How to Disappear Page 8
I take a deep breath. I say, “I’m here,” just as she hangs up.
She hung up on me.
I listen to the dead line for a moment. Maybe she put me on hold like Mom put her on hold. But the dial tone is soon blaring in my ear so I know we’re disconnected. I also know my mother is eavesdropping. She’ll make me call back if I don’t talk.
So I talk.
“I’m sorry. I keep forgetting to charge my phone,” I say. “Is everything okay?”
I pause for her answer. Pretend she’s telling me something not okay.
“That sounds awful.”
I pause again, listen to the floor creaking in the next room.
“I’m fine. I got invited to a party at Marissa DiMarco’s this weekend. Adrian Ahn is going to be there.”
I imagine her reaction. I laugh. It doesn’t even sound that fake.
“I should go,” I say. “I’ve got homework.”
It hits me what she said a moment ago, right before she hung up. Tristan was right. And it feels like I’ve actually been hit. Punched. What was he right about? That I’m pathetic?
“Okay, bye,” I whisper.
The phone is still pressed to my ear when Mom comes bounding in. She pets a hand down my hair. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Her voice is all sweetness and light again.
Which makes me want to scream.
“What is going on with you? What was that all about?”
“I—”
“It’s just Jenna. I know you’re shy, but really.”
I don’t say anything. What is there to say? That I’m afraid to talk to the one person I’ve always been able to talk to, because I’m trying to pretend I’m someone she might actually want to talk to? I try to put words together to explain this, but Mom’s already on to the next thing.
“And I couldn’t help overhearing . . . that you mentioned Marissa’s party . . .”
I just sit here, trying not to let my head explode, while my mother talks at me. About me.
“ . . . which is just terrific. You can wear your new skirt . . .”
The new skirt I’ve cut to shreds. I reach my fingers slowly to my hair. Comb through it so it hangs in front of my face.
“. . . and the black top. And those earrings I got you . . .”
She keeps stroking the back of my hair, oblivious to what I’ve done to the front of it.
“. . . I’m so happy to see you getting out . . .”
Except she doesn’t see me. She’s absently petting the back of my head, looking out the window, where the Vicky of her dreams apparently resides.
“. . . your father will be so pleased.”
She says this whenever something pleases her. So it doesn’t sound so much like it’s all about her. My father really doesn’t care if I go to parties or not. He hates parties himself.
Mom gives the back of my head a final pat and moves to the refrigerator. I can’t really see her through my hair veil, but I can hear her taking stuff out and putting it on the counter.
“So, how’s Jenna?” she says.
I consider the various truthful answers to this question. Jenna has a boyfriend. Jenna thinks I’m pathetic. Jenna is clearly better off without me.
“She changed her hair,” I finally say. “Her mother didn’t even notice.”
10
I TRY TO DO HOMEWORK, but mostly end up reading the same paragraph over and over until it’s time for dinner, which is torture. Mom keeps talking about Marissa’s party. Dad tries to change the subject, but news of the fancy coffee machine they got at his office is no match for my mother.
“It makes all these flavors,” he says. “Caramel mocha. French vanilla.”
Mom gives him a patient smile, then turns back to me. “Do you think any of the parents will be staying?”
I stop midbite and pull the fork from my mouth. “At the party?”
“Yes, at the party.” She gives a breathy laugh-snort.
“Uhhh, no. This is a high school party, not a third-grade playdate.”
“I should at least pop in and say hello to Roberta.”
I glare. Dad eyeballs her over the top of his glasses.
She sighs. “It just seems a little rude to shove you out the door and speed off. Am I allowed to at least stop the car?”
Dad laughs. I do not.
“Maybe I’ll just stay home,” I say. “I don’t really want—”
“N-n-n-n-no.” She wags her finger. “Don’t even think about it. You’re going to that party.”
I blink at the uneaten food on my plate. How many parents force their children to go to parties? Is this normal? I take my dish to the sink and retreat to my room.
Mom calls after me when I’m halfway down the hall. “It’ll be fun! You’ll see!”
I shut my door a little harder than usual, pressing the lock with a forceful thrust of my thumb.
Jenna would laugh. She’d say, “Geez, get control of yourself.”
I never could throw a proper tantrum, storm out of a room like she could, ranting about the injustice of whatever it was—not being allowed to order pizza or getting a bad grade on a perfectly brilliant essay. She’d vent on my behalf, too, whenever I was left out of something or teased. She’d fume and stomp. I always felt better after, even if I never did the venting myself.
But she’s not here to vent for me now. So, I coil up with the tension of it, a spring that can’t be sprung, and lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. I deserve this ceiling. Dull white. They could put that on my grave when I die. “She was dull white.” I am moping, just like Jenna said I would. Moping and contemplating the dull-whiteness of my ceiling.
How can I be mad at Jenna for calling me pathetic? I am pathetic. I’d rather hide in my room than go to a party, which is probably the definition of pathetic. But Jenna and I had plenty of fun not going to parties.
I spring up and go to the bottom drawer of my dresser, where I keep most of the clothes my mother buys for me. It’s like a rainbow in there; she’s always trying to convince me to dress more colorfully. I root through and pluck out a red-and-white-striped shirt. She thought it looked cute and French. I thought it looked a little Where’s Waldo.
I try it on with the neon-yellow skirt and the black-and-white zigzag tights, add the two-tone wig and red swirly X-ray-vision glasses, and . . . it’s absolutely hideous.
But definitely not dull.
I look like Waldo on crack. See, Jenna? Not moping. It’s time for Vicurious to do some Waldoing of her own.
The baby-powder-and-hair-spray trick worked pretty well on the yin-yang tattoo, which has hardly faded. I set up my bedroom like a photo studio with a sheet draped along the wall and down the floor. The white background will make it easier to cut around my form and place myself in different photos. I take a few shots where I’m standing straight on, then walking toward the left and right, à la Waldo. The process is tiring, because I have to run back and forth to the Photo Booth application on my computer to start the timer for each one. I’m getting better, though, at knowing how to hold a pose and set the lighting just right.
I click through them all and save my favorites, then search the internet for the perfect image to disappear into. I end up choosing a crowd scene at a huge outdoor music festival. There are hundreds of people in a muddy field. I don’t even know which band is on the stage, but Vicurious fits beautifully into the sea of people, walking toward the stage with her red-and-white shirt clearly visible. I tweak and save the image and email it to myself, then go digging in my backpack for my phone so I can post to Instagram. The phone is alive, lighting up with new followers, likes, and comments as I take it in my hand. I give the screen an upward swipe, and another, and the notifications keep rolling. With each swipe I think, This will be the last of them, but they won’t stop coming. I open Instagram, afraid to look but dying to know, and when I see the number, I can’t believe it.
Vicurious has 3,755 followers.
I expected to gain
a few, but more than double what it was before? It’s more than Hallie Bryce has! I laugh out loud, because I don’t know what else to do. I can only stare at that number and watch it tick upward right before my eyes.
Still not moping, Jenna!
I remember that I’m meant to be posting the Where’s Waldo image, so I save it from email and pull it up in Instagram. I write a short message, and since I’m feeling adventurous, throw on some hashtags, too:
Can you #seeme? #notalone #whereswaldo
The first like comes in less than five seconds. Then three more, then ten. Within a few minutes, people are leaving “I see you!” comments. It makes me feel better. I put on my pajamas and hide my Vicurious costume in the back of my closet, then watch my Instagram feed until my mother knocks on my door and says good night. I quickly log out and crawl into bed.
I lie awake for a really long time, trying to convince myself that gaining thousands of followers who see me makes up for losing the only person who ever really did.
I oversleep because I was awake until four a.m. and don’t even remember turning my alarm off. My mother discovers me still zonked out about ten minutes before the school bus arrives. She hands me a granola bar and a juice box (I swear she still thinks I’m eight) as I race out the door. I spend most of the bus ride worrying that someone will laugh at my stupid juice box.
When I get to world history, I’m just hoping I can put my head down and do my work and be left alone. So, of course there’s a note on my desk, a folded paper with my name emblazoned on the side.
I pull it to my lap as I slide into my seat. Lipton is squinting at the Smart Board as if trying to puzzle out the homework assignment that’s written up there. He’s very studiously pretending to be busy with that.
I open the note. It’s a photocopy, actually, from a book about the Crusades. Several paragraphs subtitled “The Siege of Jerusalem” are highlighted in yellow. There’s a note written in the margin:
Saw this when I was doing my research. Thought maybe you could use it. –L
I glance up, and Lipton grins and gives me a thumbs-up. My eyes dart around to see if anyone just saw that, but nobody’s paying attention. So I smile back at him. I mouth the word “thanks” and he smiles wider.
My face gets hot. Because I’m ridiculous.
I look down to put the paper in my backpack and notice that he’s got his pant leg tucked into his sock, which is bright red. It reminds me of the time I left the house with a dryer sheet clinging to my back. At least Jenna told me before I got on the bus.
I should tell him.
But that could be just as embarrassing. Instead, I push my pencil off my desk so it drops and rolls near his foot. Normally I would never do this because everyone would stare and think I’m a klutz, but they’re all busy talking and nobody will notice but him. He immediately leans down to pick it up, hesitating for the briefest moment before sitting back up and handing it to me with a wobbly smile.
I wobbly smile back at him, and notice a blotchy flush rise to his cheeks. He faces front again, but his arm drops to his side and his fingers find his pant leg and he tugs it out of his sock.
I am the first to arrive at the yearbook office for lunch period, and have just taken a bite of ham and cheese on rye when Marissa blusters in.
“Oh, good. You got my text,” she says. “Now, where’s Beth-vo?”
I freeze, holding my sandwich to my mouth. I threw my phone in my backpack when I raced out the door this morning and haven’t looked at it since.
“Marv-ann?” she tries, crinkling her nose. “Are they coming?”
I blink. Lift my shoulders in a slow shrug.
She flounces into her rolly chair. “Nobody pays attention to me, I swear.”
This statement surprises me. Marissa has to be the most attention-paid student at Richardson High. I put my sandwich down.
“We’ll start without them.” She swivels to face me, opening a spiral notebook in her lap and holding her pen at the ready. “Any ideas?”
“Uh . . .”
“I just don’t want this yearbook to be an exact replica of every other yearbook that came before. I want something different.”
I nod.
“Something besides the usual clubs and sports and class pictures and candid hallway shots, you know?”
I nod again.
“Maybe feature some student artwork or something?” She writes the idea in her notebook.
I don’t nod, because I’m starting to feel like a bobblehead doll. I put on a serious-thinking face instead. Bite my lip. Furrow my brows. One-on-one conversations are less terrifying than talking in front of a class, but Marissa makes me nervous. And I’m afraid one of my Vicurious ideas will pop out of my mouth.
The door opens then, and Marvo and Beth Ann come in laughing. I exhale.
“Finally,” says Marissa. “Did you get my text?”
Marvo pulls his phone from his pocket and reads the text, obviously for the first time. “Yep. Got it.”
“My battery died,” says Beth Ann. “What are we doing?”
“Brainstorming.” Marissa clicks her pen. “I want this to be the yearbook everyone will remember. Like nothing anyone’s ever seen before.”
They plop into chairs and put their own thinking faces on. Then Marvo hops up and starts pacing.
“How about this. We Photoshop naked people into the crowd at a football game, the choir concert, different photos all through the yearbook,” he says. “Nobody will even notice until it’s published and then, whoa. It’ll be like Where’s Waldo. Only, naked.”
My head snaps up.
Beth Ann laughs. “Who’s the naked guy? You?”
He shrugs. “Why not?”
“Because you’ll get suspended? We’ll all get suspended,” says Marissa.
“I’ll wear a wig or a hat or something. A mustache. Nobody will know who it is.” He winks. At me.
I hold my breath. What are the chances Marvo just happened to think of Photoshopping someone into a Where’s Waldo scene, in a disguise?
But he moves on, striking every possible pose his Naked Dude could be photographed in for the yearbook. The Statue of Liberty. The Incredible Hulk. The Thinker.
Beth Ann is cracking up.
“Don’t forget this one.” She does the clichéd John Travolta Saturday Night Fever pose. I took a Vicurious photo like that but I don’t think I’ve used it yet. Or ever will, now.
“Naturally.” Marvo mimics the pose. Then does another that vaguely resembles Washington Crossing the Delaware. “And this.”
“You could wear a tricornered hat. Nothing else.”
Marvo laughs, tips an imaginary hat, and waggles his eyebrows at Beth Ann. “At your service, ma’am.”
“Great. And we’ll all be expelled.” Marissa huffs. “Or arrested.”
“We can deny any knowledge,” says Marvo. “Someone snuck into the yearbook office and Photoshopped naked people into the pictures. We had no idea. Nobody has to know we have a Photoshop genius in our midst.”
They all turn and look at me.
“You’re a Photoshop genius?” asks Marissa.
“Uhh . . .” I shake my head, face burning.
“She vanquished an obscene gesture from one of your hockey photos in like five seconds flat,” says Marvo.
Beth Ann laughs. “Doesn’t mean she wants to Photoshop your naked ass into every yearbook photo. Maybe it’s not such a great idea, after all.”
“You think?” Marissa rolls her eyes, repositions her notebook on her knee. “Any suggestions that won’t ruin our chances of getting into college?”
Marvo slumps into his chair again, and gives me a weak smile.
Beth Ann lifts her feet, tapping the yin and yang tips of her red Converse high-tops together. “How about this. No head shots. Only feet. Everyone will be identified and remembered by the fabulousness of their shoes.”
I tuck my slightly scuffed tan oxfords under my chair.
Marvo
holds a boat-sized foot aloft. “Size thirteen, baby. And you know what they say about—”
“Please,” says Marissa. “This is a yearbook meeting, not a presidential debate.”
Marvo groans.
Beth Ann steps on his feet and they start walking around the room like that, her Converse on top of his.
I observe from my corner desk, nervous to be this close to the action. Vicurious belongs here, not me. And if they’ve discovered we are one and the same, then she is lost.
I don’t think I can bear to lose her, too.
Marissa closes her notebook and shoves it into her backpack. “Never mind. We’ll just do the same boring stuff.”
“Aw, come on. We’ll think of something.” Marvo extricates himself from Beth Ann. “Give us a day or two.”
“Fine,” says Marissa. “Just let me know if anyone has an idea that doesn’t suck.”
I do have an idea, which probably sucks, and it would lead them dangerously close to Vicurious. So I keep it to myself. I quietly gather my things, and when they aren’t paying attention, I slip out of the room.
The bell hasn’t rung yet, so the hall is nearly empty. The stillness of it only magnifies the roar that almost constantly fills my ears, my brain, my chest when I’m at school and danger seems to lurk behind every corner. The harried start of my day has only made it louder. I steer for the nearest girls’ bathroom, passing Mrs. Greene’s office on the way. Her door is open. She’s in there, but the overhead fluorescents are off. Only the twinkly lights she has strung along the walls are illuminated. It seems peaceful, and I am tempted to go in. She looks up and sees me and smiles.
I drop my eyes to the floor and hurry to the bathroom.
My usual stall is empty. I lock myself in and try to catch my breath. When Jenna was here, this hardly ever happened. She’d see me in the hall and nudge my arm and say “hey” and that’s all it took. She was my own personal reset button.
Now, every little thing piles up until I’m buried under it and can hardly breathe. And it’s so completely ridiculous and I know it is. My mother gave me a juice box, people spoke to me and smiled at me, and you’d think I was being chased by a pack of slobbering hyenas.