Sometime in the middle of the night, Vicurious passed one million followers. I knew it might happen, and am surprisingly calm about this development. It’s because of Ellen, I tell myself. Not me. She tells people to follow, and they follow. Rhyming Rhea started the ball rolling, and Ellen pushed it down a very steep hill.
Now at 1.2 million followers, my Instagram is nearly as big as the population of Dallas, Texas. Or the state of New Hampshire. But it’s spread all over the country and the world. Some of the comments are in languages I don’t even recognize.
I try not to think again about what all those people would look like gathered up together in one place. They come to me one at a time, I remind myself. I read their comments one at a time, respond to them one at a time.
One person isn’t that scary.
I check the East 48 post. It has 98,300 likes and 2,400 comments. I spend the next hour scrolling through them. Marissa must’ve spent all night watching the feed, because about every twentieth comment is her announcing their concert Saturday. It’s their biggest yet, at a venue that usually hosts national acts. If they pack the house, it’ll be their big break.
I should’ve tagged the band. I edit my post to add it. A few minutes later, this happens:
east48rocks Thanks for the support, Vi! Wish you could be at our gig tonight.
vicurious Me too.
raychaelbee Me too!
anonymuskateer Me too.
hatemiselfee Me too!
marissadimarco Me too!!!!
And on and on. I log out, and wipe my browser history. I shouldn’t have written “me too” this time. It takes away from the meaning of those two simple words that has developed among Vicurious followers. Sure, it started with the Foo Fighters post, people saying they were there, too. Me too, me too. But then it turned into something more. It meant “I’m scared, too” or “I’m alone, too” or, more important:
You are not alone.
And I’m not anymore. But it still feels that way, without Jenna. I keep thinking, maybe she didn’t mean it, what she said about wasting all those years on me. Maybe it was all a huge misunderstanding. I could call her, or send her an email.
But that annoying little voice asks, Why would you do that? She’s turned her back on me twice now.
Why would I set myself up for that kind of humiliation again? Especially now, when I think I’m making progress?
I wouldn’t.
I won’t.
I can’t.
I . . .
Oh, God. I can’t go on this date. What was I thinking, saying yes to a concert where I’ll be surrounded? Crowds are the absolute worst. So many people, so many opportunities to humiliate myself.
I start sweating, the room spinning. I don’t have a paper bag so I cup my hands and breathe into them, sitting at my desk chair to drop my head between my knees. From down here, where I can see the flaws of my room again, I hear the bleep of an email on my computer.
I sit up, too fast. The room’s spinning again. When it stops, I reach for the mouse and click open my in-box. It’s a note from Lipton:
I can’t wait to see you. I’m so nervous. I just put my shoes on the wrong feet. Please don’t laugh if my clothes are on backward when I come to pick you up. It’s like I no longer have opposable thumbs. Ouch. I just poked myself in the eye with my toothbrush.
I laugh out loud, and my nerves begin to slip away. Not completely, but enough. I write back:
Thanks, I needed that. See you tonight!
I head to the bathroom, still shaky, and stare at myself in the mirror. The eye makeup that was so expertly applied is now all smudged. I wash it off and make three attempts at reapplying before it looks almost as good as it did when we left the store. Mom calls me for dinner and I try to eat, but my stomach is too knotted. For once, she doesn’t give me a hard time. I excuse myself to get dressed. The new clothes go back on, and Mom’s shoes. I even add a pair of earrings and one of Vicurious’s bracelets, which I’m counting on not being recognizable by itself.
Then it’s time, and my mother shouts, “They’re here!”
I peek out the window and see a minivan in the driveway. I breathe. The doorbell rings. Mom is calling my name. She’s answering the door.
I look at myself in the mirror one last time. Smooth my hair that doesn’t need smoothing. Pull the ponytail tighter. Put my hand to the doorknob.
“Vicky!” Mom calls down the hall. “Gregory’s here!”
Oh, God. Did she really just do that?
When I reach the living room, Lipton is saying, “It’s Lipton, ma’am. Lipton Gregory.”
“Oh, yes.” Mom does an exaggerated head palm. “I knew that. I must be nervous for your date.” She giggles.
I want to die, but I’m too busy looking at Lipton and trying to keep my jaw from scraping my knees.
He got his hair cut.
Gone is the bowl-shaped mom cut. In its place is the best hair I have ever seen on a guy. It’s cut super short around the sides and back, but the front is still longish. Kind of intentionally shaggy and . . .
“Your hair.” I didn’t mean to say that out loud. “It looks great.”
“Yours too.” He grins. Tooth gap, check. Dimple, check. “You look really nice.”
My mother is teary-eyed smiling at us.
I grab my coat and the purse I spent an hour packing with a lifetime supply of mints, tissues, and an extra T-shirt rolled very small and squeezed into a Ziploc bag, just in case I sweat through the one I’m wearing. Which, at the rate things are going, might happen before we even get to the concert.
“Let’s go,” I say.
Lipton holds the door to my house for me, and even puts his hand gently on my lower back to lead me out.
“Would you like the front seat or back?” he asks.
I’m a little puzzled, because I figured we’d sit together. “The back is fine,” I say.
He closes his eyes briefly before opening the car door. There’s a girl sitting there, on the opposite side. She looks about eight. “That’s my sister, Tammy,” Lipton says. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit up front? I can sit in the back.”
I glance at Tammy. She smiles. “It’s okay,” I say.
We load ourselves in. Mrs. Gregory turns and introduces herself, reaching a hand out to shake, which I do. I hope she doesn’t notice how clammy my palm is. Then his little sister reaches her hand out. “It’s very nice to meet you,” she says. “Lipton talks about you all the time. He said—”
“Tammy!” Lipton and his mother silence her in unison.
“Geez,” she says. “I wasn’t going to say anything bad.”
“Don’t say anything at all,” he says, teeth clenched.
And thus commences the most awkward car ride ever. Lipton and I can’t talk to each other, and his sister did the lip-zip-and-throw-away-the-key gesture. So, that leaves his mother to fill the silence with attempts at conversation.
“Have you heard this band before, Vicky?”
I swallow. Small talk with parents (or anyone, for that matter) is not my forte. “Yes,” I manage quietly. “But never live. Only on YouTube.”
More silence ensues. Lipton turns on the radio. It’s Taylor Swift, and he immediately turns it back off.
“I like that song!” Tammy whines.
“We are all painfully aware of your fascination with Taylor Swift,” he says.
Tammy turns to me. “Do you like her? If you like her, Lipton will turn it back on.”
I pause to consider my options. Taylor Swift is not my favorite, but turning Lipton’s sister against me right off the bat doesn’t seem like a wise choice. “I like some of her stuff,” I say.
“She likes her!” Tammy reaches forward to pound on the side of Lipton’s seat. “Turn it back on.”
Lipton twists around to raise an eyebrow at me. I can only shrug. So he turns it on, and his sister bounces around to the tune. The moment it ends, she puts her eager face in front of mine and says,
“Are you going to be my brother’s girlfriend?”
My mouth pops open in surprise. “I, uh . . .”
“Tammy,” Lipton’s mother scolds. “Enough.”
“Well, excuse me for living,” she huffs.
I know Lipton is mortified, and I feel bad benefitting from his embarrassment, but it’s the only thing keeping my own anxiety in check. If he was as smooth and cool as he looks right now, I’d have passed out. And here I am, still upright.
We arrive at the concert venue a few minutes later, and Lipton barely waits for the car to stop before he leaps out and opens my door. I manage to exit the car without any further embarrassment, except for the kissy faces I’m fairly sure his sister is making behind my back.
Lipton glares at her as he shuts the door.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I had no idea my sister was going to have to come along. My dad had to work, and—”
“It’s okay,” I assure him.
We both turn to face the Clubhouse, and that’s when we realize there’s a line wrapping around the building and down the street.
“Did you get tickets?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t think they even sold tickets in advance. I just have this.” He holds up the little postcard Adrian gave him.
We get in line and shuffle slowly forward with everyone else. “I didn’t realize they were so popular,” says Lipton.
“Me either.”
The girl standing in front of us looks me up and down, then Lipton, sort of rolls her eyes, and turns back to her friends.
Lipton leans toward my ear. “Am I not dressed right or something?”
“You’re fine.” Very fine, I might add. He’s got new, slim jeans on that fit perfectly, and a charcoal-gray shirt and black peacoat.
It’s late November and pretty cold. I shove my hands in my coat pockets and shiver. Lipton inches closer and puts his arm around my shoulder, slowly tucking me against him. A smile slides easily to my lips. Lipton notices and bestows one of his widest grins upon me. I feel a flush rising to my cheeks.
At least the cold isn’t a problem anymore.
The line, which has completely stopped moving now, doesn’t bother me, either. It’s just me and Lipton, the warmth of his arm through my coat, the feel of his chest against my shoulder. His breath in my hair.
I know Lipton can’t make me a different person. He can’t magically vanquish all my fears or stop my irrational freak-outs. But right now, in this moment, in the space of his arms, I almost feel normal—at least, what I imagine normal to be.
Then someone comes out of the Clubhouse entrance and announces that the building is full to capacity and the fire marshal will not allow anyone else to enter. “I’m very sorry,” the man says. “The band will be returning for three additional concerts, which will be announced on their website in the next few days.”
There are cries of disappointment all around us.
A couple of girls actually start weeping. Some of them mob the guy at the entrance, begging to be let in.
The guy just shakes his head and keeps saying “I’m sorry” and telling them to check the band’s website for information on future concerts. People start to disperse, noisily and unhappily. The girl standing in front of us gives Lipton and me another dirty look, as if we’re to blame, and says, “Stupid Vicurious.”
I startle backward. “I’m not Vicurious!”
“Yeah, no kidding. But it’s all her followers that jammed the place.”
Lipton takes a step toward her. “We’re not followers of anybody. Adrian Ahn invited us personally.” He glances at me. “Who is she talking about?”
I shrug.
Immediately, I feel bad. That shrug was a lie, which means I just lied to Lipton’s face.
She snarls at us and stomps off.
“I guess we should’ve gotten here earlier,” says Lipton. “I didn’t realize.”
“It’s okay. Concerts scare me, anyway.”
“You don’t mind missing it?”
“I kind of have this fear of people,” I say. “You may have noticed.”
“Then it’s not just me?”
“It’s not you at all. Not anymore.”
We stand there smiling at each other until the sidewalk is empty and the flush on our cheeks is no longer enough to keep us warm.
“What do you want to do?” he says. “My mom isn’t picking us up until ten thirty.”
We look around. There’s not much to choose from within walking distance. An orthodontist’s office, a bank, a 7-Eleven, and a bowling alley. I’ve never bowled in my life. It’s probably not a good idea to start now.
But Lipton’s eyes light up when he sees the bowling alley. “Do you bowl?”
I shake my head.
“You want to try?” He’s bouncing on his toes a little bit. Grinning.
I blink up at the Bowl-a-Rama sign, then back to Lipton’s hopeful face. He looks so relieved to have found something to salvage our date. I glance at the 7-Eleven, which is our only alternative aside from walking around freezing our butts off.
“I can teach you,” says Lipton. “It’ll be fun.”
My head starts nodding before my brain has given it permission, and I hear myself say, “Okay.”
“You sure?” Lipton takes my hand and squeezes it.
I am not the least bit sure about trying something new—a sport no less—in a very public place, but I squeeze his hand back and nod anyway. I can’t live vicariously forever. “Just please don’t let me make a complete fool of myself.”
He laughs. “Don’t worry. That’s my job.”
25
INSIDE THE BOWL-A-RAMA, THE NOISE is at first jarring. They’re blasting the kind of pop music that makes your teeth ache, punctuated by the electronic beeps and buzzes of a dozen arcade games. Add the hum of people trying to talk over it all and you can barely hear the clatter of bowling pins in the background.
It’s the kind of noise you can get lost in, though. And once I adjust to the volume of it, I like that nobody will hear me if I say something stupid.
“I still can’t believe the concert sold out,” Lipton says as we head over to the check-in counter. “Adrian must be out of his mind.”
“Marissa, too.”
“That girl in front of us, though. What was she talking about?”
“Something on Instagram, I think.” It’s a lie of omission, and I feel bad about that, too. But I’m not ready to tell him about Vicurious. I don’t know if I ever will be. I rack my brain for another topic, anything to change the subject.
“Have you bowled here before?”
“A few times.”
I glance at the nearest lane, where a guy wearing some kind of heavy-duty wrist supports knocks all the bowling pins down in one shot. He looks professional. If I have to bowl next to him, I’ll pass out for sure.
Lipton leans down to talk low in my ear. “It’ll be fun. Don’t worry.”
So of course I start worrying, because people never say “don’t worry” if there is absolutely no cause for worry. They also don’t say “be careful” if something is perfectly safe. Or “stay warm” if there isn’t a distinct possibility of freezing to death.
Lipton smiles and swings my hand as we wait our turn in line. Our shoulders brush together and it is enough to pull me out of my head, away from all the stuff that is spiraling out of control. I lean into him, and he leans into me, and it’s okay that we aren’t very good at using our words.
I reach in my pocket for money when we get to the register, but Lipton insists on paying. Then we’re directed to a different counter that is dwarfed by a towering wall of shoe cubbies, which are occupied by the ugliest examples of footwear I have ever seen. Flat-soled shoes with red on one side, blue on the other, white laces, and white heels.
Lipton notices the crinkle of my nose. “Sexy, huh?”
“People wear those?” I say.
He laughs and asks for a size ten. The guy at the count
er looks down at us from his elevated perch, grabs a pair of shoes from one of the cubbies, and slams them on the counter in front of us without a word. “Uh, thanks,” says Lipton.
He and Surly Shoe Guy both look to me then. The noise drowning everything else out falls away and I am suddenly on display. All my anxiety comes rushing back, and I’m convinced that I will say the wrong thing even if all they want from me is my shoe size. It will be the wrong shoe size. I’m sure of it.
I step backward and chirp, “No, thank you.”
Surly Shoe Guy gives me a weird look, and Lipton leans to my ear. “You need shoes.”
I drop my eyes to the ankle boots my mother loaned me. Not shoes, technically. But close enough. “I’m fine with these.”
He smiles nervously, and immediately I know I’m doing something wrong. I can feel myself starting to sweat.
“They don’t let you bowl in street shoes. You have to wear theirs, or bring your own.” He turns over the pair in his hand to show me the smooth sole. “See, you have to be able to slide. Plus, it keeps the lanes clean.”
“Oh. Okay.” I glance up at the shoe guy, who is all head-shaking and eye-rolling.
“You, uh . . . want to go home?” says Lipton. “Do something else?”
“No. I’ll wear the shoes.” But I don’t move, because I can’t, because the shoe guy is judging me. I can only stand there hovering behind Lipton, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might look at me funny. Which is everyone.
Lipton touches my arm. “I’ll get them for you. What size?”
“Eight,” I whisper.
He returns to the counter and says, “Size eight, please.”
Shoe Guy scans the size eight cubbies and grabs the most scuffed pair he can find. The laces are frayed and dirty, and the suede is completely worn off in places. Someone has taken a red Sharpie to the bare spots, even the ones on the blue side. They’re hideous.
Lipton stares at the shoes. He lays his hands on the counter. I tug gently on the back of his shirt because a line has formed and everyone is looking at us and I just want to take the shoes and go.
But he doesn’t pick them up. He says, “Do you have a nicer pair?”
“No. Sorry.” Shoe Guy motions to the next person. “Size?”
How to Disappear Page 18