Things Not Seen - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Andrew Clements is the author of several children's books. After graduating with a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature from Northwestern University and a Masters of Arts in Elementary Education from National Louis University, he worked as a teacher sharing his love of reading with elementary, middle, and high school students and started his literary career by writing songs. He has worked for several publishing companies where he published, acquired, edited, marketed, and developed quality children's books.  His first novel was the award-winning Frindle, which won sixteen state book awards, as well as the Christopher Award.

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In chapters one and two, Bobby has woken up to find himself invisible, really invisible. Now he is trying to figure out just what that is going to mean. He decides to test his invisibility in the library.

Chapter 3: OUT THERE

The good thing about February in Chicago is that no one thinks it’s weird if you’re all bundled up. When I get on the city bus headed toward campus, I’m just another person who doesn’t want to freeze to death in the wind chill. The stocking cap, the turtleneck, the scarf around my face, the gloves, it all looks natural. Except maybe Dad’s huge sunglasses. They make me look like Elwood from The Blues Brothers.

It’s about a half-mile bus ride from home to the stop at Ellis and Fifty-seventh Street. Bouncing along, my heart is pounding so hard, I can hear it crinkling my eardrums. It probably isn’t such a great idea to be going to the library. But I have to. I have to. I mean, what if I sit at home all day and watch TV, and then tomorrow, I wake up and I’m my regular self again? It would be like nothing happened, same old same old. So I’m going to the library to see what it’s like. To be like this. At the library. As long as I get home before Dad does, no problem.

Looking out the window of the bus, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get into the library. It’s the big one, the Regenstein Library. You have to show an ID at the entrance. If the person on duty wants to check my face against the picture on my lab school ID, things could get messy.

But I come here a lot, and I know the guy who’s working at the security desk today. He’s a college kid.

There’s no line, and I hand him my card. “Hi, Walt. How’s it going?”

He looks at my picture and runs the card under the scanner. He smiles and says, “Everything’s good, Bobby. You out of school early today?”

I nod. “Yeah, working on a special project.”

He smiles and says, “Well, don’t get too smart all at once, okay?”

I start to walk toward the elevators and Walt says, “Hey . . . ”

I turn back, and he grins and says, “Nice shades.”

I know exactly where I’m going. The elevator takes me to the top floor. There’s a men’s room up on five, and I’m betting it’s empty. It is. I shut myself into the stall against the wall and take off my clothes. I wrap everything in my coat. I look around and realize my little plan has a flaw: A public washroom does not offer a lot of places to hide a bundle of clothes. And they have to still be here when I get back.

Then I look up. The ceiling’s like the one in my basement at home. It’s not too high, and by standing on the toilet seat, I’m just tall enough to lift up a ceiling tile, push it to one side, and stick my bundle of stuff up there next to the light fixture. Then I pull the tile back in place.

Before I leave the washroom, I look into the mirror above the sinks. I have to make sure I don’t look like I feel. Because I feel the way I am—which is totally naked. And I hope that at least for the next little while, I really do stay invisible.

Leaving my house, riding the bus, walking through the library—when I did all that I was wearing a full set of clothes. And my eyes told my brain that everything was normal. And I had no trouble walking or seeing my hand put quarters into the slot on the bus. That’s because my hand was in a glove and my feet were in my shoes.

Now I’m lost in space again, like that first trip down to the kitchen at breakfast this morning. My hands and feet don’t know how to obey me.

I take it slow, feeling all dizzy and disoriented. I make myself walk back and forth through one of the periodicals sections, stepping carefully around chairs and tables. My shadow is barely there, more like a ripple, sort of like the way light bends above a hot radiator. I try to reach out and touch the corner of an Arabian newsmagazine. I miss it by about three inches on the first try. It’s like that coordination test where you have to shut your eyes and put your arm out straight and touch your pointer finger to the tip of your nose. Or like getting to the bathroom in the middle of the night without turning on a light and without running into your desk. It takes practice. And after about ten minutes, I’m getting a lot better. So I take a walk around the rest of the fifth floor.

I know I’ve been up here on the fifth floor once or twice before, but nothing looks the same. Everything is different. Except it’s not. It’s me. I’m what’s different. I’ve never felt the carpet on the soles of my feet before, never felt the cold air rolling down off the windows along the north wall, never been even half this alert. It’s like everything is under a bright light, and I’m worried that the handful of people scattered around at tables and computer terminals or reading newspapers in easy chairs can hear the pounding of my heart.

I end up back by the elevators. I’m steadier now, ready for places with more people, ready to do some serious exploring. I push the down button, then I remember—I’m not really here. The doors slide open, and nobody’s inside. Still, it’s probably not a good idea to get into a small room that could fill up. So I walk down the stairs to the fourth floor—slowly, hanging on to the handrail. I’m hoping that everyone is too busy to notice when the stairway door opens all by itself.

On four, students are all over the place. And I know why. Midterms. Same thing at the lab school library, I bet. But that’s got nothing to do with me, not now. I’m having a little winter break. I just get to stroll through the beehive and watch the drones buzz from book to book, filling up their heads so they can dump them out into test booklets a week from now.

There’s a girl using the online card catalog. She looks young, maybe a freshman. She taps on the keys, looks at the screen, frowns, shakes her head, and then taps some more. Bending over the keyboard, a long strand of brown hair keeps falling down into her eyes, and she keeps trying to hook it behind her left ear. She’s having trouble with the computer.

I walk up right behind her and look over her shoulder at the screen. She keeps highlighting a book title, but she can’t get the computer to go to the next screen. I know what to do. All she has to do is press F7. But she keeps hitting the escape key, and it takes her backward. I step closer, and I wait until she has the title highlighted again. It’s a book called Summerhill. Then I lean forward, reach past her, take careful aim, and gently push the F7 key. The screen jumps ahead.

The girl does a double take. Then she gives a little shrug and pushes the print key.

I’m so pleased with my good deed that I don’t think. Because if she’s pushed the print button, then this girl’s probably going to push something else. And she does.

The girl pushes her chair back, and one of the black plastic wheels rides right onto the big toe on my left foot.

I can’t help it. I yell “Ahhh!” and push the chair forward.

The girl gives a sharp squeal and scoots her chair backward again, harder. It almost clips me a second time, but I limp over and stand near the wall—not too close, because I don’t want my shape to show up as a blank space like my hand did on my desk this morning. It’s hard to tell by just touching, but I think my big toenail is torn up.

Even a little squeal sounds loud in a library, and that brings four other students to see what’s happening to the girl.

She can’t explain. She turns bright red and says, “I guess I just scared...