The scream in my throat jerks me awake. I try to sit up, to focus on the bright white light of the moon, but my limbs won't cooperate. I've frozen again, trapped in that land between awake and asleep, reliving that night on a loop.

I squeeze my eyes shut, able to hear the insults they'd hissed. The guffaw of their laughter as hands reached out, pulling me into the alleyway. The feel of their fists as they impacted skin. My heart beats harder, the scream in my throat forced upward again, desperate for release.

My door is thrown open mid-scream. For a horrifying moment, I'm certain they've found me, but reality sets in. A familiar voice gently whispers my name, and I'm pulled into a motherly hug.

"Mia, are you okay?" she asks. "I heard you scream."

I go to speak, but it feels like something is lodged in my throat. She doesn't know what happened last summer–no one does–and I intend to keep it that way. "I'm fine," I manage. "It was just a nightmare."

Her shoulders deflate, and I can just about make out her frown through the dark. People say we look alike – same dark eyes and curls – but the more time passes, the more I feel like her shadow.

She glances at the clock on my nightstand, which reads 3:00 a.m, then tucks a curtain of my hair back. "It's still early. Try to get back to sleep, okay? You don't want to be tired for school."

I nod and curl on my side again, waiting for the door to click, but sleeping now is impossible. Instead, I tiptoe downstairs and, despite detesting instant coffee, pour myself another cup.

***

The mornings are always the worst. It's when the lack of sleep–and the overload of caffeine–decide to take a toll. I'm not a drinker, I've only ever tried wine once at my uncle Larry's wedding, but if I had to explain what a hangover feels like, this would be it.

My footsteps are heavy as I head into the bathroom. A glance in the mirror confirms what I'd expected: bloodshot eyes rimmed with purple-like shadows.

I rub at the residue of sleep in my eyes before slapping my cheeks. If I wasn't so tanned, I imagine I'd look as pasty and dead as I feel. This is the downside to my trips to The Coffee Pod. While staying up late means I'm too tired to dream, it plays havoc on my brain.

The hot water on my skin feels like bliss. I rest a hand on the elaborate tiles, praying I'll get through the day. I've got English first thing, and Miss Duncan isn't exactly known for being observant, so I can probably get away with the minimum.

I contemplate forgoing the coffee house tonight, just in case I run into Jake. It's not that I have anything against him per se, but I have a routine. A system. I sit in the armchair closest to the fire, I sketch in my sketchbook, I drink my black coffee, and then I go home and try not to dream. Nobody knows me, I don't know them, and that's what I like about it most. But with last night's nightmare fresh on my mind, I need my routine more than ever.

I spend a little too long in the shower. There's just something about steaming hot water that makes me feel safe. It means I'm late to the kitchen, where my mother has already prepared my breakfast: bacon and toast. Despite the fact she leaves early for work, she always has something ready.

When I've finished, I grab my hat and gloves from the heater, where Mom has warmed them. I'd hoped maybe the unfortunate snow we've been having would suddenly let up, but a fresh blanket covers the streets.

I grumble and trudge along the winding pathway, trying not to slip. It's a forty-minute walk to Artwood High, which isn't ideal, but my mom still doesn't trust me with a license, and it's better than the alternative.

I've barely reached the end of the street when the 414 bus passes. I hold my breath, watching as it slows to a stop. I know its route like the back of my hand because it's the same bus that frequents my nightmares.

I start to lightly jog, my feet pounding gravel in time with my music. It was supposed to be a good day. It had been a good day. Priya and I had gone to the mall to do some last-minute shopping before school. She'd seen a cute girl at the community pool and needed a bikini to make her stand out, so I followed her to store after store.

We went to watch a movie after, and by the time we were done, it was late. Priya lives closer to the mall than I do, so she walked home while I caught the bus – the bus I'd caught a thousand times before.

My feet pound faster as the memories flood in. Glimpses of the three guys and two girls who'd taken the seats behind me. Their voices were loud, sneering as they cat-called and whispered crude things. I'd turned up my music to drown them all out when one of them spat into my hair. 

You're disgusting, I'd said before turning around because that was the end of it. It was supposed to be the end of it.

But then came the video.

I keep running. I wish I could go faster: I wish I could run and run until my lungs give way, but the snow beneath my feet is slippery, so I'm forced to slow down.

The pathway leading up to the school is always the worst. Beneath the blanket of succulent snow is a layer of black ice. Most days, I manage to maneuver it with ease, but my zombie status throws me off.

As soon as my foot leaves the ground, I feel it: the lessening grip of my boots, the feel of air beneath my weight, the sheer panic of falling flat on my face. It all happens so quickly that for a second, I don't register I'm not falling.

"Easy there."

I blink, acutely aware of a hand on my arm. When I turn, peering at me with an air of concern is Jake Carpenter. I inhale sharply, aware of his hand still gripping my forearm.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

He raises an eyebrow. "Saving your life. Mia, right? Mia Hope." He grins and then, "See? I do know you."

I stare at him for a second, caught in the endless ocean that is his eyes. His expression is easy, if not a little amused, but something about his gaze unsettles me.

"Thanks," I say, and then I hoist my bag over my shoulder and hurry to my locker.

This is not good.

I get through most of my lessons on autopilot, nodding to show that I'm listening. When lunch rolls around, I retreat to my second haven to avoid the masses: Artwood High's library.

Waiting for me at one of the tables is my best friend, Priya. We're the only two people in the library this morning–and every other morning–for two reasons: the first is that the library is on the top floor, and with no elevator, most can't be bothered to make the climb. The second is that a tenth grader fell from one of the windows, and now everyone believes his ghost roams the bookshelves.

Priya is busy poring over an old thick hardback, deep in concentration. I sneak up behind her, using my hands to cover her eyes. "Guess who?"

"You're the only one I know who wears the same vanilla perfume day after day," she says, "so I'm going to go with Mia."

I remove my hands and sit down, dumping my bag on the floor. "What's wrong with my perfume?"

"Nothing," she says, looking up. "It's the fact you never change it."

"Why change something that works?" I unzip my bag and pull out my sketchpad before resting it on the table. When I look up again, Priya is studying me intently. "What?"

"Nothing," she says. "You just look exhausted."

I wave my hand mindlessly. "Oh, I had a nightmare yesterday. Didn't get much sleep. You'll never guess who I saw at The Coffee Pod, by the way."

Priya lifts her head. "Someone famous?"

I laugh a little. The odds of meeting someone famous in a town as small as this are a million to one. "Jake Carpenter, and he was alone."

Her thick eyebrows furrow; it is practically unheard of for Jake Carpenter to break away from the others. "Let me get this straight," she says, speaking slowly. "Jake just walked into The Coffee Pod and sat by himself? No one was sitting with him?"

I stop sketching to look at her. "How many times do I have to say it?"

She shakes her head, sending her plait back and forth. Her Sri Lankan heritage means her dark hair is thick, and takes three hair ties just to keep it all back. I know her struggle–while my hair isn't as thick, my curls have a mind of their own.

"It's just strange, is all. I mean, I don't think I've ever seen him alone," she says.

"Lucky you." I get back to sketching. Priya returns to finishing her assignment, and I take a brief moment to study her. She always looks so sweet when she's concentrating. Her nose is sharp, and her large eyes are framed with thick black glasses that take up most of her face.

When she first moved to Artwood at the start of tenth grade, we found ourselves in the library alone, where she sat and read at my table while I sketched. It wasn't friends at first sight–not by a long shot–but after a few weeks of silence, we slowly opened up.

At first, it was about my sketches or whatever she was reading. Then it was about family and life outside of school. Eventually, we talked so much that no topic was left untouched, not even love. She learned I like nerdy guys who can draw or sketch, and I learned she likes girls who are into music.

"Did he recognize you?" Priya asks.

I barely lift my head from my sketchbook. "Why would he?"

"Well, you're quite the catch."

"Are you mocking me, Miss Selvaran?"

"Of course not." She flashes a devilish smile. "If we weren't best friends, I'd go for you. You've got this quiet but mysterious thing going on that intrigues people."

I can't help but laugh. My dating track record is non-existent; there was that boy from camp who I'd shared a kiss with, but that is the extent of my experience with men.

"If you say so," I say. "Can we eat now?"

We pack up our things before heading to the cafeteria. It's like feeding time at the zoo here; different groups of species all huddled over tables, guffawing like wild animals. We take our rightful place among them, picking at what Martha, the lunch lady, claims is chicken: I disagree.

"What were you doing at The Coffee Pod anyway?" Priya asks.

"I was–and this is going to really shock you, Priya, so brace yourself–drinking coffee."

She doesn't roll her eyes this time; she's used to my sarcasm. "Why were you there and not drinking coffee at home?"

Priya doesn't know about my trips to The Coffee Pod. The first time I went was near the end of summer break, and I've kept it a secret ever since.

"Instant coffee sucks," I say, "and my mom's working so much these days that it feels weird being home alone."

It's a half-truth, which–and I'll gladly testify to this in court–is better than a full-on lie. My mother is busing working; she's an accountant by day and an activist by night, which leaves little time for anything else.

"Damn," Priya says. "I didn't realize your coffee habits were so severe."

I smile, but I'm certain it doesn't reach my eyes. "You don't know half of it, honey."

We spend the next few minutes discussing Christmas and what we both want from each other. I don't have much money–I quit my job at the mall during the summer break, and my mother's definition of an allowance is bordering slave labor. She thinks children only learn to be adults when they make their own money, so if I don't get a job, she'll give me the minimum until I do. I don't bother to tell her that the way she babies me most of the time contradicts this little theory.

At some point, I look up from my plate and scan the cafeteria. Across the room, Jake Carpenter is with the usual elite. But while the rest of them seem engrossed in conversation, he's reading a textbook. It must be a pretty difficult book to follow, too, because his eyebrows are furrowed, and his jaw contracted.

He suddenly looks up, his eyes roaming the hall like he's looking for somebody. They skim right past me, a clear sign he's forgotten me already before they suddenly flit back over.

I hold my breath. The weight of his eyes leaves me frozen in my seat, unable to move.

The invisible girl has been noticed.

A/N

Raise your hand if you like to be invisible ✋🏼