Invisible by Pete Hautman

Every week I have to lie. I hate telling lies, even necessary ones.
    â€œI understand your bridge is nearly completed. Remarkable!”
    Apparently, she has been in contact with one of my parents.
    â€œIt’s not so remarkable,” I say.
    â€œReally? A replica of the Golden Gate Bridge? It sounds quite ambitious.”
    I shrug. In fact, I think my bridge is beyond remarkable. It should win a prize—except that there are no prizes for model bridges.
    â€œI plan to finish it by November seventeenth. You should come and see it sometime.”
    â€œI’d like that.”
    â€œMe and—” I catch myself just in time.
    She leans forward like a cat about to pounce. “You and …?”
    â€œNothing.” I have made a pact with myself never to mention Andy in this office ever again. Dr. Ahlstrom has a weird aversion to Andy. She thinks that he is the source of all my problems. According to her, Andy’s accomplishments undermine my own sense of self-esteem, or something like that. Also, every time I get in trouble, Andy is somehow involved. That might be true, but it is only a coincidence. Actually, Andy and I keep each other out of more trouble than we get each other into. But there is no explaining that to Dr. Ahlstrom.
    â€œYou and …?” she says again, costing my parents another 65 cents.
    â€œMe and … my parents are going to … Disney World.” I’m lying again.
    â€œOh? That sounds like fun.”
    â€œActually I’m not sure we’re going. But I’d like to.” That’s only half a lie.
    â€œI see.”
    We stare at each other for about $1.40.
    â€œAnd how are things going at school?”
    â€œOkay. Except my art teacher is mad at me for drawing the same thing all the time.”
    â€œReally? What have you been drawing?”
    â€œI can show you.”
    She gets me a piece of paper and a pencil and, at $95 an hour, she watches as I sketch my latest version of the sigil. Believe it or not, I’ve actually been taking Mrs. Felko’s advice and trying to “loosen up” a little. My newsigil is quite arty, don’t you think?

    Dr. Ahlstrom examines my effort, frowning in a puzzled sort of way.
    â€œVery interesting, Douglas. Would you like to tell me about it?”
    Fat chance. I say, “It’s just an interesting shape.”
    â€œWhat does it represent?”
    â€œNothing.” Liar!
    â€œReally? It looks like flames.”
    â€œI don’t know what it is. I copied it out of a magazine.” Lie number four.
    She takes the paper from me. “May I keep this?”
    â€œSure.”
    She slides the paper into her manila folder.
    I wonder what else she has in there.

19
END RUN
    Y ou are probably wondering about the pills.
    I am supposed to take one pill every night before I go to bed. They are small, greenish blue, and triangle shaped, and if you chew them (which you are not supposed to do), they taste like bitter vanilla. The name of the drug is Proloftin.
    A couple of years ago, shortly after the incident at the Tuttle place (which I still do not want to talk about), Dr. Ahlstrom prescribed the Proloftin for my anxiety. I was going through a hard time back then. My parents were keeping me in the house as punishment for the Tuttle thing. They would not let me see Andy at all. ThenAndy’s parents took him on a long vacation, and I became extremely bored. In fact, it was boredom that got me started on the bridge. I had nothing else to do, so I started gluing matchsticks together. At first I used the partially burnt wooden matches that my mother used to light candles. My mother is quite fond of candles. But eventually I had to start scraping the heads off of fresh matches.
    The pills helped for a while, mostly by making me sleepy. I was sleeping fourteen hours a day. Even when I was awake, I was sleepy. But they helped me cope with being locked up at home and not being able to see