When I get home, drained beyond belief, praying every five steps, the most unexpected person is standing in my living room. Well, no, actually, the most surprising person would be Jesus. Ironically.

"Oh, hi, Lizzie," Larry says enthusiastically, giving a short hand gesture which I guess means hello.

"W-What are YOU doing here?" I say, wrinkling my forehead, pointing. My communication with Larry Tudgeman since high school is limited. Pity waves in the hall, small talk before class. Beyond his shirt, he is the only person who truly hasn't changed.

"Oh, I lent Matt one of my Star Trek: Enterprise books," He explains eagerly. "I have the entire series, plus all The Lost Era. I have so many, I should start a library." He laughs and I give a small chuckle, not because it's funny but because it's Tudgeman, in my living room, talking about Star Trek. "So, um, how are you? Do you have a date to homecoming yet?"

"Yes," I say hurriedly in case he was asking me to go.

"Oh," He replies, sounding slightly disappointed. "Cool. I'm keeping my options open, you know. There are just so many ladies after me, it's hard to choose the right one." He laughs again but this time I don't. "Who are you going with?"

"Here's the book, Larry," Matt enters the room and hands Larry the book, ignoring my presence completely. "Thanks."

"Oh, no problem. Always willing to help a fellow Trekkie." He nods at me. "Nice to see you again, Lizzie. Bye, Matt." He does the hand gesture again and leaves quickly.

Matt looks at me and I look at him, wordless. For some reason, I want to talk to him about Kate. Let him insult me. Slap me on the face. Beat my dead body.

But he does none of this, just shakes his head and mutters something as he leaves. I watch after him and freeze as I see Lanny, poised on the stairs. He looks at Matt and then looks at me. We share a gaze and he keeps still but I move forward, leaning against the wall. Matt pushes past him, urges him on as he treads up the stairs, but Lanny is still staring at me, critiquing me. Then he breaks it, turns around, and follows Matt. Somehow, I expect him to walk backwards, keep looking at me. But he only glances back once, when I fall to the floor, suddenly too weak to stand. No one rushes to catch me, just leave me to melt into the polished wood.

As I lie on the floor, I contemplate the ceiling and Lanny and God and tattoos. I wonder if it's fair, that Kate gets to be happy, even if she swears and takes drugs and most of her compromises involve taking boys behind a dumpster. That I cannot get the one thing I want. I hate myself for wondering, for lying to Larry, for loving Lanny and for not speaking to Matt. I hate myself for coveting, for holding everything in, for letting someone else take over. I hate myself for hating.

Underneath your clothes
There's an endless story
There's the man I chose
There's my territory
and of all the things
I deserve
For being such
A good girl honey

Matt and Lanny drift down the stairs before I can get off the floor. They don't look at me. Good. No one should look at me.

Am I invisible?

They head out the front door and close it. I stand up, compose myself. I feel ill. I touch my forehead, but there is no heat. I think I have a case of chronic, fatal, excessive Stupid.

Matt walks back in Lanny-less, closing the door and giving me a withering look.

"It's good to see you can at least act normal when we have guests over," He says shortly before going up the stairs again.

"Wait, Matt," I say, surprising even myself. He stops and turns, waiting. I can't think of anything. He shakes his head and turns his back to me again. "Whatever." I follow him, stupidly, stumbling. When he gets to his room he slams the door in my face. I open it.

"What do you WANT?" He has tossed himself on his bed, book in hand. I almost start the list, but I know he doesn't want to hear it. I sympathize with that. I don't want to hear it either.

"What did you need that Star Wars book for anyway?" I ask.

"Star Trek."

"Whatever," I shrug. "What did you need it for?"

"Why do you care?"

"Well, when Larry Tudgeman shows up in my house all of a sudden, I get a little curious."

"Lanny and I were comparing it to Hemingway," He replies emotionlessly. I blink. I cannot tell if he is being sarcastic. "I saw you lie to him, by the way." He says this disinterestedly, reading his book.

"N-No I didn't," I say, trying to appear appalled. It's been centuries since I was this upfront with Matt.

"Yes, you did," He sighs. "I know you don't have a date to homecoming. No one wants to date a Bible-humping psycho."

"Is there a reason you hate me being Christian so much?" I snap finally. It's a question that haunts me, one meant to go unanswered.

"Because," He says angrily, "Ever since you have, all you do is go around with Kate and pretend you care about everyone else and avoid having fun because it's a sin or something. You mope around and depress Mom and talk about God like he's some guy who's going to come walking into our kitchen. I liked it better when you were a shallow idiot." I lose my upfront ness again. I pout. I walk away. "Face it – if there is a God, he doesn't like you enough to bless you with brains."

It amuses me as I walk away that he's the one with the angry words and points and true concerns and Action Figures, but I'm the unhappy one. My amusement makes me cry.

I expect myself to collapse on my bed, staring at the ceiling or a stuffed animal or my hand but instead I exit the house, letting my dead body carry me where it thinks right.

"Lizzie!" Claire's voice wakes me up slightly, just so that I can ask myself, 'What the heck am I doing here?' "What are you doing here? Come in!" She's thrilled. My heart has suddenly faded into my stomach. It drifts there, a deserted island with nothing to keep it still.

I sit on her couch and look around, but take in nothing. A painting here, a vase there. Everything seems coated in yellow when I speak to Claire, a veil of hot wax, lemon drops. Sunlight. Corn. When I speak to Claire, I feel as though we've switch bodies; I'm her, looking at me in that begging way. And she's me, begging her to stop. When I speak to Claire, I want to slap her.

"Claire," I turn to her as she sits down. I feel my face fill with confusion and importance. "What happened?" She stares at me blankly; back straight, hands on her delicate knees. She doesn't want to insult me; I might run away, slip through her fingers. I remember choosing my words carefully with her, worried I might bruise her with my choice of nouns, verbs. She might run away; she might tell everyone.

"Oh my GOD, Lizzie McGuire is such a freak," She said in my mind. Now we had switched roles, bodies, lives.

"What... do you mean?" She laughs slightly; maybe it's a big joke she doesn't get. I recognize the sweater she's wearing from seventh grade; the good old days. It's big on her, I realize, she has shrunken. Still, she wears it proudly, like a memory. Like denial.

"I mean," I open my hands to her, like I'm giving her something. "How is it that I'm here, coming to visit you, and you and Kate aren't friends, and people look at me and copy what I'm wearing or doing or saying? How is it that when you open the door and I'm standing there, you don't... shut it in my face or... roll your eyes or yell at me? Why do you try so hard? Why am I popular and you're not?"

"I... don't know," She says uncertainly, looking at me strangely. She still thinks this is a test. What does she expect? Congrats, Claire, you've won the prize! Here's my love and affection!

"Why, Claire?" I am almost hurt, offended by her oblivion. Doesn't she understand me? Isn't she me? "Why do you try so hard to be Kate's friend again, when she treated you like crap?" I soften myself; I am butter, yellow to coat our speech. I try so hard to understand her, and I see it, like a distant horizon, how I half-hoped against hope that, when Kate became popular, she would turn around again and re-befriend me, that she'd wake up from that horrible dream. She wasn't dead; she was merely an enfant, born again in Holy Water.

But it never happened. Kate never woke up, just dreamed on, entangled in a spider web no one could save her from. I watch her struggle in the twine, limbs flying, impatient with her puppet strings. But she can't break free. Or maybe she chooses not to.

"I..." She struggles with an answer, debates honesty.

"Tell me the truth, Claire," I squint at her, trying to search her. "What do you want?"

"I guess I just... want friends again," She shrugs, her eyes distrusting. She acts as though she doesn't care. Her voice is almost a monotone, a shield. They can't hurt you behind your simple words, ironic mouth. "I miss the way things... were." Her shield crumbles slightly. "I mean, junior high can't be the happiest time of my life, right? It can't just be downhill from here." I don't tell her anything, but I see it. Prom Queens and quarterbacks, the way people look at me in the hallway. Is this the end? Had it ended for Claire already? Am I wasting the best time of my life just pretending to be happy?

I think about the nerds, Larry, how they will make something of themselves. How they have just begun, that high school hell was a mere fluke in the plan. How years later they will be successful and rich and wonder, what happened? And how they will think that they missed out on something. Pep rallies, being admired by the little people. It's funny to think how I won't miss it at all. I've seen their eyes, ones I once had, that pry, trying to find a mistake or a point of interest or just something other than me. They demand, they tug on my sleeve like children. It's so stressful, after all, being admired. At first I had thought I was a role model; that I was teaching the ways of Christ just by being friends with Kate. We had fun, we talked, and it was as though nothing had changed.

But then it did change. I realized I was teaching nothing; I was a performer with no audience. They wore their crosses and said their prayers, confessed false sins and acted peachy keen. Kate distanced, hazed; she was distracted in a way that slipped under the radar. She was a caricature of a caricature of herself. She was a funhouse mirror.

"Lizzie?" It's Claire who pulls me back into reality again.

"I... had better go," I stand, and she stands, ashamed.

"Are you sure? I could get you something to drink? Would you like something to eat? What can I do for you?" She pleads with me through her eyes.

"Just... don't bother, okay? It's not worth it." She doesn't understand, and neither do I, come to think of it, but I turn away and I'm out the door.

"Come back anytime," She calls after me, and I want to vomit. My stomach can't handle cradling my heart.

The next day I call Kate, though I have no idea what to say.

"Hello?" It's Kate's mother. There's laughter in the background, and she laughs with them. "Oh, stop, Jeffery. Hello there?"

"H-Hello, Mrs. Sanders," I recover from my amazement. "Um, is Kate there?"

"Is that Lizzie? Oh, darling, it's so good to hear from you! Kate will never tell us news of you, always... rattling on about some cathedral or another, occasionally a movie she's seen or how we are horrible sinners or something... how are you?"

"I'm... fine, thanks," I pause. "How are you?"

"Just fantastic, dear, just got back from a business trip." She laughs again. "Oh, Jeffery, you're terrible! You'll have to excuse me, Lizzie; we have a few friends over."

"Oh, it's okay. Is Kate there?"

"Oh, Kate? Good question... honey, where's Kate gone to now?" I hear muffled voices, debating over her location. "Oh, that's right. She went out with that boy again. It's always you or him, really, but I have no idea what is going on with Katie these days. Always too busy or we're too busy or... what have you." There is more laughter. "Oh, dear, I must go, though it was very nice talking to you, dear." She leaves me, stunned, receiver in hand. I guess neither of us know what's going on with Katie these days.