Laura Ruby - The Invisible Girl

For Anne, who has kittens in her pockets And for Gretchen, the original Answer Hand

Cover Page

Title Page The Invisible Girl Laura Ruby

Dedication For Anne, who has kittens in her pockets And for Gretchen, the original Answer Hand

The Professor Remembers

Chapter 1 The Girl Who Wasn’t There

Chapter 2 Blue Foot, Blue Foot

Chapter 3 The Chickens of Hope House

Chapter 4 Bugged

Chapter 5 Attack of the Umbrella Man

Chapter 6 Mrs Terwiliger’s Monkeys

Chapter 7 What Not to Wear

Chapter 8 Sweetcheeks: A History

Chapter 9 Outsides and Insides

Chapter 10 Two Little Mice

Chapter 11 Flyboy

Chapter 12 The Richest Man in the Universe

Chapter 13 Turkey Burger

Chapter 14 The Queen Said “Ouch”

Chapter 15 The Punk Invasion

Chapter 16 The Face in the Mirror

Chapter 17 Never Trust a Monkey

Chapter 18 Run

Chapter 19 What’s It To You? Has His Say

Chapter 20 Ups and Downs

Chapter 21 The Black Box

Chapter 22 The Tower

Chapter 23 Supa Dupa Fly

Chapter 24 The Big Fat Hairy Fib

Chapter 25 Bugbears and Bugaboos

Chapter 26 Sweetcheeks Spills

Chapter 27 Unzipped

Chapter 28 Golden

Ha!

Acknowledgements

Copyright

About the Publisher

IN A VAST AND SPARKLING city, a city at the centre of the universe, one little man remembered something big.

He was very old, this little man, his full name forgotten over the years. He called himself The Professor. His specialities were numerous and included psychology, criminology, mathematics, history, aerodynamics, zoology and gardening. He also collected beer cans.

Other than the delivery boy who left his groceries at the back door, The Professor hadn’t seen anyone in at least ten years. It was just as well, since a hair-growing experiment had left him with a head full of long green grass. Also, he didn’t like clothing, so he wore ladies’ snap-front housedresses and rubber flip-flops with white socks. He spent much of his time fiddling in his workshop, feeding the many kittens that popped out of his pockets and looking things up on eBay.

Today he stood in front of his blackboard—which was covered with mathematical equations—tugging at a dandelion that had poked up through the lawn on his scalp. Suddenly, his eyes widened. He scrawled a few more equations. Yes! He saw it. Right there, in his many calculations.

A child.

He stared at the figures dancing across the board, his forehead creased with annoyance. How on earth he could have forgotten that such a thing, such a person , existed, was beyond him. But The Professor simply didn’t like people. Not their company, not their conversation, nada . Anything having to do with people made the roots of his teeth pulse with irritation. And here on his blackboard was proof that a very particular sort of person had been born into a cruel and stupid world filled with cruel and stupid people.

Frankly, The Professor wanted nothing to do with any of them.

But facts are facts and The Professor liked to keep his straight. Shaking his head at himself, he sat down at his lab table, pulled his notebook from underneath a large tabby cat and made a few notes. “Approx. once every century or so,” he wrote. “Wall. Usually, but not always, female.”

After scribbling these notes, The Professor smoothed out a rumpled map. “One lived here,” he muttered to himself, putting a dot on the map, “another here. This one was born there and moved here.” When he finished plotting points, he connected the dots, then took out a protractor to measure the angles between. Lost in thought, he tapped his teeth with his pencil. Something wasn’t quite adding up. Where could this girl be?

After working for two frustrating hours, he walked over to a filing cabinet, unlocked the bottom drawer and pulled from it what looked like a human hand mounted upright on a black marble stand. The Answer Hand. He did not like to consult The Answer Hand and very rarely did. The Hand, being a hand, could not speak and was therefore difficult to comprehend. (It knew the sign language alphabet but had to spell everything out. And then it talked in circles.) The Professor could not deny, however, that The Answer Hand often had the answers to perplexing questions, which was exactly why The Professor had purchased it (on eBay of course, from some guy in Okinawa).

He put the mounted Hand on top of the table, pointed at the equations on the blackboard and then to the map. “Where?” he asked.

The Answer Hand’s fingers drummed thoughtfully on its marble base. After a few moments, The Hand began rambling about a number of irrelevant topics: the average rainfall in Borneo, the merits of California wine, the fat content of hot dogs.

“Focus!” barked The Professor, pointing again at the blackboard.

Insulted, The Answer Hand made a waving gesture at the map. When The Professor still didn’t understand, The Hand bent at the wrist and finger and crawled across the table, dragging its heavy base behind it. It grabbed the pencil from The Professor, scrawled a star on the map and gave the pencil back.

There, that’s where , The Hand signed. Happy now?

“I’ve got to hand it to you,” grumbled The Professor sarcastically. He had the distinct feeling that this recent discovery was only going to cause him trouble. Plus there was the fact that one of his cats, Laverna—strong willed, even for a cat—had somehow escaped the safety of his apartment and, despite the flyers he had paid a company to hang around the city, no one had called. In his book, wandering girls and wayward cats added up to a whole lot of unhappiness.

Someone knocked on the door. The Professor scowled, as there hadn’t been a knock on the door since, well, the last time there was a knock, possibly months before, years even. The Professor ignored it.

The knock came again, louder. “I only take deliveries Tuesdays and Sundays. Go away,” grumbled The Professor. “Go, go, go.”

There was a crash as somebody kicked in the door, splintering the jamb. The Professor, always peeved when he was disturbed, was especially rankled. He liked the door the way it was.

Two men strolled down the steps leading to The Professor’s rooms. One was handsome, with thick gold hair and a rosy complexion. The other was impossibly tall and dark, a vicious and terrible scar like a huge zipper running diagonally across his face. Both looked familiar, but The Professor couldn’t remember where he’d seen them before. A book? A newspaper? And there was something odd about the way the scarred man moved. Not walking so much as drifting or floating.

“Professor,” said the handsome one cheerfully. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

They were, now that he’d had a few moments to consider it, rather intimidating. “I have important work to do,” said The Professor, sounding not the least bit frightened, though his knobby knees had gone as weak as egg noodles.

The handsome man stared pointedly at his head. “I see that you have some dandelion issues.” He patted the pockets of his overcoat. “I might have a Weedwhacker around here somewhere.”

“What do you want?” The Professor made more notes in his book: “Two scary men. Need weapon. Sharpen pencil?”