Invisible Ink
Clara Monroe had perfected the art of taking up as little space as possible.
It wasn't something anyone taught her. No manual existed for it, no how-to guide tucked into a locker or whispered between friends at lunch. She'd built the skill herself, brick by careful brick, over three years of trial and error, until now, at seventeen, she could slip through the halls of Easton High like a shadow slipping along a wall — present, technically, but never quite *there*.
The morning crowd surged around her as she pushed through the front doors, a river of expensive backpacks and laughter that belonged to someone else's story. She kept her eyes trained on a fixed point somewhere past the trophy case, not quite meeting anyone's gaze, not quite avoiding it either. That was the trick. Direct avoidance drew attention. A blank, middle-distance stare, however, made people's eyes slide right past her, the way they might slide past a water fountain or a fire extinguisher — necessary fixtures nobody bothered to really see.
Easton High ran on a hierarchy so rigid it might as well have been carved into the marble floors. At the top: the golden ones, the athletes and legacies and girls whose…
