The Visibles by Sara Shepard Page A

convenience store we’d passed on the way in; there was a two-for-one deal on packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes. I considered going down there and buying Claire Ryan a pack; she and her new friends smoked Lucky Strikes by the carton.
    After our argument in Prospect Park the December my mom left,Claire and I didn’t speak for a while. In the months following, Claire lost some of the weight, settling into an apple shape: bigger boobs, fleshy stomach, flat ass, and skinny legs. She befriended a band of outcasts and started dressing in fishnet stockings, short skirts, clunky boots, and ripped T-shirts whose obscure band names stretched precariously across her chest. After some time passed, Claire began waving to me in the halls again. By the following school year, she was inviting me out with her and the rest of the freaks. All her new friends hung out at the Galaxy Diner, a greasy spoon on Seventh Avenue, and every time I trailed into the diner behind them I felt unoriginal and out of place. It wasn’t that I wanted to hang out with them, I just didn’t have anything better to do. Long gone were the days of thinking who I was friends with made any difference. It had been ages since I believed my mother was waiting around every corner, monitoring my every move.
    Claire caught up on all the classes she’d failed when she was in France, taking courses over the summer, and graduated with her original grade a few weeks ago. She’d gotten into painting and was going to a summer art program in San Francisco to build up her portfolio. “I don’t like that it’s for the whole summer,” she told me the last time I hung out with her. We were sitting in a booth at the diner, waiting for her other friends to show up. “So don’t go,” I answered impassively, gently pushing the tines of a fork into my palm. “Will you write me?” she asked. I laughed and told her that she should write to the corpses she was friends with instead. “They’re not the types who write letters.” Claire lowered her eyes and tugged at her oversized T-shirt. It bore the name of one of the strange, toneless bands she now loved, Fugazi, and had the words you are not what you own printed in small, subliminal letters on the back.
    Dear Claire, I don’t want to write you. I already told you I don’t want to talk to you. You should just leave me alone.
    A slightly larger house loomed at the end of the road, a blue light flickering in the front window. As I got closer, I realized it was light from a television. I wasn’t sure why, but it comforted me. The main television in my now-dead grandmother’s house didn’t work, and I hadn’t braved the 1970s model in my father’s old room.
    I stepped closer, gazing at the flickering screen. It was the O. J. Simpson thing, yet another recap of the slow-speed car chase that had occurred a few days before. My father and I had sat slack-jawed on the couch, watching the whole thing unfold. I hadn’t been clear on why they were chasing O.J., and I still wasn’t, not exactly. I felt sorry for him, though, because I’d found him funny in the Naked Gun movies.
    I had been staring at the screen for a good half minute before I realized there was a boy on a brown, saggy couch. His posture was so bad that his butt was nearly off the cushions, and his feet stretched almost to the TV stand. He looked about my age, with messy dark hair and an oversized nose, in a baggy T-shirt and shorts.
    Surprised, I took a step back, flattening an empty Coke can. The sound made the boy look up. His forehead creased.
    I took another step back. He walked to the door and peered outside, scowling. The humid air felt toxic. He gaped at me, seemingly furious. “How many times are you guys going to do this?” His voice was sharp, impatient.
    “I’m sorry?”
    “He’s not your enemy. It’s a completely different religion.”
    I blinked rapidly. “What?”
    The boy paused, moving his jaw from side to side. “Alan sent you, right?”