June 1st, 2028, Entry #10

This is officially the Tenth Anniversary of our partnership for my mental health! Between my writing in you and you keeping my thoughts inside your pages… I really don’t see much difference, no offense, but I’m not quite sure how my mental state needs to improve. Okay sure I don’t enjoy interacting with my fellow humans, and will go through drastic measures to avoid it, but honestly, those measures should be considered impressive! I mean, when I saw Mike Cummins heading over to talk to me about the talent show(I may or may not have a skill for lip sync), I set a plan in action, first I turned around, gritted my teeth, and asked the eternal blather mouth Gabe Bartland how his guitar lessons were going.I knew then he would chatter on for ours about them, despite the fact that I would be gone. Which brought me to my next evasive action, how to escape. Easy, all I had to do was throw my taco to the ground, and run like mad with my hands over my mouth, with my generic hood pulled over my face, no one would notice it was me. All they would see was a kid who had to throw up and was rushing to the bathroom while Mike asked Gabe if he would play guitar in the talent show. I am a genius.

So while I don’t quite understand how you can help, or even what the issue is, I’d rather not get yelled for not following parental orders, plus, I find reading my own escapades…amusing.

I think the worst part is, in order to stay invisible, you also can't talk in class. I hate it, those minutes that tick on for ages, when Mr Beck asks a simple question and the silence stretches until it is punctuated by the rythym of: hand up, yes you there, is it this sir? no, it isn't: anyone else? Rinse and repeat until this rigamarole has eaten through half the lesson, and you've already screamed the correct answer out in your head, and written it down on paper, until the teacher eventually gives up and sighs, resigns himself to the chalkboard, and writes the answer down for you, identical to the one you've already written down.

This is not to say that I am arrogant, or self-conceited, or even, really, a nerd.

What I am, is invisible. And the best place for folks like us to stay is in the library, especially on Tuesdays and Thursdays, because that's when Mrs Jenkins, the parttime librarian is in, and you don't even have to say hello to her because she's almost always asleep anyways. That is where I was today, curled up in the corner on a big, moth-eaten armchair that no one knows exists, head buried in a massive tome of Assorted Poems and Prose From Medieval Spain. Not that I had ever taken an interest in assorted poems or prose from any era of Spain, but that having your head buried in a fat tome like this one was a surefire way to look busy enough or bad company enough for everyone to leave you alone.

Except, that wasn't the case today.

Today, Alison Sheridan, the girl in the grade above me, swaggered over to my spot in the history section, and stared me right in the face. I caught a glimpse of her perfect powdered face over the top of my book and ducked down. What would the perfect, pretty, cheerleading captain Allie Sheridan want with me? I heard her heels clack across the library's floor, blonde hair swinging, pink skirt swaying as she stopped right in front of me.

"Peter. I want you to tech me how to become invisible."