Everyone Sees the Invisible Kid

Jolt 3) Tia Tia Tia!

I didn't get much sleep that night. Anxiety was often the culprit behind my restlessness, whispering all sorts of ideas into my head, but this time it was my heart. It seemed it had suddenly become self-aware and now was compensating for lost time—even Travis Barker couldn't keep up with how crazy it was beating.

"Tia," I laid in bed, saying her name over and over in my head like some sort of prayer. For every time I thought about her, mentally replaying the events of the night, a blade of guilt stabbed into me. My phone vibrated from under my pillow, and I grabbed it quickly, thinking that Tia somehow got ahold of my number and was trying to contact me. Stupid to think, I know.

Instead, there on that rectangular screen of light was the very source and manifestation of my sudden guilt—a text from Janine. My girlfriend.

still up? 🫣

I know u arrre

I stared at the screen for a good minute. My fingers hovered over the keyboard but didn't get much farther than that. I shut the screen off and laid the phone on my chest with a sigh without replying. Janine gave up and sent one last text.

boooooo. No fun. gn. 👻

Since sleep was a stranger, I decided to spend the rest of the night looking for Tia's socials. It wasn't much to go by, and I wasn't sure if I was even spelling it right, but all I had of her was her first name, and a can of dog food not to mention.

Every once in a while I thought I stumbled across a page that might've been hers, but they were always duds. Plus, it was hard to say for sure since I only saw her in the dark with the moon as the only light source. By the 320th profile the phone slipped free from my grasp and my eyelids snapped shut on their own.

I didn't wake up until half an hour before school was supposed to start. I ripped the sheets off me with a curse and grabbed my phone off the floor only to be met with a dead screen.

Janine's going to kill me, I thought, imagining her sitting on her front porch, drumming her aqua blue nails against the wooden steps, tapping her foot in her chunky stark white tennis shoes, antsy green eyes glancing between the empty streets and her phone, wondering where the hell I am or why I haven't picked up my phone.

"Sorry, Janine," I muttered to my empty bedroom, as if some invisible force would carry my apology passed all seven blocks and down to her house.

I threw on a pair of dark jeans, a t-shirt, my favorite red beanie, a pair of Converse, some sunglasses, and ditched the face mask and arm warmers/gloves; it was way too warm for anything more. Generally speaking, I would always wear a combination of these items out of necessity rather than my impeccable fashions sense. It usually helped people get a better sense of my form, something my therapist once said was a goal I should strive for to mark my presence. Establishing a physical identity is a good start. Maybe you should introduce some staple pieces in your wardrobe. When I say "therapist," I really just mean Erica. She was like my therapist, agent, stylist, and aunt all rolled up in one into a form that exclusively wears animals print tights, neon red lipstick, and cat eyed sunglasses. There was a time when I was seeing a licensed practitioner, but that stopped only after a few months. All I needed was Erica's ears and a notebook to etch out all my thoughts and feelings on a surface separate from my heart.

I grabbed my keys, grabbed a pack of Poptarts, and poured myself some milk in a plastic cup, started my car, placed the milk in the holder, and zoomed on over to Janine's.

When I pulled up, she happened to be heading back inside her house, rainbow backpack hanging off one of her shoulders. I honked the horn, and she turned around with a squint. A look of stark anger and annoyance flashed across her face but by the time she made it into the passenger seat it was replaced with relief.