Chapter 10

Sometimes, I wish I could disappear.

That I could slip on a magic cloak.

Or a ring.

Or I could touch the wall, and melt into it.

I wish I was like Susan Storm, mutated by radiation, able to create force fields, keeping me and everything and everyone I care about inside it invisible and untouchable.

AGE 11, MARCH

"Happy birthday to JJ,happy birthday to you-UUUU."

Izzy and Mason sing out the final you as loud as they can, their voices carrying, echoing loudly across the blue and red-streamered dining room.

My sister, as always, sounds like a dying cat.

Mason sounds like….

Well, he sounds good, and I don't even think he notices or cares that he can hit pretty much any note he wants, and he's only ten. Or at least that's what Dad said once, after Mom scolded me for not doing the dishes, and Mason belted out perfectly from the dining room, "Jeremy the Wicked!"

Everyone burst into laughter at that, the whole dishes thing forgotten. Even I couldn't help but smile, though my cheeks were on fire and I kind of wanted to hide.

"Make a wish, JJ," Mom says now, grinning behind the digital camera.

My lips purse and I duck my head, blond hair swinging over my eyes.

I wish…

Inhaling, I close my eyes, and blow out my candles all in one go. Everyone cheers, and my face burns as I slink down in my seat.

I peek a glance over at Mason, then down at my Avengers cake, smoke from the candles curling up toward the chandelier. It's small and round with blue icing—chocolate inside—made just for the group of us.

Izzy's—which is a marble sheet cake and decorated black and white with red roses and the mask from Phantom of the Opera painted on it, her newest obsession—is a lot bigger because she has a bunch of kids from her class coming over later.

Her party's taking place in the garage, because there's more room. She spent all day yesterday decorating it with Mom.

I don't have anyone else but who's here—friends my age, that is—and I'm okay with that. I'm homeschooled now. Have been since the start of fourth grade, this year.

After that day in transition years ago, when Mason shoved Clay, the bullying stopped for a while, at least for the most part. Teachers were watching more closely. I was never alone before school anymore. Either I had Mason and Waylon to hang out with, or I'd go wait in the classroom instead.

Other than some mumbled teasing when passing by each other in the hallways or cafeteria, Clay and his friends left me alone.

And then I got to third grade, and I don't know what happened.

Everything changed.

It was no longer just Clay and Mikey and Ethan, but everyone, it felt like. There were all these rumors, probably ones Clay and his friends started—they were the cool kids after all; everyone listened to them. Things said about me that made all the boys keep a distance from me, and give me disgusted looks like I smelled or something. Things that made girls giggle and point and whisper about…

And it all seemed to come down to the way I spoke.

The way I walked.

My face.

My hair.

Every little thing about me was somehow wrong, and no matter how hard I tried to hide, to blend in, to belong…

Nothing helped. It just kept getting worse, and by spring, I was sick all the time, even when home. It just never stopped. I started having nightmares. My stomach burned all the time. I lost weight. I didn't want to leave my room. I didn't want to talk to anyone, or see anyone, not even Mason.

I felt dirty.

Mom and Dad had meetings with the school. With Mary Ann. They started me on anxiety medicine, but all that did was make me really sleepy and feel even more sick than I already was.

And then one day, I threw up blood, and everything changed.

An ulcer, they called it when I went to the ER. It'd been forming for a while, apparently.

I didn't need any operations—medicine fixed it right up.

But it was scary.

It scared everyone, I think, my parents most of all.

I've been homeschooled ever since.

After we eat cake, Mom and Dad head to the garage to finish setting up for Izzy's party later, while we have our own little party inside. We move to the living room where all the furniture's been pushed back, and blast my boombox. Mason brought his binder of CDs, and as usual, is playing DJ.

I don't mind. I love his music. Waylon does too.

Izzy's the only one who usually complains, sticking out her tongue, and whining about wanting some Broadway musical or classical or Avril Lavigne.

And I love Avril Lavigne. But it's not all I want to listen to.

She doesn't usually put up much fight. Not like she used to, or how she normally would if it was me or Waylon picking the music.

I think she has a crush on him.

Mason.

She's been acting real funny around him, all pink-faced and girly in a way she never gets with Waylon, or me for that matter.

She knows all the words to the songs he likes and I don't even think she likes them. It bugs me, 'cause I do like them, and I know all the words too, but I just keep them to myself instead of singing along and showing off.

She's the musical one after all.

I'm the artist.

That's what Mom said once when talking about us to one of her piano friends.

I smiled real big at that.

Her little artist.

Up until then, I never really thought of myself like that. I just draw and color 'cause I love it.

Sure, it'd be cool to make my own comics to sell in stores and turn into movies… action figures of my superheroes on shelves, and kids dressed in the costumes I invented.

But no one knows about that except for Izzy.

Not that she's seen my ideas. She just knows it's what I'd do if I could.

I know it won't happen though.

It's just make believe.

Plus, it's the one thing that's mine. The idea of ever actually sharing it…

They'd laugh at me. All of them. Even Mason…especially Mason…

I'm nowhere as good as real comic book artists. He'd think it's stupid.

My chest squeezes painfully at the thought. My ears begin to ring.

"JJ, come dance!" Izzy runs over to me, grabbing my hands, and yanking me up from the couch where I was looking at the new comic books I got for my birthday. Not that I was really seeing anything, once my mind started spiraling like it does.

My eyes widen on my sister and I shake my head, trying to pull my arm away.

A new song has started playing, one I recognize immediately. Mason's favorite.

"You Get What You Give" by the New Radicals.

He turns the volume all the way up, and runs over to us, grabbing my other hand, and they both drag me over to the center of the room.

Waylon's laughing where he sits on the recliner, watching us. He's eating another piece of cake. Probably because he didn't even get to taste the last piece, he ate it that fast.

Izzy releases our hands, running over to get Waylon, and for a split-second it's just me and Mason standing there, hand in hand.

Our palms are sweaty. Warm.

My neck tingles.

I yank my hand away and go to sit back down, my face feeling hot, but he drags me back by the shoulder. "Come on, JJ."

I turn and glare at him.

He grins.

He probably thinks it's 'cause I don't want to dance with them, but it's really 'cause I don't like it when he calls me that. Even Mom and Dad have started calling me Jeremy more.

It's Izzy who hasn't stopped.

Which means Waylon hasn't. And Mason too…

At least when she's around.

He calls me Jeremy when it's just us.

Something flutters in my chest, helping erase some of my lingering anxiety. He doesn't know it, but even in my head he makes things better.

The real Mason though, he starts singing, and all thoughts of stupid nicknames and fluttery feelings are forgotten as I find myself just standing there, staring at the tan carpet awkwardly. In the corner of my eye, I see him using the TV remote as a microphone.

He's crazy. He really is.

I wonder what it's like though, not to care what people think.

But I know that's not true. He cares a lot. He's just better at pretending he doesn't.

Izzy's managed to drag Waylon up, and somehow we all end up dancing, even me. Just a little bit. Just for a moment. Just for this song.

Because I know it's Mason's favorite.

I also know it makes him sad, this song—makes him think of the day his dad left him without so much as a goodbye—and he hates that. He doesn't want to lose this song to something bad. He told us so.

So if this makes the song happier for him, and makes him forget about his dad, then I can suck it up. The last thing I'd want is for him or anyone to be sad on my birthday, and have bad memories about this day too.

Afterward, Waylon goes back to his cake, and Izzy and Mason are over by the boombox, flipping through his binder, fighting over which to put on next. And by fighting, I mean Izzy's just being a butthead on purpose. It's not some twin superpower telling me this. She's just really obvious. Mason has to know she's doing this on purpose for his attention, right?

"Jeremy, you pick," Mason calls over to where I've sat back down.

I bite my lip, trying to keep my smile in.

Izzy whirls around, grinning. "Yeah, you pick."

I shrug, suddenly unsure. I don't wanna pick something they hate.

Mason comes over with his binder, his pale blue eyes looking nearly silver in the sunlight peeking through the windows. I don't know what time it is, but I assume Izzy's classmates are gonna start showing up soon. Her party starts at 2.

He hands me the binder to go through. My fingers quake a bit taking it from him, but I do my exercises that Mary Ann taught me, talking myself down, reminding me it's all in my head, this feeling like I'm going to die just because people are looking at me and expecting something from me.

These are my friends.

My sister.

My house.

My party.

"Um, this, I guess," I say quietly, pointing to the disk with SWITCHFOOT written on it in big, bold, carefully written letters.

He grabs it, leaving the binder with me. Once it's in the player, and "Dare You to Move" kicks on, Izzy races over to me. "I love this one!"

I know she does.

Mom and Dad took us all to see them and Creed at Hershey Park a few years ago. We stayed in a hotel for the night, and got to go to the amusement park and chocolate factory the next day.

We get halfway through the CD, when my party ends with the arrival of Izzy's first guest.

At this point, I'm all peopled out anyway, as Mom would say. I just want to hang out in my room, read my new comics, and put on my new movies.

The doorbell rings, and Izzy makes a run for the foyer, yelling, "I'll get it!"

I start grabbing all my stuff. Mason helps me. Waylon's on the recliner, playing with my old Nintendo DS I gave him a couple months ago, after Mom bought me a new one.

Mason's flipping through my new DVDs, even though he already saw what I got when I opened them. He stares for a long time down at X2. I have the VHS of it, which we've watched a bunch before. But for Christmas we finally got a DVD player, so I'm trying to replace everything I already have.

When the movie came out a year ago, Mason had had his first piano recital around that time. For weeks, I barely saw him, even though he was over our house just about every day, practicing in our studio, having Mom and Izzy help him. He'd eat dinner with us, but it was like we were in two separate worlds, just like how it feels when it's just me and Izzy and my parents, and they're all talking about music and stuff.

Dad had offered to take me to see the movie, just the two of us, but I said no, that I'd just wait for it to come out on VHS so Mason and I could watch it together. Which we did. Multiple times. The sequel was even better than the first one.

I was happy when things finally went back to normal and I had my friend back. I was worried I never would. That he was finally sick of the stuff I still liked, like superhero stuff…

Sick of me.

"We can go watch it in my room," I tell him quietly before I can think better of it, my voice hopeful.

Mason lifts his head, grinning, shocking me all over again with those ice blue eyes.

I still haven't found the perfect shade of blue for them, and I've tried every crayon and pencil and even paint that exists. Even mixing them all up and blending them together to create my own shade, one I'd call Mason blue, but then every time I look into his eyes, I realize I wasn't close at all.

That or they keep changing on me.

He starts to open his mouth to say something, when Izzy's voice reaches us from the foyer.

"Hi, Will!"

A door clicks shut just as Mason's shoulders slump, and he looks down, dark lashes fanning his cheeks. "I can't. Sorry. I?—"

"I know. It's fine," I rush out. "I f-forgot."

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

He's her friend too. He can't just come to my party, then ditch hers to hang out with me.

Not for the first time, I wish, somehow, he never met Izzy. That when we met by the swings that day, I wasn't so quiet and shy and weird, and was able to make him my friend before he could meet her. Claimed him in some way…

But then I remember he's in her grade.

And then there's the piano.

Who would Mason even be without that? It's as much a part of him, as it is my sister.

In the corner of the room, Waylon's attention is no longer on the Nintendo, but on the hallway just past me, where I can hear two sets of footsteps drawing closer.

I quickly take the DVD's stacked in Mason's hands, duck my head, and turn away before he can say anything. Arms full with comics and movies and a bag of new art supplies hanging from around the crook of my arm, I cut across the living room and into the kitchen.

Behind me, an unfamiliar voice follows just as I round the corner, into the kitchen, disappearing from sight.

"Hi, Way."

Will.

Izzy told me about him. Said he moved here from Philly. He's been over a couple times, but I never met him, despite Mom's and Izzy's efforts to try and get me to come down. I've seen him through my bedroom window though. He has dark blond hair, a little bit darker than mine. And he's always smiling, every time I've seen him. It's the same kind of smile Izzy wears when she's up to trouble. But I think that's just his face.

Izzy told me he's Waylon's best friend, though Waylon likes to pretend he hates him.

That didn't surprise me.

Waylon likes to pretend he hates everyone.

Upstairs, in my room, I'm setting all my things on my bed, when I hear laughter and yelling from outside. I walk over to my window, and look down just as I spot my sister dragging Mason across the yard separating our house from the garage. They're followed by Will and Waylon—Will's waving his hands around, and Waylon's shoulders are shaking, telling me he's laughing at whatever Will's going on about.

From here, I can see the garage doors have been pulled back, revealing black and red streamers hanging all around, and tables and chairs set out.

Two more cars pull in. More kids arriving.

I rub my fingers together, and swallow a couple times, taking one step back, then another, then another.

I sit down on my bed, and clutch my knees, staring at the back of my hands, wishing, not for the first time, things were different.

That I was different.

That I could be like Mason and pretend I don't care what people think.

That I could belong.

Be normal.