turning invisible was an accident, nothing she had to think about. And later, it always seemed to be something that she did when it was necessary to do, when her life or someone else’s might depend on it. When you’re being chased by a giant rat man with filed teeth or attacked by a bunch of Punks in the subway, you don’t have time to think, Hey, wow, I’m invisible, it feels so weird, I can’t see my hands and how will I reach that door handle, blah blah blah. When you’re being chased, there is no thinking, there is only doing.
But now when she was perfectly safe, when she had time to think and consider, she messed up. And the fact that every limb was about thirty centimetres longer than it used to be made it worse. A good day was a day she didn’t fall flat on her face.
It only took ten minutes for Georgie to reach Bug’s building. She followed a Mrs Hingis look-alike into the building. This old lady was juggling a pile of books and wearing a funny pink hat. Once inside the lift, the woman turned to Georgie.
“Do you like books? Or are you one of those young women who prefers to watch that insufferable celebrity nonsense on television? Or destroy your hearing by stuffing those little contraptions in your ears?”
“I like books,” Georgie said.
“Well,” said the woman. “Then you are an unusual young person. Perhaps you’d like to join our book group.” She handed the books back to Georgie so that she could open the suitcase-sized pocketbook again. She pulled out a flyer. “We meet on the third Thursday of every month.”
“Thanks,” Georgie said.
“But if you come, don’t expect to be reading any mysteries or romances or nonsense for babies.”
“OK.”
The woman grabbed for the pile in Georgie’s arms. “Books aren’t supposed to be fun.”
Georgie frowned. “They aren’t?”
The old woman sniffed and got off on the fifth floor.
As Georgie waited for the lift to get to the top floor, she got more and more nervous, though she wasn’t sure why. She was visiting a friend; people visited friends every day. But she didn’t feel right. She felt like disappearing. She told herself that she shouldn’t, that she would just get it wrong again, but she couldn’t seem to help it. By the time the doors opened, Georgie and the birdcage she held were invisible. She stepped out into the hallway and tripped as her foot caught the lip of the lift.
“Big feet!” chirped Pinkwater.
“Oh, shut up.”
From what Georgie remembered of their last conversation, Bug owned the whole floor. She wondered why he needed a whole floor. He was just one person. But maybe he had lots of friends now. Athlete friends, model friends, dancer friends, friends who all came to hang out at Bug’s enormous apartment. At the thought of this, she nearly turned around and left. But then the budgie chirped, “Agnes!”
Georgie scowled, but then walked to the end of the hallway towards a set of enormous double doors. She was about to set the cage down by the door when it flew open and Bug stomped out, carrying an armful of T-shirts and jeans.
“Ow!” Georgie yelled as he trod on her foot. Pinkwater zoomed around his cage, chirping furiously.
“What the heck?” said Bug. For a second, she just stared at him, knowing he couldn’t see her (at least, she hoped he couldn’t). He looked exactly the same but completely different. Bigger, a little taller, a lot stronger probably, but so worn around the edges that it could have been thirteen years rather than three months since they last saw each other.
“Gurl? Is that you?”
“Georgie,” she said, popping into view. “Who else would it be?”
“You got taller,” he said.
Georgie blushed, unconsciously slouching her shoulders. “So did you.”
Bug scowled as the bird raced around his cage. Georgie was surprised how much she missed that old scowl.
“Your bird’s a little hyper.”
“He’s not mine,” Georgie said. “He’s yours.”
“What do you mean?” said Bug.
“I mean, he’s a present. For you.”
“Oh. Well.” He looked at the budgie as if it were the last thing in the universe he needed. Georgie couldn’t believe Agnes had made her come here.
Bug shifted the pile of T-shirts in his arms. “Thanks. Um. You want to come in?”
“Sure,” said Georgie, certain she’d rather have gum surgery.
Bug led the way through the huge double doors into his apartment. Huge, with wide windows on two sides, it should have been bright and cheerful. Instead, the place had the look of a charity shop, packed with odd, unrelated items and not nearly enough actual furniture. A fine tapestry hung on a wall next to random posters of athletes. A giant stuffed gorilla sat in the corner of the living room. A suit of armour stood by the doors to the apartment. Georgie had heard that living alone made people weird, and this apartment was proof. She wondered where his agent, who was now his legal guardian, was. Bug always made it sound as if the guy was like a father to him.
“Sorry about the mess,” Bug said. “I was just going to do some laundry.” He dropped the clothes he’d been holding on to the ones strewn all over the floor. “There’s a chair around here somewhere.” He kicked through piles of junk to a lone chair set in front of a television the size of a cinema screen. “Here,” he said. “Sit down.”
“Thanks,” Georgie said.
Bug eyed Pinkwater’s cage. “I guess we can put that on the floor.” He set Pinkwater’s cage down. “Do you want something to drink? I’m not sure what I’ve got.”
“Anything is OK,” Georgie said.
He left, and Georgie could hear him banging around in the kitchen. “All I have is Kangaroo Kola.”
“That’s good,” said Georgie.
He came back with two cans, one for her and one for himself. “I did an ad for them,” he said. “They sent me a year’s supply.”
“Great,” said Georgie. She sipped her Kangaroo Kola. If you could fly, Kangaroo Kola could make you fly just a teeny bit higher (or so the advertisements claimed). Georgie supposed that was the only reason why people drank the stuff. It tasted like cough syrup.
“So,” Bug said. “Thanks again for the bird.”
“What’s a Wing without a pet bird, right?” She almost winced as she said this, it was so lame.
“Right,” said Bug. “Maybe I should let him out?”
Georgie shrugged. Bug crouched and opened the door to the cage. The budgie whirled around the room.
Bug said, “Does he have a name?”
“Pinkwater’s Momentary Lapse of Concentration, CD, Number Fourteen,” Georgie told him. “He’s a show bird. They all have names like that.” Abruptly, Pinkwater dive-bombed Georgie’s head, startling her so much that she spilled her Kangaroo Kola. She scrambled to her feet. “Oh no! I hope I didn’t get anything on your chair.”
“Nope. All over yourself, though.”
Plucking at the cold, wet patches on her thighs, she wanted to disappear again. She picked up one foot and shook it, spraying droplets of soda everywhere. “Sorry,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it. All these companies are always sending me T-shirts and stuff that I never use. I’ll get you some.” His eyes brightened. “And you know I’m doing this big ad campaign for Skreechers, right? I’ve got a million pairs of Skreechers