The Art of Being Invisible

I'd become a professional at being invisible, which is basically just a spy without the cool gadgets. My cat, Beans, was my only witness to this mastery. He'd watch from my windowsill, judging me as I practiced the fine art of hallway avoidance, timing my movements between classes with the precision of a SEAL team operative.

"You good, Mars?" Maya asked, sliding into the cafeteria seat across from me. "You've been weird since baseball tryouts."

I shrugged, pretending to inspect my vitamin D supplement — the one my mom swore would help me grow another two inches before graduation, as if height was the only thing standing between me and dating material. "Just tired."

The truth was, I'd been spying on something else entirely. Not in a creepy way. More like... research. Every day during lunch, I'd watch from the library window as the baseball team practiced, but not because I cared about the sport. I was watching Harper — the only girl who'd made the team, who wore her hair in two messy French braids and laughed with her whole body, head thrown back like she didn't care who saw.

I wanted whatever that was. That unselfconsciousness. That freedom.

"Earth to Mars?" Maya waved a hand in my face. "I said, are you coming to the game Friday?"

"Maybe."

Beans trotted into my room that night and jumped onto my bed, purring like a tiny motor. I confided in him about everything — how I'd never make the team, how my vitamins made me feel like a fraud, how I wished I could just go to Friday's game without feeling like everyone would see right through me.

He blinked slowly, unimpressed by my teenage angst.

The next day at school, I caught Harper's eye in the hallway. She grinned and pointed at my messy bun. "Nice hair."

Something loosened in my chest. Maybe being seen wasn't the worst thing. Maybe it was the whole point.