“I can’t,” I say, arms swinging at my sides like I’m about to do the standing long jump. “But thanks for letting me pet your cat. And hide behind your shrubbery. It’s very nice shrubbery you have. I would definitely recommend it highly to anyone seeking shrubbery to hide behind. Or . . . behind which to hide, rather. Yes. Yours would definitely be the shrubbery of choice for grammatically correct shrubbery hiders.”
Lipton bites his lower lip, nodding. “Okay, then.”
“Okay. Bye!” I make my escape before my mouth can spew anything more ridiculous, slipping through the gap in the hedge and walking toward home. Or in the general direction of home, because I was not paying attention on the drive here. Anyplace that is not Marissa’s house or Lipton’s backyard should suffice.
Just get me out of here.
14
I’VE WALKED ABOUT A HALF mile before my vital signs have calmed enough for my brain to start functioning properly and remember that I have a phone in my pocket that has a map app. Which might be useful at the moment, because I have no idea where I am.
My phone screen is alive with messages for Vicurious. Every time I see one I think it’s a text from Jenna. I open my Instagram settings as I’m walking and turn off the notifications. Then I punch in my address and get directions for walking home.
It’s 4.7 miles. I haven’t walked that far since . . . ever? My phone says it’ll take an hour and forty-two minutes.
I trudge along, checking the map app every few minutes to make sure I haven’t wandered off course. I wish there was a life app for that. Instead of “turn left” and “turn right” it could remind me to “breathe” and “walk” and “speak” and “shut up” and “please, seriously, stop talking.”
My phone bleeps a notification, and now I really think it’s Jenna, because who else would it be since I shut off the messages from Instagram?
Are you having a good time?
Ugh, Mom. I ignore it and keep walking.
Are you sure you don’t need me to pick you up later?
I check the next few directions on the app and shove the phone into my pocket so I can ignore my mother properly.
It buzzes.
And buzzes again.
And again.
When I’ve walked far enough that I don’t know where to turn next, I pull it out to look at the map. The screen is full of more texts from Mom.
Who is bringing you home?
I want to know who you’re getting a ride with, Vicky.
I don’t want you driving home with someone who’s been drinking.
It says I’ll be home in forty-six minutes, and I recognize the way now. So I shove the phone into my pocket and let it bleep away. It’s completely dark at this point, and the road I’m walking on doesn’t have streetlights. Or sidewalks. Cars come up on me fast, not seeing my olive-green drabness at the side of the road. Some swerve and honk; others fly by without even spotting me.
By the time I reach my neighborhood, I’m sweaty from both the exertion and the anxiety of nearly being run over a few times. I’m so tired and thirsty I push the front door open without pausing to think what I’ll say. I just want to crawl into my bed.
Dad’s sitting on the couch, watching TV. He looks up. “Hey, kiddo. You’re home early. And all in one piece.”
I nod. “Imagine that.”
He lowers the volume on the TV. “Your mother will be relieved.”
“She expected me to be torn to shreds or something?”
“She worries,” he says. “You know how protective she gets.”
“Is that what you call it?”
My father frowns at me. “What do you call it?”
“Oh, I don’t know, emotional manipulation? Aggravated menacing? Something like that?”
“Vicky.”
“Seriously, Dad. She forced me to go to a party against my will. She tricked me. What kind of mother—”
“She means well,” he interrupts. “Maybe she doesn’t always get it right, but she’s trying. You should give her a break.”
“Yeah, well, she doesn’t trick you into going to parties, does she?”
He chuckles under his breath. “She has.”
“And you’re taking her side?”
“You have to understand.” He glances toward the kitchen, voice low. “Your mother is a social creature. We’re like aliens to her. She’s just trying to help us adapt to her world, to fit in.”
I shake my head. “I’d rather phone home, E.T.”
Dad laughs.
She blusters into the room then, nose glued to her cell phone, not even realizing I’m here. “She’s not answering me, Gary. Do you think she’s okay? Should I go over and get her? I never should’ve—”
Dad clears his throat and she looks up and sees me. “Oh. You’re home.”
“Indeed.”
She lowers her phone. “You didn’t answer my texts.”
“I was at a party.”
She nods. “Right. Of course. But I didn’t see you go into the house, and—”
“Nora.” My father reaches a hand out to her. “She’s fine.”
Mom slips her fingers into his and lets him pull her to sit on the couch next to him. “Of course she’s fine,” she says. “She’s perfectly fine.”
No, I’m not.
I want to say it, tell my mother I’m not fine at all. That I didn’t go to the party because I physically couldn’t face it. That maybe I need help. And I almost do. The words are on my tongue, waiting to pass my lips.
Then Mom’s smiling at me and asking, “Did you have a good time?”
And I’m nodding, and telling her what she wants to hear, because she so desperately wants to believe there’s nothing wrong with me.
“I’m tired from dancing,” I say. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
I’m halfway to my room when Mom calls out, “Who brought you home?”
I hesitate for a moment, then say, “Lipton Gregory.”
“Oh! He’s driving already?”
“His mom dropped me off.” I hurry to my room so I can put a closed door between us and avoid any more questions that make me tell lies.
I flop onto my bed, sweaty and thirsty and hungry, but I don’t want to go back out there. I find a half-full water bottle in my backpack, slurp it down, and scrounge a piece of gum from my desk drawer. Maybe if I Photoshop Vicurious into a feast somewhere, it’ll feel as if I’ve actually eaten. The thought of it makes me hungrier.
I swipe my phone open to see a stream of notifications—Mom’s frantic texts, and . . .
Jenna?
She’s been texting me like crazy. All those beeps my phone was making from my back pocket, which I thought were my mom, were actually Jenna. I quickly scroll back to the first one and read through them.
Hey. It’s me.
Earth to Vicky! Come in!
You there?
Come on, I know you have your phone. I really need to talk to you.
The time stamp on the first several texts is forty-five minutes ago. Then nothing for about ten minutes until they start up again.
I know why you’re mad at me.
I butt dialed you, didn’t I?
I saw the call on my phone log. Outgoing call, four minutes. After school last week. I was with Tristan. You heard us talking?
Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it. I was just trying to be cool.
I’m sorry.
My throat tightens. I want to laugh or shout or cheer or cry. I’m not sure which. But here is the truth in front of me and my best friend apologizing and all I have to do is text her and say, “It’s okay.” And everything will be okay. We’ll go back to the way it was, and I can even tell her about Vicurious! She will die.
I scroll a bit farther down so I can text her back, and there’s more. Fifteen minutes ago, she texted again.
So that’s it?
We’re done?
Make new friends, forget the old?
Nice, Vicky. Thanks a lot.
Hope you and Marissa and Adrian will be very happy together.
Can’t believe I wasted 12 years on you.
You know how many parties I missed because of you? How many friends I could’ve had? And this is what I get in return?
Have a nice life.
The air goes completely out of my lungs. I double over. Drop to my knees on the floor. You know how many parties I missed because of you? How many friends I could’ve had? The memories come back to me like a tsunami, laying me flat in a giant wave.
All those times at lunch, Jenna and me together, alone, when girls would come by and say to her, “Want to sit with us?” And she’d look longingly toward their table with its one empty seat, and shake her head. When they walked away, she’d say to me, “Too crowded” or “I’d much rather sit with you.”
And all those party invitations slipped into her hand so I wouldn’t see? I saw. But Jenna never wanted to go. “It’s more fun just the two of us,” she always said. And I believed her.
How could I have ever believed such a thing?
I would sob if I could get some air, but all I can manage is the shallowest of breaths. I am slowly submerging into quicksand, and any sudden movements will only speed my demise.
My eyes move around the room from where I now lie on the floor. It’s a perspective I haven’t tried before. Every flaw is exposed down here. The spots where the strip of wood molding has pulled away from the wall. The dust bunnies trapped under the bed. A balled-up sock. The banged-up rungs of my desk chair. A tiny earring back, made all the more mysterious because I hardly ever wear earrings and don’t remember dropping it. A spot low on the wall that missed its second coat of paint.
At full height, standing tall, everything seems perfect. It’s not until you sink down low that you can see the flaws. From my perspective, it’s hard to see anything but the flaws.
I take it all in until my gaze finally comes to rest on the crack of light below my door, where I can see into the hallway.
I blink once every hour, or so it seems. A pair of shoes appears outside my door. My mother. She doesn’t knock, though. Just stands there for a minute. My light is off, so she must assume I’m asleep. Her shoes linger a minute, then tiptoe away. The hall light goes off.
It’s completely dark now. It occurs to me that I must be uncomfortable, lying here on the hard floor for so long. But the only pain is the ache in my chest.
My eyes adjust to the darkness. I scan the room for my phone, for any sign of life. But I’ve turned off the notifications from Instagram. Mom’s asleep. And Jenna?
She’s really gone this time.
15
I WAKE TO A POUNDING, but it’s not at my door. The noise is coming from inside my own head, and my mouth feels like I slept with it wide open in front of a fan. The piece of gum I was chewing last night is a hard ball wedged against my teeth. I sit up and spit it into my hand. The pounding turns into more of a howl, as every aching part of my body lets out its own cry of pain.
I crawl to my door and stumble down the hall to the bathroom, gulping water from the sink faucet. It helps, but not much. Also, I can smell myself. I peel off my clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and climb into the shower. The water is too hot, but I leave it that way. It makes me feel less numb. The steam is so thick, I can barely see my feet.
I let the water pour over me until it runs cold, then wrap a towel around myself and pad to my room. The house is quiet. It’s still early, and Sunday.
I towel off, put on some clean clothes, including my fuzzy socks. I rub my hand over my freshly socked feet. They’re so soft and fluffy. I want a suit made of these socks. A big sock suit with armholes. No, forget the armholes. It could be more of a cocoon. A big, fuzzy sock cocoon.
My phone sits in the middle of my unslept-in bed. Seeing it reminds me why I spent the night on the floor. It hurts to think those thoughts again. I don’t even want to think her name. The girl whose name shall not be spoken. The girl who pitied me. The girl who lied to me for almost twelve years.
The girl who erased me from her life with a single text.
Not thinking about her is making me want to cry. And I try to never cry about myself. If I cried about myself I’d be bawling all day, every day.
I sit at my computer and open my Instagram and I cry, instead, for my new friends who are #depressed and #lonely and #sad. They are legion. I want to wrap fuzzy sock cocoons around them all, and myself, too.
I Google “fuzzy sock cocoon.”
Surprisingly, there are some images of sweaters and coats that pop up, but it’s the babies that draw my attention. Tiny, newborn babies snuggled in cozy little knit cocoons with matching hats or miniature hoodies.
They look so safe and warm. I change my search to “babies in cocoons” and hit the jackpot of fuzzy sock-like cuteness. God, I want to be one of those babies. Go back to a time when contentment came from sleep and swaddling, from being warm and dry and fed.
I glance at my bed, consider rolling myself in the comforter for the rest of the day. Would my mother lovingly feed me if she found me like that? Doubtful. She’d more likely tear the blankets off and expose me to the cold.
The way to overcome your fear is to just face it.
I open Photoshop. In less than an hour, I am snuggly in a cocoon . . . only my head showing, with my orange-and-purple hair and the peace sign sunglasses, which seem most suitable for the occasion. I’m tucked in there with the sweetly sleeping babies, all nestled together like a row of spoons. I pull the photo up on my Instagram, and write:
In which I disappear. #safe #warm #fuzzysockcocoon
I will die if someone else has used that hashtag. So I check. As expected, “No tags found.” And I’m glad. One of my followers inaugurated #vicurious, so this is my first original.
There are more than one million of #safe, though, and more than eleven million of #warm.
Vicurious is up to 9,202 users. I can’t believe I’m so close to 10,000, or that adding 800 followers would ever seem “close.”
I go to the kitchen. Eat cereal. Drink orange juice. Mom comes in, all chipper. “What shall we do today?” She starts filling the kettle to boil water for tea. “Go shopping? Have a nice lunch out, maybe?”
It really is astonishing how determined the woman is to ignore the fact that I hate things like shopping and nice lunches out.
“I have homework,” I say.
Her smile falls. “Of course.”
I sit with her until the tea is ready, then take a cup to my room. Today’s mission: 10,000 followers or bust.
Several hours later, I can’t even remember all the places I’ve sent Vicurious. To a World Cup soccer match. The inauguration of Pope Francis. Wimbledon. Hang gliding. Bungee jumping. Line dancing. Cattle herding. And I am no longer hashtag-averse. It’s #score #praisegod #game #set #match #whee #ahhh #foottapping #yeehah #saddleup and anything else I can think of.
My number of followers ticks up and up and up. By three o’clock I’ve reached my goal of 10,000. It’s not enough. I still feel empty, so I keep posting. Vicurious at the Tony Awards. The Golden Globes. The Emmys. I tag celebrities. I crash my favorite PBS series, inserting myself in place of the lead female actress.
When my eyes are swimming from staring at the computer for so long, I lie on my bed with my phone, checking it every few minutes as my follower count bumps higher and higher. By dinnertime it’s 12,800. By nine o’clock it’s 14,200. I’ve added something like 5,000 followers in a single day. Instagram doesn’t even write out the full number anymore; it’s too big. They put “k” for thousand now.
That should make me happy, right?
And it does, for a while. But if the rate of followers slows down, even for a few minutes, it feels like rejection. I’m Vicky again, walking the halls alone. Huddling in the corner bathroom stall, eating my lunch on a toilet. Texting and texting and texting a friend who has better things to do, who thinks I’m pathetic, who can’t believe she w
asted her life on me.
I scroll through the comments on my posts, looking for someone who understands. It’s not until I see a follower named Jenna that I realize I’m really looking for her. Hoping she’ll find me here and see me differently. But the Jenna I find isn’t my Jenna, whose Instagram was simply her name, jennaelizabethtanner. This Jenna is justjennafied. We start chatting back and forth on the picture I posted of the fuzzy sock cocoons.
justjennafied Why are you so #vicurious?
vicurious To get away.
justjennafied From what?
vicurious Myself.
justjennafied What’s wrong with you?
vicurious LOL. Everything.
justjennafied You’re so popular. And funny. Alive.
vicurious That’s not me.
justjennafied Who are you?
vicurious #nobody
justjennafied Not true. Who are you really?
vicurious #alone #lonely #sad #scared
justjennafied Me too.
I pause here, and wonder if she really feels this way, or if she’s just saying that to make me feel better. And then I start to see an echo of “me toos” pop up.
tanyazeebee Me too.
fauxfriendella Me too.
kookiestkimberly Me too.
ambivalentlessly Me too.
shriekingshackup Me too.
It goes on and on. So many, and yet we’ve found one another. I watch their names blip up with every new comment, their not-real names. Until I see one I recognize.
radhakrishnanraj Me too.
Selfie Raj? I click on his name to get to his page, and there he is. He follows me. Someone from my school has found me, and follows. I sit back in my chair, amazed.
I want to follow him back. Let him know he’s not #alone.
But I haven’t followed anyone yet, and for Raj to be my first? It could give me away. If someone connects me to Richardson High School, they might recognize me.
Has Raj recognized me?
My heart starts thumping. I search my posts to see if he’s left any other comments, any sign that he knows who I am. But all I find is that single, lonely “me too.”
It hits me harder than all the rest, somehow. Raj is real. I know my other followers are, too. But they are anonymous names and hidden faces. I see Raj every day. He walks the same halls, breathes the same air. I could touch him, if I wanted. Talk to him.
How to Disappear Page 11