I nearly died the second I was born. The doctor dropped me, but it wasn't his fault. When I smacked the floor and let out a screeching cry, all anyone could see was the semi-transparent umbilical cord. The poor guy scooped me up, gasping in shock at my invisible body. I spent a year in the hospital-not because of injuries. They had to study me, cure me. Mom wanted a normal baby, one with a non-dangerous ability like glow-in-the-dark hair or breath that smells like chocolate. Then I wouldn't have been so important to my father. Instead, she got the first ever invisible child. Not only was I famous, but I was infinitely, dangerously useful. When they gave up on a cure, Mom took me home. The paparazzi tried to get pictures, which was stupid because they couldn't actually see me. They wanted a glimpse of the girl with no face, but my dad's people made sure that didn't happen. He made sure the world saw as little of me as possible, and more importantly, that they never realized what I could really do. Hiding an invisible girl. Go figure. Excerpted from Transparent by Natalie Whipple All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
