Chapter Text
a m e l i a
If there's one thing you should know about me, it's that I'm not invisible.
I mean, scientifically speaking, I'm very much here.
I have a birth certificate, a student ID photo that somehow made me look both twelve and worn out that a decent night's sleep couldn't remedy. A fully functioning body that continues to wake up every morning against my will.
I occupy physical space. I cast shadows. I once got hit in the face with a volleyball during freshman year, which would've been impossible if I were invisible.
So no. Definitely visible.
It usually becomes bitterly real when I hear my dad's voice echoing through the house early in the morning.
"Amelia!" Dad's voice booms from downstairs at an offensively cheerful volume for seven in the morning. "I made breakfast, and I'm not prepared for it to go uneaten!"
I groan into my pillow, piqued by the concept of morning itself. "I'm coming!" I shout back.
That is, objectively, a lie.
A minimum thirty-minute lie.
I stay face-planted on my mattress for another full minute, contemplating whether society would truly collapse if I simply stopped attending school altogether.
Eventually, I peel myself off the bed with all the grace of a dying Victorian woman, blindly reaching for my glasses on the nightstand.
The second I slide them on, the blur sharpens into reality.
My eyes landed on Fat Louie, curled up on his tiny cat bed near the window, sleeping peacefully like he doesn't pay taxes or experience humiliation on a daily basis.
I narrow my eyes at him. "Must be nice," I mutter.
He doesn't respond. Mostly because he's asleep. Also because he's a cat.
Still, the jealousy burns.
He's gotten huge lately. Like, suspiciously huge. Dad says he's "well-loved." The vet called him "approaching concern."
I've always maintained that he's aware of his own magnificence. I think Fat Louie just moves through life with confidence I can only aspire to someday.
I crouch beside him and scratch behind his ear gently. "If you get any cuter, it's going to become a problem."
Fat Louie opens one eye for half a second before going back to sleep.
Unbelievable.
Meanwhile, my own body feels like it got hit by a truck carrying exhaustion, poor decisions, and unresolved teenage emotions. My hair is sticking to my face in at least seven different directions, and I can feel the morning breath ruining my quality of life.
A shower should fix at least forty percent of this disaster.
I shuffle toward the bathroom, only to freeze the second I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
"Mother of pearl," I whisper.
My reflection looks like I lost altercation with a tornado.
My curls are frizzed, expanding outward like they're actively trying to escape my scalp. There are pillow marks on my cheek. My eyes are half-shut, and my face looks so swollen you'll think I cried myself to sleep after a tragic breakup.
I lean closer to the mirror in horror.
"I look terrible."
There came a thought I could have happily lived without.
Suppose, through some bizarre twist of fate, Josh Richter and I actually ended up getting married—which, admittedly, required several miracles and at least one blunder in his judgment—and one morning he rolled over only to discover... this.
I think I would file for divorce on his behalf before the wedding even happened.
I stare at myself another second before sighing.
Then again, it's seven in the morning. Nobody looks good at seven in the morning. Celebrities don't even look good at seven in the morning. That's why paparazzi photos exist.
Forty minutes later, I'm showered, dressed, standing in front of the mirror again, evaluating the damage.
My glasses are back on. Backpack ready. Fat Louie's breakfast served like the spoiled king he is.
I managed to keep my room in a condition that could generously be described as livable. As for the bed, I left it alone. Recreating perfection only to destroy it later struck me as a waste of energy.
I stare critically at my hair.
It looks...okay.
Not good. Let's not get delusional.
But okay.
My curls naturally do whatever they want, that at this point I accepted that trying to control them is like trying to negotiate with a raccoon.
I tuck one side behind my ear, the only hairstyle I know how to do besides panic.
My reflection earned another skeptical once-over.
I look decent.
That has to count for something.
Maybe Josh Richter would finally look in my direction today.
Probably not.
But hope, unfortunately, is chronic.
Right on cue, Dad's voice drifted upstairs at a volume that suggested he believed walls were optional. "You said you're coming down, but it's been almost an hour!"
I let out a long sigh and squeezed my eyes shut. "Can he not be patient for literally one second?" I muttered under my breath.
"I heard that!" He fired back.
I nearly launched myself through the ceiling.
How does he do that?
Does fatherhood come with enhanced hearing abilities? Is there a secret seminar?
"It's nothing!" I shout.
"You better!"
I grab my backpack, hurrying downstairs before he starts another speech about punctuality and responsibility or how "the world doesn't wait for people who hit snooze five times."
By the time I make it into the kitchen, Dad is already plating breakfast then taking a sip of his coffee.
I stopped in front of my chair, observing the contents of the plate. "What exactly am I looking at?"
Dad looked over the rim of his mug. "It's breakfast."
I leaned in another inch. "Did the breakfast I know transformed...that?"
His eyebrows shot upward. "They're scrambled eggs."
The alleged eggs were fused together into one enormous yellow mass with random brown patches scattered across the surface that indicates they briskly caught fire then reconsidered.
They weren't completely inedible-looking.
It looked less like breakfast and more like something that escaped from a middle-school home economics disaster.
"They're certainly scrambled. I'm just not convinced they're eggs anymore."
Dad set the plate directly in front of me. "One day you'll recognize true culinary artistry." I took a seat and picked up the fork.
"I'm beginning to suspect your favorite ingredient isn't butter or salt." He frowned.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's the word 'culinary.' You seem so attached to it."
I poked at the eggs with my fork instead of actually eating them, absentmindedly prodded the eggs until they had migrated halfway across the plate.
Dad noticed, raising the spatula and aimed it at me. "Eat."
I glanced down at breakfast again, looking even more suspicious than before.
"Anne had the right idea leaving early," I murmured, almost wistfully.
Dad didn't even turn around. "Interesting. I could've sworn somebody said something."
"Must've been the wind," I offered the brightest fake smile I could form on short notice.
Dad huffed out a chuckle, shaking his head. "You really ought to consider acting."
"I already do." I took a bite. "I'm pretending to trust your cooking."
He laughed outright. "Fair enough."
Despite everything, breakfast actually tastes good.
I hate when he wins.
The kitchen smells like coffee and toast, sunlight spills through the windows in soft gold streaks that make everything feel warmer than it actually is. Dad hums while rinsing dishes, paint stains still visible on his hands from whatever project he stayed up finishing last night.
Silence lasted long for Dad to check the time. "Move it, slowpoke."
I swallowed another bite and frowned. "You're awfully determined to rush me through your own cooking."
His eyebrows lifted. "Nice attempt."
"Worth a shot."
I pushed my chair back with an exaggerated sigh. "Apparently punctuality is more important than family bonding."
After hoisting my backpack onto my shoulder, I leaned over, pressing a quick kiss on his cheek. "See you later, Dad. Feel free to be devastated by my absence."
He waved me off. "I'll do my best to recover."
I grin, heading towards the door, cautiously maneuvering around his art supplies cluttering the garage like a miniature obstacle course.
I reached for my scooter where it was waiting beside the front door, the helmet dangling lazily from the handle. My scooter has been my faithful companion for longer than I care to admit.
Unless Anne is feeling unusually charitable and lets me anywhere near her Mustang.
Besides, I don't mind the scooter. It's dependable, inexpensive, It gets me from one place to another without requiring gasoline prices, never once acted smug about being significantly cooler than I am.
Opening the door, the morning air hits me crisp and cold against my face.
I turned back, unhooked the helmet with one hand, ready to leave when I turn—
"Hi!"
I let out a mortifying gasp that echoed farther than my pride could tolerate, flinching too harshly I lurched backward, bumped into my scooter in the process, and watched it topple onto the pavement.
"Crap!"
"Oh God—sorry!" Daniel rushes forward, immediately steadying the scooter. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"Dan," I wheezed, clutching my chest, "I just saw my entire life flash before my eyes."
He laughs sheepishly. "Sorry."
I narrow my eyes at him. "What are you even doing here this early?"
There has to be an explanation for this.
Maybe his usual walking partner was absent. Maybe he needed directions despite attending the same school for years. Maybe this was part of an elaborate social experiment.
My brain insisted on inventing increasingly implausible theories rather than accepting the obvious statement he'd just made.
Daniel Morris wanted to walk to school with... me.
"Oh," I replied, displaying the intelligence of a decorative houseplant.
He shifted uneasily, waiting for me to say literally anything else. "If that's weird, you can just say no."
I hesitated, not sure why I froze like that.
Should I turn him down?
No, because then I'll spend the rest of the day wondering if I accidentally offended him.
Daniel is my friend. Walking beside him for a few blocks isn't a lifelong commitment.
Why am I making this into such a crisis?
"No! I mean—not no. I mean yes. Wait." I exhale. "You can come."
I'd like to blame nerves because I have no explanation for what I just did, leaving me to improvise with verbal scraps.
His features brightened, followed by a smile that made him look nicer than usual.
People shouldn't be allowed to look that endearing simply because they weren't rejected.
I felt the corners of my own mouth lift. "That's actually really nice of you—"
"Did I just hear tater tots volunteering to escort you to school?"
I don't even have to turn around to know who it is.
Lilly arrives beside us on her scooter like a tiny storm cloud in platform shoes, her expression locked into deep suspicion.
I never fully understood why she dislikes Daniel so much. At this point, it's become one of nature's great mysteries. The girl looks at him like he personally caused the fall of civilization.
Daniel inhaled quietly, gathering courage to speak. "I'm gonna walk Mia to school—"
"I didn't ask you," Lilly says flatly.
I press my lips together to stop myself from laughing.
Daniel looks mildly traumatized.
"Lilly," I hiss quietly.
"What?" Her voice laced innocence, which is terrifying because Lilly is never innocent.
"He insisted," I defended weakly.
She faced me with solemnity that made me feel I failed an exam I didn't even know I was taking.
"Really, Mia?"
"He's being nice!" I protested, hearing the weakness of my own argument.
For reasons known only to Lilly, she studied Daniel from head to toe, causing me to wonder if she developed X-ray vision overnight.
"Fine," she declared. "He can walk with us."
Daniel's shoulders visibly loosened.
Big mistake.
Lilly raised a finger. "Don't get excited," she said. "You'll be trailing behind us."
Then again, expecting normal behavior from Lilly Moscovitz is a fundamentally flawed life decision.
She operates according to rules known exclusively to herself, and everyone else is expected to keep up.
Daniel tilted his head. "How much space are we talking about?"
Lilly considered it for half a second.
"If strangers think you're with us, you're too close."
I choke back another laugh as Lilly pushes off on her scooter, speeding ahead without another word.
I kept pace beside Lilly while Daniel is left following several steps behind us, looking like someone who accidentally wandered into the wrong field trip.
After a while, guilt got the better of me, so I risked a glance over my shoulder.
He caught me looking and answered with a small, reassuring smile that made me feel even worse about the whole situation.
I nudged Lilly lightly with my elbow. "You know," I whisper, "you don't have to interrogate every male person who comes within a five-foot radius of me."
"I absolutely do."
"You treated him like he's carrying classified government secrets."
"He has the vibe."
I stare at her. "What does that even mean?"
She shrugs. "I don't know yet. But when I figure it out, I'll let you know."
I laughed before I could think of a comeback.
The morning breeze pushes through my curls as we glide down the sidewalk, the city waking around us. Cars hum past. A dog barks in the distance. Daniel is still walking a distance behind us under Lilly's enforced restraining order.
"You should try intimidating people sometime." Lilly says, glancing sideways at me.
"I can barely order food without apologizing."
"Exactly. Growth opportunity."