Marilyn Kaye - Out of Sight, Out of Mind

For my friends who first heard this story on the beach at Bandol: Thomas and Augustin Clerc; Emilie and Marion Grimaud; Jeanne, Angele, and Baptiste Latil; Liona, Fanny, and Alice Lutz-je vous embrasse!

SOMETIMES I LOOK IN a mirror and there's nobody looking back. I know I have a reflection.

I just don't see it.

Maybe it's all in my mind.

Maybe I've got bad eyesight.

Or maybe it's something else.

My name is Tracey. Tracey Devon. Did you get that? TRACEY DEVON. I'm writing this all in capital letters because it's like talking really loudly. People might pay more attention.

I never speak loudly. In fact, I make very little noise at all. I'm a quiet person. When I talk, I whisper. When I laugh-which isn't very often-it's a silent laugh. When I cry, I can feel the tears on my face, but there's no sound.

I'm not a ghost. I'm a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood 13-year-old girl. All my senses are intact. I have two arms, two legs, a heart, a brain-all the usual stuff. I've got two eyes, two ears, one nose, one mouth-and they're all in the right places. I eat, drink, sleep, and use the toilet, just like everyone else.

But sometimes I look in a mirror and I don't see anyone looking back.

Maybe it's my imagination.

Maybe I'm going blind.

Or maybe I'm not really here at all.

THERE WERE 342 STUDENTS at Meadowbrook Middle School and three lunch periods each day. This meant that during any one lunch period there could be no more than 114 students in the cafeteria. The noise and commotion, however, suggested that half the population of mainland China was eating lunch together.

Students roamed the cavernous space, shouting, racing from one end to the other, knocking over chairs, banging trays down on tables. There were a couple of teachers who were supposed to be supervising the scene and maintaining order, but they couldn't stop the occasional flying meatball from that day's Spaghetti Special or the far-reaching spray from a soda bottle that had been intentionally shaken before being opened.

From her prime seat at the best table, Amanda Beeson surveyed the chaotic scene with a sense of well-being. The cafeteria was noisy and messy and not very attractive, but it was part of her little kingdom- or queendom, if such a word existed. She wasn't wearing any kind of crown, of course, but she felt secure in the knowledge that in this particular hive, she was generally acknowledged as the queen bee.

On either side of her sat two princesses-Sophie Greene and Britney Teller. The three of them were about to begin their daily assessment of classmates. As always, Amanda kicked off the conversation. "Ohmigod, check out Caroline's sweater! It's way too tight."

"No kidding," Sophie said. "It's like she's begging for the boys to look at her."

"And it's not like she's got anything on top to look at," Britney added.

Amanda looked around for more victims. "Someone should tell Shannon Fields that girls with fat knees shouldn't wear short skirts."

"Terri Boyd has a new bag," Britney pointed out. "Is it a Coach?"

Amanda shook her head. "No way. It's a fake."

"How can you tell from this far away?" Sophie wanted to know.

Amanda gave her a withering look. "Oh, puh-leeze! Coach doesn't make hobo bags in that shade of green." Spotting imitation designer goods was a favorite game, and Amanda surveyed the crowd for another example. "Look at Cara Winters's sweater."

"Juicy Couture?" Sophie wondered.

"Not. You can tell by the buttons."

Sophie gazed at her with admiration. Amanda responded by looking pointedly at the item in Sophie's hand. "Sophie, are you actually going to eat that cupcake? I thought you were on a diet."

Sophie sighed and pushed the cupcake to the edge of her tray. Amanda turned to her other side.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" Britney asked.

"You've got a major zit coming out on your chin."

Britney whipped a mirror out of her bag.

"It's not that big," Sophie assured her. "No one can see it.

"I can," Amanda declared.

"Really?" Britney stared harder into the mirror. Amanda thought she saw her lower lip tremble, and for a moment she almost felt sorry for her. Everyone knew that Britney was obsessed with her complexion. She was constantly searching her reflection for any evidence of an imminent breakout, she spent half her allowance on face creams, and she even saw a dermatologist once a month. Not that she really needed to give her skin all that attention. If Britney's face had been half as bad as she thought it was, she wouldn't be sitting at Amanda's table. But she was still staring into her little mirror, and now Amanda could see her eyes getting watery.

Oh no, don't let her cry, she thought. Amanda didn't like public displays of emotion. She was always afraid that she'd get caught up in them herself.

Three more of their friends-Emma, Katie, and Nina--joined them at the table, and Britney got more reassurance on the state of her skin. Finally, Amanda gave in. "You know, I think there's a smudge on one of my contact lenses. Everybody looks like they've got zits."

Britney looked relieved, and Amanda made a mental note not to waste insults on friends. She didn't want to have to feel bad about anything she said. Feelings could be so dangerous.

Luckily, Emma brought up a new subject. "Heather Todd got a haircut."

"From Budget Scissors," Amanda declared, referring to a chain of cheap hair whackers.

"Really?"

"That's what it looks like."

Katie giggled. "Amanda, you're terrible!"

Amanda knew this was intended as a compliment, and she accepted it by smiling graciously. Katie beamed in the aura of the smile, and Amanda decided not to mention the fact that Katie's tinted lip-gloss had smeared.

Besides, there were so many others who were more deserving of her critical attention. Like the girl who was walking toward their table right now: Tracey Devon, the dreariest girl in the eighth grade, the most pathetic creature in the entire class-maybe even in the whole school.

In Amanda's experience, in all honesty, she knew that even the most deeply flawed individuals had something of value about them. A complete social nerd might be a brain, an ugly guy could be a great athlete, and an enormously fat girl might have a nice singing voice. But Tracey Devon had absolutely nothing going for her.

She was thin-not in a top-model way, but so scrawny and bony that her elbows and knees looked abnormally large. No hips and, worse, no boobs.

She didn't shave her legs. The fact that she was blond and the hairs barely showed was beside the point. Every girl Amanda knew had started shaving her legs at the age of 11. Then there was the hair on her head-flat, stringy, and always looking in need of a wash. Her face was bland and colorless, she had no eyebrows to speak of, and her lips were so thin that she looked like she didn't have a mouth either. The best anyone could say about her face was that she didn't have zits-but she had enough freckles to make up for that.

As for her clothes, forget designer stuff--Tracey's outfits went beyond terrible. Mismatched tops and bottoms, puffed-sleeve dresses that looked like they were made for five-year-olds, shoes with laces, and ankle socks. Socks!

And that wasn't all. Tracey's special and unique ickiness went way beyond the surface. She walked around with her shoulders hunched and her head bowed. She talked in whispers-people could barely hear her, and when they did, she never seemed to say anything worth hearing. It was as if she wasn't even