisible, and I’m a freak?”
She gasped. “It’s really true! You can see me. This is the best day of my . . . well, more than a year, anyway. I thought this would never happen. But now you’re here. You’re here . . . um . . .” She glanced at my loser label. “Jeff.” She scrunched up her nose. “Jeff? Ew.” When I rolled my eyes she raised her hands in surrender. “I take it back. Jeff’s fine. But can I call you Jeffrey at least? That is your whole name, right?”
“No.”
“Can I call you that anyway?”
“No.” I gotta get out of here. People were starting to seriously gawk.
“Fine, we’ll work on the name later. We have so much to do!” And then, I kid you not, she started bouncing up and down on her toes.
“Stop!” No, really, for the love of all that is holy, stop. I held up both hands. “Who are you?”
I’m not sure what made me ask—a name to put on the restraining order, maybe?—but she gestured to herself like she was a celebrity I should recognize instantly. Maybe she was—this was Santa Monica, after all. “Kimberlee Schaffer? The Kimberlee Schaffer?”
I shrugged.
She sighed dramatically. “Come with me.” I followed her down a hallway and into the main foyer, where she backed up against a wall and gave me a cheesy, toothy grimace—more sarcasm than smile. She gestured grandly to her left at an eleven-by-fourteen framed picture of herself.
“So . . . your parents paid for the school?” I asked. Maybe it was the only way they’d let this psycho in.
She rolled her eyes and pointed a long, fake fingernail at a small bronze plaque beneath the portrait.
IN MEMORY OF KIMBERLEE SCHAFFER
I glanced at her, then back at the photo. “That’s really funny.” I made myself look her in the eyes, my best fake smile plastered into place. “You almost had me. Ha-ha. Joke on the new guy. That’s really good. Now if you’re finished, I have to go to class.” Preferably before everyone starts staring again.
“Can I come?” she asked all chipper, like she hadn’t just pulled the world’s lamest joke on me. Pretending to be a dead girl—that was seriously messed up. And stupid.
I’m such a moron.
“No, it’s school. You go to your class; I’ll go to mine.” I knew I should feel flattered that a hot girl wanted anything to do with me, but there’s a saying about what you don’t do with crazy people.
Ever.
She jumped in front of me. “Listen, Jeff.” She said my name like it was a bad word. “You don’t get it. I’m dead. Ask anyone. I’ve been stuck for a year and a half and no one has been able to see or hear me except you.”
“Look, your little trick worked, Kim. СКАЧАТЬ