How to Disappear Page 3

  Then I carefully drop my own image on top of Jenna’s so she disappears and I take her place. I use the brush tool to blend it in. And it looks . . . like an obvious fake. Too flat. The lighting’s all wrong. In the original photo there’s sunshine from the bus window hitting the side of Jenna’s face. She’s squinting a little bit, and there are shadows.

  I try again. I open my curtains and position objects from my room so they cast dark shapes across my chest and shoulders just like in the photo. Kat keeps trying to crawl on my lap. I throw her on the bed a few times and she finally gets the hint and massages my pillow to death before lying down to sleep.

  By dinnertime, I’ve got a photo of myself with Jenna’s new friends that—if viewed on my small phone screen—should fool my mother. If she doesn’t look too close. Or zoom in too much.

  “Here,” I say, placing the phone on the kitchen counter as I start setting the table.

  She lifts it to her face, and her eyes widen. “Who’s this?”

  “Some new kids on my bus,” I say, taking my phone back before she can inspect it further.

  Mom tries to get another look. I flash it at her again.

  “Was that today?” She glances down at my sweatshirt. Same as in the photo.

  “Yeah. One of them just emailed it to me.”

  “Well,” she says. “They look very nice.”

  My dad walks in from work then, and asks who looks very nice.

  “Nobody,” I say.

  He doesn’t press me for answers like my mother usually does, just shrugs and smiles. We sit down to eat, and it’s the best time I’ve had all day. Mom doesn’t think I’m a complete loser for once, and Dad’s just happy that Mom’s happy.

  Even though I know the picture’s a fake, seeing myself surrounded by new friends like that? It feels good.

  3

  THE ALARM ON MY PHONE buzzes and I grope around on my nightstand to swipe it off. I check Instagram when I wake up, even before I turn on my light, to see what manner of selfie Jenna posted the night before.

  She used to send me a close-up selfie as soon as she woke up—squinting out of one eye, or yawning, or making some hilarious face. Now she posts them on Instagram before she goes to bed so I can see them in the morning. I don’t have an account in my own name so I log on as katthecurriouscat, aka Kat.

  But today, it’s not one of her usual goofy faces. It’s a sexy face.

  Dewy lips. Smoky eyes. Loose tendrils of hair perfectly framing her face. This selfie is clearly not for me.

  I type “What the . . . ?” in the comment window, then delete it and click the heart instead. I am not the first like. The first like is from tristanistanagram, who I assume is “Tristan from the Bus.” I click over to his page but it’s private, and there’s no way I’m going to request to follow. So, I go back to Jenna’s post and try to convince myself it’s not meant to be a sexy photo. That she was trying some new makeup and hairstyle she wanted me to see, or was running out of facial expressions so felt the need to try “pouty” or something. I even scroll back over her previous posts to confirm the absence of pouty faces and thus explain the need for one.

  That’s when I notice something else that’s missing, which is all of the goofiest selfies she ever posted. I sit bolt upright in bed, heart thumping, swiping my finger frantically up and down. Where’s her zombie face? The pig-nose, eyes-rolled-back face? The just-ate-a-blue-lollipop, tongue-wagging face? The ones that made me LOL, I mean really laugh out loud, are gone.

  Because she didn’t want Tristan or her new friends to see them?

  I write “WTH” in the comment window again and again and again so it’s a big, long stream of WTHs.

  And delete it.

  I thought I was losing her yesterday, but when she texted that she missed me I convinced myself it was all my imagination, that we were as solid as ever. Now I’m not so sure.

  I get dressed and brush my hair and wash my face and eat three bites of the omelet my mother makes and say “good morning” and “fine” and “bye” and board the bus and go to school.

  I try again to convince myself I’m not losing my best friend, mostly because I don’t know if I can handle it. The photos she deleted were pretty embarrassing, after all. I’d be mortified if anyone saw me making those faces. I never would’ve posted them in the first place, so I’m kind of a hypocrite to be mad at her for taking them down.

  I decide it’s okay. It’s fine. Move along. Nothing to see here.

  I hurry to get to world history before Dracula or the werewolf arrive. I don’t even stop at my locker. When I slide into my seat, Lipton is there already having a hushed conversation with Adam Shenkman, who sits in front of him. It thankfully does not involve Frankenstein.

  “We need to isolate our stuff,” says Lipton. “Go into the wild.”

  Adam huddles low and does shifty eyes. “Set a warp?”

  “Yeah. And whatever you do, don’t let that jerk into our faction again. I can’t believe he griefed our base.”

  “Sorry, dude. I thought he was cool, I didn’t . . .” Adam stops talking suddenly and nods toward me.

  “Don’t worry. She’s cool,” says Lipton. Then he winks at me.

  I swear I glanced over at them for maybe a second and now they think I was eavesdropping. Worse, I’ve been approved to share in their secrets via wink.

  “I, uh . . . wasn’t . . .” I shake my head. Why am I talking? I’m causing unnecessary sweating here. But words keep coming out. “I have no idea what you were even talking about.”

  “Minecraft,” says Lipton. “You play?”

  I shake my head again.

  Lipton looks genuinely disappointed. “It’s not just for little kids, you know.”

  “I didn’t think that,” I mumble.

  “Good.” He smiles. “It’s really complex, and the multiplayer servers—”

  “Dude.” Adam bulges his eyes at Lipton, then stage whispers, “She’s not interested.”

  Lipton glances at me, blushing. “Oh. Sorry. Never mind.”

  I resume my face-forward-eyes-down stance as our regular teacher, Mr. Braxley, calls the class to order. Jeremy Everling (aka Dracula), of the Everling family my mother is so keen to invite to our house for badminton, raises his hand. “Aren’t you going to take attendance?”

  He darts a glance at me and snickers.

  Braxley ignores him and carries on. Class is going fine—status quo, just the way I like it, until twenty minutes before the end. That’s when Mr. Braxley starts clapping to get our attention, since half the class has dozed off.

  “Time to choose topics for your group projects!” he declares.

  I groan inwardly while the rest of the class groans aloud.

  “Up to four students per group. You may choose your own group, but choose wisely,” he continues.

  I cling to the words “up to” in hopes that I can do the project alone, in my own group of one. Everybody else is scrambling to claim their friends and avoid being the fifth wheel. I’m just trying to hold my lunch down as Mr. Braxley reads off a list of cheerful topics like Attila the Hun and the Black Death.

  “Okay, I’m going to say them again.” Mr. Braxley peers at us over the top of his reading glasses. “Raise your hand if you want the topic, and you can form a group with the others who want that topic, too.”

  My heart rate has doubled at this point, and I can feel the sweat circles forming. I’ll just wait and see if there’s a topic left over. The smartest kids in the class are suddenly very popular, as everyone wants them to do all the work for their group. Nobody’s particularly excited about any of the topics. They sort of look to their friends every time one is named, and half-heartedly raise their hands.

  Except Lipton. He nearly leaps out of his seat to claim the Battle of Thermopylae as his topic. Adam shrugs and raises his hand, too. Mr. Braxley looks around to see if anyone else wants it.

  Lipton smiles at me.

  I quickly look down, and Mr. Braxle
y moves on.

  Lipton has a very nice smile, I realize. His teeth are straight and exceptionally white and there’s a little gap between the front two. I should’ve joined his group because now I’m going to be the only one without a group and Mr. Braxley will probably make a big deal about who needs help and it’ll be worse than if I just raised my stupid hand for the Battle of Thermopylae.

  He calls out three more topics, which get taken amid nudges and hand-raising, and it’s finally down to the Siege of Jerusalem. Nobody claims it because there’s nobody left but me. Mr. Braxley looks up from his list and says, “Vicky Decker?”

  He obviously has no idea who I am, even six weeks into the school year. But he at least recognizes me as the only person who hasn’t raised a hand. He lifts his eyebrows and I give a quick nod, then he writes down my name and starts telling us what we need to do for the project.

  I practically go limp with relief that he didn’t force anyone to join me or take me onto their team, even though it means I have to do the entire project by myself. I’m getting used to that.

  There are still a few minutes of class left, and everyone is chattering with their group members when the intercom starts crackling. A voice is trying to be heard over the noise. “Mr. Braxley? Mr. Braxley?”

  In the few seconds it takes him to answer, my stomach lurches into my throat and back down to my feet again, because I suddenly know exactly what this is about. It’s almost nine thirty.

  My guidance appointment was at nine fifteen.

  “Could you please send Vicky Decker to the guidance office?” the voice on the intercom says.

  Mr. Braxley answers in the affirmative, and then he and every single other person in the room stare at me. I don’t move. I really want to. There is nothing I want more than to be gone from this room, but I am momentarily “deer in headlights” frozen.

  Finally, after what seems like hours, Jeremy Everling breaks the silence. “Frankie, you going?”

  For a second I think he meant to say “Vicky” but forgot my name, but then everyone’s snickering and I realize it’s short for Frankenstein.

  I really can’t move now.

  Lipton reaches over from his desk and touches my arm and whispers, “Vicky. They called you to the guidance office.”

  I glance at him, at his kind eyes and his badly cut bangs, which remind me a little bit of Jenna’s that first time we met. I hadn’t noticed before. And that somehow releases me from my paralysis. I nod at Lipton and begin gathering my things and everyone goes back to talking to one another. I walk to the end of my aisle and around the side and escape out the door.

  “You’ve been missing some classes lately,” says Mrs. Greene. She sits at a desk, but swivels to face toward the room, which is furnished with comfy chairs, twinkly lights, and scented candles. She wears her hair in neat, shoulder-length dreadlocks, a patterned scarf wound around her neck. “I just wanted to check in with you and make sure everything’s okay.”

  “Okay.”

  “Everything’s okay?”

  “Yes, fine.” I try to make my voice calm and unshaky, but my knee keeps bobbing up and down. I force it to stop with the palm of my hand.

  “And the missed classes?” She opens a folder in front of her. “Two last week, one Monday, and three yesterday.”

  “I, um, I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Did you go to the nurse?” She searches the folder for nonexistent excuse slips from the nurse.

  “No, just the bathroom.”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Greene closes the folder and looks at me, a warmth in her eyes. “You know, if something’s troubling you—”

  “Everything’s fine.” My knee is jackhammering again. I lift my backpack from the floor and set it on my lap to weigh my leg down. “I’m fine.”

  She inhales deeply. “How about the next time you feel like skipping a class, you come see me instead. Okay?”

  It’s way better in here than the girls’ bathroom. But she’ll want to talk about what’s wrong with me. Or call a parent-teacher meeting. They do that sometimes. Gather all your teachers and your parents and the counselor and go around the room describing what you’re doing wrong and how you can do better. I overheard a kid talking about it once, how it was like an ambush and he just told them whatever they wanted to hear so he could make it stop.

  The zombie vacuum cleaners are starting to roar in my head again, and I feel dizzy.

  “Hey.” Suddenly Mrs. Greene’s hand is resting on my arm. I didn’t even notice she moved from her desk to sit in the chair next to mine. “Vicky. Breathe,” she says. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. It’s completely voluntary, and confidential. You don’t even have to talk.”

  I nod and take a few deep breaths. “Okay. I’ll do that.” No, I won’t.

  She seems satisfied and moves back to her desk to pull some papers from her file drawer. “I thought you might also like to consider joining a club or activity.” She hands a few stapled pages to me. “It’s not a requirement, but I’d like to get you into at least one extracurricular. It will be good for your college applications, which we need to start thinking about.”

  I scan the list. Book Club. Chinese Club. Drama Club. Feminist Club. BPA, EAC, AFS, OTM. So many impossibilities. I had no idea.

  “Anything of interest?” she says.

  “Not really.” I pass the list back to her.

  She scans it herself. “Math league?”

  I shake my head.

  “Handbell choir?”

  I shake my head harder.

  “Why don’t you tell me what does interest you, and maybe I can suggest a match.” She sits on her desk corner.

  I rest my eyes on Mrs. Greene’s hands, which are clasped in front of her. She leans forward, her whole body urging me to speak. “What do you like to do in your free time?” she prompts.

  I can’t tell her what I did in my free time last night, Photoshopping myself into Jenna’s new friendships. And I can’t tell her how I spend most other nights, lurking on the social media pages of kids at school who have the kind of life my mother wants for me. It makes me sound like a weirdo stalker.

  Which I guess I am.

  “I spend a lot of time on my computer,” I finally say.

  She flips through the stapled pages. “How about Computer Programming Club? Wait, no.” She frowns. “They’ve disbanded. Let’s see.”

  I watch as her eyes scroll down the page, and flip to the next one. And the next. There are a lot of activities at our school, and even she can see that I’m not suited for any of them.

  “Gaming?” Her eyes light up.

  I shake my head. I don’t game. “I taught myself how to use Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop,” I offer.

  She gives an approving nod, like we’re finally onto something, and flips to the last page of her activity booklet. “The yearbook staff is always looking for help,” she says. “Editing photos, doing page layouts . . . does that sound of interest?”

  “I don’t know.” The thought of joining an already-formed group is making me want to vomit.

  “How about this,” says Mrs. Greene. “Try it out. I’ll let the editor know you’re joining, that you’re interested in photography.”

  “But not taking photos. I can’t take photos.” I also can’t hide the panic that’s crept into my voice.

  Mrs. Greene makes a calming gesture with her hands. “Okay, no problem. Photo editing and layout, then. Sound good?”

  I nod miserably. “Who’s the editor?”

  “Marissa DiMarco. You’ll like her.”

  I nod. Of course I will. Marissa is perfect. I’ll be sharing the same space, breathing the same air. Practically best friends! At least, that’s how my mother will look at it. She’ll be fantasizing me into those homecoming pictures in no time. If I tell her, that is. Which I won’t.

  I force a smile for Mrs. Greene. “Can’t wait.”

  Jenna? Are you there?

  Hello?

 
I guess you’re with your new friends. Out with the old, in with the new, right?

  Kidding.

  Seriously, I’m kidding. Need to talk to you.

  Okay, you’re not there I guess. Call me later?

  Jenna?

  Mom’s making her signature smoothie in the Cuisinart when I walk into the kitchen, and doesn’t notice me sitting there until she turns it off.

  “Oh! You scared me.”

  “Sorry.” I watch her pour the frozen-mango-banana-kale-yogurt concoction into a glass. It’s thick like soft ice cream, so she hands me a spoon.

  “How was school? Anything interesting happen today?”

  “Not really.” I scoop a spoonful of smoothie into my mouth, then pull my phone out to see if Jenna replied to my texts, but her side of the conversation is still blank.

  “How’s Jenna?”

  “That wasn’t Jenna.”

  Mom’s eyebrows shoot off the top of her head. “New friend?”

  “Hallie Bryce,” I say, surprising myself as much as my mother. Lies beget lies, apparently, and this one fell off my tongue before I even knew it was there. “We’re doing a project together. For world history class. The Siege of Jerusalem.”

  “She’s the dancer, right? The ballerina?”

  I nod.

  Mom beams. “Such a lovely girl. It’s so nice you’ll have a chance to get to know each other. Maybe you can—”

  “Mom.” I stop her before she starts fantasizing that Hallie will become my new best friend. “It’s just a project. We’ll probably do the whole thing online.”

  “Oh. Well. Anyway. It’s nice.” She’s not grinning quite so exuberantly now, but there’s a twinkle in her eye. She’s happy to see me interacting with someone. Anyone. I guess that’s why I made it up in the first place.

  I take my smoothie with me through the dining room and living room and all the way down the hall to my bedroom, which is as far as you can get from the kitchen and still be in the house. I close my door, drop my backpack, pet Kat for a minute, and sit at my computer. I’ve got a dozen or so bookmarked pages I like to visit, some favorite YouTubers like Zoella and Rhyming Rhea, and assorted Instagrams. Some are random interesting people I stumbled across and just like their photos, and others are classmates with whom I have developed a probably unhealthy obsession.