Winner of American Library Association Schneider Family Book Award!   Bobby Phillips is an average fifteen-year-old-boy.  Until the morning he wakes up and can't see himself in the mirror.  Not blind, not dreaming-Bobby is just plain invisible.  There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to Bobby's new condition; even his dad the physicist can't figure it out.  For Bobby that means no school, no friends, no life.  He's a missing person.  Then he meets Alicia.  She's blind, and Bobby can't resist talking to her, trusting her.  But people are starting to wonder where Bobby is.  Bobby knows that his invisibility could have dangerous consequences for his family and that time is running out.  He has to find out how to be seen again-before it's too late. "A readable, thought-provoking tour de force, alive with stimulating ideas, hard choices, and young people discovering bright possibilities ahead. "- Kirkus Reviews " Written in a more serious tone than Clements's popular Frindle (Simon & Schuster, 1996), this novel will prove thought-provoking as it asks the reader to consider all the "things not seen."-- VOYA "Clements's story is full of life; it's poignant, funny, scary, and seemingly all too possible. The author successfully blends reality with fantasy in a tale that keeps his audience in suspense until the very end."-- School Library Journal Andrew Clements is the author of several children's books. After graduating with a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature from Northwestern University and a Masters of Arts in Elementary Education from National Louis University, he worked as a teacher sharing his love of reading with elementary, middle, and high school students and started his literary career by writing songs. He has worked for several publishing companies where he published, acquired, edited, marketed, and developed quality children's books.  His first novel was the award-winning  Frindle , which won sixteen state book awards, as well as the Christopher Award. In chapters one and two, Bobby has woken up to find himself invisible, really invisible. Now he is trying to figure out just what that is going to mean. He decides to test his invisibility in the library. Chapter 3: OUT THERE The good thing about February in Chicago is that no one thinks it’s weird if you’re all bundled up. When I get on the city bus headed toward campus, I’m just another person who doesn’t want to freeze to death in the wind chill. The stocking cap, the turtleneck, the scarf around my face, the gloves, it all looks natural. Except maybe Dad’s huge sunglasses. They make me look like Elwood from The Blues Brothers. It’s about a half-mile bus ride from home to the stop at Ellis and Fifty-seventh Street. Bouncing along, my heart is pounding so hard, I can hear it crinkling my eardrums. It probably isn’t such a great idea to be going to the library. But I have to. I have to. I mean, what if I sit at home all day and watch TV, and then tomorrow, I wake up and I’m my regular self again? It would be like nothing happened, same old same old. So I’m going to the library to see what it’s like. To be like this. At the library. As long as I get home before Dad does, no problem. Looking out the window of the bus, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get into the library. It’s the big one, the Regenstein Library. You have to show an ID at the entrance. If the person on duty wants to check my face against the picture on my lab school ID, things could get messy. But I come here a lot, and I know the guy who’s working at the security desk today. He’s a college kid. There’s no line, and I hand him my card. “Hi, Walt. How’s it going?” He looks at my picture and runs the card under the scanner. He smiles and says, “Everything’s good, Bobby. You out of school early today?” I nod. “Yeah, working on a special project.” He smiles and says, “Well, don’t get too smart all at once, okay?” I start to walk toward the elevators and Walt says, “Hey . . . ” I turn back, and he grins and says, “Nice shades.” I know exactly where I’m going. The elevator takes me to the top floor. There’s a men’s room up on five, and I’m betting it’s empty. It is. I shut myself into the stall against the wall and take off my clothes. I wrap everything in my coat. I look around and realize my little plan has a flaw: A public washroom does not offer a lot of places to hide a bundle of clothes. And they have to still be here when I get back. Then I look up. The ceiling’s like the one in my basement at home. It’s not too high, and by standing on the toilet seat, I’m just tall enough to lift up a ceiling tile, push it to one side, and stick my bundle of stuff up there next to the light fixture. Then I pull the tile back in place. Before I leave the washroom, I look into the mirror above the sinks. I have to make sure I don’t look like I feel. Because I feel the way I am—which is totally naked. And I hope that at least for the next little while, I really do stay invisible. Leaving