How to Disappear

by Sharon Huss Roat

  Then I post them. All twelve photos. I tag them:

  #hiding #seeme #sayhi #lookaround #bekind

  I quickly turn off my notifications, because the reaction to twelve photos at once might be a little crazy. And the followers who asked me to use their photos might be upset that I’m hugging the wrong person. I take a last look at my page, the ridiculous number of followers, which is now up to 423,000.

  I shut off my phone for the night and write a note to Lipton on paper. I tell him how great his presentation was, how sorry I am that everyone laughed, how sure I am that he got an A, how I wanted to stay and talk to him afterward but thought he probably didn’t feel like talking. I tell him his purple socks made me smile.

  The next day, I get to world history early so I can leave my note on Lipton’s seat. I’m afraid to place it on his desk, in case someone notices and snatches it up. So I put it on his chair. I side-eye the note as people file into class and the bell rings.

  But no Lipton.

  Adam comes in and sits down. He looks smaller today. His neck isn’t as long; his arms are shorter. He’s all pulled in on himself, trying to avoid being noticed.

  Welcome to the club, Adam.

  “We’ll have our presentation first today, and then some time to discuss what we’ve learned,” Mr. Braxley announces, shutting down the snickers that follow with a raised handful of detention slips. “Prusso, Hudson, Fenimore. You’re up.”

  Renee Prusso and her friends Maggie and Laura scurry around getting ready for a few minutes. They keep giggling nervously. They’ve brought a USB drive, and Mr. Braxley pops it into his own computer, which is connected to the Smart Board.

  I make a mental note to do the same. I don’t use a screen saver, but with my luck, a photo of Vicurious would randomly pop up. For Renee and company, a PowerPoint title page comes on-screen.

  It reads “The Black Death.”

  In Comic Sans.

  That wouldn’t be my first choice of font for a presentation on the most deadly plague known to humankind.

  I glance around to see if anyone else noticed, but they’re all just slouching in their seats as usual. Adam turns his head ever so slightly toward Lipton’s desk, as if to commiserate but forgetting that his friend is not there.

  The girls begin their presentation. And it is SO boring.

  I really wish Lipton were here to exchange notes. And then I remember that he gave me his phone number that day when the projects were assigned. In case you change your mind, he said. I slowly pull my world history textbook from my backpack and find the note neatly pressed between its pages.

  Phone in my lap, volume turned off, I type his number into a text window and write my first message.

  Are you okay?

  There’s a “. . .” on his side of the screen for a while, and then:

  Who is this?

  Oh, God. Right. I’m such an idiot. He has no idea it’s me.

  It’s Vicky.

  Vicky Decker?

  I am mortified, and normally I would give up, but I take a deep breath and type:

  Yes. Sorry. Vicky Decker.

  . . .

  There’s an unreasonably long pause on his end, and now I am really wishing I had not identified myself by name. Maybe he was sleeping. Or really doesn’t want to text with me. And now I’ve basically forced myself on him.

  If you don’t want to text I understand.

  . . .

  Sorry to bother you.

  No, it’s not that. I’m just surprised.

  In a good way.

  I am not sure how to respond to that, so I open the emoji window and choose from among the smiley faces, making sure I don’t accidentally select one of the kissy ones.

  ☺

  Did you stay home today?

  No. I’m in class.

  Don’t let Braxley see you texting.

  Renee & Laura & Maggie are giving their presentation.

  . . .

  There’s another really long pause on his end, and I realize I’ve just forced him to think about his presentation. Which is probably the last thing he wants to do. So I quickly type:

  It’s soooooooo boring. Yours was 100x better.

  Thanks.

  They are seriously giving the Worst. PowerPoint. Ever.

  Boring pictures?

  No pictures at all.

  ???

  I look around me to make sure nobody is watching, and I lift my phone just enough to take a photo over the top of my desk of one of their text-filled screens. They have simply put their entire report into bullet points and are clicking through it as they read aloud. In monotone.

  I text the photo to Lipton.

  Is that Comic Sans?

  Yeah.

  *cringing*

  Me too.

  I realize after writing “me too” that it’s a Vicurious thing, and get a brief pang of anxiety that it will give me away, but it’s not like my Instagram is the only place anyone ever said “me too.” Lipton’s typing again.

  Is everyone laughing?

  No. Sleeping.

  Jeremy Everling fidgets in his chair then, and glances back toward Lipton’s desk. He shakes his head at Adam. Adam shrugs. I have no idea what that exchange meant, and Adam probably doesn’t, either. But he regains a bit of his height.

  Jeremy just looked wistfully at your empty desk.

  Really?

  He and Adam are commiserating over how much better your presentation was.

  No they’re not.

  Jeremy is making faces. He is so bored. Everyone is slumped over.

  Which is worse, boring people to death or having them laugh hysterically at you?

  I know my answer. The fear of being laughed at is number one on my list. I’ve been boring people my whole life because I’m so terrified of being laughed at. But I can’t say that to Lipton.

  Equally painful.

  If you say so.

  Your presentation was great. I learned a lot.

  You’re just being nice.

  I’m serious.

  . . .

  I try to think of something that will make him feel better. Make him understand that I really mean it.

  It made me want to learn Minecraft.

  LOL. I think I love you.

  . . .

  I blink at the screen. Did he actually just text that he loved me? He was kidding. Obviously. Thus the LOL. Right? Before I can think of a non-awkward reply, he texts again:

  I mean I love that you want to try Minecraft.

  Or go to a Taylor Swift concert.

  Ouch.

  Kidding.

  I know. It really was my sister’s screen saver.

  I believe you.

  I sigh. Disaster averted.

  The presentation drones on until the bell rings and they can’t even finish. As everyone’s packing up to leave, Mr. Braxley says, “Your presentation is not meant to be a recitation of your entire written report, people. Please refer to the directions I gave you, or talk to Adam and Lipton.”

  Renee, Maggie, and Laura slink out, while Adam starts texting as he goes. It makes me smile, knowing the message he’s probably sending Lipton right now.

  I’m mentally writing my own message to Lipton as I walk down the hall, and don’t notice Adrian Ahn sidling up to me until he rubs right against my arm.

  “I see you,” he says.

  I nearly jump out of my skin. “Excuse me?”

  “I just wanted to say hi. Let you know that I see you.” He leans his lips close to my ear. “You’re not invisible.”

  I blink up at him, nervous I might say something ridiculous in front of Adrian’s cadre of adoring fans, which today consists of three freshmen—two girls and a guy.

  Adrian gives my arm a friendly nudge. “See you later.”

  He strides off, his groupies staring at me. And I know what they’re thinking. Why is Adrian Ahn talking to her?

  Because it’s exactly what I’m thinking.

  My breath
starts coming in short gasps, my eyes darting around. Does he know about Vicurious? Do they all know?

  I stumble down the hall and around the corner, toward the ladies’ room. I’ll hide there, just to calm down. I’ll wait and see if anyone comes in talking about me. But just as I’m about to push the door open, I spot Adrian with his arm draped around Raj Radhakrishnan’s shoulder. They’re walking down the hall together. I let go of the bathroom door and move toward them.

  “How’s it going, Raj?”

  “Great, it’s . . . okay.” Raj attempts a smile, but his mouth doesn’t quite make it.

  Adrian stops walking and glares at the kids lingering around him so they scatter. I look down and pretend to be searching for something in my backpack. He pulls Raj to the side of the hall. “Talk to me, man. You seem a little down.”

  Raj shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

  “Come on, dude. It’s not nothing. What’s going on?”

  He stares at Adrian, clearly as confused as I am, but whereas I’d just shrug and look away, Raj actually responds. “My parents are getting a divorce. It’s not going that well.”

  “Fighting a lot?”

  “They’re not even talking. Nobody on my dad’s side of the family is speaking to either one of us, actually. My cousins, their friends and families . . . everybody blames my mom for leaving. So, we’re kind of on our own now, my mom and I.”

  “That sucks. I’m really sorry.” Adrian squeezes Raj’s shoulders. “You ever need someone to talk to, let me know.”

  He nods, smiles faintly. “Thanks for, uh . . . asking.” The whole conversation has got to be a total shock. Adrian has probably never even spoken to Raj before.

  But he pulls something out of his pocket, a little card. “Why don’t you come to our next show? I’d love to see you there.”

  Raj’s smile gets wider. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen him look genuinely happy. “Sure. Thanks,” he says. “I’ll be there. For sure.”

  “Excellent.” Adrian drops his arm from Raj’s shoulder and reaches his other hand out to give him a fist bump, which Raj totally fumbles. Adrian laughs and claps him on the back. “Take care, man. It’ll be okay. See you.”

  Raj says, “Yeah, see you, Adrian.” He shakes his head a bit, like he’s just woken from a dream. But I could swear he’s grown about two inches, and he was already tall.

  Raj sees me standing there and says, “Hi, Vicky.” He smiles. I almost fall over.

  “Uh, hi, Raj.”

  “See ya,” he says, and gives me an awkward little wave with his long hand.

  I wave back and follow after Adrian, keeping enough distance that I don’t look like one of the groupies, but close enough to observe him noticing kids that nobody else ever seems to notice. He says “I see you” to half a dozen more before the one-minute warning bell rings for the next period.

  I hurry to class, stunned by what I just witnessed. I can’t believe Adrian took my Vicurious posts to heart like that. It makes me feel like a superhero. Of kindness. Which has got to be the dorkiest kind of superhero there is.

  Still, I can’t help but wonder if this is happening anywhere else. Are people being nice in high schools all over the country? The world?

  Because that’s just crazy.

  22

  MY INSTAGRAM IS GOING BERSERK after school with thousands of new followers and a steady stream of comments. I see you, I see you, I see you! When I get home, my mother is sitting at the kitchen computer as I walk in. There’s no smoothie waiting. She points to the cupboard and says, “Get yourself a snack if you want.”

  I’m not hungry, but I pour myself a glass of juice.

  Mom barely looks up from the computer. “That girl with the purple-and-orange hair is really blowing up. She’s on The Ellen Show and everything.”

  “That wasn’t real,” I say, trying to keep my voice that of a casual observer. “She just Photoshopped it.”

  “Yeah, but now Ellen wants her on the show. Look.”

  Mom brings up a YouTube video from The Ellen Show, and leans back so I can see over her shoulder. Ellen’s sitting on the set where she gives interviews. There’s a picture of my Instagram avatar on the screen next to her. She’s saying, “Have you seen this girl? Vicurious? She’s all over the internet. My followers have been talking about her all week, about how she’s reaching out to kids who feel invisible and ignored, and encouraging others to do the same.”

  The image switches to the one of me dancing with her. “She posted this picture of herself standing right over there, dancing with me. And I thought, great, now I don’t even remember who I’ve danced with.” The audience laughs. “And my producer said, ‘Ellen, she wasn’t really here. It’s Photoshopped.’ And then I was kind of bummed out, because she looks like a lot of fun.” More laughing. The whole time Ellen’s talking, they’re flashing my Instagram posts. With Neil and Jimmy and Jennifer and the Foo Fighters. “I thought, why don’t we invite her for real? So, Vicurious, if you’re out there, we’d love to have you on the show.”

  I stand there staring at the screen, no longer breathing. Mom doesn’t notice.

  “I bet they’ll get all kinds of imposters saying they’re her,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Because the real Vicurious would never go on TV in a million years.”

  Mom gives me a funny look. “Why not?”

  “Because she’s anonymous. Then she wouldn’t be anonymous anymore.”

  “She’d be famous,” says Mom.

  “She already is famous,” I point out.

  “But nobody knows who she is.”

  “She’s Vicurious.”

  Mom gives an exasperated sigh. “Who she really is. Nobody knows.”

  “Maybe she likes it that way.”

  Mom turns and studies me for a minute, and I think, This is it. Finally. She sees me. But she just shakes her head and turns away with a sigh.

  I retreat to my room, shakily, and rewatch the video a dozen times.

  I never thought I’d have to add “Appearing on the Ellen Show” to my Terror List.

  Two hours later, Mom calls me for dinner and I grab my phone from the dresser, which is a huge mistake. The notifications are coming in like lightning. I keep the phone in my lap under the table and glance at it once too often.

  “Vicky,” Mom says sternly. “Who’s texting you?”

  For one panicked second I expect her to ask if it’s Ellen. I shove the phone under my leg. “Nobody.”

  “Is it Jenna? Tell her we’re eating, sweetie.”

  I pretend to text Jenna but instead open Instagram, turn off the notifications, and log out completely.

  “Or is it those friends from the bus?” Mom says. “The ones in that photo you showed me? You never did tell me their names . . .”

  “It’s not them.”

  Mom finishes chewing the food she just scooped into her mouth and dabs her lips with her napkin. “I’d like to know who you’re communicating with online.”

  “Nobody,” I say. “It was just a game. It sends all these notifications. I turned it off.”

  “What game?”

  “Um . . . I, uh . . . Candy Crush?” I never play games on my phone, and she knows it.

  She reaches her hand out. “Give me your phone.”

  “What? Why?”

  “As your mother, it’s my right. No, it’s my duty to make sure you are using this device responsibly and safely. Let me see the phone.”

  I roll my eyes and hand it to her.

  She swipes the screen.

  “Password?”

  I shake my head.

  “Give me the password, Vicky.”

  She’ll see the text exchange with Jenna. And Lipton. She’ll see my pictures of Vicurious. The one of Jenna and her new friends on the bus. She’ll know I faked them as my own.

  “That’s invasion of privacy. I’m not giving you the password.”

  She stares at me. “Well, since I pay for the phone,
I’ll keep it until you do. Obviously, there’s someone on there you don’t want me to know about. And that concerns me.”

  “There’s nothing for you to be concerned about. I just want my privacy.”

  “Nora,” Dad says. “Come on . . .”

  “No,” Mom snaps at him. “This is exactly how kids get into trouble. Into drugs or . . . or . . . trouble with boys or with friends. They keep it secret. And parents are supposed to ask questions. That’s our job. So don’t tell me—”

  “Okay, okay.” Dad shakes his head and turns to me. “Vicky, could you please give your mother your password?”

  “I’m not using drugs.” I speak as calmly as possible. “I just don’t want Mom reading my stuff.”

  “I won’t read it. I just want to see who you’re corresponding with.”

  I clench my jaw and put out my hand so she’ll pass me the phone. But instead of keying in the password, I go to my message settings and turn off “show preview.” That way, if Lipton texts me, it won’t appear on the closed screen for all the world to see. I close my phone and hand it to her.

  “I thought you were putting in the password.”

  “Nope.”

  Dad sighs. “Then it looks like you’ll be losing your phone, kiddo.”

  I shrug.

  Mom disappears into her bedroom with my phone.

  “You really can’t just tell her your password?” says Dad.

  “No,” I say. “I really can’t.”

  He sighs. “You’ve gotta pick your battles, sweetie. Is this the one you want to fight?”

  “She’s the one picking fights,” I say. “I was just trying to eat my dinner.”

  Mom walks back in. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.” I stand to take my plate to the sink. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Shame,” she says, stabbing a tortellini with her fork and popping it into her mouth. “Just let me know when you want your phone back.”

  I go to my room and turn on my computer. When I open Instagram, I nearly pass out. I have 827,000 followers. And growing fast. I sit there staring at it long enough to see the number tick up to 828,000.

  At this rate, I could reach a million by morning. One. Million. Followers. It’s too many to fathom. What does that many people even look like? I search, “What does one million people look like?” Images come up. Outdoor events where the masses have gathered. A million people meditating with the Dalai Lama. The mall in Washington, DC, transformed into a sea of humanity.