Confessions of an Imaginary Friend Page 7

  “I’ve got noooowhere to be, kid,” I said, narrowing my eyes, staring back. “I can do this all night.”

  “Yimello,” said Bernard finally, breaking the silence.

  “Gesundheit?” I asked.

  “It’s a name for one of the colors that’s invisible to us. Yimello,” said Bernard. “There could also be glowl and novaly and replitz.”

  “Yes.” I nodded, stunned the kid could actually string together so many words at once. “And, uh, don’t forget the beautiful grynn, the luminous dulloff, or the subtle winooze.”

  Bernard’s face lit up. He stood and started pacing the room, speaking quickly. “Or salty, and insomnia, and carefree, and talkative, and lonely, and burnt, and punctual.”

  “Some of my favorite colors,” I agreed, nodding. “We could paint this room whisper. Or zigzag. Or maybe a nice shade of ignored and invisible.”

  Bernard couldn’t help it, and let out a quiet, gasping sort of laugh.

  “Holy hilarity,” he added.

  I admit it, I laughed too. What can I say? The kid was actually pretty funny.

  But this, I would learn, was just one of Bernard’s many colors that nobody else ever got to see.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  NO WORD

  That night I slept in a sleeping bag in Bernard’s room. I lay there, wide-awake, looking at the square of light on the floor made by the moon. I thought about the words Bernie and I had made up earlier, and how that was good, because when you really thought about it, there weren’t enough words in the world. There was not, I realized, a word for a square of light on a floor made by the moon.

  There’s also no word for when you’re about to introduce someone and then just forget their name. Everyone has felt that little pang of panic, and yet there’s no word for it.

  And there’s no word for secret messages in alphabet soup.

  Or the first time you put bare feet in the grass after a long winter.

  Or when a dog climbs up onto your bed, wags his tail, and smacks you upside the head with happiness.

  Or when your hair looks way worse after a haircut.

  Or when someone has a smile that looks so lit up, there must be a lightning bug caught in their head. (For the record, I would petition this word be called Fleur.)

  There’s no word for that old trick where you tap someone on the opposite shoulder from behind to fool them.

  Or for a stranger’s note in a used book.

  There’s no word for when someone hilarious and weird like Bernard decides it’s better to be the most invisible boy in the world instead of being teased. I suppose it had its comforts, not existing. Like being airy, drifting along, being able to go in and out of a place, unnoticed. Having no friends, and therefore nobody to ever lose.

  There’s no word for ships that want to stay sunken, needles that hide in the haystack, or pearls that are buried forever beneath the sand.

  “You know, Bernie,” I said to him one day as several people cut in front of us in line at the movies. “It’s slightly insulting to someone like me who is actually invisible that you would try so hard not to be seen.”

  It probably wasn’t something anyone else would notice, but being invisible myself, I was especially attuned. There was the way he always hung his pictures in art class so that each one was hidden behind someone else’s, or how he dressed in bland, blah colors, or the way he moved so silently, it seemed as if his feet were made of dandelion puffs.

  There’s no word for the way Bernard hid his real self like a squirrel stowing away nuts for winter.

  “Once,” he said, “I was so invisible that a bird—an actual bird—landed on my head. I thought she might go ahead and make a nest.”

  There’s certainly no word, I thought, for someone who seems like a fitting home for birds.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  THE LOBSTER STRIKES

  Bernard may have been able to stay invisible forever if it weren’t for the day he almost blinded a girl in his class.

  It was gym period, outdoors, and they were playing the most feared game of any bespectacled student: dodgeball. Actually, at Bernard’s school they didn’t call it that, because there were too many hedges and bushes near the court, so they called it lodge ball or hedge ball, but never dodgeball. Bernard employed what he explained was his “usual tactic.”

  “Okay, you hide in the bushes. And then what?” I asked.

  “And then I wait for gym to be over, obviously,” replied Bernard in a “duh” tone.

  “But it’s supposed to be fun,” I said. “It’s a playground.”

  “Have you ever been on a playground?” asked Bernard. “It’s lawless! It’s anarchy! It’s only-the-person-holding-the-conch-shell-can-speak-and-let’s-kill-the-kid-in-glasses.”

  “Wow. Graphic,” I replied.

  The system probably would have worked if, after everyone on Bernard’s team had been eliminated, someone hadn’t spotted a flash of red shoelace behind a bush.

  “Hey, we have someone left!” Bernard’s team cried.

  Bernard peeked his owl eyes around the edge of the bush.

  “Who is that?”

  “Does he even go to school here?”

  “I think it’s just a large rodent.”

  But no. It was Bernard, who was forced to come out from hiding and join the game. Every single red playground ball was on his side of the court, several stuck in the very bush he’d been using for shelter. Gingerly, he picked one up, and pushed his glasses up his nose.

  “H-holy horrifying s-situation,” he stuttered.

  It was a fair assessment, for his opponents were many:

  There was a boy known on the dodgeball courts as the Trombone because of his freakishly long arms, resulting in slingshot throws and shocking catches. There was Midnight Blue, a girl so small and quick, you never saw her coming. And finally, most dreaded of all, the Henhouse. It was a mystery of science how that boy held so many balls in his hands at once, but he could carry half a dozen as if they were small as chicken eggs.

  “What you need to do,” I told him, “is take a ball in each hand.”

  Bernard did as I said. I stood and looked him over.

  “The Lobster,” I said after a moment.

  “What?” asked Bernard.

  “That can be your player identity. The red balls look like lobster claws.”

  “Who cares!” snapped Bernard. “What do I do?!”

  “Maybe go for one of the lazier kids in the back,” I suggested. “Look! There’s a group of girls that have been gossiping the whole game. Try for one of them. They aren’t even looking.”

  “I can’t,” whispered a panicked Bernard. “One of them is the girl with the freckles.”

  “Uh, so?” I said. “Aim for a freckle.”

  “No,” he replied. “I just think . . . she’s nice.”

  “Nice?!” I blurted. “Who cares if she’s . . . Oooooh, I get it,” I smirked, finally catching on. “You have a huge, honking, monster crush on her, don’t you?”

  “She doesn’t even know I exist,” answered Bernard.

  “Stop whispering to imaginary teammates and play the game!” shouted a voice from the sidelines.

  And so Bernard gingerly approached the team divider line painted in white on the playground. I approached the line with him, hoping at least one of us would avoid certain death.

  “Float like a rubber butterfly,” I coached. “Sting like a plastic bee.”

  Bernard gritted his teeth. His glasses only magnified the determined look in his eyes. As he released the ball, time slowed, the planets aligned, and then . . .

  Bernard actually hit someone.

  The ball had left the Lobster’s claw and connected with . . .

  “Holy harm’s way,” gasped Bernard. “I hit her right in the fac
e!”

  It was true. Across the line, Bernard’s crush was clutching both hands over her eye as her teammates and teacher ran toward her.

  “Well,” I tried to comfort Bernard, patting him on the back, “at least now she definitely knows you exist.”

  Chapter Fifty

  FARFALLINI!

  Bernard and I stood below the window of the nurse’s office. I peered over the sill and through the glass to get a better look at the situation inside.

  “See,” I said, crouching back down to join Bernard. “I told you she’d be fine. She’s just sitting there with an ice pack over her eye. If it were anything serious, there would be an ambulance or a priest or something.”

  “Phew,” said Bernard. “So I guess I should go apologize?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, stopping Bernard. “Cool your jets, Casanova. Do you even know what you’re going to say to this girl?”

  “How about ‘Sorry I maimed you by throwing a ball at your face’?” answered Bernard.

  “No, that’s too boring,” I explained. “Man, you’re so lucky you have me. If you’re going to talk to a girl, first you have to have some topics of conversation. You know, things you have in common with her.”

  “I don’t know what we have in common,” said Bernard.

  “Well, what are your favorite things?” I asked. “We’ll just find one that everyone likes and mention that. For example,” I continued, “what’s your favorite animal?”

  “Seahorses,” replied Bernard without hesitation.

  “Do you want to take a minute to think about it?” I asked. “No? Okay, seahorses it is,” I said. “How about, what are your favorite hobbies?”

  “I like making mud pies,” said Bernard.

  “Not romantic.”

  “I like peeling corn when we have corn for dinner,” tried Bernard.

  “Peeling corn is not a hobby.”

  “I like collecting feathers.”

  “Gross.”

  “I’d like to be a magician. Alakazam! Holy Houdini!”

  “Please never tell that to a girl.”

  “I like making up songs,” tried Bernard.

  “Okay, good,” I said finally. “Music. Everyone loves music.”

  “Yeah,” said Bernard. “I like making up songs about different kinds of pasta. FARFALLINI,” he sang. “FUSILLI, SPAGHETTI, RIGATONI, MANICOTTI!”

  “Okay, okay, stop please,” I said, rubbing my head. “New plan. You go in, I’ll stay here outside the window. I’ll feed you lines.”

  “That seems sort of dishonest,” replied Bernard.

  “When you’re wooing a girl,” I said, forcing Bernard toward the door, “it’s always a good idea to use your imagination.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  HAVE YOU BEEN THERE THIS WHOLE TIME?

  Bernard entered the nurse’s office in usual Bernard fashion: like a ghost who just realized he left the house not wearing pants. He creepily crept through the doorway without the nurse even noticing, then slipped around a shelf of brochures about head lice and the dangers of not flossing. He slid so stealthily, and so quietly, that when the girl with the freckles (and black eye) finally saw him, she yelped out in surprise.

  “Ack!” she shouted. “Sorry,” she added, recovering once she realized that Bernard was just a harmless Bernard. “Have you been there this whole time?”

  No reply from Bernard.

  “I’m Zoë,” she said.

  I tried to Jedi-mind-force Bernard to say his name, but he just stood there with his mouth open like one of those clowns you shoot water into at the fair. Any minute now, I was sure his balloon brain would burst.

  “Say,” continued Zoë, “aren’t you the one who hit me in the eye?”

  This time, in reply, Bernard turned red and tried to shrink behind the privacy curtain next to Zoë’s bed. I figured it was time for me to step in before Bernard ended up with a black eye as well.

  “Psssssst,” I whispered.

  Bernard looked toward the window.

  “No, don’t look at me!” I shouted.

  Bernard jerked his head back toward Zoë, then toward the floor, then the ceiling.

  “Say something about the game,” I coached.

  “Should I say I’m sorry?” whispered Bernard. He wasn’t looking at the window, but he also wasn’t looking at Zoë. He was, much like a lunatic, speaking to the floor.

  “Are you asking me?” replied Zoë.

  “Tell her . . .” I tried to come up with something poetic. “Tell her that her hair is the color of freshly peeled corn. That her eyes are like mud pies. That her freckles are like a connect-the-dot that makes the shape of your heart.”

  “No!” cried Bernard. “I’m not going to say that!”

  “Fine, then don’t apologize,” replied Zoë, crossing her arms. “Geez Louise.”

  I slapped my hand over my face. We were going to have to take this show on the road. Just then the school nurse came over to check on Zoë, took the ice pack off, and inspected the damage.

  “Because of the scratch,” she said, “you’ll have to wear this for a few days.” The nurse handed Zoë a black medical eye patch. The kind a pirate would wear.

  “I called your mother, she’ll be here soon,” continued the nurse. “Just rest until then.”

  The nurse reached behind her to get a pillow for Zoë, and yelped.

  “Ack!” she shouted, nearly stepping on Bernard.

  “Sorry,” the nurse apologized. “Have you been there this whole time?”

  Holy hopeless, I thought. This was going to be harder than I’d realized.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  BABY BERNIE’S FIRST COHERENT SENTENCE

  I convinced Bernard to walk to Zoë’s house after school with a bouquet of dandelions, the stems limp in his nervous hands. It was the civilized thing to do, especially after he (fine, we) had made such a mess out of the first apology.

  “You again?” said Zoë. Her mother had convinced her to come to the door even though Zoë had protested, afraid someone outside would see her eye patch.

  “Are you here to not apologize some more?” she asked Bernard.

  Bernard just stood there staring. I elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Ow,” he whispered, giving me a dirty look. Finally, he mustered his courage, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the eye patch. It was black and plastic, part of a pirate costume from last Halloween. Bernard took off his glasses, placed the patch over his left eye, and put his glasses back on. He then made a sheepish TA-DA! motion with his hands.

  At first, I thought Zoë might punch him, thinking he was mocking her. But then I saw the tiniest glimmer of laughter in her one good eye. It had worked! We were smooth. We were slick. They would one day write sonnets about the debonair duo! And if not, I’d write them myself.

  “Come on, weirdo,” said Zoë, grabbing Bernard by the hand. “You can help me with my project.”

  As Bernard let Zoë lead him inside, he turned and gave me a look that said it all: He was finally being seen.

  And he was terrified. So, even though I was a bit of a third wheel, I decided I should probably tag along.

  Zoë’s family had a pool out back surrounded by plants and rocks, with a small waterfall as well.

  “Swanky,” I noted. “Who wants a piña colada?”

  I was trying to come up with something for Bernard to say—something about fate, destiny, and the path of a dodgeball—when, to my surprise, Bernard actually spoke. All on his own. I felt like a puppeteer whose marionette had just stood up and started dancing a jig.

  “What sparkly that is thing?” he asked.

  Okay, so the words weren’t perfectly in order. Still, a good effort.

  “Oh, my friends and I are doing a dance routine in the talent show,”
explained Zoë. She held up a hat covered from back to brim in overlapping green sequins.

  “Looks like a mermaid tail,” said Bernard. “You know, not a lot of people are aware of this, but eye patches give you the ability to see mermaids.”

  Great. Perfect. Bernard had finally successfully strung together his first coherent sentence around a girl and it was insane.

  “Uh, mermaids?” asked Zoë.

  “Yeah,” said Bernard. “You just have to cover your one good eye to see them.”

  Zoë laughed. And to my shock, she reached up and covered her one good eye.

  “Where mermaids live looks a bit like your pool,” said Bernard. “Except they build houses out of whale bones and the wreckage of sunken ships. They play chess with seahorses. They wear capes of fish scales and sleep on beds made from seaweed.”

  As we listened, I thought I heard a slight splashing from the far end of the pool.

  “At night,” Bernard continued, “they turn on an electric eel for a night-light, and they light a fire, and the smoke goes up a chimney made from coral.”

  “Wait a minute,” interrupted Zoë, clearly immersed in Bernard’s description. “If they live underwater, how could they have a fire?”

  “You should ask them,” said Bernard.

  Zoë and I opened our eyes.

  Now, look, I know the light was just playing tricks on us. And I know we’d all probably inhaled too much sequin glue. But for the briefest moment, the blue of Zoë’s pool gave way to deeper, darker aqua-colored water. The few plants and rocks were replaced with a lagoon and a waterfall where several mermaids lounged half in the water, half in the sun. They splashed and dove, their laughter making the same sound as the water.

  Well, then. When it came to imagination, perhaps Bernard was a bit of a magician after all.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  THE HIDDEN PARTS

  After Bernard went to sleep that night, I decided to take a walk and do some thinking. The thing I realized after the instance with the mermaids was that Bernard wasn’t just scared, or shy, or auditioning for the part of the cheese in the “Farmer in the Dell.” In truth, he just lived in his own private world. The World of Bernie. This, I thought, was why the bees and birds landed on him—he clearly had a whole world inside him with rivers of honey and a heart made from flowers. Bernard was just like a closed bud, an acorn with a tree inside, a song yet to be heard.