how to disappear

chapter 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.
O

n 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 paper. “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.
There’s Marissa again, hair in a sophisticated updo. She’s beautiful, and she’s everywhere. Does everything. I choose a picture of her being crowned queen, with Adrian as her king. They’re not looking at the camera, but at each other. Laughing. It’s the kind of photo that makes you want to be them.
I search for other photos that make me feel that way. Images of the people I can never be, the moments I will never have. A cheerleader teetering at the top of a pyramid. A line of girls sitting hip to hip and arm in arm in the stadium stands. A row of pep band members, trumpets raised. I throw a requisite touchdown shot into the mix, choosing one that captures that moment of pure joy on the player’s face when he reaches the end zone.
I can’t help imagining where Vicurious might appear in each photo. Locking arms with a row of friends, high-fiving the touchdown. I’m nervous Marissa will hate what I’ve picked, but Marvo said I have a good eye and I cling to his praise like it’s a life raft—a tiny one that’s losing air, and sharks are circling. But still, it’s keeping me afloat.
That’s how I feel most of the time, like I need to stay calm and still so the sharks won’t notice me and attack. I make a mental note to check Instagram for hashtags like #dontnoticeme and #saveme. Because, after what I saw on #alone, I’m starting to think that I’m not.
Studying the photos, I spot the people who are alone in the crowd. I zoom in on them. Find another, and another. Soon my monitor is filled with close-ups of people hiding in plain sight—the people who watch, but don’t participate. My people.
The door behind me creaks and I spin around. Marvo and Beth Ann walk in. He’s smiling. She’s not. I scramble to close the images, but knock the mouse off the desk instead. If I bend to pick it up, they’ll definitely see the collage of lurkers on my screen.
I leap up and turn to face them, blocking the monitor from view. “Hi! Hey! How’s it going? Here to work on yearbook? Of course you are. Stupid question. I mean, why else would you be here. Right?”
Oh, God.
Their eyes go wide. My heart nearly pounds through my chest and smacks them in the face. Marvo glances at Beth Ann and back at me. “She speaks.”
I laugh in a desperate, it’s-really-not-that-funny-oh-kill-me sort of way.
Beth Ann scowls and starts searching for something in the pile of papers on her desk. “Of course she speaks.”
“I mean, like, full sentences,” says Marvo.
“Stop picking on her.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are,” Beth Ann snaps at him, flipping through her papers more frantically.
“You don’t have to be such a—”
Her hand shoots out, a stop sign in his face, paired with an incinerating glare. “If you eversay that word to me . . .”
“What word?” Marvo grins. “Meanie?”
“That’s not what you were going to say. And if you want to keep your balls, you better not say what we both know you were going to say.”
Marvo crosses his hands over his private parts and backs toward the door. “My balls and I will just be going now.”
“Wait!” Beth Ann stalks over to him, grabs his shirt, and kisses him. Right in front of me. And he kisses her back, and she puts her arms around him, and he puts his arms around her, and . . . I am staring at them like a weirdo.
Before they can catch me, I spin around to face my computer again and grab the mouse that’s dangling off the edge of the table. I put the computer to sleep so the screen darkens, and drop to the chair. Not because I want to stay here another minute—but because the room is spinning and I don’t want to embarrass myself further by passing out in front of Marvo and Beth Ann’s make-out session.
Besides, they’re blocking the door.
I sit very still in hopes they’ll forget I exist, though I can still see them in my peripheral vision.
“Knock it off,” says Beth Ann, slipping out of Marvo’s embrace and rushing back to her desk.
He laughs. “You started it.”
“I just . . .” She growls. “I need to find that stupid essay. I swear I left it in here.”
Marvo helps her search, rifling through the stacks of folders and loose papers on her desk. The bell rings. Beth Ann starts whimpering.
“We’ll find it,” he says. “Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!”
“Okay!” Marvo’s hands are pressed to the sides of his head.
I slide my backpack on and stand to leave. I don’t want to be late for class. I don’t want to get in the way. I avert my eyes and slowly head toward the door. That’s when I see what’s pinned to the bulletin board. “The Refugee Crisis of 1939” by Beth Ann Price.
I stop. Point to it. Clear my throat. “Is this it?”
Beth Ann spins, runs to the board. “Ohmygod. Yes!”
She grabs me by the shoulders and says, “I could kiss you,” then unpins her paper and hugs it to her chest. Marvo twirls her around, her red sneakers flying through the air. Red Converse. High-tops. I stare at them spinning and then bouncing up and down.
They’ve got yin-yang symbols on the toes.
Beth Ann . . . she’s the girl from the bathroom who asked if I was okay. No wonder she was staring at my shoes the other day. I dash out and am halfway down the hall when I think I hear someone calling “Vic!” But I don’t look back. I probably heard wrong, anyway, or they’re shouting for Victoria Ewing or Victor Santos or even someone named Nick or Rick. There is nothing more humiliating than turning when it’s not you they’re calling.
And it’s never me they’re calling.