Read My Invented Life for Free Online

not assuming hip-hop.”
    Jonathan’s smile—if the thing that happens on his face for a few seconds can be called a smile—shakes my confidence. Maybe he knew me in a past life.
    “Oldies,” he says. “Anywhere I can plug in?”
    The Silo is our local cyber café and teen zone. Before it opened we were forced to hang out at Smelly’s (okay, Shelly’s), a vinyl diner where aerosolized fat particles mingle with countrified Rolling Stones songs. At Smelly’s a cup of coffee comes with a side of fries. I take Jonathan to the Silo. He sets up in the corner while I place our order. When I get back, he’s walking his long fingers down the strings of his guitar. The flint in his eyes softens as he plays.
    “Would you hold my hand if you saw me in heaven?” he sings, and right then the tension between us dissolves. I imagine him playing me like that, and my pulse accelerates.
    At the end of the song I hand him a coffee.
    “Can you teach me to play that?” I say, looking at his lips. All I’m asking for is one little espresso-coated kiss to help me forget Bryan.
    “Sure,” he says. He leans toward me, stroking my back with his long fingers.
    My invented life is such a happy one. Too bad reality keeps intruding
.
    When I ask him to teach me the song, he pretends notto hear and starts putting the guitar back into the shaggy silver interior of its case. “Please.” I make a playful lunge for it.
    “Back off,” he snarls.
    My evil girlfriend theory is gaining ground.
    “Why did you play me a love song, then?” I say.
    “Clapton wrote that song for his dead son.”
    “Oh.”
    “Aunt S told you to hit on me. Am I right?” he says.
    Before I can answer, he marches to the door and kicks the doorjamb. “Stay away from me,” he yells on his way out. After he’s thoroughly gone, I jog home. The cold air plus something else makes my throat ache. I feel repulsive. Sapphire could probably explain it all to me. Unfortunately, I can’t tell her about our afternoon at the Silo because she’s Jonathan’s guardian. At age six, the scarlet
T
for tattletale puts a crimp on your social life. At age sixteen, a bout of flesh-eating bacteria would be preferable.
    When I get home, I go straight to Eva’s room. The door won’t open—a new PD thing—and she doesn’t answer when I knock and yell. Mom is working late. Dad tells me to leave Eva alone. I compromise by writing a note.
    Hey, Eva. I’m really sorry about Carmen. Can we talk? Something else happened today. Can we talk, pretty please?
    I go outside and peer through her window, the concerned-sister version of P. Tom. She’s lying facedown on her bed. I tape the note to the glass facing in so she can read it later.
    When I check the computer, our chat room is vacant. The house radiates quiet like a museum where the only sounds are from the patrons scratching their heads and the dandruff hitting the floor. I didn’t realize until Eva dumped me how many of my so-called friends were actually her friends.
    Before I finish sulking, Dad calls me to the dinner table. The T-shirt rock icon of the day is Robert Plant of Zep.
    “Serve yourself,” he says.
    “Is that texturized soy protein?” I ask, pointing at the MadCowDisease loaf.
    “It’s not vegetarian,” Elmo says. “The cow was, though. Before I cooked him.”
    I heap my plate with brown rice and a few token Brussels sprouts. Since my experience with the banana slug—eating one on a dare during a field trip to the redwoods—overcooked asparagus, okra, and other slimy vegetables are off the menu. Mom comes in as we sit down at the kitchen table.
    “I’m home,” she sings. “Where’s Eva?”
    “Hi, Roz. How was your day?” I mutter.
    “What was that?”
    “Eva’s in her room and won’t come out,” Dad says. “She refused to talk to me.”
    Mom makes a plate for herself. Her worry lines are deeper than normal. Dad looks at my heap of rice. “Vegetarians eat vegetables,” he says.
    “If only they