That's how old my friend Tamsin was when she died, three hundred and thirteen years ago. I don't live on West Eighty-third Street, just off Columbus, in New York City-I live at Stourhead Farm in Dorset, England, with my mother and my stepfather, and I'm going to be nineteen in a couple of months. I'm not that furious little girl daydreaming in class anymore.
I used to sit there and imagine how great it would be, not ever to be noticed. And if I got my period in P.E., which I always used to, or if I said something dumb in class, nobody'd even notice. But I really liked it best when it was just me and Mister Cat drifting along, just going wherever we felt like going, and nobody able to tell if my butt was too fat or if my skin had turned to molten lava that morning. Not _all_ the time, not when I was mad at her, but mostly, because she'd have worried. I used to let Sally see me, too-Sally's my mother-in the daydream. As I know better than anyone, but that comes later. The good part was, if I was invisible, Mister Cat-my cat-Mister Cat would always be able to see me, because invisible doesn't mean anything to a cat. I used to sit in class and daydream about it, the way the other kids were daydreaming about being a movie star, being a big basketball player. One When I was really young, if there was one thing I wanted in the world, it was to be invisible. I can still hear you singing, Pop, quietly, to yourself shaving.
To the memory of Simon Beagle, my father. First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.
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