How to Disappear Read online

  And me nowhere.

  I pull up the East 48 photo. No Jenna. No Jenna’s new friends. This one is mine. I’m sorry I even showed it to her, that she thinks I could ever be that girl, dressed like that. Dancing like that. In that ponytail. It’s so not me, I might as well have purple hair! I take the paintbrush tool and I draw bright purple hair on myself. Then I change the color and add orangey-red streaks. I draw dark glasses on myself. And tattoos. An arm full of bracelets.

  None of it looks real. But it turns me into someone else entirely. Someone fun and confident and unafraid. What would it feel like to be that girl? To make people look at me instead of always hiding?

  I put my computer to sleep and listen to Jenna’s final message.

  “Hey.” The excitement is gone from her voice now. “Are you mad at me or something? I don’t know why you’re not calling back. I hope everything’s okay. So, call me. Vicky?” There’s a fidgety silence at the end, and a sigh, and she hangs up.

  My heart is pounding now, because of what I’m about to do.

  Which is nothing.

  I’m not going to call her, or text. Because that will only make it worse. I won’t be able to talk to her without crying. Or continuing to lie about the concert. I’ll have to tell her the truth, and I really will be pathetic then. I’ll be her loser friend back home who sits alone in her bedroom and Photoshops herself into other people’s lives.

  I’d rather she remember me as that girl dancing at the concert.

  5

  I’M TOTALLY ZONKED OUT AROUND eleven on Saturday morning when Mom comes into my room all cheerful without even knocking. “Oh, you’re still asleep! Sorry. I got you this.”

  I open one eye as she holds up a Forever 21 bag, then pulls out its contents—a black stretchy top and a neon-yellow skirt. I roll over to face the wall and close my eyes, hoping it’s a dream.

  Mom says, “You can wear it to the party!” at which point I’m actually hoping this is a nightmare.

  I flop back over to face her. “I told you, no party.”

  “Not us, silly. Marissa DiMarco. It’s next weekend.” Mom holds the neon skirt up to her waist and looks at it in the mirror. “I ran into her mother at the mall. She thought you might like to go.”

  “What?” I am now fully awake and living the nightmare. “Why would she think that? I’m not even friends with Marissa.”

  “I simply mentioned—”

  “Nooo. Mom, what did you do?”

  “Nothing! She asked how you were doing. All I said was that your best friend Jenna had moved away . . .”

  I pull the covers over my head and start whimpering.

  “. . . And she mentioned the party they were having and maybe you’d like to come.”

  There is only one thing worse than never being invited to anything, and that’s the pity invite. No, wait . . . even worse than the pity invite is the my-mother-made-me-do-it pity invite.

  “You’re killing me. You are literally trying to kill me.”

  “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Mom says quietly. “I just thought—”

  I play dead under the blanket. No movement. Not even breathing.

  My mother sighs. “Well, just think about it.”

  I wait until she leaves my room and shuts the door before throwing the covers off my face and taking a huge, gasping breath. The new clothes are draped over the chair. While it was nice of her to buy me clothes, my mom clearly doesn’t pay attention to what I actually wear. Scratch that—she pays attention, and then buys what she thinks I should wear. I pull both pieces out of the bag. Why would she buy me a skirt? I don’t even wear skirts. And this one? I might as well put a traffic cone around my waist and shout “LOOK AT ME OVER HERE YOOO-HOOO!”

  Having the clothes appear in my room is slightly better than an actual shopping trip. My mother has a tendency to shout my name from across the store, waving garments and offering commentary on which part of my figure they will flatter or hide the best. The only upside is, if I agree to an outfit of her choice, I get to go to the thrift store afterward, which is where I buy most of the clothes I actually wear, like my oversized “boyfriend” sweaters—which are just men’s sweaters—and my lightly scuffed shoes. Mom hates it there. So, she drops me off and I get to shop by myself.

  I crawl out of bed and pull on the skirt and top, and shuffle out to the kitchen to show her.

  “Oh!” She presses her hands together like namaste. “They fit!”

  I twirl around and curtsy. “Now can you take me to the thrift store?”

  “Are you really going to wear it?”

  Of course I’m not—I look like a giant bumblebee—but I at least have to pretend it’s a possibility. “Maybe with a sweater?”

  She sighs. “Fine. I’ll drop you on my way to the grocery store.”

  I eat breakfast and change into my usual clothes. The neon-yellow-and-black ensemble gets shoved in its bag and tucked into my closet, never to be seen again. Just as we’re getting in the car, a text from Jenna lights up my phone.

  Need to talk to you.

  I fight the urge to text her back. To believe that she actually needs me. Because I know that’s not true. She’s just used to me being there when nobody else is. Which, ironically, is part of the reason she finds me pathetic. You can’t have it both ways, Jenna. I tuck my phone back into my pocket.

  “Everything okay with Jenna?”

  “Great.” I don’t want to attribute too much crap to Jenna, or my mom might call her mom to see if everything’s okay. Our moms were never that close because Mrs. Tanner always had a really stressful job and now she’s CEO of a company in Wisconsin. I don’t think my mom has even spoken to her since they left, and that’s how I’d like to keep it.

  We pull up to the thrift store, which is an enormous warehouse with a floor-to-ceiling glass storefront where mannequins are displayed, dressed for weddings and business meetings. I always get the urge to sneak into the display and spice them up a bit, with crazy hats and jewelry and glasses and scarves—all the things I would never be brave enough to wear myself.

  “I’ll pick you up in an hour,” says Mom. “Unless you want my help.”

  “That’s okay.” I quickly scramble out of the car and head inside. It’s better this way, without her cringing at everything I choose. I bypass the women’s clothes and head straight for the men’s size-large sweaters that offer the most coverage in the least puke-worthy colors. No lilac. No coral.

  Boyfriend sweaters are always in style. Right? Hallie Bryce wears them sometimes with just leggings and ballet flats. And her amazing legs, of course.

  I find a gray cardigan I can at least pretend I might wear with the neon outfit. It hangs down almost as far as the skirt does. And, oooh, cashmere. Score!

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see another text from Jenna.

  Never mind.

  She “needed” me for, like, ten minutes? I jam the phone back in my pocket and return to the rack, choosing two more sweaters—a navy-blue crewneck and another in olive green. I hug the three sweaters on their hangers to my chest and start for the checkout. Altogether, they’ll cost me less than fifteen dollars. I’m tempted to text Jenna because she loves oversized sweaters, too. She’d definitely be jealous of the gray cashmere. But, never mind.

  My phone buzzes again and I don’t want to look at it. I tell myself, Don’t even think about looking at it. So, of course, I look at it.

  Wanted your opinion on this outfit.

  There’s another “. . .” bubble beneath it so I wait, staring at the phone. Jenna knows I’m the wrong person to ask about clothes, especially if she wants to look cute. I’m pretty sure that’s not really why she texted me. The next comment comes through:

  Jossie and Tiff picked it out.

  I stare at the cute names of the girls who have replaced me in Jenna’s life. Then a photo comes through, featuring Jenna with Supercutegirl and Supercuteothergirl, aka Jossie and Tiff. Seei
ng her with them feels like sandpaper on a brush burn. They are posing like a trio of sexy anime warriors. But what really gets me is what they’re wearing—which is pretty much the same outfit my mom just bought me: Black tops (all slightly different), and neon skirts. Jenna’s is bright pink. Supercutegirl’s is neon yellow, and Supercuteothergirl’s is electric blue. They’ve also got clunky platform sandals on, with black-and-white patterned socks.

  I barely recognize her. Especially when she texts:

  Tristan loves it, so I’m all good.

  Jenna never used to care what boys thought of her clothes. She’d be more likely to wear something the guys would not consider hot on purpose. And the matchy-matchy with friends? She used to roll her eyes when girls came to school like that. She’d say, “Can they not dress themselves?”

  It’s like she’s transformed herself into an entirely different person.

  I shove the phone in my back pocket and stumble through the shoe selection, not even wanting shoes. But there’s a clunky pair of black platform sandals similar to the ones Jenna and her new friends are wearing, and they call out to me. It’s as if they’re teasing me, taunting: You can’t wear these! You’re not cool enough! I hook my finger through the straps and carry them toward the register.

  The checkout line goes past a special display of items for Halloween. It’s mostly kids’ stuff—giant footed pajamas that look like lions or bears or dragons. But there are wigs, too. All colors. They start calling to me, too.

  I pick up purple and orange ones, kind of nestle them together atop each other. It looks like the Photoshop hair I drew on myself in the East 48 picture.

  A sign on the Halloween table reads “Everything $3.” I take the wigs. A plastic bin offers sunglasses for $1.50 each. I sift through them and pluck a pair of cat-eye-shaped lenses with thick white rims, and a pair of those X-ray-vision glasses with the red-and-white swirly eyes. I snatch up three more pairs, plus a fistful of bracelets from a huge bowl that says they’re twenty-five cents each. My arms are loaded to the point where I can’t carry any more.

  I’m nervous taking my haul up to the counter, because I’m always nervous at checkout counters. Sometimes the clerks are chatty, and I don’t want to explain why I’m buying chunky sandals, two colorful wigs, five pairs of crazy sunglasses, and a dozen bracelets in addition to my usual boring sweaters. I’m not entirely sure myself, except that I’m tired of being me. I want to be someone else and I’m not sure living vicariously—or vicuriously—is going to cut it anymore.

  The clerk barely acknowledges my presence, so I needn’t have worried. She simply rings up my total, shoves everything in a bag, collects my money, and says, “Next.”

  I sit on a bench outside to wait for Mom, and carefully arrange my $43.75 worth of purchases so the weirdness is hidden beneath the sweaters.

  Kind of like what I do every single day of my life.

  When we get home, I run up to my room, shoo Kat out, and lock the door. I gather my hair into a blob and try to cram it all inside the purple wig, but it’s sticking out everywhere and looks like I have a massive growth on top of my head. I rummage in my sock drawer for a pair of panty hose I’ve never worn, and cut off part of one leg to fashion a skullcap. Once I’ve got my hair all smoothed and tucked inside, I try to put both wigs on at once—orange first, then purple on top. They look ridiculous, like a furry double-decker ice cream cone.

  I take them off and study the colorful blobs of hair until I figure out how to make them look the way I’m imagining them in my mind. Then I get to work, carefully cutting strips from the orange wig and gluing them to the scalp of the purple one, like extensions. After a while it starts to look like the hair I drew on my picture in Photoshop, except now with real (fake) hair.

  I’m so engrossed in my creation that I barely register my mom calling me for dinner. I attach a last strip of orange hair to the purple wig and carefully stash it in my closet, resting atop a boot so the glue can dry without all the hair getting matted together.

  Dad walks in the front door as I come down the hall from my room.

  “Hi, sweetheart.” He looks tired.

  “Hey, Dad.” We walk into the kitchen and sit down as Mom puts out the food.

  “Good day?” he says, scooping mashed potatoes onto his plate and passing the bowl to me.

  “It was okay.”

  “We went shopping,” says Mom, implying that we did this together. “You should model your new outfit for your father.”

  “Do I have to?” I shoot Dad a pleading look.

  “You don’t have to,” he says, smiling.

  Mom gets that pursed-lip expression on her face that signals her annoyance whenever Dad sides with me. “If it were up to you two, nobody would ever do anything around here.” She starts clearing the serving dishes even though we’ve barely started eating.

  “Nora. Honey.” My father lays a gentle hand on her arm, but she pulls away and carries the food into the kitchen. Dad and I start to eat but Mom doesn’t come back. He says, “Maybe you could show me that outfit after all?”

  I sigh. “You don’t even care about the stupid outfit.”

  “But your mother does. And it won’t hurt you to put it on.”

  “Fine.” I toss my napkin on the table and push my chair back. He always does this. Takes my side, but then caves the second Mom gets upset. “But it also wouldn’t hurt her to stop treating me like I’m some kind of Barbie doll she can dress up.”

  My father closes his eyes briefly, then folds his napkin and lays it on the table next to his plate. He won’t say any more, but he’ll be disappointed if I don’t do what he asked. So I go to my room and I put on the neon skirt and the black top. When I return to the dining room, Mom is all smiles. “Isn’t that cute?”

  Dad blinks a few times at the neon, clearly doubting its cuteness. “Yes, very nice,” he says, nodding.

  “Whatever,” I mumble. I excuse myself again and return to my room to stand in front of my full-length mirror. I try to imagine myself in that photo with Jenna and the supercutes. I strike a pose. Try a sexy face. Look like a complete idiot.

  I strap on the clunky sandals to see if that helps. It doesn’t.

  “Honey, do you want to finish your dinner?” my mom calls to me down the hall.

  “No, thanks. I’m not hungry anymore.”

  I hear my mom mumble “Okay, fine” as I go to my closet and check on the wig. The glue is dry, so I try it on, shoving my hair into the stocking skullcap first. It’s better, but still not right. The look I’m going for needs to be a little more punk rock, a little less hippie clown. I take a pair of scissors from my desk and start snipping away until I have a jagged explosion of color framing my face. I lift clumps of it with my fingertips and spray it into place with Mom’s ultra-stiff hair spray.

  Jenna would die laughing . . .

  I cut off the thought, go back to what I’m doing. Hiding myself. Creating someone even Jenna won’t recognize. The un-Vicky.

  When I finish, I stand in front of the mirror, this time with the wig on. The glare of my pale legs is blinding, and cute ankle socks—even if I had them—won’t help. I remember a pair of “snazzy leggings” my mom gave me for my birthday. I dig around in my drawer of misfit clothes until I find them. Black-and-white zigzags. I pull them on and examine my reflection again.

  Combined with the crazy wig and the leggings, the skirt now looks too prim. I slip it off and start cutting. The hem goes first; then I slice thick strips all the way up to the waist, like the fringe of a very strange hula skirt. The black top gets a trim, too. But when I put it all back on and stand up straight, I realize I’ve given myself a bare midriff on one side.

  I try tugging the shirt down, but can’t hide the triangle of skin that rises about three inches from my belly button to my side. It’s the perfect spot for a tattoo (that nobody will ever see), so I Sharpie the circular yin-yang symbol there.

  The internet says that Sharpie tattoos stay longer if you
dust them with baby powder and spray them with hair spray, so I try that. Then I strap on the platform sandals, dive my hand through the tower of bracelets, and for the final touch, choose from among my eclectic collection of secondhand sunglasses. SpongeBob eyeballs? Peace signs? Or rainbow-colored leopard frames with reflective lenses? I go with the first pair I picked, the dark cat-eye glasses with thick white frames. In honor of Kat.

  I. Look. Awesome.

  Okay, slightly ridiculous, too. But in a “Go Big or Go Home” sort of way. (Or, in my case, Go Big and Stay Home Because You’re Too Chicken to Actually Go Anywhere.)

  I prop my phone on the bookshelf and use the timer to take a picture. In my first few attempts I capture images of myself walking away from the camera, because three seconds isn’t long enough to get into position. I switch to ten seconds so I can move to the opposite end of the room before it snaps the photo, and take several that way. Just standing there. Head to toe.

  Boring.

  I’m too still, too scared. Too Vicky.

  I also realize that the bottom half of my face is completely bare and unchanged. I remedy that with a lipstick I find in a box of mostly-never-used makeup my mother gave me. Now I have a bright red mouth, slightly bigger than my own. I set the camera timer on my phone and try again. And again. And again.

  I pose. I spin. I jump. I sway and lean and dip and bend and twirl and wave and smile and laugh. I blow kisses. I press my lips to the palm of my hand and hold the red kiss-mark to the camera.

  I take dozens of photos until I am breathless from running back and forth to restart the timer. After downloading all the images to my computer, I click through them, hardly recognizing myself. If it weren’t for the presence of my bedroom in the background, nobody would guess it was me. It feels good in the way the East 48 photo did, though I never left my room.

  I only left myself.

  But this time, there’s no one to send the photo to, no one to fool into thinking I’m more fun or interesting or special than I am. There’s no Jenna on the other end of a text message to say “OMG!”

  There’s no one out there at all.