PROLOGUE: Spring, 1965

She’d begun to think of herself as the Invisible Girl.

She’d had friends: kids she’d grown up with, stumbling through the grades together in the Boston suburb of Ridgeton, connected by the infinite and complex threads of shared experiences in their small world. And many of them had continued on to the local two-year community school, just as she had. But somehow between grade-school and this, her first year of school, it was as though some spell, working so slowly as to be unnoticeable, had pulled them all away from each other, or at least from her, the threads become as fragile as a spider’s web.

She still saw them at college, sat in the same classes, had small conversations with them in the hall or at lunch, but they seemed like strangers–strangers who somehow had many of the same memories she did. She no longer knew what they were feeling just by looking at them, no longer had the knowledge of their likes and dislikes at her fingertips, and she could tell that she had become impenetrable to them. They recognized her. They spoke to her. But they didn’t see her.

And certainly she was invisible to everyone else there. She was an average student, quiet, who did her homework and answered when called upon, but did nothing that would draw a teacher‘s particular attention.

Her looks too, she felt, made her as close to invisible as she could be and still have a face. She wore her brown hair in long bangs that came down on either side of her face, and she figured that anyone looking past them would see only her glasses. Or, if by chance she should smile, her braces–an embarrassment at her age. She had no clothing sense, tending towards shapeless dresses in no particular color. She was still diminutive in height and slim of figure. She belonged to no clubs or volunteer organizations. She went to college, she went home.

She had begun to feel invisible there as well. Her parents loved her, she supposed, but were preoccupied. Her father, once a successful member of a top Boston law firm, had been fired when his drinking problems caught up with him and now eked out a living locally doing real estate law, wills or whatever came to hand. When home he was introspective, as if seeking to hold on to something inside himself. He was with Alcoholics Anonymous now, sober well into his second year, but had done a great deal of emotional damage to his Wife and daughter beforehand. He had once taken a drunken dislike to his daughter‘s bangs and forced her to sit in a chair while he cut them off with scissors, his wavering hand leaving a ragged, ugly fringe across her forehead. She had had to be forced to go to college the next day; and from then on had walked with her face down, her shoulders slumped.

Her mother had stuck by her husband, barely. She now attended his A.A. meetings with him, and they also went to a marriage counselor twice a month, down from once a week at the start of his sobriety. But during the bad times she had felt the need to make a life for herself and had taken a secretarial job, which turned out to be a good thing when her husband’s income suddenly dwindled to a small percentage of what it had been. They were making ends meet, just, but there was little money left over for luxuries. She was also socially active, helping out at her church group and local Democratic Party functions. She looked after her daughter as best she could, but she still seemed to feel a lingering discomfort when she was home, a holdover from the bad times that made her restless, want to be somewhere else. Before something happened.

To her daughter her mother’s attentions seemed well meant but somehow superficial, as if her daughter was an item on a checklist. She would ask about her day at college and seem to pay attention to her answer, and yet also not, as if in some part of her mind she was reviewing the day’s agenda, not really seeing the girl in front of her.

The Invisible Girl.

But being invisible was not without benefits, she had found. The little things she wanted that there was no money for could be made to vanish from a store shelf and reappear outside.

And she found methods of procuring money for things she wanted which were too big or well protected to steal. She began attending the college functions she had heretofore avoided, the dances and sports events. Her parents, to the extent that they had noticed, were probably relieved that their daughter was beginning to be interested in having a social life, little realizing that the Invisible Girl was only interested in unattended purses and coat pockets.

The college authorities eventually began to talk about a ‘crime wave’ and to remind students to look after their things at public events. But by then she had honed her invisibility until even the wary and cautious were no match for her powers. The money simply disappeared from their pockets and reappeared in hers. In fact, after a while she stopped buying things much and just stored the money inside the torn seam of an old stuffed toy in her closet. But the Invisible Girl continued her predations.

Weeks went by. One Saturday night in late spring she was at a college dance, working her way through the coatroom. There was supposed to be a teacher on duty but the Invisible Girl knew which ones took cigarette breaks when things were slow and merely hung around, invisibly, until she saw the teacher heading for the exit, then reached over the ledge of the dutch door and let herself in. And even if the teacher did come back a little sooner than expected, well, she had just forgotten where she’d hung her coat. Happen to anyone.

The pickings were somewhat slimmer than before but still a lot of the girls simply could not be bothered to keep their purses with them while they danced. She made her way along the walls, checking purses and feeling coats for potentially interesting lumps. There was Mira Barnstable’s coat, a flashy red, satiny-looking thing as befit the richest girl at the college. There was only one coat like that in town. Had she left her purse? No. Too bad. But those pockets were worth investigating. She slipped her hand into one, finding it surprisingly deep…but empty.

She had just reached into the other, the pocket reaching nearly halfway up her arm, when something in the corner of her eye made her whirl around toward the door. There was a boy there; she knew him, knew he was a second-year student though she couldn’t remember his name. He was leaning his elbows on the door-ledge, looking in.

At her. She wondered she was standing so that he couldn’t see her hand in Mira’s pocket, but she wasn’t sure.

They looked at each other in silence for a moment. Then without a word he straightened, took his arms off the ledge and walked away.

Was he gonna get a teacher? Had he seen? Or was she still the Invisible Girl? She waited, tensely, to see if he would return.

After a few excruciating minutes, when nothing happened, she left.

But she didn’t feel as invisible as before.

Chapter One

He had seen her; she knew it as soon she saw him waiting outside her last class of the day, leaning with apparent casualness against the wall. How had he known where she would be? He gave her the merest flick of a glance as she passed, certainly no more than a second-year boy would normally have given to a mousy little freshman girl with glasses, braces and bad clothes, but there was knowledge in that look that confirmed it.

He knew.

But why hadn’t he said something at the dance? If he told anyone, oh god, she’d be suspended at least, or maybe arrested! Her knees felt like jelly as she continued down the hall, imagining the shame of it: walking down the halls, sitting in class, knowing that everyone knew what she was. If she were ever allowed to come back, that is.

As she turned the corner she looked back. And saw him. Now he was looking directly at her–he was walking towards her!

She panicked, hurried down the hall and ducked into the bathroom to catch her breath. Fortunately it was empty, everyone having rushed out after college on this sunny afternoon.

She stood at one of the sinks, looking at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were wide behind her glasses, her breathing too fast. She tried to calm herself. Maybe he wouldn’t tell; he seemed like a nice enough boy, as near as she could tell, considering that they lived in different universes, practically. She was positive he’d never noticed her before…before he saw… But if he wasn’t gonna tell, why had he been waiting for her, why had he looked at her like that? Oh god, she was in such trouble.

She leaned forward, letting her forehead rest against the coolness of the mirror. She closed her eyes.

She had no idea how long she’d been standing there like that when she heard the bathroom door open. She quickly pulled herself upright and opened her eyes. And felt her heart stop.

In the mirror, behind her: it was him. She turned, gasping.

He seemed not to notice as he stopped and simply stood there looking at her, his hands in his pockets, a good-looking boy she’d occasionally admired from a distance. He seemed relaxed, as if he wasn’t committing a serious violation of the rules by his mere presence. A boy in the girls’ bathroom! But there was no one around, and he obviously knew she was in no position to tell on him.

He looked at her for a long moment to let her know he understood the situation, then said, “Hello, Jane.” He knew her name! “You certainly like to play hide and seek, don’t you?”

He waited for her to reply. Then, when it was apparent that she was speechless, continued. “I mean, you’re always hiding, aren’t you? If it’s not the bathroom, you’re hiding in the back of the class. Or in the back of the bus. Or…” He raised his eyebrows slightly and seemed to smile. “…in the coatroom.” She gasped. “You spend a lot of time in the coatroom. Don’t you, Jane?”

She still didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Her face had gone totally white, and she leaned back against the sink, steadying herself with both hands.

“So, now we know who the legendary thief is.” He began walking slowly toward her. “And so far the only two people who know are you and me–right?”

She managed to nod as he stopped in front of her, looking down into her face with an expression that was partially amusement and partially…she didn’t know what, but it sent a shiver up her spine.

“Take off your glasses.”

What? Why? She did so, holding them awkwardly in her hands as he gazed at her for what must have only been a few seconds but seemed to go on for hours. It was hard to meet his gaze.

How blue his eyes were.

He seemed to nod slightly to himself, then continued. “Hmm. I guess that means we both have decisions to make.”

She had no idea what he meant and he knew it. She started to put her glasses back on but he said, “No. Leave them off.” She fumbled with them for a moment, then slipped them into her dress pocket as he continued. “My decision is simple: do I turn you in…or not? And I’m guessing,” he said with an ironic lift of his eyebrows, “that you’d like it better if I didn’t. I don’t think you’d get along very well with the other kids in prison,” he added dryly.

She was so terrified that her teeth were almost chattering, but managed to discover enough voice to stammer out a tiny, “…no…please…”

He continued to look down at her, and now an intense, considering look began to appear in his eyes, as he went on. “Well then, you’ll be glad to know that my decision will depend on your decision.”

What decision? She stared at him, numb.

“Well,” he said, as if she asked the question out loud, “since you’re a thief, you should be punished, right?”

She hesitated, then gave the barest of nods, hardly breathing, unable to guess where he was leading.

He nodded back, slightly. “So would you rather be punished by the school, and your parents, and maybe the police…” He deliberately left it unfinished for a moment, knowing she was hooked. The weighing look became concentrated, a laser beam, as he finished, “Or…by me?”

At first she couldn’t take it in. Punished by him? She wondered her heart had stopped but now it was going like a rabbit’s. She opened her mouth, but at first nothing came out. Then: “…H-how…wh-what…”

He smiled a tight smile. “That’s right, you have no idea what I’d do–and I’m not going to tell you. On the other hand, whatever punishment you get from me will be just between us, I promise. No one else will ever know. So what’ll it be, Jane? Do you want to be punished by them?” He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder to indicate her parents, the college, the police, and the rest of the world. “Or by me?”

His gaze seemed to be burning straight through her. And yet, terrified as she was, she saw something unexpected in his eyes: for just an instant she sensed that his aggressiveness was a pretense; that behind it he was almost as afraid as she was. Then it was gone–and she was still trapped.

She was almost as afraid of him as of the alternative. But what choice did she really have? Nothing he could do would be as bad as having her crimes made public.

She looked down and barely whispered, “You.”

“Oh, no,” he exclaimed. “You’ll have to do better than that. Look at me.”

He reached out and placed two fingers under her chin, the sudden touch a small electric shock. Then he tilted her chin up so that she was again looking directly into his eyes. Blue. Hypnotic.

“Now say, ‘I deserve to be punished.'”

She couldn’t tear her eyes away. It was as if someone else was speaking as the words came out: “I…I deserve to be p-punished.”

He held her with his gaze. “I want you to punish me.”

“I w-want you…to punish me.” It was as if she were disappearing into his eyes.

“Any way you want to.”

“Any way you want to.”

“I’ll do whatever you tell me.”

“I’ll d-do…whatever you tell me.”

“I swear it.”

“I swear it.”

He released her chin but continued to look deeply into her eyes, and again for an instant his eyes betrayed him; she wondered she saw confusion there, as if he hadn’t really expected her consent and didn’t know what to do next. Then the look was gone, elusive as a fish in the blue depths of his eyes, and the controlling, laser-like gaze returned.

He continued to hold her there for a moment as if sealing their contract. Then he turned away from her and looked around the room for a moment, considering. Then he started toward one of the toilet stalls, saying, “Come in here,” over his shoulder as he went.

She followed him into the gray metal cubicle and watched as he put down the toilet lid and sat on it.

“Close the door.”

She swung the door shut behind her and latched it, then turned to face him. This left her standing almost knee-to-knee with him, his face at the level of her navel.

For a long moment he simply sat there, hands resting on his thighs, looking up at her, his face unreadable. She was recovering from her shock and was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. How could he punish her in here? Strangely, she found herself wishing she’d worn something nicer than her gray jumper, white ribbed turtleneck sweater and penny loafers with white ankle-socks, though she had no idea why.

The silence continued. She didn’t know what to do with her hands.

More silence. When he finally spoke, she almost jumped.

“All right. Bend down and grab your skirt with both hands.

What in the world?

It doesn’t matter, she told herself–she had to do what he said. She slowly bent forward until she could grasp the hem of her skirt. She found herself looking at his knees.

Now what, she wondered. She soon found out.

“Now straighten up.”

She caught her breath. If she stood up straight, her skirt would come with it. Still, maybe not too high… She did as she’d been told.

She could feel, then see him watching her as she stood upright, his eyes on the rising curtain of her skirt. When she was fully upright her skirt was bunched almost at the tops of her thighs. Oh god, what if somebody came in?

His next words elevated her fear: “Keep going.”

Oh god, he wanted her to lift up her dress! She’d hardly even kissed a boy before, and he wanted…if they got caught… She started to shake her head and lower her skirt.

He was out of his seat in an instant, and stood face to face with her.

“Changing your mind?” he inquired mildly. “Fine. See you around…”

He made as if to reach for the door latch behind her. The threat was unspoken but obvious.

“No!” she gasped, putting a hand on his wrist to stop him. “I’ll do it…but…but…

“But what?”

“But what if somebody comes in, if they see us…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “They’ll think I’m…some little slut.”

He moved his face even closer, until their noses were almost touching. When he spoke, his voice was oddly gentle, as if he were sorry she was in such an uncomfortable situation.

“Nobody can see us in here.” His look became intense again. “Now make up your mind…are you going to do what I tell you or not?”

She couldn’t hold his gaze. She looked down, and spoke softly. “Do what you tell me.”

“Look at me.”

She raised her eyes to his.

“Even if it means being a little slut?”

She took a quick, gasping breath. “Y-yes.”

“Say it.”

“Even if it means…b-being…a little slut.” She swallowed the last words.

“I didn’t hear you. Are you a little slut?”

Her throat was dry. “Yes… I’m a little…ss-slut.” She couldn’t believe she was looking into a boy’s eyes and saying those words.

“Fine.” He released her and sat down again. Looking up at her he said, “Now. You won’t give me any more trouble, will you?

She was able to breathe again, but just barely. “No, I won’t.”

“Good. All right, we’ll begin over.” He stared thoughtfully at her, then said, “I’ll make it easier for you this time. I want you to say, ‘Please, may I show you…my panties?'”

Panties. She felt her face turning red. Oh god, what could she do? Nothing. She had no choice. She looked down at her feet as she began, “Please…”

“Look at me.”

She raised her eyes to his. “Please, may I…sh-show you…my p-panties?”

“Yes, you may. Go ahead.”

Her face was still red as she again bent slowly forward and grasped her skirt hem in her hands. Once again she slowly straightened. When she was upright again, she hesitated for a moment, as if trying to think of some last-minute escape from the situation. Finding none, she continued to look at him as she raised her skirt a few more inches.

His gaze slowly moved down from her eyes to where her hands were holding up her skirt.

“Higher.”

She looked down and watched her hands, seemingly unbidden, continue to raise her skirt until the slim band of flesh between the bottom of her turtleneck and the top of her panties became visible. Her panties were thin white cotton, patterned with pink and blue flowers, much faded from repeated washings. They were trimmed with tiny bands of lace. Oh god, she was holding up her dress and letting a boy look at her panties. She was so ashamed.

“Stand with your legs aside.”

She did so and immediately felt her shame deepen, because now he could see the bulge between her legs. Maybe he could even make out the outline of her…oh god. How long would he make her stand there like this? She watched him as he stared at her panties, seeming to savor them as if they were something delicious.

At long last he looked up at her again. Maybe they were done, maybe she could go home and pretend this had all been just a bad dream…

“Turn around.”

She did so, still holding her skirt up.