Free Invisible by Marni Bates Page A

the triple sixes on his forehead.
    â€œExcellent. So let’s talk story concepts then.”
    â€œWhy are you doing this?” I demanded. “You had no interest in my story yesterday. One fight and suddenly you’re a team player. What’s that about?”
    He straightened. “I’m here for the photographs. End of story. Which is why, whether you like it or not, I’m taking charge.”
    â€œOh yeah?” I challenged. “You and what army?”
    A pretty lame retort, but it’s not easy whipping out snappy comebacks when an athletic-looking, overcontrolling jerk informs you that he’s in charge. I struggled against the urge to smack that smug look right off Scott’s face. Not that I would. Cafeteria incident aside, I’ve never hit anyone in my life.
    Well, unless you count wrestling with Elle for the TV remote.
    â€œSomehow I doubt I’ll need my friends in the SEAL teams to get your cooperation.”
    He didn’t look like he was kidding, but that didn’t mean I was about to back down.
    â€œLook, Scott, I have way too much at stake here to blindly follow orders.”
    He ignored me. “The paper comes out on Tuesday, so your article needs to be ready by Monday at the absolute latest. That’s a tight deadline to meet even for people who know what they’re doing. And my photos will make your story look like amateur hour if you don’t follow my lead.”
    My back stiffened at “amateur hour.” Okay, so I didn’t crank out front-page articles like Lisa Anne. . . . That didn’t mean my work sucked. In fact, the only reason The Smithsonian wasn’t riddled with errors was because the articles crossed my desk for proofing first.
    But my name wasn’t on the byline, so nobody cared.
    â€œListen, Your Royal Snobbiness, my article will be just fine!” I snapped.
    Scott smiled, but there was nothing comforting about the expression. He looked like a sleek black panther who knew he was stalking an injured sloth.
    â€œI’m going to make sure of it.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Look, I’ve got it under control. I can’t write about the fight, so I’ll . . . ”—I scanned the classroom for flyers—“go to the drama club meeting at lunch.”
    Scott didn’t appear impressed with that bit of quick thinking. “That’ll make a thrilling story. I can see my cover shot now. ‘Grammar Girl: A Portrait of Mundanity.’ ”
    â€œI am not mundane!”
    â€œYou’re so dedicated to your stupid routines that you’ve practically got a schedule stapled to your forehead,” he scoffed.
    â€œFine, what do you recommend? Let’s hear those oh-so-brilliant ideas of yours.”
    â€œTry something new.” He leaned closer and the dark intensity in his eyes was kind of . . . attractive.
    What was wrong with me?
    â€œTry something your friends haven’t already pre-screened and selected for you.”
    I took a step back, hoping that some distance from him might help clear my head. “So what you’re saying is that instead of listening to my friends, who have yet to steer me wrong, I should trust you? Gee, why didn’t I think of doing that sooner?”
    He shot me a pointed look. “You won’t get a good story if your friends are always coddling you.”
    â€œExcuse me, if they’re always what? ”
    â€œOh come on, even you must have noticed it. ‘Oh no, our dear little Jane is in trouble! We must save her!’ ” Scott clasped his hands together while his mouth curled in disgust.
    â€œThey aren’t like that!”
    â€œSure they are.”
    I wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove this evaluation of my life—but I held myself in check. It didn’t matter what he thought of me. All I had to do was write one freaking story . . . and hope that was enough to redeem me from the journalism