HOW TO DISAPPEAR

D;

Still no reply. I scroll through her Instagram feed, which is like a glossary of facial expressions. Yesterday was a wink. The day before was wide-eyed surprise. She started her account when she moved to Wisconsin, as a way of staying in touch with me. Now she's got more than hundred followers, and it's like from complete strangers. I narrow my eyes at the interloper and go back to texting.

Ugh. I really shouldn't be allowed to leave the house.

It would be better for everyone.

Maybe I could claim I have one of those diseases that require you to be raised inside an airtight bubble.

Like the girl in that book. Avoid all contact with outside world. Online contact only. No cute boys showing outside my window, either. (Which would never happen to me anyways let's be honest.)

I'm prepared to continue babbling about my future in containment when I finally see her thought bubble pop up.

. . .
She's alive!
OMG, what happened?
It's humiliating.
Tell me.
Promise you won't laugh?
I won't laugh.

I can almost imagine her saying it, learning her shoulder against mine on the bus seat, huddling in close listen. Texting is not the same; it never will be. But at least she's there. I exhale the stress knotting my shoulders and recount the story of my failed attempt to say hi to Hallie Bryce, in excruciating detail.

Hallie thinks I'm a complete idiot now.
No she doesn't.
Yeah, I'm pretty sure she does.
She's not like that. She's super nice.
Even nice people know an idiot when they see one. Plus that's not even the worst part.

I take a deep breath and text out the catastrophe of Adrian and the drumsticks. The word vomit. The Statue of Liberty. The going forth and prospering. When I'm finished, Jenna's ". . . " bubble pops up, but it's taking forever for her message to come through. Probably because she's laughing so hard she can't type. Or maybe she's trying to find a nice way to tell me I am, indeed, an idiot.