Invisible i. Stella Lennon

see inside the car, I was surprised to discover how messy it was. Empty takeout cups were lying in the back on a bunch of folders and a pile of newspapers on the passenger seat. At least a dozen CDs were scattered on the floor of the passenger seat; I put my nose up against the car, trying to read the titles. On one I could make out the word Mozart, but the others were either upside down or had the writing covered up.

      I tried the car door because, hey, you never know, but it was locked. Whatever. It wasn’t exactly like I needed to know what music Thornhill listened to.

      It felt like we’d been cleaning for years by the time we wiped the last streak of color off the car, but when I looked, it was only a little after five. Without speaking, we all stepped away from the car and surveyed our handiwork.

      Suddenly a phone rang. Amanda. It had to be Amanda. We all jumped, fumbling for our respective cells.

      It was Nia’s. “Hi, Mom,” said Nia, and she gave us both an apologetic look, like it was her fault we’d gotten our hopes up briefly. “Nothing.”

      I looked back to the car, surprised at how dull and normal it appeared now that all of the artwork had been cleaned. Suddenly I had this really bad feeling about my life, like I was the car and Amanda was the artwork and now she was gone … but I pushed the thought away. Thornhill was being a total drama queen. Everyone knew Amanda cut school all the time. She’d be back tomorrow and all of this would be explained.