How to Disappear Completely

by Ali Standish

  She comes in and sits down on the bed next to me, making the springs creak. She glances at the book lying open on the bed, and I wait for her to say something about it.

  Last year, Lily told me that since I was in middle school, I should be reading “real” books. Classics. She thinks books like The World at the End of the Tunnel are for little kids.

  But she doesn’t understand how the pages in my books leave space for you to crawl into them and dream up your own stories, instead of trying to cram your head so full of big words there’s no room for you at all.

  I don’t think you could ever be too old for a book like that. Gram never was. Grandpa must have known it, or else why would he have given her The World at the End of the Tunnel?

  But Lily doesn’t say anything about the book at all. Instead, her eyes drift back to me. “I haven’t really asked,” she says, “um, how you’ve been doing with, you know, everything?”

  I search her face for signs of the Lily I’m used to, the one who usually only notices me long enough to forget about me again. But I have to admit, she actually seems kind of . . . sincere.

  “Well,” I say, still cautious, “I’ve been better.”

  “Yeah. This vitiligo thing must be kind of tough to get used to, huh?”

  “Kind of,” I agree. And then, because for the first time I can remember, Lily is showing an interest in me, I add, “Thanks for asking.”

  “I was actually thinking maybe I could help,” Lily says, holding up the makeup bag. “It’s totally up to you, but if you wanted to cover up your, um, you know, spots, I could teach you how.”

  “Really?” I ask, eyebrows shooting up behind my bangs. “You would do that?”

  Lily looks stung, like she offers to do nice things for me all the time. “Of course,” she says. “I actually watched a couple of tutorials on YouTube about how to do it. Do you want me to?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say. “That would be great, actually.”

  Last night, I read this blog that Fina sent me about a supermodel who has vitiligo. She has really dark skin (twilight falls), so her vitiligo patches stand out a lot. And she has them all over her body. In the blog, she talks about how she’s really proud of the way she looks and how her vitiligo makes her unique and beautiful.

  She’s right, too. She is really, really pretty and totally different looking from basically anyone else I’ve ever seen before. I think it’s awesome that she loves her patches.

  And I wish I felt the same way about mine. Maybe one day I’ll think they’re cool, like Fina says she does. But that’s not how I feel about them now.

  Lily is sorting through the bottles and sticks and containers that she’s spread out all over my bed, her hair tucked neatly behind her ears.

  “I borrowed some of Mom’s stuff,” she says, “since your skin tone is pretty similar to hers. But we’ll buy you your own. I can take you if you want.”

  She puts a few bottles up to my face and studies the colors before making her choices. “You’re going to want to start with a concealer,” she says, showing me this tube that looks like lipstick except inside, the stick is skin-colored.

  She hands me a mirror that I can watch myself in as she holds up my bangs and rubs a thick line of the concealer stuff over the pale spots above my right eye, which have now joined together in full patches—like a pale caterpillar crawling along my forehead. She rubs it in with her thumb. Already my skin looks much more even. Then she tells me to practice on the left.

  After that, we put concealer on the spots by my mouth, and then a liquid foundation that’s cold and silky against my skin.

  “So, how are your applications going?” I ask. Since we’re being all interested in each other now.

  To my surprise, Lily sighs, and her spine slumps. “I’m really not sure,” she says. “Yale is crazy competitive, you know?”

  I’ve never heard Lily talk like this before, like she’s anything less than perfect. Honestly, it’s kind of nice to know that even my sister has doubts about herself. It means she’s probably not an alien robot clone, something I have suspected from time to time. She’s an actual human being.

  But the second I hear her getting down on herself, all I want to do is reassure her.

  “You’ll get in,” I say. “And even if you don’t, there are other good colleges.”

  She shrugs. “It’s a lot of pressure,” she says. “And honestly . . .”

  She trails off, biting her lip as she rummages around the makeup bag.

  “What?”

  “You can’t tell Mom, okay? She’s driving me nuts about the whole college thing.”

  The surprises just keep on coming. I’ve never heard Lily complain about Mom before. I thought since they had so much in common, they always got along. “I promise,” I say.

  She takes a deep breath. “Well, I was kind of thinking it might be nice to take a break from school. After graduation, I mean. Do something different for a while.”

  “Like what?”

  She wipes at a smudge on my nose. “I’m not sure,” she says. “Travel or something? Go off the grid and meet new people?”

  Okay, seriously. Who is this girl and what has she done with my sister? Or is it really possible that she’s been inside Lily this whole time, zipped up behind all that perfection?

  “You?” I ask. “Ditch college? And Instagram?”

  Lily laughs. “I know,” she says. “But Instagram isn’t as much fun as it used to be. My friends from home are kind of . . . lying low recently. And the kids at my new school don’t really know me.”

  Is that why Lily has been home so much recently? Not just because she’s stressed about applications but because she’s having trouble making new friends?

  For the first time, I think about how hard it must have been for Lily to move right before senior year. And how weird it is that I haven’t heard her complain about it. But maybe Lily knew that us moving in to take care of Gram was more important than where she finished school. Maybe she cared more about Gram than I thought.

  “You shouldn’t worry about all the kids at your new school,” I say. “You should just find a couple who like you for you. That’s what I did.”

  Lily is done with the foundation now, and has moved on to brushing a powder over my face. I close my eyes. The brush tickles in a relaxing way. “That’s good advice, Emma,” she says. “You’re really smart, you know? About some things.”

  “Some things?”

  She laughs as she sprays my face with this cold stuff that she says is to keep the makeup from coming off.

  Then, “Voilà!” she says, sitting back and nodding with satisfaction. “What do you think?”

  I open my eyes and hold the mirror up so I can see my whole face. No patches. No spots. My skin is one color again. “Whoa!” I breathe. “They’re gone! I look almost like I did before. Except . . . I look so—”

  “Grown-up?” Lily finishes.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Exactly. Thanks a lot, Lily.”

  “No problem,” she says, gathering up all her stuff. “I’ll make a list of what we used, and we can go buy some this week. Remember, no telling Mom what we talked about.”

  “I won’t,” I say. “Or that we stole her makeup.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. This was her idea.”

  I feel my smile fall flat. “What was her idea?”

  “Me teaching you to do your makeup. She told me to offer to do it. She said you would probably like it better if I helped you.”

  Translation: this whole thing has been a setup. Lily is only helping me because Mom told her she had to.

  She’s probably going to march right down the hall to Mom and give her a full report. And Mom will be relieved. Relieved not to have a daughter who’s covered in spots anymore. I feel suddenly queasy.

  “Hey, you okay?” Lily says.

  “I am so sick of people asking me that,” I grumble.

  She frowns. “Emma, I—”

  “Close th
e door,” I snap. “On your way out. Please.”

  Lily starts to say something else, but I’ve already picked up The World at the End of the Tunnel. I hear the floorboards creak beneath her feet, then the door shutting softly behind her.

  I would be okay if I could just have my old life back. A life without vitiligo. Or one where Gram was still here. I know she would have found a way to make it better.

  But I can’t wish myself back to my old life—the one with Gram and without spots.

  Maybe that’s what my pen pal was trying to tell me in the last chapter of our story. Gram can no more help me now than I could have saved her from her cancer.

  And this thought makes my heart ache with loneliness.

  22

  The next morning, I head straight for the Spinney after breakfast, stopping to say hello to Gloria—on her way to meet a friend at the orchard café.

  “Emma, sweetheart,” she says. “Stop by for some tea soon, will you? I’ve barely seen you since, well, the funeral. What is it, six weeks now? Hard to believe it. It feels like yesterday.”

  I glance up toward the graveyard, where the Apple Lady is just emerging from the church, head down and headphones on. It is hard to believe it’s been six weeks since the funeral, but whether it’s because the time has gone by slow or fast, I’m not sure. It just feels weird that I’ve gone six whole weeks without Gram. And that I’m only ever going to get further away from her.

  A knot rises in my throat.

  “Sure, Gloria,” I reply. “I’ll come soon.”

  When Boomer and I slip under the barbed wire a few minutes later, it’s to find squirrels scurrying back and forth, gathering up the acorns that have fallen everywhere. Boomer goes barreling after them. I walk behind, leaves crunching beneath my feet. Leafmeal, Gram said the charmed folk called it, when the autumn leaves started to shatter into dust.

  Before today, I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to keep writing Ivy’s story. But when I woke up this morning, I found myself thinking about what Ms. Singh said when I asked her for advice about writing. Write about what’s in your heart. About something that’s important to you.

  And maybe she’s right. Maybe instead of trying to escape from the darkness I feel inside me, I can write about it. Maybe I can write it out of me.

  Together, Ivy and Shilling made a place for Gran to lie in her favorite glade, where the ground was soft and covered in clover, and nearby ran a gentle river. Ivy marked the spot with a pile of river rocks, smooth and gray and solemn looking.

  Then they returned to the cottage, and Ivy tucked herself into bed. For many days, she did not move.

  Not when hunger rumbled her belly or when cold crept in through the dark chimney or when the villagers who had come to seek Gran’s remedies knocked upon the door.

  She only slept and wept and thought of Gran. Of how she had once believed that they would be together always. And of how she had often wondered if Gran had magic running through her veins.

  Now, she knew, there was magic in the world. A magic that was frightening and cruel.

  For Ivy was sure of one thing: the woman in the white cloak was a witch after all. A witch who had killed Gran.

  And then one gray morning, Ivy woke up thinking of revenge.

  She flung the sheets from the bed and dressed herself. Then she set off into the forest.

  She left Shilling behind, as she knew he would never let her find the witch. He would sense danger, take hold of her cloak with his sharp teeth, and pull her all the way back to safety.

  On and on she walked, until it felt like she had been going for years. Finally, she came to a place where the trees were spiked with thorns, where they grew so tall she could not see their ends and where their leaves were so thick that daytime became night.

  And there, in the center of the trees, was a dark cottage.

  Ivy hid herself away behind one of the trees and watched. Was this where the witch lived?

  Just then, she heard a voice behind her. “Child, what are you doing so deep in the woods? Have you become lost? The forest is not safe for a girl so young.”

  Ivy turned around to see a beautiful woman with rosy cheeks and a basket of herbs. She stood behind Ivy, smiling.

  “No,” Ivy said. “I am not lost. I have come looking for a witch. I mean to kill her.”

  “Well, then,” said the woman, “you’d better come with me, for killing a witch is no easy thing. Still, I might be able to help. And to give you a bite to eat, for my, how hungry you look! I’ve got a stew simmering on the fire.”

  In fact, Ivy could not remember the last time she had eaten, and she felt half-starved. And she knew she would need help to defeat the witch. So she followed the beautiful woman toward the dark cottage.

  “And why, might I ask, do you hope to kill the witch?” asked the woman as they walked.

  “She killed my gran,” replied Ivy.

  “Ah, yes,” said the woman. “That is a nasty thing to have done.”

  As they drew nearer to the cottage, Ivy began to feel dread stirring in her belly.

  “Are you not afraid,” Ivy asked, “to live in such a dark corner of the forest?”

  “Not in the least,” said the woman merrily. “I keep the fire burning brightly.”

  But when Ivy looked up, no smoke curled from the chimney. “I thought you said you had a stew simmering.”

  In answer, the woman’s hand shot out and grabbed Ivy’s arm. Too late, Ivy realized she had been tricked, for suddenly, the rose-cheeked woman was gone, and the woman in the white cloak stood before her, holding Ivy tightly with one gnarled, clawlike hand, and gripping a wooden staff in the other.

  “You!” cried Ivy. “You killed my grandmother!”

  The witch threw her head back and laughed. When she did, her hood fell away so that Ivy could see her face—cruel jet-black eyes and a wicked smile. “Indeed I did,” she snarled.

  “I’ll get you back for it, I swear!”

  But in her fury, Ivy had stared straight into the witch’s eyes, and suddenly, she found herself unable to struggle against the old woman’s grip. For the village boy in the bakery all those years ago had been right—one glance from a witch is enough to put even the most determined child under her spell.

  “I could kill you, too, my girl,” said the witch, “but I think I have an even better idea.” She released her grip on Ivy and waved her staff through the air, cutting it like a knife cuts butter. “I shall simply make you disappear.”

  23

  October slips by quickly, like a twig being carried downstream by the stream in the Spinney.

  Lily turns in her Yale application, and Mom decides we have to go out for a special dinner to celebrate. I’ve pretty much been giving Mom and Lily the cold shoulder ever since my ambush makeover. Lily has offered to take me into town for makeup a couple times, but when I shake my head the second time, she rolls her eyes.

  “Whatever, Emma.”

  So, basically, things are back to normal between us.

  At dinner that night, I listen as Lily and Mom go on and on about Yale and how great it will be and all the classes Lily is going to take. I think about what Lily told me about wanting to take a year off, and I don’t understand how she can be so fake with Mom. Why doesn’t she just tell her the truth?

  I start spending even more time at Fina’s. It’s Fina and Ruby who finally go with me to buy some makeup at the drugstore. Ruby decides she wants some, too—mascara and eyeliner—and we take it all back to Fina’s. Ruby experiments with doing her eyes while I show Fina what Lily taught me.

  I practice at home, too, until I get good at it, and I’m pretty sure that no one will be able to notice my vitiligo at school.

  I have to admit that even if I am mad at her, I am also really glad that Lily showed me how to do my makeup, because the spots beside my mouth spread even faster than any of the others have done. A few weeks after I first noticed them, they look like a thick set of parentheses around my lips, and
every time I see them, my stomach drops. Once I’ve covered them up, though, I can usually pretend they aren’t there at all.

  I start visiting the Spinney again most afternoons, but every time I check the journal, there’s nothing new there.

  But there are other changes. Whenever Boomer and I walk through the village, we see new signs of fall spreading across Lanternwood. The air always seems to taste slightly of cinnamon, and the trees are red, yellow, and gold, like fireworks frozen just as they burst in the air. Huge piles of leaves start appearing on the sides of the road, and Boomer makes it his job to run through every single one.

  The trees in the orchard are crammed with apples, and the café hosts apple bobbing competitions every afternoon. Gloria and Ruth seem to be competing to see who can pack the most pumpkins on their porch, while ghosts made from torn white sheets appear in the trees, and fake cemeteries sprout up in people’s front yards. Even Mom, who doesn’t really like stuff like that, buys a big orange wreath crawling with plastic spiders and a doormat that says BOO!

  One day toward the end of the month, Fina, Ruby, and I are sitting at our usual table at lunch. Fina hasn’t said much since we sat down. She keeps twirling her spaghetti around and around with her fork.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Hmm?” she says, her head snapping up. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Just a little homesick, I guess.”

  “What’s October like in California?” Ruby asks.

  “Well, it doesn’t get cold. Not really. And my family back there is getting ready for Día de los Muertos.”

  “What’s that?” Ruby and I ask together.

  “It means Day of the Dead. It’s a Mexican celebration,” Fina explains. “It goes for three days, but it starts on All Hallows Eve, when the spirits of the dead can come back to visit the people they’ve left behind.”

  Ruby’s eyes widen. “So you celebrate death?”

  She shakes her head. “We celebrate the lives of people who are gone. We keep their spirits alive by remembering them.”

  “I like that,” I say, imagining how much I would give to be able to spend just one day a year with Gram.