How to Disappear Read online

  I laugh at myself and continue to watch my feed as the comments come in and new followers show up. I click on the #vicurious tag every now and then to see new posts, and when I like them, people get all “OMG THANK YOU,” and “vicurious just liked my photo I can die happy now.”

  I posted one picture with the Foo Fighters and now it’s like they’re carrying me around on their shoulders.

  The last time something like this happened—on my post with Neil deGrasse Tyson—I backed away from it. The attention kind of scared me. This time, I decide to see how far it can go. I take a bunch of photos of myself lying on the floor—arms and legs outstretched at various angles. I find a more recent concert picture online of some shirtless guy crowd surfing atop a Foo Fighters audience that’s going totally bonkers. You can see the band onstage, hair and sweat flying. It’s perfect.

  I do a little precision Photoshopping to put myself in place of the shirtless guy in the photo. The volume of my skirt and sticking-outedness of my wig help hide the gaps between our different-shaped silhouettes. I use the airbrush tool to feather around the hard edges of my shape so they blend into the picture.

  Satisfied with the results, I post the new image. I write:

  Feeling the love, Foo fans! #foofighters #vicurious

  I lie back in bed, raising my phone to my face every few minutes to see how many likes the post is getting. Foo fans are all over it. Someone comments:

  I was there! For realz!

  Others chime in:

  Me too!

  And maybe I shouldn’t feel like I was really there, but I do. I turn the music up even louder and close my eyes, and I can feel their hands holding me up. After a while, my purple-and-orange wig is no longer a wig, but real hair. Strands of it stick to my sweaty face and neck. I can see Dave Grohl thrashing around onstage, and feel the pounding of the bass from the speakers.

  Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

  “Vicky!”

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

  “Wake up!”

  I lift my head, disoriented. I must’ve fallen half-asleep because it takes a moment of looking around my room to realize I’m not at the concert. I swing my feet to the floor and reach to turn down the volume on my speakers.

  “Vicky! For Christ’s sake, answer me!” It’s Mom. She’s pounding on the door.

  “I’m up! I’m awake.” I stumble from my bed to the door and fling it open, panting.

  My mother reels backward when she sees me. “What the—”

  I look down at myself. Reach a hand to my hair.

  Oh, no. I forgot I was dressed as Vicurious.

  “Mom, I—”

  “What have you done to your new skirt?”

  “I, uh . . . was just—”

  “You’ve ruined it.”

  I’m too panicked to form words, to make something up that explains my current state of bizarre.

  “Now what will you wear to the party?” Mom’s eyes jump to my hair. “Please tell me that’s a wig.”

  I tear the wig off, exposing my panty hose head wrap with all my hair shoved inside. I peel that off, too, mind racing for an explanation as my real hair spills out around my face. “It’s . . . I was . . . it’s for Halloween,” I stammer. “For a party. Marvo’s. It’s a punk rock theme. I was just trying to put together something . . .”

  She sighs. “It’s great that you’re getting invited to parties. But did you have to ruin a perfectly good skirt? Couldn’t you have cut up your thrift store clothes instead?”

  I drop my gaze to the shredded neon that hangs from my waist. I feel like a little girl caught dressing up in her mother’s clothes and playing with her makeup.

  “Well, it’s . . . cute, I guess. For a punk rock party,” says Mom.

  “Thanks.”

  She reaches for the colored wig in my hand. Inspects it. “Thrift?”

  I nod.

  “And you’re actually going to wear this in public?”

  I shrug. Of course I’m not, and she knows it.

  “Are you sure everything is okay? This is a little . . . odd, even for you.” She hands me the wig.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  I shuffle back into my room and sink to my bed again. Half my brain is still with Vicurious. The rest wants to go back there. It’s scary how quickly I immersed myself in the fantasy. It felt like a dream, crowd surfing at the Foo Fighters concert, but it didn’t disappear the way dreams normally do. It’s like there’s a muscle memory of it. The sensation of my body floating on a sea of hands—I can feel where they touched me. It made me feel powerful.

  As Vicurious, I’m invincible. As Vicky?

  Invisible.

  I lie in bed with my phone and open Instagram again. Instead of seeking the energy of Foo Fighters fans, though, I find my way to those who feel #invisible, too.

  They’re right where I left them. All #ignored and #lonely and hoping someone will #talktome #donttalktome #seeme #dontseeme. I start leaving comments again.

  I see you.

  You are not invisible.

  Are you okay?

  They send me smiles and thanks. They ask if I’m okay, too. And I don’t know how to answer. Vicurious is fine. She’s great. And she’s who they came for, who makes them feel special.

  But me? I’m not so fine. I don’t say anything, though, because I’m afraid they won’t want her attention if they know she is someone like me.

  13

  BY FOUR O’CLOCK ON SATURDAY afternoon my followers have grown to 8,523, and I should be excited about that, but mostly I’m just trying not to throw up. The mere thought of knocking on Marissa DiMarco’s door or walking into a house full of people—her people—is making me ill.

  I’m not going. There’s no way.

  I kept meaning to tell my mother, but she was so excited about it. I didn’t want to get her upset or angry. And now it’s time to go. The party started a few minutes ago and the designated hour of leaving (so as to arrive fashionably late but not too late) is upon us. Mom is waiting for me in the living room and I am standing in front of my full-length mirror in the least party-going clothes imaginable. Baggy sweater, loose jeans, slightly scuffed shoes. The usual.

  “You ready?” she calls down the hall.

  I take a deep breath and open my door. I’ve already imagined the conversation. She’ll take one look at me and say “You can’t go to the party like that” and I’ll say “Okay, I guess I’m not going” and she’ll say “Change your clothes” and I’ll return to my room and lie on my bed until she figures out I’m not changing my clothes, that I’m not going to the party. She’ll be disappointed in me. But there will be no point in arguing because by that time, the party will already be half over.

  Except when I step into the living room, all she says is, “Great, let’s go.” She picks up the keys and walks out to the driveway.

  “Did you see what I’m wearing?” I ask, following her to the car. “I can’t go to the party.”

  “Yes, you can, Vicky. You’re going to this party.”

  “I can’t.”

  Her face softens. “Look, sweetie. I understand it’s been hard since Jenna left, and I blame myself for letting you become so dependent on her. But you can’t hide in your room forever. There are people other than Jenna who I’m sure would love to be your friend. You just need to give yourself the opportunity to meet them. It’s only going to get harder the longer you wait.”

  I swallow. “I’m not going.”

  She slumps against the car door. I wait for her to double down on her position, give me an ultimatum or something. But she doesn’t. She just sighs.

  “Let’s get some pizza, then,” she says, forcing a smile.

  “All right.” I pour myself into the car, my body limp with relief that she didn’t turn that into more of an ordeal. It’s not like her to give up so easily.

  We back out of the driveway and I turn on the radio. Mom taps the steering wheel and hums along.

  After we’re driving for
a couple of minutes, I notice we’re not headed in the direction of our favorite pizza shop. “Aren’t we going to Pietro’s?”

  “I thought we’d try something new,” she says.

  We drive some more, and not toward any shopping center I can think of. “Where is it?”

  “Not much farther.”

  I start sweating, my body sensing the danger before my brain fully realizes what’s happening, that we are not driving toward any pizza place. We are driving into Marissa DiMarco’s neighborhood.

  “Mom. What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking you to the party,” she says.

  I clutch the edge of my seat, fingernails digging into the fabric. A wave of nausea hits. I try to focus on the horizon, like it’s just a little motion sickness and not my mother trying to throw me to the sharks.

  “You have to face your fears, Vicky,” she says calmly. “That’s the only way to overcome them. Just walk in there and smile and say hello. I know you’re shy, but you can do this. It’s not a big deal.”

  My mother has been telling people I’m “just shy” my entire life, and maybe that excused a lot of my awkward behavior growing up. But I don’t think it explains whatever’s wrong with me now. This isn’t the same as hiding behind her skirt when I was little or being timid around strangers. This is me feeling like I’m going to die if I have to walk into that house. And I don’t understand why she doesn’t see that.

  I inhale a ragged breath. “I’m not doing this, Mom. I can’t.”

  She pulls up in front of the DiMarcos’ house. “Then I guess we’re going to sit here in the car for three hours.”

  “Oh my God.” I start to hyperventilate.

  “Don’t get yourself all worked up,” says Mom.

  Other cars are stopping, too. Kids are getting out; they’re walking past our car and toward the house. I bend over as far as I can so they can’t see me.

  “God, Vicky. It’s just a party.”

  I slowly suck in air, blow it out, suck in air, blow it out. I focus on my breathing, try to block everything else out . . . until Mom shifts the car into gear and tears away from the curb. The blood returns to my head almost immediately. The danger is gone. I wait until she turns the corner before I sit up.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” she says. “The way to overcome fear is to just face it.”

  Mom turns the next corner, and we’re circling the block, heading right back to Marissa’s house.

  “You’re going to this party,” says Mom. “If I have to circle the block all night. This is for your own good. I’m just trying to help.” But she doesn’t realize this is making it all worse. It’s like she’ll do anything not to have to admit there’s something really wrong with me.

  I drop my head between my knees again. My ears fill with the vacuum cleaner roar.

  Mom stops in front of the house. Taps her fingers on the wheel. I duck lower. Gasp for air.

  She pulls away again and rounds the corner. This time I know the danger isn’t over.

  “Please take me home,” I whisper between my knees. “I’m not feeling well.”

  “It’s all in your head.” She continues to the corner and we’re circling the block again.

  I want to shout, “OF COURSE IT’S IN MY HEAD!” I mean, where else would it be? Except it’s not in my head the way my mother means. I’m not imagining things. My heart is, in fact, racing. My skin is sweating, my lungs are gasping, my stomach is twisting. My brain is telling them to do all that, and I’m pretty sure my brain is IN MY HEAD.

  We’re almost around the block again. I have to figure out a way to make this stop because people will start noticing the car that keeps pulling up and leaving without dropping anyone off. They’ll recognize my mother. They’ll know I’m in here.

  I unbuckle my seat belt as we approach the corner.

  “Wait until we—”

  “Just drop me here,” I say.

  She pulls to a stop, and I throw open my door.

  “Vicky—” Mom starts to object, but I’m out. I’m standing on the street. And she’s smiling. “What time should I pick you up?”

  “I’ll get a ride.” I slam the car door and step onto the sidewalk and wait for her to drive away. She hesitates, but there are cars behind her. So she turns and drives off. I wait until she’s turned the corner before I spin on my heel and start walking in the opposite direction.

  It’s a miracle I’m walking at all. I can’t even feel my legs. I search for a place to hide, because my mother is probably circling the block to check on me. The trees that line the street are large. I could plaster myself to the trunk of one and scoot around to the other side when she drives past. That wouldn’t look ridiculous at all.

  I notice a gap in a row of hedges, and before I can think twice about it, I slip through and sink to the grass on the other side. I bring my knees to my chest and pull my mossy-green sweater over them, so I’m as small and hedge-like as possible. I’m afraid to look toward the house to which this hedge belongs, as any movement will only draw attention. So I rest my forehead on my knees, let my hair fall around me, and try to get my breathing under control.

  I think about what my mom said, about facing the fear, but I just don’t know how. I’ve never known. Avoiding things like parties or groups is what I’ve always done and I wouldn’t begin to know how to change that. Especially all by myself, without Jenna to speak for me when I can’t find the words.

  I’m not sure how long I sit here before someone passes on the sidewalk with a tiny little dog that’s sniffing at the hedge. It barks at me, but the owner yanks its leash and says, “Jasmine!”

  The dog makes a whimpering sound and scampers away.

  I exhale.

  Then something furry rubs up against my wrist and I spring backward.

  “Mawrr!” It’s a cat, gray with white markings, now with its back arched and fur fluffed out in fright.

  “Sorry. Sorry,” I whisper, extending my hand for it to sniff.

  The cat slowly un-freaks itself, pacing in front of me, eventually approaching my hand and rubbing against my wrist. God, what I wouldn’t give to be a cat. Nobody thinks it’s weird how skittish they are. Or that they rub their face all over you, or knead their paws into your lap and circle three times before sitting down. Cats are gloriously odd, and people still love them.

  The cat is now rubbing its full body on my legs, practically lying on me. I unhook my sweater from around my knees and sit cross-legged. The cat makes itself right at home in my lap and I pet it until it is purring so loud I’m afraid someone in the house might hear.

  The house.

  I kind of forgot it was there. I glance toward it, scanning the windows to see if anyone’s looking out at me, then lower my gaze to the back patio. There’s a grill, a table with an umbrella, some reclining lawn chairs, and . . . a guy.

  He’s sitting in one of the lawn chairs, reading a book. Maybe if I slink away quietly, he’ll . . . oh, no. He raises his arm, palm facing me like he’s hailing a cab. He slowly rises and starts walking toward me.

  I’m too terrified to run. Also, the cat is now nestled and sleeping in my lap. I focus my gaze on the guy’s feet, and when he’s about halfway across the lawn, I see it.

  His left pant leg is tucked into his sock. A bright blue sock.

  “It is you,” Lipton says as he comes within a few paces of my kneecaps. “I was just sitting there reading, minding my own business, and I looked up and thought, Is that Vicky Decker in my backyard? And it is. It’s you.”

  His face is all incredulous delight. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was just, uh . . . petting this cat. Your cat, I guess?”

  Lipton nods slowly. “Yeah. That’s my cat.” He gestures toward the house behind him. “That’s my house.”

  I keep petting the cat, because I’m not sure what else to do.

  “Are you . . .” Lipton’s eyebrows go all squiggly as he tries to figure out why I’m sitting in his yar
d. “Did you . . . um . . .”

  “I came for the party.” I nod in the direction of Marissa’s house. “But I couldn’t . . . I, you know.” My face contorts and my hands wave around my head in what my screwed-up brain apparently thinks is an acceptable form of communication.

  Remarkably, Lipton seems to understand. “Ah,” he says, nodding. “Parties are not my thing, either. I’d much rather, uh . . . sit on my patio. Read a book. Talk to cat-petting girls who appear in my yard.”

  I smile. “Were you invited?”

  He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Nah.”

  “Would you go if you were?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Probably not.”

  It suddenly occurs to me that I’m having an actual conversation. And not completely sucking at it. He spoke, I spoke, he spoke. I didn’t blurt out anything strange. I should be knocking on wood this very moment, since I obviously just jinxed myself.

  The cat seems to sense it, too, because it stretches, rolls off my lap, and saunters off. It pauses about ten paces away to look over its shoulder at me and lick its paw.

  I brush the fur from my lap. Lipton extends a hand to help me up. And I panic. Because he’s about to touch me and hardly anybody ever touches me and he’s smiling his adorable smile and I’m sweating and what if he can smell me?

  So, instead of taking his hand, as any normal person would, I push myself backward. Into a somersault. A backward somersault. Then spring to my feet. Like a lunatic.

  Lipton steps away, scratching his chin. “That’s, uh, quite a dismount you’ve got there.”

  “Yep! I like to keep myself nimble.” I groan inwardly while brushing off the leaves that are now stuck to my back and hair.

  “You want to come in?” Lipton’s chin scratch moves to a back-of-head scratch, and he doesn’t look all that certain it’s a good idea to invite me into his house. “Play Minecraft, maybe?”

  I blink at him. Playing a video game sounds strangely appealing, even though I don’t know the first thing about Minecraft. But it would also involve going inside his house. Meeting his parents, probably. Maybe a sibling or two. Cue sweat glands.