How to Disappear Page 2

  Not sure.

  We monitor the situation for a few more minutes. The guy is cute, she says, and possibly flirting. The girls are cute, too. Also possibly flirting. I advise her to slide lower in her seat so they can’t see her, but mostly so I can have her to myself.

  I keep her texting as long as I can, until I am off the bus and in my house and sitting at the kitchen counter, drinking the fruit smoothie my mother made for me. Finally, Jenna texts that she has to go. I reply with a sad-face emoji. She sends a kissy-heart-winky face. I unicorn-birthday-cake-thumbs-up her back. It’s silly, but we’ve been doing it since we got our first phones when we were twelve. She ends as we always do, with the yin-yang symbol. And in that moment, all is right with my world. It’s as if she’s there next to my balance beam again, holding my hand to make sure I don’t fall.

  2

  I WAKE UP THE NEXT morning to a cheesy, two-thumbs-up grin on Jenna’s Instagram, which I take as a personal pep talk. She tagged it #sayhi #beawesome #yougotthis. I click the little heart icon (first like!) and head to the kitchen for breakfast. Mom has left a plate of fresh croissants. It’s Wednesday, her early morning workout day. My father doesn’t leave for his office for another hour, so he shuffles out to join me.

  He pours us both a cup of coffee and sits next to me and we eat and drink in silence. He never forces me to chat, and doesn’t even notice what I’m wearing. Today’s brown hooded sweatshirt with the pocket in front does not inspire a mention of the marsupial exhibit at the zoo, like it did with Mom the last time I wore it. If he thinks I resemble a kangaroo, he doesn’t let on.

  I like Wednesdays.

  My father’s calm stays with me on the bus and all the way to my locker. I’m feeling pretty good, having managed to avoid both Hallie and Adrian in the hall, but the bottom drops out of my stomach when I walk into world history. There’s a substitute teacher, which means an attendance roll call. Add it to the Terror List. Even if it only requires me to bark out a single word, I can never decide whether it should be “here!” or “present!”

  I’m pondering that decision when I notice the guy seated next to me sort of leaning toward my desk. I’m pretty sure he’s the one who knocked into Adrian yesterday, causing the whole drumstick incident. His name is Lipton Gregory. I’ve heard him explaining that it’s a family name on his mother’s side, not related to the tea company. But kids still call him “Tea Bag” sometimes.

  Lipton clears his throat, and I turn my face a teensy bit more in his direction without establishing eye contact.

  “Frankenstein,” he says.

  “Excuse me?” I shoot him a quick glance, then eyes to the floor.

  “What you said to Adrian in the hall yesterday. ‘Go forth and prosper.’” He taps his pencil. “It’s from Frankenstein, not Star Trek.”

  I blush, absolutely mortified that someone was listening to my babbling enough to quote it back to me. And remembered to do so a whole day later.

  “Right,” I say. “Frankenstein. Mary Shelley.” Can’t speak. In complete. Sentences. Apparently.

  “It’s from the introduction, right?” He swipes the screen of his cell phone and reads from it: “‘I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper.’ She was talking about her book.”

  “Right,” I say again.

  “Not Spock.” Lipton beams at me, nodding. “Mary Shelley.”

  And that’s when I realize the sub is shouting my name, which I must’ve missed the first time he called for me at a more reasonable volume. “Decker! Vicky Decker!”

  I can’t remember if I was going to say “here” or “present” so I shout the first word that pops into my head, which is “Frankenstein!”

  The class erupts in laughter as I turn every shade of beet and quickly correct myself: “Here! Present!”

  The laughter continues when Jeremy Everling’s name is called, and he shouts “Dracula!” Then Brandon Fischer says “Werewolf!” and Ellie Good squeals “Mummy!” and so on, though Lipton Gregory very politely says, “Present.”

  It’s not on my list—being laughed at—because that one goes without saying. The being-laughed-at is what makes all the rest of it so terrifying. I let my hair fall around my face and sink into a puddle behind my notebook.

  The sub hushes everyone, but cannot silence the roar in my ears. It’s grown louder and more frequent since Jenna left two months ago, like an army of zombie vacuum cleaners that will not die. I open my book and pretend to read the assignment Mr. Braxley left for us, but I can’t focus. A small, folded square of paper appears in front of me. I don’t look up to see where it came from. It’s a joke, no doubt. A picture of Frankenstein. Neck bolts and all. I should brush it to the floor, or slide it to the back of my book.

  I’m not exactly sure how long I’ve been staring at it when I hear Lipton clear his throat. I glance over and he darts his eyes at the square of paper and back at me.

  Oh.

  I unfold it. There are two words scrawled inside.

  I’m sorry.

  I hold the note in my hand for the rest of the class and try to clear my mind of any strange words I might inadvertently blurt out if asked another question. All I can think is, if Jenna had been here, she would’ve answered for me. She would’ve heard the sub calling my name and said, “She’s here!” And Frankenstein would never have happened.

  I should’ve said “that’s okay” or at least smiled at Lipton when he passed me the note of apology, but I don’t think of it until later when I’m sitting on my book-on-the-toilet-seat in the bathroom eating a sandwich. Which is gross, I know, but the cafeteria and I are presently estranged and there’s nowhere else to go. I spent second period in here, and then decided I might as well stay through until lunch. The girl in the red Converse high-tops comes in and I scoot my backpack in front of my feet so she won’t recognize my shoes and think I live here. Even if I kind of do.

  After three hours, my butt hurts and I’m starting to feel claustrophobic. The idea of staying in this stall any longer is getting worse than the prospect of leaving, so I gather my things at the next bell and make my way to fifth-period English. We’re reading 1984 together so it’s quiet and nobody looks at me, not even Hallie Bryce, who sits two seats up and one seat over. She holds her book at eye level rather than hunching over it like everyone else. A couple of girls behind her to the right are imitating her, sitting all prim with their books in the air and giggling, until Mrs. Day scowls at them.

  Hallie doesn’t seem to notice or care. She just keeps reading with her impeccable posture. I guess when you’re that perfect, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.

  About five minutes before class is over the door opens and one of the students who helps in the office delivers a yellow slip to our teacher and scurries out.

  “Vicky Decker?” Mrs. Day’s eyes drift around the room. She looks right past me, which is exactly what I hope for in most situations. Except now it just means everyone else has to turn and point me out to her. They’re like a synchronized swimming team featuring me at the middle of their formation.

  “Vicky?” Mrs. Day waves the yellow slip at me. “For you.”

  Add it to the list: getting a yellow slip. So embarrassing. I slide out of my desk and walk to the front, my face burning. Back at my seat, I read the slip, which is from Mrs. Greene, the school psychologist. It’s an appointment for tomorrow at nine fifteen. Right in the middle of first period.

  Yippee.

  I make it through last period and practically fall onto the bus, where I text Jenna the whole agonizing story of my day.

  She doesn’t text back for a really long time. Longer than usual. I start to worry something’s happened to her. A bus accident. Or worse, the kids in the back she’s been telling me about have messed with her. Stolen her phone, maybe. Which means . . . ugh. My humiliating texts about Lipton and Frankenstein and my guidance appointment are now being read by . . . someone not Jenna.

  JENNA? You there?

  I’m s
o relieved when the “. . .” appears, I could cry. I stare at the screen, waiting. The bus ride home is almost over and I’m holding my phone in both hands as if squeezing it tighter will make the message come through faster. Finally it is there in a blip and it says . . .

  LOL

  LOL? What does she mean, LOL? I scroll backward, worried I missed something funny. Maybe while I was dumping all the depressing details of my day, she shared something humorous that happened to her? Or maybe . . . did I make a joke I’ve forgotten?

  But no. There’s nothing.

  Someone shoves my shoulder.

  I look up, and crap, we’re at my house. I grab my backpack and scurry up the aisle and down the steps and out the door to the curb. The bus rumbles away. I stand there catching my breath for a minute, then start across the driveway to our front porch, my backpack banging against my leg. Our house is a brick ranch with a gray roof. My mother keeps our shrubbery neatly trimmed at all times, the flower beds mulched and weeded and blooming with seasonally appropriate colors—orange and yellow chrysanthemums at present, perfect fall colors. She fusses over things like that because the house itself is so plain, she always says. Low and unassuming and overshadowed by its fancier two-story neighbors, like Jenna’s old house, which sits across the street diagonally from ours.

  I try not to look at it too much. It seems so empty, even though new people are living there now.

  My phone starts buzzing in my hand. It’s Jenna. I let it ring a few times so it doesn’t seem like I’m waiting for her call, even though I am.

  “Hey.”

  “Vicky. Oh my God.” There’s still a laugh in her voice.

  “It wasn’t funny,” I say. “At all.”

  She snickers. “Actually, it kind of was. Frankenstein? I’m dying.”

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “I’m laughing WITH you,” she insists.

  “Wouldn’t that require me to be laughing? Because I clearly am not.” I pace the driveway. “I made a complete fool of myself, and everyone was laughing at me, and you’re the only one I can talk to about it, and now you’re laughing at me, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jenna says. “I didn’t realize you were so upset.”

  How could she not realize? She usually knows what I’m feeling before I do.

  I drop my backpack on the front porch and sit on the step. “I was worried something happened to you on the bus.”

  “Well . . .” There’s a singsong to her voice. “Remember that guy I told you about?”

  “The one who was looking at you in a bad way, with the two girls?”

  “I said I wasn’t sure if it was bad or good,” she says. “Turns out it was good. They invited me to sit with them. Well, he did. Tristan.”

  “In the back of the bus?”

  “I know, it’s so cliché. Cool kids in the back of the bus. But they are. Totally cool.”

  I force a smile. “Tell me everything,” I say. “So I can live vicuriously through you.”

  She laughs. “You mean vicariously?”

  “Right. Vicariously.” I always mess up that word because it seems like curious should be the root of it, since it comes from being curious about how someone else lives. I should know, since I spend most of my time that way.

  “It’s not that exciting. We rode the bus and they asked me where I was from and stuff like that. I told them all about you.”

  “You did?” My pulse quickens just knowing they were talking about me. “What did you say?”

  “Just how we’ve been friends since kindergarten. How much I miss you. That I can’t tie my shoes without you.” She laughs. “Tristan didn’t believe me so he untied his sneakers and made me show him.”

  “How you can’t tie shoes?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I just rolled the laces into a ball and shoved them into his sock.”

  I laugh, strangely relieved.

  “I’m pretty sure they won’t be inviting me to sit with them again,” she says. “But I have a picture. Bus selfies are a thing out here, apparently.”

  “Ooh, show me.”

  “Okay. I’ll send it as soon as we hang up.”

  We chat a little longer, then say good-bye, and the photo comes through as I’m walking into the kitchen. There’s Jenna smiling like it’s the most exciting moment of her life, surrounded by the faces of Supercuteguy, Supercutegirl, and Supercuteothergirl.

  I should be happy for her. I know I should. She’s meeting people, making friends. I’d have to be a horrible person not to want that for her. But all I can see is how quickly and easily she is moving on without me.

  My mother is in the kitchen at the computer when I walk in. She’s on Facebook, where she spends her free time scrolling through the heaping mounds of evidence that I am not nearly as accomplished or impressive as the children of every single other person she knows.

  She sees me holding my phone and says, “How’s Jenna?”

  “Terrible,” I say, not sure why I decided to blurt this out.

  “Why?” Mom turns from her monitor to face me. “What happened?”

  All of a sudden, my eyes start to water. If I tell her the truth, that Jenna is making new friends and I’ve probably lost the one thing I look forward to every day, which is thirty measly minutes of texting time with my only friend, she’ll pity me more than she already does.

  I clear my throat. “She’s, uh, having a hard time at her new school,” I lie. “The kids on her bus are really mean.”

  Mom’s lips turn down in an exaggerated frown. “Aw, poor Jenna.”

  “Yeah, she’s wishing they never moved.” I sit at the counter and peel a banana.

  Mom studies me like she’s never seen someone eat a banana before. “I know it’s hard,” she finally says. “Maybe a little neighborhood party would help. Invite some classmates’ families over.”

  “Sounds embarrassing.”

  “Oh, it would be fun.”

  My eyes slowly widen as I realize she isn’t talking about Jenna anymore. “Mom. No.”

  “What?”

  “Please tell me you did not invite kids from school to a party.” It hardly bears mentioning that parties are on the Terror List.

  “It’s just an idea. We could invite the Everlings. And Roberta DiMarco from work. Her daughter Marissa is a junior at Richardson, isn’t she?”

  Mom turns back to the computer and brings up a full-screen image of Marissa DiMarco and ten other beautiful girls in sexy, short dresses and extremely high heels, standing in a row. The next image shows them paired with their dates for homecoming, boy girl boy girl boy girl boy girl. Then just Marissa and her date, a grinning Adrian Ahn, sans drumsticks. I’ve already envied the photo on Marissa’s Instagram.

  “She seems like such a nice—”

  “Mom.”

  “You don’t like Marissa DiMarco?” My mother’s face is pained, as if failing to be an adoring fan of Marissa DiMarco is making it all the more unbearable that I will never be Marissa DiMarco.

  “I like her just fine,” I say. “But I don’t need you to set up playdates for me. I can make my own friends.”

  She hesitates. Takes a deep breath. “Of course. I know you can.”

  “So, just . . . don’t. Okay?”

  Her eyes get kind of squinty, and she nods slowly.

  “I can make my own friends,” I repeat.

  She keeps nodding, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

  “As a matter of fact,” I say, “I had a lengthy conversation with Adrian Ahn just yesterday. And . . . some kids in my world history class today.”

  An eyebrow shoots up. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  She moves from the computer to the kitchen sink, and starts washing dishes. “Then why not have some of them over? We can put up the badminton net. You kids could get to know each other . . .”

  “Just kill me now.”

  “Oh, please, Vicky. It won’t kill you.” She drops the pan she’s s
crubbing into the soapy water and turns to face me again. “I just want you to get out there and live a little. Is that so bad?”

  There is nothing quite so demoralizing as having your middle-aged mother pause from her Facebooking and dish-washing to suggest that you need to get out more. I glare at her until she looks away, then drag my backpack to my room, lock the door, and flop on my bed.

  I pull out my phone and stare at the bus selfie again, zooming in on Jenna’s face so I can focus on how happy she looks. I try to pretend her smile is for me. But inevitably I swipe to the left and right, to the faces that are the reason for her happiness. New friends, their heads squeezed together, filling the frame. I wouldn’t fit even if I was there. And the supercutes are not to blame for that. I have absolutely no reason to dislike them, but I do. They’re so perfect. So everything that I am not.

  I slump to my desk and plug my phone into the USB port on my computer so I can open the image in Photoshop. Soon it’s filling my whole computer screen.

  I zoom in on the face of Supercutegirl, her flawless skin. And I can’t help myself. I use the pencil tool to give her a ladystache, and then Supercuteothergirl gets a unibrow. Supercuteguy is the recipient of a bad case of acne. I’m just about to go full-on mean girl by making Jenna cross-eyed when my phone buzzes with a text message from her:

  Miss you so much. Wish you were here.

  I sit back in my chair and close my eyes. I feel a pang of guilt, and shame, and a heavy dose of “I suck.” I sigh and text back:

  Me too.

  I quickly delete the ladystache and the unibrow and the zits. They looked realistic, but I vow to henceforth use my Photoshop skills for good and not evil. Which gives me an idea—a way to convince my mother I am not completely hopeless and avoid the embarrassment of a please-be-friends-with-my-daughter party.

  I click open the Photo Booth on my computer and position myself in front of it just as Jenna is positioned in the bus selfie. Then I smile like I’m having the time of my life and snap the photo. It takes a few tries to get it right—looking straight into the lens, smiling but not too much, and with my blank wall in the background instead of my cluttered bookshelves.