My Best Friend Is Invisible

I sat at the dinner table and wished I was invisible.

If I were invisible, I could sneak away from dinner without finishing my
string beans. And I could creep up to my room and finish the book of ghost
stories I’d been reading.

I started to daydream. I’m Sammy Jacobs, the Invisible Boy, I told myself. I
tried to picture how I’d look if I were invisible.

Last week, I saw a movie about an invisible man. You couldn’t see his face or
his body. But when he ate, you could see the food digesting in his invisible
stomach.

It was totally gross.

I loved it.

Staring at my string beans, I pictured them rolling around in my stomach.

My parents’ voices droned on in the background. My parents are research
scientists. They work in a college lab. They do weird things with light and lasers.

And then they come home and talk about their work at dinner. And talk about
their work. And talk about their work.

My ten-year-old brother, Simon, and I can’t get a word in.

We have to sit and listen to them talk about “light refraction” and “ocular
impediments”.

I’m a science-fiction freak. I love reading science-fiction books and comics.
And I rent any movie that has an alien from another planet in it.

But when I have to listen to my parents talk about their work, I feel like an
alien from another planet. I mean, I can’t understand a single word they say!

“Hey, Mom and Dad.” I tried to get into the conversation. “Guess what? I grew
a tail today.”

Mom and Dad didn’t hear me. They were too busy arguing about something called
“morphology”.

“Actually, I grew
two
tails,” I said, louder.

They didn’t care. Dad was drawing some kind of chart on his napkin.

I was really bored. I kicked Simon under the table. Just for something to do.

“Ow! Stop it, Sammy!” he cried. He kicked me back.

I kicked him again.

Dad kept scribbling numbers all over his napkin. Mom squinted at his chart.

Simon kicked me back. Too hard.

“Whoa!” I screamed. My hands flew up—and sent my dinner plate flying.

SPLAAT.

Into my lap.

A whole plateful of spaghetti and all the string beans—slid down my jeans.

“Look what Simon made me do!” I shouted.

“You started it!” Simon protested.

Mom glanced up from the chart. At least I had her attention. And maybe I’d
even get Simon into trouble. Simon never gets yelled at. He’s good.

Mom’s gaze shifted from me to Simon. “Simon,” Mom started.

All right! I thought. Simon is in for it now!

“Help your clumsy brother clean up,” Mom said. She glanced down at the floor
and pointed to the pile of spaghetti. “And make sure you mop up this mess.” Then
she grabbed Dad’s pencil and scribbled a bunch of numbers next to his.

Simon tried to help me clean up. But I pushed him away and did it myself.

Was I steamed? Take a guess.

Okay. Okay. Maybe the spaghetti wasn’t Simon’s fault. But
nothing
is
ever Simon’s fault. Ever.

Why?

I told you—Simon is the good one. He never waits until the last minute to
do his homework. He never has to be reminded to throw his clothes in the hamper.
Or take out the garbage. Or wipe his feet when he comes in the house.

What kind of kid is that?

A
mutant
—if you ask me.

“Simon is a mutant,” I mumbled as I used my napkin to wipe my dinner from my
lap.

“My Brother—the Mutant.” I smiled. I liked the sound of that. It would make
a good science-fiction movie, I decided.

I tossed the paper napkin into the trash and returned to the table.

Well, at least I won’t have to eat any more string beans, I thought, staring
down at my empty plate.

Wrong.

“Sammy, give me your dish. I’ll refill it.” Mom stood up, took my plate—and
slipped on the spaghetti on the floor.

Uh-oh.

I watched as she lost her balance and slid across the kitchen. I laughed. I
couldn’t help it. I mean, she looked pretty funny—sliding across the floor
like that.

“Who laughed?” Mom turned to face us. “Was it you, Simon?”

“Of course not,” Simon answered.

Of course not.
Simon’s favorite words.

Simon—do you want to watch TV?
Of course not.
Want to play ball?
Of course not.
Want to hear a joke?
Of course not.

Simon would never laugh at Mom.

Simon did only serious things.

Simon—the Serious Mutant.

Mom turned to me and let out a long sigh. She returned to the table with my
plate. Refilled. With lots more string beans. Great.

Disappear. Disappear.
I stared at my string beans and chanted silently.
Last week I read a story about a kid who could make things disappear just by
concentrating hard.

It wasn’t working for me.

“I can’t wait for Saturday to come,” I said, burying the string beans under
the spaghetti.

“Why?” Simon was the only one who asked.

“I’m going to see
School Spirit
,” I told him.

“School spirit?” Dad glanced up from his napkin chart, his eyes finally wide
with interest. “School spirit is great! Who has school spirit?”

“Nobody, Dad.
School Spirit
is the name of a new movie. It’s about a
ghost that haunts an old boarding school,” I explained. “I’m going to see it on
Saturday.”

Dad placed his pencil down. “I wish you were more interested in
real
science, Sammy. I think real science is even stranger than the fantasy stuff you
like.”

“But ghosts
are
real, Dad!”

“Your dad and I are scientists, Sammy,” Mom said. “We don’t believe in things
like ghosts.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” I declared. “If ghosts don’t exist, why have there been
stories about them for hundreds of years?

“Besides, this movie isn’t fantasy stuff,” I told them. “It’s a true story.
Real kids were interviewed for it. Kids who swear they saw the ghost in school!”

Mom shook her head.

Dad chuckled. “What are you doing in school, Simon? Seen any ghosts lately?”

“Of course not,” Simon replied. “I’m starting my science project this week.
It’s called:
How Fast Do We Grow?
I’m going to study myself for six
months. And make a growth graph for every part of my body.”

“That’s wonderful!” Mom said.

“Very original!” Dad exclaimed. “Let us know if we can help.”

“Oh, brother,” I mumbled, rolling my eyes. “Can I be excused?” I pushed my
chair away from the table. “Roxanne is coming over to do math homework.”

Roxanne Johnson and I are both in the same seventh-grade class. We like to
compete against each other. Just for fun.

At least, I
think
it’s for fun. Sometimes I’m not sure what Roxanne
thinks.

Anyway, she’s one of my best friends. She likes science fiction too. We planned to see
School Spirit
together.

I went upstairs to search for my math book.

I opened the door to my room.

I stepped inside—and gasped.

My homework papers lay scattered all over the floor.

I’m not exactly the neatest kid in the world—but I do not throw my homework
on the floor.

Not usually, anyway.

Well, at least not today.

Brutus—my orange cat—sat in the middle of the mess, with his head buried
underneath the pile of papers.

“Brutus—did you do this?” I demanded. Brutus jerked his head up. He glanced
at me—then darted under my bed to hide.

Hmmm. That’s weird, I thought. Brutus actually looks scared. That is
definitely weird.

Brutus never hides from anything. In fact, he’s the meanest cat in the
neighborhood. Every kid on the block has been scratched by Brutus—at least
once.

I looked at the window. It was open. The light-blue curtains billowed in the
breeze.

I gathered my papers from the floor. The wind probably blew them off my desk,
I guessed.

Wait a minute. Something was wrong.

I stared at the window.

I could
swear
I left that window closed.

But I couldn’t have. I mean, there it was—wide-open.

“What are you looking at?” Roxanne stepped into my room.

“Something weird is going on here,” I told her, shutting the window. “I
closed this before dinner. Now it’s open.”

“Your mom must have opened it,” she said. “What’s the big deal, anyway? It’s
just the window.”

“It’s no big deal,” I said. “But my mom didn’t open it. Neither did Dad or
Simon. We were all downstairs.”

I shook my head. “I
know
I closed it. Brutus was the only one up here—and
he
didn’t open it.”

I peered under the bed. There was Brutus—snuggled against my sneakers.
Shaking.

“Come on, Brutus. Come out,” I urged softly. “Don’t be afraid. I know she’s
scary—but it’s only Roxanne.”

“Very funny, Sammy.” Roxanne rolled her eyes. “I’ll tell you what’s scary.
Your brother is scary.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I passed him on the way up here. Do you know what he was doing?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“He was lying on the living room floor. On a huge piece of cardboard. Tracing
himself,” Roxanne replied.

I shrugged. “He must be working on his science project. He’s studying
himself.”

“Your brother is definitely scary,” she said. “I’ll tell you something else
that’s scary—the way you ran today. That was very, very scary. I didn’t think
anyone
could run that slow!”

Roxanne beat me in the track race at school today. And she wasn’t going to
let me forget it.

“You won because of only ONE reason,” I told her.

“And what was that ONE reason?” she mimicked me.

I slid halfway under the bed and dragged Brutus out. Stalling for time.
Stalling so I could come up with a good reason.

“You won because—I let you!” I said finally.

“Yeah, right, Sammy.” Roxanne folded her arms across her chest.

“I did. I let you,” I insisted.

Roxanne’s cheeks turned red. I could see she was getting really steamed.

Making Roxanne angry is fun.

“I let you win—because I wanted to help build up your confidence for the
school Olympics,” I said.

Whoa! That made Roxanne even angrier. Roxanne doesn’t like help from anyone.
And she likes to think she’s the best at everything.

Our school is going to compete against other schools in a mini-Olympics next
week. Roxanne and I are both on the Olympic team. We were both on the team last
year too. Roxanne ran every single day to make sure she was the best.

But last year, we lost.

I guess it was my fault. A camera flashed in my face. I tripped—and fell.

“You lost fair and square today, Sammy—and you know it,” Roxanne snapped.
“And you’d better not trip next week. And make us lose the Olympics again.”

“Last year wasn’t my fault!” I cried. But Roxanne interrupted me.

“Hey—what’s wrong with Brutus?” she asked, peering over my shoulder.

I turned around and saw Brutus sitting in the corner—curled up in a tight
ball.

“I don’t know. He’s acting kind of strange today,” I said.

“I know,” she agreed. “He didn’t even try to scratch me yet. He’s been
acting—
nice
.”

Brutus stood. He glanced at the window—and arched his back.

Then he turned completely around and sat down, facing the wall.

Weird.

“So? What are we going to do for our term project?” Roxanne asked, plopping
down on my bed.

Our term project for our English class was due next month. Ms. Starkling, our
teacher, wanted us to work in pairs. She said working in pairs would help us
learn about teamwork and cooperation.

“I have a really great idea,” I said. “How about a report on plants? You know—how much water they need. Stuff like that.”

“That’s a really great idea,” Roxanne replied. “If you’re in kindergarten.”

“Okay. Okay. Let me think.” I stood up and paced the room. “Got it! How about
the life cycle of a moth? We could catch some—and see how long they take to
die!”

Roxanne stared at me. She nodded her head thoughtfully. “I think… that’s
really stupid,” she said.

So much for teamwork and cooperation.

“Fine.” I folded my arms in front of me. “Why don’t
you
try to come up
with an idea?”

“I already have,” Roxanne declared. “I think we should do a report on
True
Haunted Houses.
I know a haunted house right here in Middletown. It’s near
the woods. Across from the college. I bet we’ll find a real ghost living there!”

“There are no haunted houses in Middletown,” I said. “I know all about
haunted houses—and there isn’t one anywhere near here.”