LIMINAL 

By Maree Anderson

CHAPTER TWO

First period, Friday. One more school day to endure before the weekend—not that I was obsessively counting down or anything.

The weekend. Something any high school student in their right mind would be looking forward to. Me? Not so much. Whenever a weekend loomed I had a hard time imagining enough good stuff happening to balance out the inevitable bad.

Look on the bright side, Wren. The weekend means two whole days—and nights—to find a way to beat this. No more hiding out in your room feeling sorry for yourself, okay? There has to be a way to fix this. Just stay strong, focused. You can do this. And as my teacher shuffled into the classroom I rolled my shoulders and pretended the inner pep-talk had worked a treat.

Mr. Brook likes to start each class by comparing his seating chart to occupied desks, noting each student present or absent in his register. This morning was no exception. His head bobbed up and down, reminding me of those bobbing-head toys old people stick in the back windows of their cars. His gaze drifted past me. He focused on his chart again, frowned, then raised his head to scan the classroom. The frown etched deeper between his brows.

I knew that expression. He was going to mark me absent. Again.

The ever-present headache ratcheted up a notch. My vision temporarily skewed, and everything and everyone in the classroom went all shimmery round the edges, as if some cosmic force was saying, "Neener neener! Full-blown migraine alert—try ignoring this one, Wren Gibson."

Craptastic. I shouldn't let it get to me like this. I have strategies in place to beat the constantly being marked absent problem. Usually I wait 'til the lesson ends, and stop by the teacher's desk on my way out. Fiddling with an item on their desk, or asking a question I already know the answer to, often works. Ditto with personally handing over a homework assignment rather than leaving it on the pile with the others. If those tricks fail, the best way to get noticed is to get physical. But that's last resort material. Teachers don't much appreciate students yanking on their sleeve. And accidentally on purpose stepping on their feet isn't recommended, either. Some teachers don't handle the whole student-they'd-marked-absent-getting-in-their-faces-about-it particularly well.

Bottom line? I've learned to be blunt and straight out ask my teachers to please mark me present. Then stick around 'til they do it, otherwise when I exit the room it can slip their minds. But Mr. Brook's reaction to my "strategies" always makes me feel like crap. His gaze turns hunted. His ears redden, and he invariably stammers something about my grades while he fumbles to correct his register. He's a cool teacher. I love his class. I kinda cringe every time I end up making a scene and embarrass him. But today, now, I was sick and tired of being invisible. I'd had enough.

Heat danced across my skin and a spike of frustration drove through my skull. Not good. Getting all emotional always makes the headaches worse. Need to calm down. Calm down! Suck in a breath. Hold it... keep holding it.... Slowly exhale....

Didn't help. Neither did clenching my hands until the tendons in my wrists ached. I tried visualizing a calm pool of water—like I'd read about in one of Mom's meditation books. Ripples spoiled the surface. And when my virtual pool erupted into choppy waves, I gave up.

Energy flushed through my veins, compelling me to do something. Anything.

The "anything" turned out to be shooting to my feet so fast I knocked over my chair. While I stood there, jaw clamped tight, wondering what to do next, my classmates eyed the chair and cast suspicious gazes around the room. I didn't need to be Einstein to figure out they were all wondering what unseen force of nature had tipped it over.

The unseen force of nature? That would be the now-you-see-me-now-you-don't girl who had been their classmate all freaking year. God. I hate this. I hate what's happened to me!

Unsurprisingly, Mr. Brook had glanced up from his register. "Who knocked over that chair?" he snapped.

Mutely I stared at my oblivious teacher, willing him to see me. Willing it so hard little fuzzy spots danced across my vision.

His eyes drilled right through me. "Well?" He tapped his pen on his desk.

I'm standing right here, Mr. Brook, I thought at him. Me. Wren Gibson! I'm not invisible. I'm here. All you have to do is see me.

He huffed and dropped his gaze to his register... where he made a decisive X with his pen.

I squeezed my eyes shut. My fists clenched so tightly at my sides that my nails dug into my palms. And the fury simmering in the pit of my stomach boiled upward.

"Look at me, dammit!" The screech seared my throat. Something clicked inside my head, like a switch had been thrown, and my eyelids popped open. For an instant, reality seemed to shift. My teacher's cluttered desk and chair were still there, solid and unchanged. But Mr. Brook was nothing more than a flickering human-shaped smudge of dim colors.

I blinked. He snapped back to his normal bespectacled self again. His jaw sagged and then he blinked, too. And followed it up by shaking his head. His Adam's apple bobbed, like he was swallowing something nasty. His mouth closed, opened again, but no words came out.

My heart fluttered like the injured bird I'd saved from the neighbor's evil cat. Because I knew my teacher was focusing on me.

He could see me. Omigod. Oh. My. God. I'd done it. Somehow....

A hush shrouded the classroom. I glanced to my left and my gaze zoomed in on Annette, a too-skinny try-hard blonde who fancies herself one of the in-crowd. She stared back at me, doing a really stellar imitation of an owl.

It wasn't a good look for her.

Her lip-glossed mouth shut with a snap and she ducked her head, unwilling to meet my gaze. Could hardly blame her. Social cachet is everything to Annette, and even if I hadn't already lost mine months ago, I sure was losing it now in a biiig way.

My focus cut to the boy seated at the desk behind her. Mitchell. My first real crush. My first real boyfriend. His gaze cruised over me, lingering, like he was rediscovering something he used to appreciate. A lot.

Beneath his gaze my skin tingled, my body reminding me how his lips had felt on mine the first time we'd kissed. It'd been my first kiss.... And I'd liked it. A lot.

I fought the impulse to do the girly hair-tossing thing. And silently thanked whatever force had dragged me back into my bedroom to comb my hair this morning.

His current squeeze leaned forward to poke him with her ruler. She hit him with What the eff, Mitchell? evils just to drive her point home.

Ooops. Busted. His gaze skittered away from me, face reddening at being caught red-handed ogling another girl.

A glow of warmth curled in my belly. My lips curved into a smile—something I did so rarely these days that it felt tight and lopsided and unnatural. Not that I cared. Hmmm. Might be worth making an effort with my appearance from now on and—

I mentally smacked myself upside the head. Shouldn't get ahead of myself. Had to make sure it wasn't fluke. Please let it not be a fluke!

Slowly I turned full circle, my gaze searching out every student in the room. Astonished gapes, perplexed frowns, sneers—none of them fazed me. My smile stretched wider, until my cheeks ached from smiling. Making a huge spectacle of myself and confirming to my classmates that I was a raving nut-job? Best feeling in the whole freaking world.

"Wren Gibson?" Mr Brook's tentative voice drifted to my ears and my attention snapped back to the front of the room. My teacher's brows were bushy peaks of astonishment, as if he still couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

I beamed at him. "Present!"

He summoned a strained smile at my cheerful tone. "Ah, yes. So you are. Good. Ah, would you like to take your seat now, Wren?"

His oh-so-careful, soothing-the-savage-student tone shattered what remained of my control. I remembered just in time to right my chair before I collapsed into it, overwhelmed by a relief so intense I had to bite my lips to keep from screaming it aloud. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks. My exhalations were shuddering sobs, limbs loose and shaky—kind of like the time I'd stupidly gone for a run in the midday heat and forgotten to take a water bottle. I blotted my face with the heels of my hands and pulled it together, blinking until my vision cleared enough to read the notes I'd scrawled during yesterday's class. And when I turned to a fresh page my hand shook so much I tore the paper.

My teacher, my classmates.... They could all see me. I'd made them see me. I hadn't had to touch anyone. I'd just willed it to happen. The nightmare was over. It was over.

I wasn't the only one who'd gotten it together. Mr. Brook rose from his chair and strode to the board. The chalk squealed as he covered the board with his borderline unreadable chicken scratches. The sound usually sets my teeth on edge but right now I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this happy, this grateful. I couldn't wait for the next class. I couldn't wait to get home. I couldn't wait to hug my parents, and unmercifully tease Dan—for us all to be a proper family again.

Everything was going to be all right.

The scratching stopped. And I heard Mr. Brook say, "Ah, Annette?"

"Yup?" A pause from Annette. And then a hasty, "I mean, yes, Mr. Brook?"

I bit my lips to hide a smirk. I didn't need to see Annette's expression to know she'd been smacked with a killer version of The Look Mr Brook uses to bring students into line.

"Did you see anyone leave the room?" The edge of confusion in my teacher's voice compelled me to glance up from my exercise book.

"Uh, no, Mr. Brook. No one's left the room." Annette's tone left no doubt she thought he was losing it.

My teacher's gaze roamed in my direction... and skipped past me. He scratched his head like he couldn't figure something out.

Panic needled my skin. No. This couldn't be happening. Please, no.

Mr. Brook pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. And then, while I watched, anxious and hopeful, a pulse throbbing so wildly in my temple it had to be visible to anyone who cared to look, his confused expression cleared. "I could have sworn— Ah, never mind. Right, class, today we'll be watching part one of a film about all things mammalian."

He paused to let the inevitable groans wash over him. "On the board you'll find a list of questions that must be answered in the essay you'll be writing for me this weekend. I strongly suggest you stay focused. Or if not focused, at least awake. I strongly recommend you write extensive notes. About the film, that is." He smiled at his own weak joke.

I forced myself to scribble down the questions. And somehow I summoned a reservoir of stubbornness that pinned me to my chair while the classroom blinds were pulled and the lights dimmed. But as the ancient film projector whirred into action, the urgency pricking at my skin and needling my mind grew more intense. My muscles twitched and jerked. I knew I needed to escape this claustrophobic classroom and my clueless, unintentionally cruel classmates. I needed to... to... outrun this squirming hot sickness in my belly, the suffocating tightness in my chest, the panic clawing my mind. If I stayed here I would implode. And the fallout wouldn't be pretty.

I shoved my books into my pack, climbed unsteadily to my feet, and lurched toward the classroom door... which abruptly opened as I neared it. And stayed open, like someone was holding it for me. Except, no one was there.

These days I have a pretty high tolerance for weirdness, so I barreled through the doorway and refused to give a second thought to how it had opened all on its own. But the weirdness factor of the voice that had whispered "Hang in there, luv" as the door swung closed was much harder to ignore.

That voice.... It hadn't been one of my classmates but it'd been strangely familiar.

Shock and desperate hope choked the flow of adrenaline powering my headlong rush. I skidded to an arm-wheeling halt and stood in the corridor, panting, fighting for calmness and some semblance of logical thought. The voice had been male, with an accent that reminded me of Buffy the Vampire Slayer's Spike. I'd swear up and down it belonged to the guy from the bus stop—the guy who'd provoked silly day-dreams someone like me shouldn't have been dreaming.

I held my breath until more of those little black spots fuzzed my vision, and finally exhaled slowly through my nose. Okay, Wren. Think. Someone just spoke to you. Logically that means that right now someone can see you.

I swiveled on my heel and glanced back toward my classroom. Empty corridor. No one lurking in the doorway. No one there.

Right. Of course no one's there. Talk about delusional, Wren. That's what happens when you let yourself dare to hope. All the hope gets sucked out of you, and you feel a thousand times worse than you felt before. Hopeless. Bleak. So very, very, alone.

My forgotten headache flared viciously again. I pressed my thumbs into my temples, slit my eyelids, and concentrated on dragging one foot after another. Down a flight of stairs that went on forever, through the heavy main doors that slammed shut behind me like a doomsday knell, into the too-bright fake cheeriness of the world outside.

My eyes watered in the sunlight but at least they weren't tears. That had to count for something, right?

I slumped against a stair railing, hunched over and hurting, torn between a craving for the familiarity of home and the agony of knowing that even there I was on my own. The sun beat down on my nape, remorseless and unforgiving. The heat of the railing seeped through the thin cotton of my t-shirt to brand my spine. The bitter metallic stench of sun-warmed metal mingled with the harsh chemical odor of fresh paint, and spoiled fruit from a nearby garbage can. I wrinkled my nose to suppress a sneeze.

Sure I felt crappy now, but it'd only be ten times worse rattling around in an empty house.

Huh. Some choice. I sucked it up and slunk back to class.

~~~

Just before the lunch bell rang my stomach gave a huge rumbling gurgle that seemed to go on forever—just like this school day seemed to be going on forever. Heat blossomed on my cheeks. I darted glances left and right and over my shoulder, mildly surprised to discover none of my classmates were snickering and pointing the finger after my very loud, very embarrassing display. Oh right. Invisible. Apparently there are some advantages to being me.

From the bottom of my backpack I scrounged enough loose change to cover a sandwich and a soda, before shoving the pack back in my locker and slamming the door. The girl rummaging in the locker two down from mine glanced up, her eyes huge, face a picture of "Where the heck did you come from?"

Visible again. Yay. I grimaced, muttered a half-hearted apology and stalked off.

Of course the visibility didn't last until I hit the cafeteria. That would be too much to ask. Worse, it took me ten seconds of trying to catch the attention of the bored-looking woman behind the register to confirm it. Mind you, I gotta admit buying lunch in the cafeteria isn't that big of a deal for a mostly invisible girl—not that I treat myself very often these days. There's something too pathetic about having to constantly remind your parents to give you your allowance. And sure, I could have taken the food without paying at all, but the thought of stealing makes me squirm. I'd grabbed a sandwich from the prepackaged food section so I left enough cash to cover it, plus a soda, on the counter by the till.

For some perverse reason I decided to sit at one of the more popular tables to eat my sandwich. Refusing to let "it" beat me down. Taking control and all that. Yeah, riiight. Way to go when the table's empty, Wren.

I took a huge, savage bite of my sandwich only to gag at the taste of ham. Uck. I'd meant to grab a salad one.

Used to be I was an enthusiastic carnivore. Don't ask me why I've gone off meat because I have no idea. It sure isn't an ethical decision. I swallowed the wafer-thin piece of processed pig with a mouthful of soda and then checked my sandwich in case there was any more of the nasty stuff lurking.

I'd just braved another bite when someone yanked my chair back from the table and sat right on top of me.

Mitchell is no lightweight. His startled yelp echoed what would have been my appallingly loud squeal of protest if I hadn't had my mouth full of sandwich and all the breath squished out of me. Instead, all that erupted was a strangled gargle.

 "Shit!" His food-laden tray tilted and he shifted his grip, grasping it so tightly his knuckles went white.

"G'rroff me!" I shoved him off my lap and choked down my mouthful before I did something really humiliating and spat half masticated bread all over him.

He managed to set his tray on the table without spilling his soda or dumping his two burgers and bowl of fries on the floor. The boy had talent.

"Sorry, ah—"

His struggle to remember my name shattered my heart all over again.

"It's Wren," I said. "With a W."

From the corner of my eye I spotted his friends grinning and nudging each other. And his girlfriend giving me a "watch your back, you skanky ho" glare.

My attention switched back to Mitchell, who stood staring down at me with confusion scrawled all over his face. "Are you okay?" he finally managed to ask.

"I'm fine." Total lie of course, because what was fine about any of this?

"How could I have not have seen you sitting there?" he muttered.

I figured he hadn't meant to ask the question aloud but I answered anyway. "Because I just happened to be invisible at the time. Duh."

He treated me to an eye-roll and that special little half-smile that had always tugged at my heartstrings made an appearance. "Sure you were. Very funny."

Yeah. Very funny. For everyone else.

"Maybe you need your eyes tested." I grabbed my soda and stood, on the verge of tears and in no mood to play nice. "If you want my chair so bad, here. Take it. It's yours."

"Wren. I'm real sorry I didn't see you."

The soft concern in his voice and the worry crinkling his brows undid me, and something inside me broke. I wanted to go back in time to when I'd been his girlfriend, and he'd cared about me for real—not just because he felt bad about squashing some poor girl he barely recognized. I wanted to yell at him for dumping me and ripping out my heart. I wanted to upend my tray in his lap and make a scene and embarrass the hell out him, like he'd just embarrassed me.

Satisfying as those reactions would be, I did neither. His hangdog expression told me he was genuinely sorry. Which shouldn't surprise me. He's an all around nice guy after all. And I could hardly blame him for all the weird things happening in my life.

I left the table, spine stiff, head held high. Mitchell would just have to deal with the remains of my lunch. The back of my neck tingled as I pictured the staring eyes, the snickers and whispers, the speculation—that weirdo girl, wassername, making another scene. On the plus side, at least I'd gotten myself noticed with no effort on my part for a change. That little scene where Mitchell plunked his butt right in my lap wouldn't be forgotten in a hurry. Heck, if I was really lucky, someone might have snapped it with their phone and by this afternoon it'd have gone viral. I'll say this about public humiliation, it's way better than drifting through life in a pseudo-ghostlike state, ignored and forgotten and—

Whoa. Cruel realization stung my skin with hot-cold-hot prickles. I was seriously on the brink of convincing myself that any attention at all—like having my ex-boyfriend sit on me and almost forget my name and embarrass me in front of the entire school—was a positive. I'd just hit rock bottom. It was a desolate, frightening place to be.

I clapped a hand over my mouth and hoped to God I didn't barf up my lunch. Because with my luck I'd still be visible and that'd be something everyone would remember. I held it together until I got out of the cafeteria, and then took to my heels and sprinted down the corridor. Enough. I'd reached my limit. I was cutting afternoon classes and heading home. I didn't care about sticking 'round and politely reminding teachers I wasn't absent. I didn't care about maintaining my GPA. I didn't care about anything. I just wanted—

I just wanted to be normal. I just wanted things to go back to the way they'd been before, when my obsessing centered around what to wear on my next date with Mitchell, and how to wheedle Mom into buying me another tube of my favorite lip-gloss. Was that too much to ask?

I tried my darnedest to dial the combination for my locker but my fingers kept sliding over the lock. And then both the lock and my locker turned all blurry-shimmery and unreal, like I was looking at them underwater. Great. Just great. How much more of this woo-woo crap did I have to take before it ended?

Frustration and a big old dose of "why me?" prodded me to slam my palm into the metal door. My breath hitched as I waited for the pain to hit. But I felt nothing—a nothing that was a curious absence of sensation, as though my hand was no longer part of the physical world and subject to its natural laws. I smacked the locker door over and over, and finally, the sharp pain I'd been waiting for flared in my palm and snaked to my wrist.

It felt good, necessary in some strange way. And only when my palm turned a bright angry red and my wrist throbbed and ached did I quit smacking the locker. And then, cradling my hand against my chest, I slid down until my butt hit the floor, buried my face against my bent knees, and gave in to a crying jag. I didn't care whether anyone could see me. Right now I was beyond caring about anything much at all.

I thought I was imagining the voice at first.

"Aw, poor little thing," it—he—crooned.

I jerked up my chin, glanced around. But no one was lurking. No one was witnessing this latest humiliation.

My brain kicked up a gear and through the blur of tears it occurred to me there were no other students in the corridor. Normally there'd be students slamming lockers as they fetched books for their afternoon classes, huddles of kids hanging out, gossiping and madly texting their friends and planning to hook up over the weekend. It was deathly quiet, as if the area had been designated a no-go zone. Weird.

A loud crackling ripped through the silence. It reminded me of cellophane being scrunched. A truck-load of cellophane. I struggled to my feet, keeping my back against the wall of lockers.

An invisible force skimmed my skin. I stuck out my arm and watched the fine blond hairs rise until they stood straight up.

"Having a rough time, eh?"

Wha—? I gnawed my lower lip. That English voice again. A disembodied English voice—no body in sight. Great. Now I could add hearing voices to my woe-is-me list. And not just any voices, ones with sexy-as accents. How pathetic was tha—

The voice's owner blinked into existence.

"Hello, luv. Remember me?"

Leather Pants Dude sauntered toward me, oozing bad-boy charm. The lazy smile quirking his lips announced he knew the effect he had on girls, was certain I'd fall at his feet and worship his kick-butt Joe Rocket boots. But my throat was too tight from imprisoning all the emotions bubbling up inside me to form actual words. The voice I'd been hearing was his. And I'd bet my life that at the bus stop he had been able to see me. Just like he could see me now.

As he came closer I thrust out a hand, but whether I intended to grab him and shake him until his teeth rattled, or draw him even closer so I could bury my face in his leather biker jacket and shake with relief, I didn't know. He'd ignored me while I ogled him and did jumping jacks. He'd whispered in my ear and made me believe I was losing it. Why would he do that to me—torture me like that? Did he get off on watching me make a dork of myself and believe I was hearing things? Why wait 'til now to reveal that he could see me when others couldn't?

Unless he wasn't real.

His eyes widened as he absorbed my expression. God knows what I looked like. Borderline terrified most likely. And he had enough smarts to realize I was perilously close to a meltdown, for he halted just out of reach and stood perfectly still, letting me do whatever it was I needed to do.

I pushed off from the safety of the lockers and took that one small but mega-scary step needed to close the gap. My hand trembled as I stroked his cheek. It was smooth. He'd shaved recently.

I brushed his mouth with my fingertips. His lips were soft, the lower slightly fuller than the upper. There was an intriguing little dimple in his chin and—

I jerked back my hand, fisting it against my torso. He wasn't a figment of my imagination. He was real. And he could see me. And he'd just appeared out of thin air. And... and... too much. I couldn't deal.

"Aw, don't get all teary-eyed on me, luv. You're a lim. The good stuff far outweighs the bad. Once you get the hang of it, of course. Which is why I'm here."

"W-what the h-heck are you t-talking about?"

"I'm gonna teach you all about being a lim."

"A w-what?"

"Liminal. You know, like subliminal. Only the complete opposite."

"Huh?"

He rolled his eyes ceiling-ward and heaved a disgruntled sigh. "Had you figured for a smart girl. Here's a little demo for you, luv."

He grabbed my wrist, holding it so tightly his fingers dug into my skin. Afraid I would try to run from him? He had nothing to worry about. My muscles had turned to Jell-O. I wasn't going anywhere in a hurry.

"Now you see me liminal."

The gesture he made with his spare hand was a magician's flourish.

"Now you see me subliminal."

And.... He disappeared.

My brain overloaded, whirling with conflicting information. Was something buzzing nearby or was it only inside my head? Could I truly feel his hand bracketing my wrist, the almost bruising grasp of his fingers? I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure of anything anymore.

"Ta-daaaa. You don't see me, right?"

I squeaked and nearly swallowed my tongue. His voice sounded so close I could picture him leaning in to whisper in my ear. Or maybe he was whispering in my mind. "I d-don't see you. R-right."

 "Subliminal. Beyond the threshold of conscious perception."

Now his tone was sing-song, like a kid reciting a rote phrase.

"Get it?" he asked.

"S-subliminal. G-got it." The roaring in my head got louder. A vice squeezed my skull. My knees buckled.

"Aw, shit!"

He popped back into view in time to grab me as I sagged. My head lolled against the crook of his shoulder, leaving me staring up at his face. His features blurred, going fuzzy around the edges.

 "Wren. Stay with me, luv." He jiggled me in his arms. "Wren!"

I wanted to. God, how I wanted to. Because there were so many questions I wanted to ask. Would I fall through his arms if he disappeared again? Or would he still be physically there, even if I couldn't feel him holding me?

And if someone walked past, would they see me floating in mid-air?

What if I disappeared? Or was I already invisible, and only he could see me?

And there was one question that burned with the need to be asked—the most important question of all. Were there more of us, or was he the only one out there like me? But they all floated away unasked as I slid into oblivion.

~~~

Copyright 2013 Maree Anderson

www.mareeanderson.com