My Best Friend Is Invisible by R. L. Stine

 
 
1
     
     
    I sat at the dinner table and wished I was invisible.
    If I were invisible, I could sneak away from dinner without finishing my
string beans. And I could creep up to my room and finish the book of ghost
stories I’d been reading.
    I started to daydream. I’m Sammy Jacobs, the Invisible Boy, I told myself. I
tried to picture how I’d look if I were invisible.
    Last week, I saw a movie about an invisible man. You couldn’t see his face or
his body. But when he ate, you could see the food digesting in his invisible
stomach.
    It was totally gross.
    I loved it.
    Staring at my string beans, I pictured them rolling around in my stomach.
    My parents’ voices droned on in the background. My parents are research
scientists. They work in a college lab. They do weird things with light and lasers.
    And then they come home and talk about their work at dinner. And talk about
their work. And talk about their work.
    My ten-year-old brother, Simon, and I can’t get a word in.
    We have to sit and listen to them talk about “light refraction” and “ocular
impediments”.
    I’m a science-fiction freak. I love reading science-fiction books and comics.
And I rent any movie that has an alien from another planet in it.
    But when I have to listen to my parents talk about their work, I feel like an
alien from another planet. I mean, I can’t understand a single word they say!
    “Hey, Mom and Dad.” I tried to get into the conversation. “Guess what? I grew
a tail today.”
    Mom and Dad didn’t hear me. They were too busy arguing about something called
“morphology”.
    “Actually, I grew two tails,” I said, louder.
    They didn’t care. Dad was drawing some kind of chart on his napkin.
    I was really bored. I kicked Simon under the table. Just for something to do.
    “Ow! Stop it, Sammy!” he cried. He kicked me back.
    I kicked him again.
    Dad kept scribbling numbers all over his napkin. Mom squinted at his chart.
    Simon kicked me back. Too hard.
    “Whoa!” I screamed. My hands flew up—and sent my dinner plate flying.
    SPLAAT.
    Into my lap.
    A whole plateful of spaghetti and all the string beans—slid down my jeans.
    “Look what Simon made me do!” I shouted.
    “You started it!” Simon protested.
    Mom glanced up from the chart. At least I had her attention. And maybe I’d
even get Simon into trouble. Simon never gets yelled at. He’s good.
    Mom’s gaze shifted from me to Simon. “Simon,” Mom started.
    All right! I thought. Simon is in for it now!
    “Help your clumsy brother clean up,” Mom said. She glanced down at the floor
and pointed to the pile of spaghetti. “And make sure you mop up this mess.” Then
she grabbed Dad’s pencil and scribbled a bunch of numbers next to his.
    Simon tried to help me clean up. But I pushed him away and did it myself.
    Was I steamed? Take a guess.
    Okay. Okay. Maybe the spaghetti wasn’t Simon’s fault. But nothing is
ever Simon’s fault. Ever.
    Why?
    I told you—Simon is the good one. He never waits until the last minute to
do his homework. He never has to be reminded to throw his clothes in the hamper.
Or take out the garbage. Or wipe his feet when he comes in the house.
    What kind of kid is that?
    A mutant —if you ask me.
    “Simon is a mutant,” I mumbled as I used my napkin to wipe my dinner from my
lap.
    “My Brother—the Mutant.” I smiled. I liked the sound of that. It would make
a good science-fiction movie, I decided.
    I tossed the paper napkin into the trash and returned to the table.
    Well, at least I won’t have to eat any more string beans, I thought, staring
down at my empty plate.
    Wrong.
    “Sammy, give me your dish. I’ll refill it.” Mom stood up, took my plate—and
slipped on the spaghetti on the floor.
    Uh-oh.
    I watched as she lost her balance and slid across the kitchen. I laughed. I
couldn’t help it. I mean, she looked pretty funny—sliding across the floor
like that.
    “Who laughed?” Mom turned to face us. “Was