Invisible Read Free

more to The Smithsonian than a handful of punctuation marks.
    And I’d continue being universally ignored while my two best friends flitted off to Hollywood without me.
    â€œListen up, everyone,” Mr. Elliot barked, panning the room. “This is what I’m talking about! Smith is finally stepping up to the plate, and we’re going to run with it.” He skewered me with one of his intense looks. “You’ve got the front page, Smith. Talk to Lisa Anne.”
    My mouth fell open in shock, but before I could say, I don’t want the front page! I want to write fiction, he held up a hand to stop me.
    â€œMake it work, Smith. Now where was I? Right, we really need to improve our advertising. . . .”
    He went off on an entirely different tirade, leaving me reeling in his wake.
    The front page? I had never wanted the front page. If my fiction plan didn’t work out, I had been hoping he might promote me to the cafeteria beat. Maybe let me write an article about the chocolate chip muffins—something small so that I could get my bearings on the actual writing side of things. I never meant for Mr. Elliot to send me from copy editor to front-page reporter overnight. It sounded like a Cinderella, rags-to-riches type deal, only this particular pauper didn’t know how to dance at a grand ball.
    And she wanted time to learn the steps so that she wouldn’t trip over her stilettos and land flat on her face.
    I had no ideas. I had no plans. I had no experience.
    What I did have was an impulsive order given by an unstable teacher—and an irate Lisa Anne, who marched over as soon as Mr. Elliot finished ranting.
    â€œWhat the hell is this?” she demanded. “Amateur hour! Okay, let me put this simply, Grammar Girl: Mr. Elliot might be the teacher, but you answer to me. Now, if you don’t deliver the steamiest, sexiest, most groundbreaking cover story I’ve ever seen, I will personally ensure that proofreading will be the closest you ever get to journalism. Are we clear?”
    Oh yeah. She’d be a media darling . . . and a complete terror to work with when she wasn’t broadcasting. I could imagine a never-ending rotation of interns burning out under the strain of her demands.
    I gulped. “Yeah, we’re clear.”
    â€œExcellent.” Lisa Anne straightened the collar of her button-down shirt. She was the only senior who always appeared ready for a Harvard admissions interview. I thought just the number of preppy argyle sweaters she wore on a regular basis ought to qualify her for admittance: After all, she already looked the part.
    â€œObviously, you aren’t ready to take on this challenge alone,” Lisa Anne continued. Even though I had been thinking the exact same thing, hearing the words drip disdainfully from her perfectly glossed lips put me on the defensive.
    â€œI can wri—”
    â€œIf I thought the matter was subjective, I would have refrained from using the word ‘obviously.’ This is not up for discussion.”
    I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t contradict her. She held the power and we both knew it. Then again, Lisa Anne never doubted her abilities: She pushed until she got what she wanted. And even when she shut me down with a single sentence, I couldn’t stop myself from envying Lisa Anne’s extreme self-confidence.
    Nobody would ever dismiss Lisa Anne Montgomery as the unimportant best friend.
    â€œScott!”
    My head snapped up.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I hissed. “I’ll be fine. I don’t need him. I’m good. The story will practically write itself.”
    Lisa Anne raised a single eyebrow, waiting for the rest of my lies to fade out.
    â€œReally, that’s not necessary. Please. Don’t.”
    â€œGrammar Girl, I don’t care whether you think it’s necessary. My priority is the paper. Front-page stories require front-page photographs.” She paused