How to Disappear Page 9

Why does every single thing have to feel like a pack of slobbering hyenas?

  The bell rings and the bathroom fills, and people are waiting so I can’t stay in here or they’ll start banging or wondering what’s wrong with me. I flush the toilet and go to the sink to wash my hands.

  There are two girls fixing their hair and makeup at the mirror. If they notice me, they don’t acknowledge it.

  “Ugh. I’m breaking out. Do you have concealer?” says the one standing nearest to me. Her name is Mallory. She sits in front of me in biology.

  The other girl digs around in her makeup bag and hands a tube to Mallory. “Don’t use it all.”

  I’m drying my hands when one of the other stall doors opens and Hallie Bryce comes out. She glides to the only empty sink. Mallory and her friend stop in mid-makeup-application to stare at her. Even in this dingy bathroom, the sight of Hallie is breathtaking.

  She dries her hands and glides out. Mallory and her friend watch her go. The minute she’s through the door they turn to each other and say, in unison, “Oh my God.”

  Then they laugh and turn back to the mirror.

  “Is she even human?” says Mallory.

  Her friend shakes her head. “Impossible. Nobody is that perfect.”

  Mallory dabs concealer on a blemish. “I bet she never gets zits.”

  “I hate her.”

  “So do I.”

  I find myself wanting to defend Hallie—Hallie Bryce who is beautiful and graceful and talented and . . . absolutely does not need me to defend her. She’s got thousands of followers online, and not like my followers, who aren’t actually following me but a fictional character. Hallie is a human work of art and obviously doesn’t care what a couple of girls sharing zit concealer in the bathroom at Richardson High School think of her.

  Mallory and her friend giggle some more and leave, not the least bit concerned that I heard the whole conversation. I look at myself in the mirror, at my gray oversized sweater and my mousy hair that is neither blond nor brown but somewhere in between. I am concrete and linoleum.

  Invisible.

  No one will ever guess that I’m Vicurious. They don’t even see me.

  11

  I SLOUCH LOW ON THE bus ride home, knees pressed to the seat in front of me, eyes level with the bottom of the window. The urge to text Jenna is strong. An ache, almost. I check her Instagram instead. It doesn’t make the ache go away, just shifts it from my chest to my stomach. New selfies with Tristan pop up on the screen. Laughing, smiling, kissing. Her hair is perfect. Her makeup is perfect. Her eyes are even lined.

  Since when does she wear eyeliner?

  I click back to Vicurious. She’s up to 4,121 followers. The Where’s Waldo post has 237 likes. I scroll through them, look for Marvo. If he’s following, then I’ll know where he got the whole naked Where’s Waldo idea. There’s no Marvolicious, but plenty of other interesting names. One girl, invisiblemimi, posts selfies where she crops most of herself out of the photo. She shows only her shoulder, or part of her face, or her hand. She adds the #seeme tag on everything. But she also uses #dontseeme and #ignored and #lonely and #talktome and #donttalktome.

  I know exactly how she feels.

  I tap on the hashtags to see who else feels this way. Some of the posts are kind of disturbing—nude photos and spam-level weird—which isn’t supposed to be allowed on Instagram, but I guess their porn checkers are too busy to catch it all. I skip around them, and what’s left are people just sharing their pain, hoping that somebody—anybody—is paying attention.

  I cringe at the pictures of cut marks, of blood dripping down pale arms or thighs slashed and raw. Of too-thin bodies, and mascara-stained cheeks.

  People are liking their photos, which feels wrong. Is that what they want—positive reinforcement of their suffering? Or maybe it’s just the acknowledgment. To be seen. They expose their deepest pain for a handful of little red hearts.

  I feel almost guilty that my silly posts are getting so much attention while the people who desperately need it receive so little. It’s not fair that followers flock to Vicurious and flee those who are hurting. But I understand it.

  Joy attracts and misery repels.

  Isn’t that why Jenna prefers her new friends over me? Heck, that’s why I prefer Vicurious to myself. Aside from that first post, Vicurious is never alone. She’s fun, fearless, energetic . . . happy. She’s everything that I am not. She’s an escape from the misery.

  But it’s not enough. They need somebody to care about them, to do more than “like” their pain. I want to wave my arms at Instagram and say, “Hey! Can’t you see? Over there! They need you!” Maybe that’s what we’re all doing—waiting for someone else to step in. Like there’s a magical Instagram fairy who will appear out of nowhere and make it all better.

  Then it strikes me. Maybe I’m the magical Instagram fairy.

  I let the idea settle for a few minutes, my brain wrapping around it like curls of smoke from a pipe. Can I do that? Can I be that person? I don’t know, so I flip the question. Can I not do that? Can I just look away?

  The answer is, I can’t.

  So, I take a deep breath, and start clicking in comment windows of these people who are suffering. I write:

  I care.

  I see you.

  I’m here for you.

  I understand.

  You are not alone.

  I do it all the way home on the bus, on their pages, not mine. My follower number ticks up and up anyway. I want to tell them, You don’t have to follow me! It makes me feel dirty, somehow. That there’s a reward attached to caring. But I can’t ignore them. Some start asking me to follow back. I guess that’s how they measure their worth.

  Is that how we all measure our worth now?

  There are too many, though. And I don’t want to follow anyone if I can’t follow everyone. I don’t want any of them to feel left out or overlooked or not good enough. If they leave a comment, though, I reply. I give hearts and smileys.

  It’s not enough, but it’s something.

  I continue after dinner and late into the night. Vicurious adds a thousand followers. One in three is #alone or #ignored or #depressed. I try to reach out to them all, but their numbers keep growing and I can’t keep up.

  I pay for the effort on Wednesday morning, nearly falling asleep in world history. Lipton whispers to me a couple of times, alerting me to the page number we’re supposed to be on, or that Mr. Braxley has told us to write something down. He smiles and I want to smile back, but it’s taking all my energy to stay awake and balance the extra weight of #loneliness I’m carrying today.

  The bell rings and I start to gather my stuff.

  Lipton says, “Wait. I, uh, wanted to ask you . . .” He pauses. Swallows. “Just a second.”

  He starts digging around in his backpack and I wonder if he’s got another page of Siege of Jerusalem notes, which is nice of him except I should probably do my own research. He glances up at me nervously and keeps searching.

  Finally, he produces a small bag of peanut M&M’s. He holds it out to me. “Do you want these? Mr. Patton gave them to everyone in English, but I’m allergic to peanuts, so . . .”

  I stare at the yellow bag of M&M’s. It’s kind of random and a little weird. But he’s standing there, hopeful, smiling. “Uh . . .”

  “Unless you’re allergic, too?” The smile drops from his face and he starts to draw his hand away.

  Suddenly, I want those peanut M&M’s more than anything else in the world. I want the smile back on Lipton’s face. I thrust my hand out. “I’m not allergic.”

  “Great.” He presses the bag into my palm. His smile returns.

  I realize I haven’t said thank you after he walks away, and then I feel bad about it. But mostly I feel tired.

  Mrs. Greene’s office door is open again when I walk past, but I keep going, wishing with every step I take that I had the nerve to go in. Just to rest. She said I could. I could eat my M&M’s in there inste
ad of the bathroom. I could share them with her and we wouldn’t have to talk at all, just sit in her comfy chairs under her twinkly lights and eat Lipton’s peanut M&M’s in the quiet.

  I surprise myself by pivoting to walk back toward her office. But someone has beaten me to it. The door is closing, and through the opening I see her slender legs, her perfect bun. Hallie Bryce isn’t gliding, for once. She slumps into the comfy chair, head sagging to her chest. Mrs. Greene slips a “Do Not Disturb” sign over the doorknob and pulls it shut.

  I stare at the closed door. Why would Hallie Bryce possibly need to talk to Mrs. Greene?

  For the rest of the day, it’s all I can think about. I look for Hallie in the hall, in classes we share. When I spot her, she’s as tall and poised and confident as ever. Not showing the slightest sign of distress, and oblivious to the jealous murmurings of classmates like Mallory and her friend from the bathroom. But always alone.

  I never noticed that before.

  I end up saving the M&M’s to eat on the bus ride home, and when I finish them I press the empty wrapper flat so I can save it. I don’t know why. Maybe to make sure I didn’t imagine that Lipton really did give me his peanut M&M’s. Sometimes Vicurious feels more real than my real life, and it’s good to know my existence—Vicky’s, that is—has not gone unnoticed.

  When I get home, my mother is waiting for me in the driveway. I tuck the M&M’s wrapper into my pocket as I approach the car. She rolls down the window.

  “Are you going somewhere?” I ask.

  “Hair salon,” she says. “And you’re coming with me. I made you an appointment.”

  I groan and get in the car. There’s no use arguing. This is a torment my mother inflicts upon me every few months, usually coinciding with occasions like Marissa’s party that she deems momentous enough for additional grooming. It definitely belongs on the list. Having to sit in a chair and be subjected to random questions by a complete stranger who also happens to be wielding a pair of scissors is not my idea of a good time.

  Mom hands me a small pile of torn magazine pages. They’re hairstyles. “I thought you might like to try something new.”

  Translation: she’d really like me to try something new.

  I flip through the pictures of gorgeous models and celebrities and their fabulous hair—short wavy bobs and flowy tendrils and pixie cuts.

  “Have you met me?” I say.

  She gives me a side-eye. “Yes, and I think you’d look great with one of those hairstyles.”

  “Because I look terrible the way I am.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You implied it.”

  She sighs. “I just think you’d be happier with a hairstyle that doesn’t weigh you down so much.”

  We arrive at the salon and go inside. I follow behind her, because walking into any place where you’re expected to answer questions about your intentions upon arrival always stresses me out.

  Mom is happy to speak for me, though, so I let her do her thing. It’s not until I’m in a chair with a red cape tied around my neck and my mother sitting in the waiting area that I tell my stylist, Rachel, “Just a trim, please.”

  “An inch? Two inches?”

  “I was thinking more like a quarter inch.”

  She smiles. “You won’t even be able to tell—”

  I nod. “Perfect.”

  Rachel leads me to the sink for a wash, then sets about trimming. “I won’t try to make you look like someone else,” she says. “That’s what people want, sometimes. But they’re never happy with how it turns out.”

  I mumble “thanks,” and she gets to work. She doesn’t talk incessantly or ask me questions about school. She just trims, and when she’s done, she runs her fingers through the thickness of it. “I could thin it out a bit if you like. Nobody but you will notice the difference. It won’t be so heavy.”

  I consider this for a minute and say, “Okay.”

  She takes out a different pair of scissors and cuts some more, and afterward my head does feel lighter. Like the fabric that frames my face has changed from corduroy to chiffon. She dries it and styles it just the way I normally do, then holds a mirror so I can see the back.

  I hardly ever look at the back of my head, and am surprised at how much it resembles Hallie Bryce’s hair when she’s not wearing a bun. I tilt my head to the left and right and my hair sways softly, just the way Hallie’s does.

  “Everything okay?” Rachel says.

  I don’t tell her she did make me look like someone else, because it’s too late to stop her. I press my lips tight. Nod my approval even though I’m not sure I approve. She removes the cape and all the extra hair falls to the floor. Then she gestures toward my hands clasped in my lap. “You want me to throw that away?”

  I look down and see the yellow M&M’s wrapper pressed between my fingers like I’m clinging to it for dear life. I hadn’t even realized I was holding it. “No,” I say, quickly shoving it back in my pocket. “That’s okay.”

  I hold my breath as I walk out to the waiting area, steeling myself for the fuss my mother will make about how different I look.

  She doesn’t, though. Make a fuss. She rolls her eyes when she sees me, pays the bill, and gives Rachel a tip. It’s not until we’re walking back to the car that she says, “I’m so glad I paid forty dollars for you to look exactly the same as when we walked in.”

  I gape at her. “What?”

  “Did she even cut it, or was that a very expensive wash and blow-dry?”

  “She cut a ton,” I say.

  Mom snorts. Shakes her head.

  We get into the car and I flip down the visor to look in the mirror. It’s completely different. But maybe Rachel was true to her word and nobody will notice the difference except me.

  I’m a little worried the M&M’s wrapper is going to turn into some kind of security blanket, because I pull it out again on the bus the next morning and hold it in my palm all the way to school. I’m nervous walking the halls with my new haircut, but quickly realize that nobody’s looking at my hair. Nobody sees me at all.

  I shove my coat into my locker as the warning bell rings, and hurry to class. Mr. Braxley is already standing in the front of the room, and the bell rings a few seconds later. I sit and try to calm my breathing.

  “Okay, people,” he says. “You should be pretty well into your research by now, but if anyone has questions or issues with the project, or with their group, or their lack of group, see me after class.”

  He looks straight at me.

  Everyone turns to stare. Okay, maybe not everyone. But Lipton’s gaze is practically searing a hole through the side of my head. I can feel it.

  I glance over. He beams at me with his thousand-watt smile.

  “Your hair looks really nice today,” he says.

  I blink at him.

  He has the warmest eyes, and his smile is really wide, and there’s that adorable gap between his two front teeth. But what I really like about him is that he sees me even when I’m invisible. Tingles shoot all the way from my toes and fingertips and kneecaps and elbows straight to my chest. My heart starts pounding like I’ve just sprinted a marathon.

  So of course I act like he’s got a contagious skin condition and say nothing.

  “Did you get it cut?” he asks.

  I shake my head. Eyes bulging.

  “Huh. Looks different.” He shrugs, then beams at me again. “Last chance to join Team Thermopylae. Adam and I are meeting at my house Saturday if you want to join us.”

  “I, um, can’t,” I say.

  His smile droops. “Oh well.”

  Mr. Braxley starts teaching, and I focus on taking notes. My hair falls gently over my shoulders every time I lean forward, not the stiff curtain it usually is. I can still hide behind it, but I don’t. I tuck it behind my ear so I can see Lipton in my peripheral vision.

  I’m pretty sure he’s watching me, too. And it feels good to be seen. I wonder if this is how all those peop
le on Instagram feel, when they write #seeme and someone finally does.

  12

  I’M FEELING KIND OF OKAY on Friday night, thinking about Lipton and trying to come up with ideas for a new Vicurious post. Surfing, maybe. Or meditating with the Dalai Lama. Anything to take my mind off Marissa’s party tomorrow night, and the fact that I haven’t told my mother I will not be attending. Mom and Dad went out to see a movie, so I’m listening to music and doing a pretty good job of drowning out the roar in my ears.

  Then I make the mistake of checking Jenna’s Instagram page. She’s posted a picture at a concert, where all you can see is the purple glow of stage lights and the silhouettes of so many arms raised and waving in the air. She doesn’t even say where she is or which band, but I can tell it’s someone huge.

  Way bigger than the East 48 concert I “went” to.

  So I ditch the Dalai Lama and start searching for the biggest concert I can find. I’ve got my neon-yellow skirt and tights and black top and clunky sandals on, and my wig and bracelets and sunglasses. My lips are red. My yin-yang tattoo is freshly drawn. I take new photos against the white sheet, jumping around with an air guitar.

  In less than an hour, I’m breathless, but I’m also on stage with the Foo Fighters at Wembley Stadium. Never mind that I was a little kid when they played that gig. What good is living vicariously if you can’t go back in time? I choose an image where lead singer Dave Grohl’s face is turned to the side, and position myself so it looks like we’re making eye contact. Jamming together. I blast their song “The Pretender” and post the image, writing:

  In which I time travel to the #foofighters

  2008 Wembley Stadium concert.

  I watch the notifications as they start to come in. Foo fans are noting which concerts they wish they’d been at and they’re tagging their friends and tagging me on their own photos from concerts they attended. They even start a new hashtag:

  #vicurious

  And I’m so excited, I squeal. When I created my account, I thought the name was something Jenna might recognize because of how I always said “vicuriously” when I meant “vicariously.” But to see it as a hashtag and know that people are using it and . . . I started that? It’s weird. And wonderful.