How to Disappear Page 6

  So I go to Instagram, where there’s always someone. Instead of signing in as Kat, I start a new account. I call it “Vicurious.” Maybe I want Jenna to find it and know it’s me. Or maybe I simply want proof that I exist outside my own bedroom. I drag one of the crazy pictures I just took into Photoshop so I can replace my bedroom with a plain, white background. Then I upload it as my profile picture.

  And there I am: 0 Posts; 0 Followers; 0 Following.

  I decide to post something, just to see if I get followers, though the very idea of followers makes me nervous. Total strangers watching me? I laugh at myself, since that’s exactly what I do to Hallie and Adrian and even Raj. They don’t know I’m watching, since I haven’t officially followed them, which means anyone could be watching me and I wouldn’t know it, either.

  I’m in disguise, though. I look in the mirror again. Nobody will recognize me. I’m anonymous. Imagined. Not a real person. They can’t hurt me if I’m not real. Can they?

  I flip through my new pictures again and keep coming back to the very first one I took, where I’m walking away from the camera. Maybe I’m being a coward, using one that doesn’t reveal even my fake face, but it captures the emptiness that weighs on me right now. I fiddle with the image in Photoshop, making sure I have a clean, blank background around my whole body. I’m like a cutout doll. Then I search the internet for a place I’d rather be.

  A concert or crowd scene would only make me feel lonelier, so I go somewhere my solitude can be appreciated, even envied. I find a photo of an empty beach at sunset, waves gently lapping at the shore, reflecting the tropical sky’s orange light. I drop my purple-and-orange-wigged cutout self into the scene—a small figure walking in the distance.

  Disappearing.

  And I post it. It’s amazing how quickly the visual affects me. It’s like I’m there. I’m somewhere else. I’m someone else. I take off my Vicurious costume, wipe my red lips clean with a tissue, and crawl into bed. Cuddled under my blankets, I take one last look at my alter ego’s Instagram, my single lonely post, out there in the void. No likes. No comments. It’s a comfortable place to be, but a part of me wishes someone would notice.

  I click on the “. . .” button and slide my thumb to “edit.” Then I add a single word:

  #alone

  6

  SOMETHING WAKES ME, BUT I’M too groggy and disoriented to figure out what it is. I glance at the clock—it’s two a.m. Just as I’m starting to nod off again, I see a dim flash of light through my closed eyelids, like the headlights of a passing car or a flash of distant lightning. I don’t hear an engine or rumble of thunder, so I crack an eye open and look around my room. The light flashes again and . . . it’s coming from my phone.

  Jenna?

  I lunge for it, forgetting. Squinting as my eyes adjust to the brightness of the screen, I quickly realize it’s not from Jenna. And it’s not a text.

  It’s a message from Instagram.

  Actually, there are several messages from Instagram.

  Wait, why is Instagram sending me messages? Then I remember last night and how I opened a new account.

  I scramble to sit up in bed, swiping the screen. Vicurious is getting likes. And followers! There are twelve of them, with names like lonelyyygirlll and unlovelyunloved. I remember the hashtag I added right before bed. I click on it, #alone, and oh . . . my . . .

  There are 13,150,650 posts with the #alone tag.

  I scroll down the photos and see mine—Vicurious on the beach—amid a sea of other images of people in various states of solitude. The pictures are intermingled with what appear to be inspirational quotes. I click on one of them to see what’s so quote-worthy about being #alone.

  Don’t depend too much

  on anyone in this world.

  Even your shadow leaves you

  when you’re in darkness.

  Oh, God. That’s depressing. I click away from it and tap on another and another.

  It’s sad when you feel alone

  in a room full of people.

  I am a prisoner in my own mind.

  No one needs, wants,

  or loves me.

  I’ve found my people, apparently. And they’re kind of scaring me. I mean, I can totally relate, but the thoughts they’re sharing are ones I try very hard to ignore. Reading them all in one place is like standing on the edge of an abyss, and I can only teeter here for so long before I fall in.

  So I back away. I click out to my own page again, to my single post. It has seventeen likes. Seventeen people have enjoyed my photo enough to click on the little red heart. I’m not sure what that means. Do they like that I’m lonely?

  I turn my phone completely off so the flash of notifications won’t wake me again, and I try to go back to sleep. It’s not easy, though, knowing people are watching me, or Vicurious, rather.

  But, seventeen people? I probably haven’t spoken to that many people in a year. I’m not sure there are even seventeen people who know my name. And though these seventeen people don’t know my real name, they know a part of me that nobody else does. They like something about me I hardly knew existed.

  Comforted by that strange connection, I fall asleep so soundly it takes my mother pounding on my bedroom door to wake me later that morning. And I’m not even annoyed. I’m excited to check in on Vicurious. I wait until after breakfast, though, telling my parents I’ve got tons of homework. Which I do. But that’s not how I plan to spend my day.

  For the first time in my life, I feel like I can be part of something. I won’t be lurking and watching with nobody knowing I’m there. Vicurious gets to put herself out in the world, which I never could.

  The question, as I’m back in my room and searching the internet, is this: If I could spend a day with anyone, who would it be? Where would I go?

  I start dragging photos into an empty folder. Hogwarts. The Titanic. The Tonight Show. The guard hut at Buckingham Palace. Skydiving over the Grand Canyon. The Great Wall of China. The cosmos. An assortment of red carpets.

  In the absolutely-not-crushing-on-him-but-think-he’s-super-smart-and-cool department, I decide my first adventure will be with Neil deGrasse Tyson. He’s standing at the helm of his spaceship with the cosmos exploding behind him. I select one of the photos of myself I took yesterday, where I’m sort of jumping and making this “Wow!” face, and I Photoshop it into the cosmos picture with Neil. I am copilot of his spaceship.

  It takes me a while to get it just right, and looking quasi-realistic. Not that I expect anyone to believe it’s real, but I want it to seem like it could be. If only for me.

  When I open Instagram to post the doctored image, I’ve got a dozen more followers—twenty-four total, and thirteen more likes. I hold my breath, clicking through the notifications to see if I recognize anyone. They’re all random names, some who identify specifically with depression or sadness and incorporate it into their handle, like sadgirldreaming and sucks2bsodepressed.

  There is no jennaelizabethtanner or marissadimarco or anyone else I know. So I’m able to breathe again. I select the image, and I write a message:

  To infinity and beyond!

  I’m about to post it when I start worrying about copyright infringement and if it’s okay to use someone else’s photo like this without getting permission. I mean, people do it all the time, but that doesn’t make it right. But I’m thinking the Cosmos producers will be cool with it because it’s promotion of the show, and a form of fan art. They’re probably happy to see people share stuff like this with friends. If anyone complains, though, I’ll take it right down.

  Still, I let my thumb hover over the “share” tab. This is it. I’m doing it. Sharing an image where you can actually see me. In costume, but still. I close my eyes and press my thumb to the blue bar, holding my breath until it pops up as a real, live post.

  Then I wait.

  And wait some more.

  Nothing happens. No likes or follows or comments. Neil deGrasse Tyson is apparently no
t that popular with the #alone crowd. I look at the post again. Is there something wrong with it? Not cool or interesting or fun enough? How stupid is it that I care if the internet likes my photo? I’m the one living vicariously here, so it should only matter whether I like it or not, if it makes me feel good.

  Yet here I am, feeling bad that people aren’t liking my photo. They lifted me up last night, those twelve followers and seventeen likes—the fact that they related to me, to my photo. Now they’ve let me right back down.

  As if real-life rejection isn’t bad enough, I’ve got to inflict this alternate universe of scrutiny and neglect upon myself?

  My phone beeps then. I perk up, and check the notifications.

  sadgirldreaming Love your hair. Can’t wait to see where you go next.

  And I’m smiling again. With that one kind comment, just one expression of interest, my mood swings back up. Maybe other people need lots of friends, or hordes of fans, but all I really need is one.

  I put Vicurious away and pull out my homework for Monday. All the while, I’m thinking about sadgirldreaming’s comment. Where will I go next? It’s got to be Hogwarts. Because, obviously. That’s been my dream since I was nine. I lost count of the number of times I checked the mailbox for my letter of admission. And I’ve always wanted to ride a hippogriff.

  I finish my precalc and make half an effort at studying for my bio exam, then start searching for Buckbeak. I quickly find the iconic movie image of Harry Potter soaring over the Great Lake on the creature’s back.

  Scanning through the Vicurious photos I took yesterday, I find one where my hands are thrown in the air like I’m riding a roller coaster. I zoom in to make a cutout of myself and blend it into the movie shot. When I finish, it looks like I’m seated right behind Harry, grinning as Buckbeak’s hooves skim the surface of the lake.

  I can almost feel the hippogriff’s feathers beneath my legs. The wind in my hair. Laughing and hooting along with Harry, on top of the world. I haven’t posted it yet when Mom calls me for dinner, so I wait. I want to see the reaction. I rush through my meal and excuse myself with claims of more heaping piles of homework. As soon as I get back to my room, I post the image and stare at the screen for a while, waiting again to see if anyone notices.

  Nobody does.

  So I post another photo, and another. Vicurious chatting with Jimmy Fallon on the Tonight Show. Hanging out on the red carpet at various award ceremonies. I’m terribly underdressed in the shredded neon skirt, so I make them photobombs. Those are relatively easy to Photoshop so I do a bunch. Jennifer Lawrence. Will Smith. Gina Rodriguez. Neil Patrick Harris. Eddie Redmayne. Chris Rock. Gael García Bernal.

  It’s the height of living vicariously, for me at least. Vicurious can go anywhere, do anything, without ever leaving my room.

  “Vicky?” Mom knocks on my door at eleven p.m. “Honey, you’ve been working hard. Time to get to sleep.”

  I dim my computer screen and turn off the light so she’ll think I’ve gone to bed. “Good night,” I call out.

  “Can I get a hug? I’ve hardly seen you all day,” she says through my door.

  “I’m already in bed, Mom.” I try to sound as if I’m simply too sleepy to get up to unlock the door, rather than sitting at my desk fully clothed staring at my computer.

  “Well, okay then.” There’s a pause, no retreating footsteps. She’s still standing out there, and I hear her sigh.

  I start to call out “Love you,” but she says “Sleep well” and shuffles off.

  I should be tired, but it feels like I’ve actually spent the past two hours leaping in front of cameras on the red carpet. It’s as if I’m meant to exist in a vicarious state. It makes me feel alive.

  I flip through the dozen photos I’ve posted today. Aside from sadgirldreaming, only one or two other followers have liked a photo. Otherwise they’ve gone unnoticed. And I shouldn’t care, except that Vicurious is fabulous and daring and full of life. She deserves to be noticed! I click around to some of the more popular Instagrams and quickly realize what I’ve done wrong. I haven’t hashtagged anything except the first photo.

  That’s why only the lonely have found me.

  And I’m just about to add #space #neildegrassetyson #science #harrypotter #prisonerofazkaban #tonightshow #redcarpet #photobomb and anything else I can think of, when I realize . . . no. That’s not me, and it’s not Vicurious, either.

  I leave them all the way they are, the way I am. Alone and unseen. I turn off my computer, slip on my pajamas, and crawl into bed. The phone on my nightstand won’t be bothering me tonight.

  7

  I FUMBLE TO TURN OFF the alarm on my phone Monday morning and immediately wonder what Jenna posted for me, out of habit. I see an Instagram notification and assume that’s her as well, until I wake up to the reality. No Jenna here, but Vicurious has a whole bunch of new followers. They found me, somehow, without any hashtags at all.

  On the Cosmos image, one of my original #alone users has left a comment tagging people, and those people have left comments tagging others with spacey identities. Someone left a comment on the Buckbeak image and tagged someone named dumbledorefanatic, who then left a comment tagging five other people. They’re talking to each other in the comments, throwing hashtags around like crazy.

  But even more unbelievable is how many new followers there are: seventy-three, who appeared overnight and . . . wait, make that seventy-four. I haven’t counted the comments on all of the images, but Cosmos has twenty-seven, and Buckbeak has eighteen.

  I start hyperventilating a little, excited but also a bit terrified. People are actually watching my account, interested in what I’m doing. I swing my legs to the floor and bend forward, head between my knees. Breathe, Vicky. Breathe. I hold my phone in front of my upside-down face, staring at the screen in disbelief. Another follower pops up. And another. I scroll through them to make sure I don’t recognize any names from school. As far as I can tell, they’re complete strangers. Still, it takes a while for my breathing to calm. I watch my follower number tick up as the morning light slowly brightens my room.

  Seventy-six . . . seventy-seven . . . seventy-eight . . .

  It’s unbelievable. I can’t help wondering: Would Jenna like me better if she knew I was this girl?

  I get ready for school and head out to the bus, my phone turned off and shoved in the bottom of my book bag. Knowing it’s there, that Vicurious is out in the world making “friends,” puts my heart in an unnerving state of hiccup. I head to class, worrying someone has seen her and will recognize me.

  Lipton smiles at me as I walk into world history and I can’t help thinking, he knows. Why else would he be smiling at me? As I sit down, about to launch into a full-on panic attack, he leans over and says, “How’s the Siege of Jerusalem coming?”

  “Great!” I blurt. “Very siege-y.”

  He laughs, and I want to crawl into a hole. I don’t know how people manage to control both their thoughts and emotions at the same time. One or the other of mine is always escaping.

  “Sure you don’t want to join Team Thermopylae?” He makes a thumbing motion toward Adam. “It’s a lot of work to do all by yourself. And we could use the help.”

  Adam narrows his eyes in a decidedly not-interested-in-your-help sort of way. He hates me. I’m pretty sure.

  “Sorry. I did my research already.” I quickly avert my eyes and start flipping through my textbook.

  “No way,” says Lipton. “Adam and I haven’t even gotten ours half done, and we’ve both been working on it for like two hours every night.”

  I lift my eyes to his face, which is open and kind, then glance at Adam, who continues to scowl at me. My brain locks up. All I can do is blink at him.

  Adam snorts. “Told you, dude.”

  Told him what? My gaze drops to the space between my desk and Lipton’s, a distance that feels too close and too far at the same time.

  He shrugs and hands me a neatly torn-off corner of notebook p
aper. “In case you change your mind.”

  I take the note. He’s put his name and phone number on it. He notices me staring at the paper like I’ve never seen paper before, and reaches out to touch my arm. “You okay?”

  And then all of a sudden I’m really not okay. My eyes start filling with tears. My throat tightens around the knot of emotion that’s trying to push its way out of my chest. I want to pretend everything is fine, but there’s too much everything: Jenna leaving, Jenna thinking I’m pathetic, Jenna making new friends and rubbing it in my face, the hope that Vicurious will make people see me differently, but the ever-present fear of being seen at all. I’m like a bottle of fizzy soda that’s been shaken too hard. I could explode at any moment. And here’s Lipton trying to unscrew the cap.

  “Why are you being nice to me?” I practically bark the words at him, then clamp my mouth shut before anything else comes out.

  Lipton’s eyes widen. He withdraws his hand from my arm. “I, uh . . . sorry?”

  I blink rapidly to keep tears from spilling. “It’s allergies. I’m just . . . I’m trying not to sneeze.”

  I press my fist to my lips and concentrate on holding in whatever is trying to force itself out—which is feeling more like a scream than a sneeze.

  Lipton looks at me funny, then leaves me alone, which is the best thing he could do. I concentrate on my breathing, try to get myself under control. It’s ludicrous how easily and without warning I can be sent spinning. Every emotion, every fear, hovers dangerously close to the surface. I’m so focused on protecting myself from hurt, I have no idea what to do with kindness.

  I make it through the rest of my morning classes and practically dive into the yearbook office, so relieved to have made it to lunch period without exploding. No one else is there, so I snag the computer in the corner. Marissa has attached a sticky note to the top of it. “V, Pull homecoming pics.”

  I open the folder marked “homecoming” and start to click through the images. There are hundreds. The football game, the dance, the parade, the float carrying all the homecoming-queen candidates waving their dainty hands like they’re Queen Elizabeth.