The Boy Who Could Fly. Laura Ruby

to stare at her ridiculous mop of silver hair. No one to see her trip over her own feet. No one to ask her “How’s the weather up there?” and giggle as if that was the funniest thing anyone ever said. Nobody taking pictures of her when they thought she wasn’t looking because her parents happen to be The Richest Couple in the Universe. No one gaping—

      —a little boy was gaping. But he couldn’t possibly be gaping at her, because she was invisible. And there was nothing else close but the sabre-toothed tiger. It’s OK, she thought, he’s just afraid of the tiger.

      “Mummy?” said the boy in a quivering voice.

      His mother, a largish woman in stretchy green trousers who was examining the skeleton of an ancient horse, said, “What, honey?”

      “Mummy, look!” He tugged on her trouser leg. He had large brown eyes that seemed to grow larger by the second.

      “What is it?”

      “There’s a nose!”

      “What did you say?” said his mother.

      “There’s a nose floating in the air. Right there!”

      “Oh my!” said the woman, clapping her own hand over her mouth in shock.

      Oh no! thought Georgie, clapping a hand over her face.

      Georgie fled the Advanced Mammals gallery, the woman’s shouts following her all the way down the stairs and through the Hall of North American Birds. She didn’t stop running until she reached the State Mammals gallery. Breathing heavily but trying not to, she lifted her hand and peered at her reflection in the glass of a display. There it was, as clear as the poor, sad stuffed bobcats behind the glass.

      Quickly, she focused all her energies: I am the wall and the ground and the air I am the wall and the ground and the air I am the wall and the ground and the air… She looked into the glass again. Her nose was gone, just the way it was supposed to be.

      What was that about? she wondered. Then again, she hadn’t disappeared in more than five months. And it’s not like anyone had ever explained invisibility. It’s not like there was anyone who could, except maybe The Professor, and she hadn’t seen him since Flyfest in November. She never understood how it worked, why her clothes disappeared with her, why objects or people she touched did too, but not, say, whole houses when she touched the walls. She’d brought these things up with her parents, but they never wanted to talk about it. They warned her against experimenting with it, as if the power of invisibility was some sort of weird itch one had to try not to scratch, like eczema or chicken pox.

      She sighed and poked around the State Mammals Hall, which displayed the state’s most common mammals in dioramas. She studied the porcupines, hares, and shrews but swept right by the bats. (She heard enough about flying without having to see the bats.) She turned the corner to the next hall, where she caught her foot on a metal radiator, which might not have been a problem except that she was wearing open-toed sandals.

      “OW!” she shrieked.

      A family of four who had been waiting for their turn at the water fountain looked in her direction, then all around the hall. “Did you hear something?” the father said to the mother. “I thought I heard something.”

      Georgie staggered away on her mangled foot, making it all the way down the stairs and out the front door of the museum before realising that perhaps this wasn’t the best idea. It was one thing to defy her parents about the invisibility thing – even though this was clearly an exception to the rule, being an emergency and everything – but it was another thing to skip out on a school trip. You have to go back, she told herself. You have to find some private place to reappear and then you have to go back to Ms Storia’s group and be appropriately fascinated by all the fascinating things at the museum. Just like any normal girl on any normal day.

      Except she wasn’t a normal girl. And nothing was going to make her one.

      So, instead of rejoining the girls of the Prince School, Georgie limped home. She’d forgotten how much she liked wandering (er, hobbling) the city streets unnoticed. It was spring, and people were springing: some hopping, some floating, some zipping along on flycycles, a few walking. And of course the birds were out in force along with their owners – mynahs, parrots, budgies, cockatoos – all flying lazily on thin rope leashes.

      She approached her building and saw the tall and grave-looking new doorman standing at the door – Dexter or Deter or something. Georgie crept by him and slipped into the building after crazy old blue-haired Mrs Hingis. She waited until Mrs Hingis had been swallowed up by one of the lifts before catching the other one up to the penthouse. When she was safely on the top floor, Georgie reappeared, making sure to account for every single body part – even turning around to check to see that her bum wasn’t missing. Then she opened the door and walked inside. The Bloomingtons’ penthouse had windows that served as walls and high cathedral ceilings that made a person feel as if they weren’t living in a house as much as living on top of a mountain. Even now, even after coming to this penthouse for months, she was shocked that it was her home.

      “Hello?” Georgie said. “Anyone here?”

      “Hello!” Agnes the cook boomed. “Who is there?”

      “The President of Moscow!” Georgie hobbled into the kitchen.

      Agnes was cutting potatoes while watching the tiny portable TV she kept on the counter. “Russia is country. Moscow is city. Moscow can’t have president.”

      “I know that, Agnes. I was just kidding.”

      “Kidding?” said Agnes, as if such a thing was a foreign concept. The Polish cook put down her knife, scooped up a dish towel and snapped it at the open window, where a crow sat staring. “Shoo!” she said. “Go home!” She returned to her chopping block, muttering, “Nosy.” She frowned at Georgie. “What’s wrong with you?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “You look very bad.”

      “Thanks,” said Georgie. “I work at it.”

      “What’s that? More kidding?” said Agnes. She wiped her hands on a towel and opened the refrigerator. She pulled a plate full of Polish sausage and a jar of purple horseradish out of the fridge. Then she cut several slices of sausage and arranged them on the plate with a spoonful of the horseradish. “You eat. Horseradish clean out your head.”

      “My head is fine,” Georgie said.

      Agnes shook her own head. “Your head is not good. You do funny things.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I have to say?” Agnes said. She pursed her bow lips. Agnes was very small and pretty, with fluffy blond hair down to her shoulders. She would look much younger, Georgie was sure, if she didn’t wear baggy men’s jeans and oversized football jerseys. But no matter how weird her outfits or sense of humour, Georgie would never think of making fun of Agnes because Agnes knew things. She knew when Georgie was hungry and when she was full. She knew when Georgie wanted company and when she wanted to be left alone. Georgie thought that if she were to turn herself invisible, Agnes would be able to see her anyway.

      “Agnes?”

      “Hmmm?”

      “Are you my Personal Assistant?”

      Agnes frowned. “I am cook.”

      “Well, yeah, but are you my Personal Assistant, too? You know, kind of like a fairy godmother? Or father? I had one named Jules once, and I thought he’d come back. But maybe you were sent…” Georgie trailed off, realising as she spoke that she sounded completely nuts.

      “Never mind,” said Georgie. “What’s on TV?”

      Agnes shrugged. “News,” she said. “Not much news on news.”