Laura Ruby - The Invisible Girl

The handsome man hesitated, as if waiting for The Professor to say something else. “I’m being rude,” he said. “I’m Sy Grabowski.”

How do you do, Sweetcheeks? The Answer Hand signed politely.

The Professor dropped his pencil to the floor. “Sweetcheeks Grabowski?”

“In the flesh,” said the man, obviously proud that his reputation had preceded him. “This is my associate, Mr John.”

“Odd John,” said the Professor. Odd John grinned. The Professor could see his teeth were tiny, like a child’s. And he could also see that the scar was not like a zipper, it was a zipper. The silver tab on his forehead glittered when he moved. The Professor decided he would not like Mr John to unzip his face. No. That wouldn’t be pleasant; he was sure of it.

Sweetcheeks reached out and plucked the dandelion from the top of The Professor’s head, making the little man wince. “We’re a little curious.”

“Yes, you are. I mean, what about?” said The Professor. He was trying not to focus on The Answer Hand, which was busily erasing the star it had marked on the map and putting another star somewhere in Brooklyn.

“About your research, of course.” Sweetcheeks eyed the cats warily, his lip curling up with disgust. “I thought these animals were rare.”

“They are,” The Professor said and pulled a rambunctious marmalade kitten out of the pocket of his housedress. “Just not here.” He placed the kitten directly on top of the map, obscuring what had been drawn on it.

“Hmmm…” said Sweetcheeks, before turning the notebook around to read what The Professor had scribbled there. He smiled when he came to the last bit about the scary men.

“I do lots of research,” said The Professor. “What are you interested in? Zoology? Psychology?”

“Oh, a scrap of this, a shred of that,” Sweetcheeks said. “I’m especially interested in this curious little thing that happens once every century or more. This very odd thing. Do you know the thing I’m talking about?”

“Yes,” said The Professor, wondering how the man had found out about it. He sighed. “You want to know when it happened, I suppose.”

“I already know when it happened. I need to know where and I need to know who. And,” he said, turning the notebook back to face The Professor, “I need to know now.”

“ Who? I don’t know who it is,” said The Professor. “How would I know that until she shows herself? Er, I mean, until she doesn’t show herself rather. As for where, I can’t be sure…”

“You can’t?” said Sweetcheeks. Using his thumb and forefinger, he lifted the tiny kitten from The Professor’s map. “Look on this map, John. A star!”

“Oh, that?” said The Professor. “You mustn’t pay attention to that. That map marks the sites of vampire nests around the city, that’s all.”

“Vampires? Tsk, tsk, Professor. I would think that you would be able to come up with something more creative than that.” Sweetcheeks took the map, folded it and slipped it into his breast pocket. “That takes care of where. Now I need to know who.”

“I’m telling you, that map is meaningless to you.”

“I think The Professor needs a little encouragement, don’t you, Mr John?”

Uh-oh, signed The Answer Hand.

“But…” stammered The Professor.

“Please,” said Sweetcheeks. “I know that you’re a genius. Everyone knows that. I also know that given the proper motivation, you’ll find a way to get the information I need, won’t he, Mr John?”

The big man smiled with his baby teeth and clasped the silver tab of his zipper, drawing downwards ever so slowly.

The Professor had been correct.

Not pleasant. Not pleasant at all.

GURL HAD NO IDEA WHAT made her do it. One minute she was surrounded by a sea of snoring girls, staring at the broken lock on the dirty window. The next minute she was racing through the city like an ostrich on fire.

She ran many blocks before she stopped, shocked at herself. She—Gurl the gutless, Gurl the helpless, Gurl the useless—had escaped from Hope House for the Homeless and Hopeless, even if it was only for the night. In front of her, the city snaked out like an amusement park. Gurl drank in as much as she could: the glittering lights of the buildings, the laughter of the people floating by, the bleating horns of the taxis, the scent of car exhaust tinged with tomato sauce.

It was this last that drew her to the section of the city called Little Italy, to Luigi’s Restaurant. She loitered in front of it, catching her breath as she watched the diners inside sip wine and twirl spaghetti on to their forks. People-watching was her favourite thing to do and she was very good at it. It seemed to Gurl that everyone was either a watcher or a doer and the watchers were greatly outnumbered. However, there were benefits to watching. For example, inside Luigi’s a couple drifted from their table, forgetting a package of leftovers, which was then scooped up by the young waiter.

Gurl ran around the restaurant to the alley behind, crouched next to the garbage cans and waited for the waiter to come out with the evening’s trash. Someone kicked a can down a nearby sidewalk and its tinny clang echoed in the alley. “You wanna mess? You wanna mess?” she heard. “Yeah, boyee , let’s mess!” The voices got louder as a bunch of teenagers flew by the alleyway, throwing long shadows on the greasy pavement. Gurl smiled to herself. The noise was a part of the music of the city and she could listen to it all night long if she wanted.

She leaned her head back against the brick and looked up at the sky, plush and grey like a dome of fur, brightened by the lights from the skyscrapers and billboards. An occasional Wing darted high overhead, looping and weaving around the buildings, but it was nothing like daytime. In the daytime people hopped and bounced and flew all over the place, even if they could only get an inch or two off the ground. Just one more reason to enjoy the dark. Only a few showy Wings rather than thousands of them, thrilled with their own stupid tricks.

Airheads, the whole bunch. She was not jealous of them. Not one little bit.

The metal door of the restaurant opened and the young waiter hopped out, swinging two garbage bags. Even with the garbage bags, the waiter was trying to fly. He jumped straight up, but the weight of the bags and his obvious lack of talent ensured that his feet lifted no more than a yard from the ground. Gurl muffled a giggle with the back of her hand as the waiter jumped his way over to the Dumpster, looking very much like a giant, ungainly frog. He opened the Dumpster and tossed the trash bags inside. Then he turned and leaped into the air, this time clearing the top of the Dumpster before landing. Gurl was sure the waiter—only a few years older than Gurl herself—had hopes of being a great Wing, dreams of joining a Wing team or maybe competing in the citywide festival and taking home the Golden Eagle. She wondered when he would realize that his dream was just that, a dream. When he would see that most of his life would be spent scuttling closer to the earth.

The waiter dropped in a crouch, panting. He looked around, to the left and to the right. Gurl stiffened, keeping herself completely still behind the garbage cans that hid her. He squinted, staring at something. A mouse, running alongside the brick. The waiter jumped up again, crashing to the ground in front of the mouse. It gave a tiny squeal and ran the other way. The waiter did it again, jumping and crashing, terrifying the little animal, laughing as he did so. Gurl waited until he sprang up a third time before reaching out from her hiding place, snatching up the mouse and tucking it into her sleeve.