Invisible Girl (An Erotic Romance), Pt. 4

It was all right for him. All he had to do was zip up his fly and hide in the shadows for a couple of minutes until he could make his escape. She, on the other hand, naked and already breathing hard, had to jump down from the window-seat, grab her underwear and run through the house unlocking doors, switching on lights and appliances. Then scramble into her underwear, then the rest of her clothes and her glasses—snatched up from the floor where she’d dropped them—before dashing back into the living room to drape herself casually on the couch in front of the TV, using the hem of her shirt to wipe the perspiration from her face.

Though as it turned out her mother just stuck her head in to say good night before heading upstairs to bed.

For the next two weeks the two of them played a kind of tag in school. Every so often she would look up—in study hall, or the lunchroom—to find him looking at her. Tag. And then his eyes would quickly look away. Walking out of a class he would spot her, just passing by in the hall, giving him a quick sideways glance. Tag. Once, at a school event, she had chosen an empty seat in the middle of a row he was sitting in and, squeezing past him, brushed his knees with hers, not looking at him. Tag. Once, standing at her open locker, she felt the back of a hand brush across the back of her skirt and turned to see his retreating back. Tag.

In the evenings she would often sit in the window-seat with a book, every so often glancing down to where the drops he had spattered on the window, now dried and nearly translucent, still hung. (Her parents, if they noticed them at all, probably thought they were bird droppings.) If she were alone in the room, she might briefly cup and squeeze one of her breasts, or slip a hand into her shorts. But rarely for long, and never to completion.

She was waiting.

They never publicly acknowledged each other’s existence in any way. Never spoke, publicly or privately. Yet somehow it was communicated that they would both be attending the school’s annual Spring Fling dance that Saturday. This was the last all-school dance before the Graduation Ball. Semi-formal dress was required.

Hers was not a church-going family so Jane had only one dress that met the guidelines: her ‘party frock’, as her mother referred to it, purchased in better days and so far only worn to family holiday gatherings. It was lovely, though: knee-length velvet, trimmed with a row of false buttons covered in the same fabric running down the front, and with touches of white lace here and there. The velvet was a shade so dark that it appeared black except under strong light, when its deep purple highlights were revealed. It was old-fashioned, she knew, but she loved it, loved the feel of the warm velvet on her skin. She even had sandals that matched.

As the day grew closer even the game of Tag dwindled and fell away. But Jane could feel the tension increasing; could nearly tell from it where he was at any given moment.

Friday, the day before the dance, she picked up the mail as usual from the box at the end of the driveway. As always she just tossed it into one of the bike baskets and continued home. There was rarely anything for her except near her birthday, or Christmas.

But when she brought it into the house she noticed a manila envelope with her first name on it—no return address. She opened it at the kitchen table…

And spilled out a white froth of lingerie: a lacy brassiere and panty set worked with delicate flower, vine and leaf designs in pale pastel violets and yellows. The panties even had three tiny rows of ruffles across the seat, which she found rather silly, but didn’t care; they were the most beautiful, feminine underthings she’d ever seen.

But she wouldn’t allow herself to even try them on. She knew they would fit—he had a pair of her panties to go by, didn’t he? And he certainly knew what her breasts looked like. But she did allow herself to go upstairs to stand in front of the full-length mirror in her parents’ bedroom and hold, first the bra, then the panties up to herself.

She imagined him thinking about her wearing them, seeing her in his mind posing for him as she had before…touching himself while he thought about her…oh god. She saw herself blushing in the mirror, and went to hide the lingerie in her closet.

As she did so she wondered where he had gotten it. She tried to picture him walking into a department store lingerie department, ***********ing these undoubtedly expensive items, carrying them to a register and paying for them. She could not. Oh god, he must have stolen them. For her, the former Thief of Ridgeton Community College. It was so romantic.

The next night at dinner she casually mentioned that there was a dance at the school that night so she probably wouldn’t be home when they got back from their meeting, but would return at around the usual time for after these events. This was acknowledged with the usual vague cautions and hopes that she’d have a good time. She did not mention the dress requirements. She had a plan.

The moment the door closed behind them she ran up the stairs to her parents’ bedroom and seated herself at her mother’s dressing table. She had been surreptitiously studying fashion magazines all week, trying to find something glamorous to do with her shoulder-length hair—something that wasn’t too complicated. She had finally settled on—and practiced until she could do it with ease—a simple braid, coiled and clipped at the back of her head. She did it now, and admired the result in the mirror: the way it made her neck seem longer and more graceful, how it seemed to sharpen her features and bring out her eyes. Which brought her to Phase Two.

She had little experience with make-up, beyond a touch of lipstick and eye shadow for family events. Still, she was determined to try her hand at it tonight. So she experimented with almost everything on the table: liners and rouges and mascaras and foundations and shadows and blushes and glosses and things for which she wasn’t even sure of the purpose. She wound up wiping it all off again with cold cream and tissues and starting over. Twice.

Finally she thought she had achieved the right balance: just enough shadow to accentuate her hazel eyes; a hint of rouge on her cheekbones; and a light layer of lipstick in a shade she felt would complement her dress. Her braces spoiled that particular effect somewhat, she thought, but there was nothing to be done. She added a pair of simple silver teardrop earrings. As a final touch, she sprayed some of her mother’s perfume into the air and walked through the mist as it fell, something she’d read about in one of the magazines.

By then it was nearly time for the dance to start. There was no way she was going to put on all her dress clothes and then ride her bike to school in them, and she had planned accordingly. In her closet was a garment bag—the kind that allowed you to put your clothes in it on hangers—and in it she had put her clothing, her sandals and everything she thought she would need, including, now, the last-minute addition of a small plastic bag of make-up for emergency repairs. She took the bag out to the garage and laid it across the back of her bicycle, carefully tucking the ends into the side-baskets. Then she climbed on and rode into the sunset.

When she arrived at Ridgeton she parked and locked her bike, then retrieved her garment bag and carried it over her shoulder to the main entrance. Once inside, instead of turning left, which would have brought her to the hall where the dance was, she looked quickly around to make sure she was not observed and then took a right, heading down the other, dimly-lit hallway. She wanted to be able to change in private and there was a bathroom not too far from where her locker was.

When she arrived there it was deserted and dark, as she had expected. She switched on the light and carried her bag into the nearest stall, hanging it from the hook on the back of the door. It would be more cramped than changing in the open area of the bathroom, and she seriously doubted that anyone would come in, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

She took her time. She didn’t want to get sweaty, and she certainly didn’t want to smear her make-up if she could avoid it. To this end she had worn an old button-front shirt so she could remove it without having to pull it over her head. As she began to unbutton it she couldn’t help but remember the last time she had undressed in a bathroom stall. She was glad he wasn’t here to watch this time, as the clothes she had on were even less attractive.

She removed her shirt, her cut-off jeans and her old sneakers, piling them on the tank behind the toilet. She slipped out of her bra and panties and added them to the pile. Then her glasses. She stood quietly for a moment. Then she reached over, unzipped the garment bag and reached in.

Her new lingerie glistened like dragonfly wings as she pulled it out and unfolded it. Ceremonially, she stepped into the panties and pulled them up, feeling as though she were putting on something magical, they were so new and beautiful. They fit perfectly, as she had known they would. The brassiere was perhaps a little tight but she decided she liked that, liked the slight pressure on her nipples. Unable to resist, she swung open the stall door and went to stand in front of the mirror over the sinks. She stood with her feet apart, raised her arms and locked her hands behind her head.

Who was this exotic, sexy, near-woman looking back at her? She looked at herself. Imagined him looking at her the way he had outside her window that night. And felt herself tingle with pure feminine power. She wanted to go out and find him right now, just like this. Walk right up to him in the middle of the dance, strike this pose for ten seconds, and then walk away, slowly. He would follow her like a dog on a leash, she knew it. Well, that wasn’t a practical fantasy to carry out, but she would find her chance. She returned to the stall.

She had considered, and rejected with her usual distaste, wearing pantyhose. Had thought about surreptitiously borrowing one of her mother’s garter belts, along with some nylons, but it had seemed too unfamiliar and complex. Had finally settled for shaving her legs as closely as she dared.

Now she carefully stepped into her velvet dress, struggling somewhat to reach behind her to zip and clasp it. She took out her sandals, brushed a tiny smudge from the side of one of them, and slipped them on. Then she took out her make-up bag and hairbrush, just in case, before folding up her other clothes and placing them in the garment-bag. She placed her sneakers on top of the pile, sliding her folded-up glasses into one of them for protection. Then she stepped out of the stall and went to the mirror again.

Now she couldn’t decide if she looked like a woman or a little girl playing dress up. The velvet dress had a lovely dark luster, and she had been right in her choice of lipstick to go with it, but it was, she thought, too shapeless. Hers was a petite figure and where the lingerie had accented her small curves, the dress seemed to hide them completely.

She desperately wished she had tried it on again before coming; maybe she could have found a belt or something to give it, and her, more shape. Too late now, she thought, somewhat discouraged. Still, there was somebody new there, someone with a graceful neck and beautiful eyes. And a few freckles on her nose. Oh well. Her make-up had survived perfectly and her hair just needed a little touching up with the brush. She was as ready as she was going to be.

She restored the make-up and hairbrush to the garment-bag, zipped it up, and carried it out of the bathroom, turning off the light-switch as she went. After squashing the bag into her locker, she made her way back up to the entranceway and mingled with the others heading into the dance.

As she entered, one of her teachers startled her by saying her name and telling her how very nice she looked; she hadn’t been aware that this or any other teacher knew her as anything but a name on an attendance record. A moment later a girl she had been friends with in grade school complimented her on her dress. Even one or two of the boys in her class seemed to be glancing at her with interest. She wasn’t at all used to being visible like this—except to him—and she wasn’t sure she liked it.

Well, if things got tough there was always the coatroom.

She settled for vanishing into the shadows that surrounded the brightly lit floor where the dancers were, losing herself among the shy, the unattractive and the socially inept—the ghosts who haunt every such event. She looked around, wondering if he was here already. Or even if he were, whether she’d be able to spot him without her glasses on. She began to drift among her fellow ghosts, slowly making a circuit of the dance floor, squinting to see among the girls in their bright plumage and the boys in their darker hues.

There he was! He was on the dance floor, but he was standing with a small group of people in the corner, all moving intermittently to the music, but mostly just talking and laughing among themselves. As she got closer she was able to recognize some of them as people she’d seen performing in some of the school plays. One of them, a tall, skinny boy with horn-rimmed glasses and a shock of black hair that seemed to stand straight up, was apparently telling a joke or an anecdote, contorting his face into masks of surprise and anger and gesticulating wildly as the rest of them listened.

She watched, wanting to see him in this situation, to see who he became with other people. He was wearing a thin corduroy jacket the color of mahogany and a white shirt with a tie that brought out the color of his eyes. He stood with his hands in his pockets, watching the performance unfold with an expectant smile, waiting for the punchline.