Transparent Page 2

  “Huh?” I try to find the joke in her expression—she always has this glint in her eyes when she messes with someone. Nothing. She’s serious. I can’t figure out if the knot in my stomach is excitement or terror. Dad never let me go to school. He didn’t want anyone swaying me but him. Personal tutors sounded like a good idea when he said it. I didn’t need friends or a real education or a boyfriend. All I needed was a lockpick to open doors and a Swiss Army Knife to disable security cameras.

  “Electives. I have you signed up for the stuff you need: English, math, biology, history, and PE. I just don’t know what you’d like to take for fun.”

  “Fun?” Starting school for the first time doesn’t sound as fun as it did in my imagination. Because in my dreams I wasn’t the invisible syndicate baby walking into a tiny school where everyone probably knows one another. Four weeks late, no less, so I stick out even more.

  “Look at the list and pick.” She shoves a mustard-yellow paper at me.

  The classes are just words. I don’t know what I like, what I’d be good at, or whatever reason someone picks an elective. Surprisingly, there’s no class called Stealing 101. I’d ace that. “How many of these do I need?”

  “Two. Don’t you like any of them?”

  “I don’t know.” I hand the list back, wishing I could leave. “This is stupid.”

  Her brow furrows. “Can’t you at least try?”

  I look away, only to find the secretary staring at me. Or rather through me, as if I don’t have eyes to notice how jarring she finds my presence. “What do you think I should take?”

  “What about art?”

  I groan. Talk about going right to her passion. No thanks.

  She frowns. “Fine. Home ec? They’ll probably have sewing. You could design your own clothes.”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “Spanish?”

  There’s not much else on the list, unless I want to be in performing arts like dance or music or drama. An invisible girl acting? Yeah, right. “That might be handy.”

  Mom hands the forms to the secretary, who takes forever to print up my schedule. She holds it out for me with a wary smile. “Here you are, Miss McClean. Third period is starting shortly. You should have just enough time to find your locker.”

  “Great.” I grab the papers, already wishing I didn’t have to carry around the map like a dork.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Mom asks.

  I stare at her. What am I? Five? I might die if she pulls out a camera to take a picture of my first day of school. “I think I can handle it.”

  She straightens, her eyes watering. “All right. Have a good day, hon.”

  Once she leaves, I search the halls for my locker. A few neon posters hang on oatmeal-colored walls, advertising upcoming dances or club meetings or other events I never imagined myself going to. The bell rings, and the halls fill with students. It’s not a flood like in the movies. I bet there aren’t even sixty students in my junior class.

  Still, there are enough people staring at me. Eyes roam over my missing arms and head. Mouths gape open. Whispers fill my ears. I wouldn’t be surprised if even here they vaguely know who I am, who I belong to. Which means there’s no chance anyone will ever talk to me.

  Normal life. Right.

  I barely make it to third period on time: algebra. Seeing as I hate math more than anything else, it’s only fitting to start here. The teacher, Ms. Sorenson, is a mousy thing with bright pink eyes. She jumps when I come up to her, like I might mug her on the spot. “D-do you have your schedule?”

  “Yeah.” I hand her my paper, and she looks it over as I try to ignore my silent, curious classmates.

  “Everyone, this is F-Fiona McClean.” She turns to me. “Is there anything you want to tell us about yourself?”

  “Isn’t it pretty obvious?”

  The class snickers, and I’m glad they can’t see me blushing.

  The teacher holds out an old book. “Here’s the text. Take a seat next to Miss Navarro, please.”

  I search the classroom, not wanting to ask who that is. Instead of finding the girl, my eyes lock on the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. He’s all muscle, with a spattering of freckles and a mop of carrot-orange hair. He oozes confidence, smiling right at me with a one-dimpled grin. At least there’s one great thing about being invisible—I can enjoy the view without him knowing.

  The girl next to him nods at me, which is when I realize she’s probably this “Miss Navarro” I’m supposed to sit by. I rush over and plop down in the creaky desk.

  “I’m Bea,” she says, searching the space between my glasses.

  “Or Trixy,” Hot Guy says.

  Bea smiles. “But never, ever Beatrix.”

  “Okay …” I feel bad for kind of hating her, since she’s at least playing nice. But she has perfect tan legs, and her mess of dark hair makes it seem like she doesn’t try. Her eyes are gorgeous and playful. It’s not fair for a girl to be that beautiful.

  She motions to Hot Guy, who must be her boyfriend. “This is Brady.”

  The teacher starts class before I can answer, which is fine because I wasn’t sure what to say anyway. “You have until the end of the period to finish the exam.”

  My mouth goes dry. A test? The blue paper lands on my desk. “But I …”

  “I’d like you to take the test, if you don’t mind,” Ms. Sorenson says. “It will help me gauge your understanding.”

  Nodding, I turn the cover page. I was technically in a certified homeschooling program, so maybe I do know this stuff. I pick up the pencil and stare at the first problem for what seems like an eternity. Nope. Don’t know this. I scribble something down. It’s wrong, but I don’t know how to make it right.

  The bell rings, and I pass my test forward, positive I failed. Bea turns toward me, but I’m not interested in another awkward conversation. I grab my bag, rushing for history before she can begin her sentence. I make a wrong turn on the way, since I can’t bring myself to look at the map. When I open the door, I’m greeted with almost the exact same faces as math, right down to Bea and Brady sitting in the back next to each other.

  I get introduced. Again. The only free seat is by Bea, of course. She doesn’t look at me, but she seems upset.

  “Group discussion today,” Mr. Abbey says. His skin is a pleasant sky blue, just warm enough that he doesn’t look dead. “Topic: Radiasure.”

  My blood goes cold. I’d rather talk about algebra than that stupid drug, and that’s saying something.

  Radiasure was invented as an anti-radiation pill during the Cold War, and people popped it by the dozens in hopes of surviving a possible nuclear holocaust. About five years later, the mutations came. They weren’t much at first. Most people didn’t have anything close to invisibility or flying or telekinesis. A green person here. A woman with a man’s voice there. People figured it was an equal trade for immunity to radiation.

  At least until they discovered the mutations would affect their children. Babies who’d never had a drop of the drug were born smelling like roses or covered in a thick layer of hair. It didn’t even matter if their parents had stopped using. The distorted genes were already at work, and the mutations just got stronger and stranger. By the seventies some people were flying, reading minds, and emitting fatal sound waves.

  The FDA pulled Radiasure, but that didn’t stop everyone from trying to get it. Most people wanted the mutations—superhuman strength, iron-tough skin, diamond-sharp teeth, infinite endurance, and mind control. They wanted to be superheroes like in the old comic books. Or supervillains. Everything has pretty much gone to hell since then. Governments try to regulate things, but everyone knows it’s the criminal syndicates and vigilantes that control the Radiasure, and therefore the world.

  The teacher groups me with two girls and two guys. They don’t discuss; they just stare at me. I’m not starting this, so I lean back in my chair and wait.

  Finally, the guys glance at each other and the
n at me. A boy with horrible acne opens his mouth. “I bet you know all sorts of things about Radiasure, don’t you, No Face? You probably take one every day.”

  My throat tightens. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t think we’re stupid,” one of the girls says. “You’re Jonas O’Connell’s daughter, so you must have unlimited access to it.”

  I knew it. If Mom doesn’t cave, someone in town will narc. “What’s it to you?”

  “We have enough problems with Juan,” says acne boy. “You and the rest of your kind should take your shit somewhere else.”

  My kind. I laugh at the thought. There’s no one else like me. People are so predictable—afraid, angry, jealous, whatever. They don’t stop to think that maybe, just maybe, I don’t have a choice in the matter. They don’t realize that I’d trade places with them any day of the week for one glimpse of myself.

  “Does your daddy think he can hide you here, No Face?” says the other boy.

  I pause, confused. “What?”

  “The news says Juan’s planning a syndicate war with your father. Does he think he can use our town as a refuge for his precious daughter until it’s over?”

  I try to stay calm. This can work for me. They think I’m just a syndicate baby, and that Dad’s trying to protect me. It makes sense, no matter how far from the truth it is. “What’ll you do if he is using your town? Should I call him and say you want to tell Juan where I am?”

  Their eyes go wide, and I smile. Too easy.

  “Go to hell,” acne boy spits.

  “Already there.”

  That seems to make him angrier. “Good, you deserve it.”

  As much as I don’t want it to, it stings. I wish I had something else to say, some clever reply. But I don’t. All I can think is that anyone who’s done what I have does deserve hell.

  “Hey, Fiona.” A deep voice makes me turn. It’s Brady, and he’s smiling. “How about you come over to our group?”

  I stare at him, wondering if it’s some kind of joke. Then Bea rolls her eyes. “Not everyone at this school is a royal dick like Tom. Come on.”

  “Suck it, Bea,” acne boy, Tom, says.

  “In your dreams.”

  The teacher clears his throat. “Do I have to send you to the office again, Miss Navarro?”

  She puts on the most angelic face I’ve ever seen, complete with twinkling eyes. “Sorry, Mr. Abbey.”

  I bolt for Brady’s group—anything is better than listening to Tom tell me I deserve my crap life. Brady’s blue eyes gleam. I’ve always wished mine were blue, even if there are much more unique colors nowadays. There’s just nothing more gorgeous than blue eyes.

  “Don’t listen to him, Fiona,” Brady says when I sit. “He’s just jealous, since all he can do is smell like shit when he gets scared.”

  Bea laughs. “And that’s not a joke.”

  I smile in spite of myself. “How do we make that happen?”

  They both grin. “Easy,” Bea says.

  “Brady, will you come up and tell the class what your group discussed?” Mr. Abbey calls.

  “Sure.” Brady pushes himself out of his desk. The metal frame bends, leaving it crooked. “Crap.” He pushes it back into shape and continues on like that happens every day. Maybe it does. I haven’t met many Strong Arms, since most are men and my dad is all about the women.

  “Perfect distraction,” Bea whispers. “Now watch Tom.” She cups her hands around her mouth, her voice so low I can’t make out what she’s saying.

  I watch Tom. He about falls out of his seat, and then comes the smell of a thousand Porta-Potties. It’s awful, worse than my brother Miles’s nastiest scent imitations.

  “Bea!” Tom yells, which only makes his face redder. “You little shithead!”

  “Look who’s talking!” She laughs as Mr. Abbey tells us to head outside for fresh air.

  “What’d you do?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I yelled a few obscenities in his ear.”

  Voice throwing—a pretty rare vocal ability. “Pretty tricksy.”

  Brady slides up beside us. “That’s how she got the nickname.”

  I watch them, trying to figure out if they’re as nice as they seem. I want them to be, but I can’t be too careful. Dad always said nice people are the most dangerous because you don’t want to see the knife in their coat pocket. I finally get what he means.

  Chapter 4

  “Hey, Fiona!” Bea calls as I finish up at my locker.

  “Hey.” I try not to fidget with my necklace. I can’t believe she hunted me down after school, as if having almost every class together (and neighboring desks) wasn’t enough. “What’s up?”

  She shrugs. “Just wondered if you had a ride home.”

  For some reason, this triggers all my panic buttons. She can’t know where I live. It’s not safe. What if she’s a spy? I can’t help thinking all of Bea’s and Brady’s niceness means more than they’re saying. It’s possible they’re working for a syndicate. They’re too useful to have gone unnoticed by Juan, even in a small town like Madison, Arizona. He runs the Southwest with his breath—take in one puff and it triggers all your pain sensors. Some of my dad’s women have come back from jobs half-dead and full-on crazy because of him. If Bea and Brady are with Juan …

  “I’m good. Thanks for asking, though,” I say.

  She nods. “Cool. Thought I’d ask before Brady left. I have to stay late.”

  I silently curse myself for missing a ride with the gorgeous Brady, but it can’t be helped. After waving good-bye, I head for the house on foot. I’m only a block from school before the heat starts to feel like the inside of a blow-dryer. It’s dustier here than in Vegas, each gust of wind blowing something in my face, and there’s hardly a tree to shade my way. I’ll be drenched in sweat by the time I get home. After another few blocks, my mouth is dry. All I want is a cold drink. And air-conditioning. The heat radiates off the pavement so much I can feel it creep under my jeans. I like wearing pants to define my legs, but I’ll have to relent and wear shorts if the heat doesn’t let up.

  Old cars pass me, obviously coming from the school. Some of the passengers flip me off as they go by. I duck onto a side road, hoping I can figure out how to get to the house despite the detour.

  I spot the gray stucco house the second I round the corner onto my street. I have to admit it’s the nicest place Mom’s ever taken me on these escapes. Where she got the money, I don’t know. I can guess—Mom has opened plenty of bank vaults with her ability—but I’d rather not think about it.

  Hurrying across the road, I plan to chug the first liquid I see in the fridge. Or maybe I should go straight to ice cubes. The cold air crashes over me when I open the front door, but that’s not what stops my breath.

  Mom sits on the couch, a cell phone to her ear.

  We didn’t bring a cell phone.

  She stares at me, mouth hanging open. I grit my teeth, not sure I can contain my anger. This whole day was bullshit. She just wanted me out of the house so she could get her hands on a phone without me questioning her. I hoped maybe this time she’d be serious about escaping.

  I’m always disappointed.

  “Who are you talking to?” I say through my teeth.

  “Fiona, it’s not—”

  “Who?”

  Her shoulders slump, and she looks at the little black phone in her hands. “Graham.”

  I swear, just because I know she hates it.

  “I should have told you, but I didn’t think you’d believe me.” Her voice cracks. “He said he would help us.”

  “Riiight.” My oldest brother is Dad’s lapdog. He says fetch, and Graham goes shooting off at lightning speed without so much as a breath of hesitation. Graham’s a Flyer, which means he could have escaped, but instead he chose to follow in Dad’s bloody footsteps. At least Miles, my other brother and best friend, has some sense of integrity. Of course, Dad also deems him worthless, so it was a lot easier for him to ge
t away.

  I take a few steps forward. “How much did you tell him?”

  “Nothing. I just told him we were safe.”

  Like I can believe her now. Graham’s probably on his way here right now, or at least tracking the call. I snatch the phone from her. “I’m not going to school tomorrow.”

  When I get to my room, I pace the floor. Why can’t she learn? The last time we ran, we ended up in the middle of the Utah desert. It was a nasty, small trailer park, but I still had high hopes. This place was truly isolated, wedged against the southern national parks. It took an hour just to reach a gas station, and two to reach a SuperMart.

  After a month, I really thought we had made it out. I thought we could have a decent life there. Not glamorous, but at least honest.

  On a trip for supplies, Mom called Graham from a pay phone to “tell him we were safe.” Of course, I didn’t know that until later. I was out running when he scooped me up like those evil flying monkeys do in The Wizard of Oz. I begged him to let us go. Begged. We were happy and safe, and if he helped we could stay that way.

  For a second his hardened face cracked, and I thought maybe he would listen. Maybe he’d remember that he wasn’t always Dad’s gofer. Maybe he’d remember we were family. Then he shook his head. “You don’t understand, Fifi. You will never be safe.”

  He took us back. He always took us back.

  And then Dad came to see us. He hit Mom, beat her senseless as he called her a traitor for leaving. He apologized, and she forgave him because she couldn’t help it. Then it was my turn… .

  Sure, there are perks to Dad’s life. Endless money. Power no one person should have. And it’s not like he treats us poorly when we behave. He’s too smart for that. He showers us—all his women and their children—with gifts and praise and luxury. If he doesn’t have to use force, he won’t. He’s a Charmer, after all. Usually that’s more than enough.

  I stop at the mirror, searching for my face for the bazillionth time. There’s nothing there.

  Graham used to be a normal big brother—a tease, a pain, but protective and kind at the same time. He and Miles would play catch in the park while I watched, giggling at Graham’s air flips. It wasn’t until the day Dad came for him that things got bad. Graham was ten. Miles was seven. I was five. We were just kids. None of us really understood what we’d been born into.