The Invisible (31 page)

With my ballet schedule, I only get to see him a couple of times a week lately. It’s been a big shift after seeing him every day—I moved in with him and Abe for a month after the confrontation with my father, before I was able to move into the dorms at the Bedlam Ballet Corps Summer Audition Program. With my ballet and Ford boxing in real matches again—so far the Syndicate isn’t going after him for it—we’re glad to take things slow. And the occasional nighttime sweep of the South when we hear about something bad going on is much more fun, now that we can do it together.

What my real father did meant something to this city. And I’ve finally accepted that what I’m doing means something too.

We are here today to visit Jax’s grave, no longer fresh. And we’re also here to meet someone.

“It’s this way.” Ford points off the path to one side of a willow tree sagging under the weight of its downturned branches. He comes here more often than I do—it’s not far from his house and my schedule at the ballet corps is so demanding that I seldom get out during the hours the cemetery is open.

We turn off the rock-lined path onto the grass, careful not to walk across the graves. I spot a flat, smooth stone and add it to the three I’ve already got in my pocket.

The solid mass of the stones is comforting somehow. Permanent. They’ll still be here long after all of us are dead and gone.

Up ahead, I spot someone with frizzy honey-colored hair, thick plastic horned-rim glasses, and narrow shoulders sitting on a tree stump. She turns and looks at us with incandescent blue eyes, then scoots off the stump and waves a tentative hand. The way she moves, the tidiness of her gestures, leaves no doubt in my mind about who she is. It’s uncanny how like her mother her features are. For a moment, I almost think I see Jax standing there.

But then I blink and Jax is gone, the girl in the graveyard herself again, threading her way through the gravestones. She looks about fourteen.

“Here it is.” Ford stops. We’ve reached the grave.

Ford and I arranged for the headstone together, after we did the research and uncovered Jax’s birthday. Ford came up with the wording:

JAXON MAGRATH.
SCIENTIST, DREAMER, MOTHER.
GONE TOO SOON.

I added something she once said to me at the end:

“IT’S THE PEOPLE YOU HELP THAT GET YOU THROUGH.”

I stack two stones on the side of the granite grave marker and let out a shuddering sigh. “I’m so sorry, Jax.” It’s what I always say. Today is the four-month anniversary of her death.

The girl’s feet crunch on the gravel, and then she joins us at the grave. She’s carrying a bunch of white wildflowers, and she squats to place them in front of the headstone.

“Hi,” Ford and I say at the same time. We’re nervous. We want her to feel comfortable.

“Hi,” she says. “I’m Cleo.”

“You look just like her,” Ford says. “It’s uncanny.”

“You think?” she shrugs, but I see from the way her cheeks turn pink that this pleases her. That she wishes she’d known her mother. I can relate.

“Thank you for coming.” I smile at her. “We really loved her. Your mom. And I know she would have given anything to meet you.” As I say the words, I’m more sure that I’m going to visit Jacob Lokhem. Soon, maybe. Before winter comes.

“I’m glad you found me,” she says, biting her lip and staring at the gravestone. “Was she really a scientist? Like with a lab and everything? Even after she left the university?”

Like me, there are so many puzzle pieces swimming around in Cleo’s mind. It’s hard to piece everything together. “She had a lab, yes. It’s still there, actually. I was there last week.”

“I’d love to see it. I’m into science too,” she says, moving from one foot to the other. “Ever since I figured out my heart wasn’t like everyone else’s, it’s been a hobby of mine to try to understand why.”

“We’ll take you there. We can go today, if you like,” Ford offers.

“Sure,” Cleo says, her eyes huge behind her thick glasses. She smiles broadly and rocks back on her heels. “I’d like that.”

“You know, Jax worked on my heart too,” I confess, raising an eyebrow. “I can do some pretty unusual things. Ford can, too.”

Cleo fixes her big eyes on me, then Ford. Sizing us up. “In that case, want to race?” she says casually, almost yawning. But she’s bouncing on her heels, her black canvas high-tops flexing.

I look at Ford. He’s grinning. “Sure thing,” he says. “Here to the cemetery gates?”

And then, as if a starting shot has been fired that only we can hear, all three of us take off. We barrel down the grassy hill in the direction of the gray city, laughing and whooping, nobody here but a thousand silent graves to see the way our feet barely touch the ground, to notice the strange blur of our bodies against the sky.

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HarperCollins Publishers

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To Joelle Hobeika and Sarah Landis for their tremendous insight, wisdom, and patience in every step of the writing process. To Josh Bank, Les Morgenstein, Sara Shandler, Liz Dresner, Kristin Marang, Phyllis DeBlanche, and KB Mello for their big brains and eagle eyes. To everyone at HarperTeen, especially Jennifer Klonsky, Gina Rizzo, Alana Whitman, Margot Wood, Aubrey Parks-Fried, and Lauren Flower for their endless enthusiasm and promotional genius.

To readers and friends near and far, especially Rufus Misrok, Alison Gould, Tom Grattan, Thaïs Jones, and Shasta Lockwood for embracing Anthem’s story so wholeheartedly. (See what I did there?)

To my amazing sisters, Jeannie Kahaney and Cory Kahaney, for their fierce loyalty and audacious spirit. And to the rest of my family in New York and in San Diego, most especially Gabi—their love and support is everything. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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AMELIA KAHANEY
is the author of
The Brokenhearted,
which was called “an atmospheric, adventure-laced debut” by
Publishers Weekly
. She grew up in San Diego, CA, and Hilo, HI. After graduating from UC Santa Cruz, she moved to New York City and received her MFA in fiction writing at Brooklyn College. Her short fiction has been anthologized in
Best American Nonrequired Reading
and appears in several literary magazines. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband and son.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

T
HE INVISIBLE
. Copyright © 2014 by Alloy Entertainment and Amelia Kahaney. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN TK TK

EPub Edition March 2014 ISBN 9780062341525

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CG/RRDB
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FIRST EDITION

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