People are streaming out, still buzzing with manic energy from the concert. They are flushed and sweat-soaked and alive. One very tall head bops above the crowd. Raj weaves his way to the sidewalk where everyone who’s waiting for a ride is gathering, and notices us.
He bounds over. “Wasn’t that amazing?” His voice is louder than it needs to be. “I didn’t even see you guys in there. It was crazy!”
“Yeah, we—” Lipton starts to explain that we didn’t get in, but Raj is spinning. Literally. He turns to some girls standing near us. “That was so amazing!”
They shout their amazement at an equal volume, and then they’re taking photos together. Raj is in selfie heaven, maybe because he’s not alone for once.
Lipton leans close. “You’re not upset we missed it?”
I blink at him. “Missed what?”
He laughs.
If time could stand still, this would be a pretty good moment to press the pause button. I am in a crowd but not terrified of it, in the company of someone who knows I have issues but likes me anyway. My lips are still vibrating from our kiss in the bowling alley.
Then Raj is upon us again, his shoulder pressing against my ear, squishing me between him and Lipton, phone raised at the end of his long arm. I don’t have time to slink away or be nervous before he snaps the photo. I’m still smiling.
“Hey, there’s my ride.” He moves toward the line of cars and waves. Several people—none from our high school—wave back and call out good-byes.
It appears Raj Radhakrishnan has found his people.
Lipton’s mother is alone when she collects us in the minivan, so we sit in the back together and hold hands beneath our coats—not that she would care or say anything. All she asks is if we had a nice time and we say, “Yes.” She doesn’t grill us like my mom would.
When we get to my house, Lipton walks me to the door, and I am 99 percent sure my mother is looking through the peephole, so I give him an awkward hug.
He says, “Thanks” and “See you Monday” and “I had a really good time” and I say, “Me too,” and silently curse Vicurious for weaseling into my thoughts. I vow to henceforth say “likewise” or “so did I.”
They don’t drive away until I am safely in the house, though it felt safer outside with Lipton than it does in my own living room, where my mother is ready with her questions.
“Did you have a good time?”
“Yes.”
“How was the concert?”
“Great.” This is not a lie, because it was by all reports a great concert. I don’t know why I’m keeping the bowling secret, except that it feels like a special thing between Lipton and me, and sharing it might ruin that.
“Did you see anyone else you know?”
“Raj Radhakrishnan,” I say. If she goes searching for him, she’ll likely find photographic evidence that I was there.
I manage to extricate myself after just three questions by claiming exhaustion, though I’ve never been more exhilarated in my life. Mom hugs me and Dad says, “Night, sweetie,” and I can’t wait to get to my room and lie on my bed. Not to rest, but to feel:
One hand warmer than the other.
Lips tingling.
Skin like memory foam, imprinted with his touch.
Heart buoyant, not thudding in my chest but bouncing there.
Breath light and fast in my throat until I slowly force it to go calm and deep.
The only thing missing is that I can’t tell my best friend about my first date or my first kiss or even my first time bowling. It makes me wonder if Jenna is having firsts of her own without me, and if she has anyone to tell.
It’s four o’clock in the morning when I wake up in my clothes. I change into pajamas and try to go back to sleep, but can’t. I would lie in bed with my phone if it wasn’t still hidden away in my mother’s room, battery most certainly dead. I toss, try to recover the feeling I had when I got home from my date, but a stronger one is nudging me. Not curiosity, exactly. It’s more a sensation of missing something. Or missing out. People are talking, things are happening, without me.
Vicurious is calling, and I can’t resist.
I climb out of bed and sit at my desk, stare into the computer’s dark screen before touching the keyboard to bring it to life. I wonder if they will someday discover that an addictive substance was somehow engineered into the internet, just like with cigarettes. How else does it keep drawing us in the way it does? It can’t only be the worry of being left out. Can it?
Because the lure has become a physical one. A fidgety restlessness. I need to know.
I click open Instagram and type in my password. The post about Adrian’s gig fills the screen. I scroll through hundreds of new comments, which fall into two categories: complaints from those who couldn’t get in and celebration from those who did.
Some thank me for letting them know about the concert; others blame me for telling too many people about the concert. They clearly don’t need me to continue their conversation. Their comments are still coming in, and have been for hours now without a word from Vicurious. They could just as easily gather on East 48’s page, or the Foo Fighters’, or Neil deGrasse Tyson’s, or whoever else strikes their fandom.
Again, I am tempted to delete the whole account and commit to living my own, real life. Not a vicarious one. I may never surf a mosh pit, or walk the red carpet, or explore the cosmos again. But I will hold hands with Lipton Gregory. I will be kissed in bowling alleys. And I will feel alive.
I will live.
I slide the cursor to “edit profile” and click on the “temporarily disable” link. But Instagram does not want me to make any rash decisions. I may regret seizing this rare moment of bravery. Everything will be hidden, they tell me, but I can bring it all back to life simply by logging in. Better yet, I could set my posts to private, or block people.
Instagram does not understand that I am the one who needs blocking.
I click through the reasons I must choose from to explain why I wish to disable my account:
Just need a break
Trouble getting started
Created a second account
Privacy concerns
Want to remove something
Too busy/too distracting
Can’t find people to follow
Too many ads
But my reasons aren’t there. There’s no “Need to get a real life” or “Can’t hide here forever” or “An actual smile is way better than a picture of one” or even “I’ve been keeping this thing a secret for way too long and really need to get rid of it before anyone finds out.”
There’s that final, catch-all “Something else” choice so I click on that and I plug in my password. The arrow is hovering over the “submit” button when I think of why I started Vicurious in the first place. To be seen . . . by Jenna. What if she does see me? What if she tries to send me a message? What if I miss it? What if I already have?
I decide to look for her just one more time before I shut Vicurious down, in the last place justjennafied made contact. It was the photo of Kat. I go there and scan the comments that followed, but don’t find her. The only other place I think to check is the fuzzy sock cocoon, where justjennafied left a “me too.” I click to the photo and start scrolling. Interspersed between oohs and ahhs of fuzzy-sock-loving fans are the tiny voices of those who kept me from deleting my account the last time. I didn’t see them in the comments of the East 48 post, but they’re still here, hurting and alone:
exitstagebeth Nobody cares about me.
ihateme2ew I don’t know why I’m even here.
problxems My teacher told me I’m a waste of space.
sadlyghostly All I want to do is sleep.
There’s more. One girl writes a long paragraph in the comments, about a group of boys at her school who rate girls on a hotness scale of one to ten. She doesn’t care if they give her a ten or a two, either way it makes her feel worthless.
Another writes tha
t she’s been eating pears lately. That she can’t stop. It seems a harmless addiction until she adds, “I’m allergic to pears.” And a few more lines down she elaborates, “Like, rush-to-the-hospital, EpiPen allergic.”
I sit back, staring at the screen. I was ready to let Vicurious go. Really, I was. But my followers are not. They need me. No, they need her. So I start replying. I offer the hand they are reaching out for, the shoulder they need to cry on.
I tell the girl who is being rated on her looks to ignore them. Her body is not for boys to judge and their ratings do not decide her worth. I make the pear-eating girl promise she’ll never do that again. I try to respond to everyone who believes they are unloved or unwanted or uncared for.
I care, @exitstagebeth
@ihateme2ew You’re here to find your people. We are your people! And we care.
Hey, @problxems—your teacher is a jerk. Don’t listen!
@sadlyghostly I feel the same way sometimes.
I’m not sure what advice to give to someone who sounds depressed, like sadlyghostly. I don’t want to say something totally useless like “cheer up!” because I know it’s not that easy. I search online for a hotline or something, but there are so many, and I have no idea where she lives.
The one person I know who can relate to the experience of having depression is Rhyming Rhea, so I go to her YouTube. I find the video where she rhymes about some of the ways she deals with depression.
She walks her dog, dances, reads books that make her laugh, watches TV, even takes a long bath (lots of bubbles in that shot!). It’s fun, but serious, too. She talks about therapy and medication. I copy the link and go to my profile, which has thus far been completely blank. I write:
I make myself feel better by living vicariously. When that’s not enough, go here:
I post the link. I hope she won’t mind. I don’t think she will. And I go back to commenting. Whenever I think it might help someone, I write, “click the link in my profile.” But mostly I write, “I care” and “you are not alone” and “I see you.”
I do it until the sun has been up for hours and Mom is tapping on my door asking if I’m awake and do I want breakfast. I devour the eggs and toast she makes for me, and return to my computer to write some more. There are so many comments, and the more I write, the more pleas for help I get. Clearly, no one else is listening to these people, or answering them. When I do, they want more. They write back. They challenge and question and doubt.
exitstagebeth You’re just saying that to be nice.
ihateme2ew You don’t even know me.
problxems Thanks. But what do I do? Drop out?
sadlyghostly I feel this way ALL the time.
And so many more.
I check the number of new comments. They are double what I had when I started replying. All the tingly lightness I felt after my date with Lipton is gone. It is hard enough to carry my own sadness and loneliness. But shouldering everyone else’s will bury me.
I take a break, pace my room as if I can walk it off. But each second I’m away from the computer is another dozen comments.
Not all my followers are troubled. Most are happy. But I have to dig through their bursts of “LOVE THIS!” and “OMG you are the best” to find those who need my help. If the two kinds of followers would just talk to each other . . .
I scan my comments again, start tallying them up. There are about six positive comments for every negative one. Six happy, funny, silly, joyful (or at least trying to appear so) people for every one who is hurting.
I go to my closet. Pull out the wig. Throw on a black T-shirt. I won’t need the skirt today, because this is only going to be a head shot. I choose the white cat-eyed sunglasses. They are the most serious I have. I get dressed, sit in front of the computer again, and open the Photo Booth. This will be as close up as any image I have posted, so I make sure all my hair is completely tucked into the wig. I apply lipstick. Neatly at first, then smearing a little outside the lines.
I snap the photo. One frame is all I need. But instead of uploading the image straight to Instagram, I print it out on my color printer. I dig through my desk drawers for all the thick, colorful markers I can find. Then, all around the edges of the page, I write the sadness and pain of my followers:
#Hated#Broken#Ugly#Fat#Nobodycares
#Wasteofspace#Unwanted#Unloved#Scared
#Alone#Weak#Sad#Depressed#Angry
#Hopeless#Ignored#Notgoodenough
#Seeme#Talktome#Listen
I write it like a word cloud, some words big and some smaller, but I curve them around my head, my neck, my shoulders, along the jagged edges of my hair and into all four corners of the paper. I fill the emptiness with despair. My own bleeds onto the page, too.
#Mybestfrienddumpedme
#Pathetic#Getalife
I thought Lipton might be able to fill the hole Jenna left, but he is carving out his own space in my heart. The one Jenna occupied is still empty, and still aching. Even though I pushed it all down, the feelings are still there.
Capping the markers, I put the picture on the scanner and capture a new image. A picture of a picture.
When I posted the #seeme images before, the plea for help was subtle. It was a nudge. A tip of my chin toward those in need. Hey, look there. Look around. See that girl? The one nobody ever notices? Say hi. Notice.
And some did. Adrian Ahn did. Without any expectation of a reward in return, he reached out.
This time, I pull the image into the app that lets me post from my computer, and let my cursor hover for a minute while I think of the message that will go with it. And this is what I come up with:
If you follow me, please find someone in the comments NOW who needs a kind word, a listener, a friend. Reach out. Be there for one another. I cannot do it #alone.
I post the image and log out before the comments start appearing, because I’m exhausted. And I know they’ll do it. They have to, for when I’m not here to do it for them, which might be tomorrow or next week or months from now. I dive into bed. They’ll be fine, I tell myself.
Will I?
27
I’M NERVOUS TO SEE LIPTON on Monday. Afraid that he came to his senses over the weekend and has realized I am not all that.
But I can’t not look at him. And when I do, he passes me a note.
I miss you.
I quickly scribble my response:
I’m sitting right next to you.
His reply:
Not close enough.
I smile and tuck the note into my pocket and spend the rest of the class fighting the urge to inch my desk closer to his. After history, he offers to walk me to my next class, even though he needs to head in the opposite direction.
“You’ll be late,” I say.
He shrugs. “So, I’ll be late.”
We walk, shoulders bumping more than necessary.
“How was the rest of your weekend?” he asks. We are back to awkward small talk.
“Fine,” I say, because truthful answers like “anguished” or “sleepless” or “emotionally draining” would only lead to more questions.
“I found out what that girl was talking about at the concert,” he says. “About Vicurious.”
I nearly choke, but pretend to simply be clearing my throat. “Oh?”
“It’s an Instagram account. She’s got like a million followers. She posted something about the concert. Have you seen her?”
“I’m not on Instagram,” I say.
“Me neither. I mean, not really. I haven’t posted anything. I just signed up so I could see what all the fuss was about.” He shrugs. “I thought maybe you heard of her. Everyone’s talking about it.”
I shake my head, lips pursed in a tight smile.
Lipton touches a protective hand to my arm, guiding me sideways so I don’t run into some kid who is barreling down the hallway toward us. “She actually reminds me of you.”
“I’m not on Instagram,” I say again. “I don’t
know anything about it.”
He chuckles. “Don’t worry. There’s not going to be a test or anything. I just thought you might be curious.”
“Right. Sure. I’ll check it out.” We arrive at the door to my biology class. “Here I am. You better hurry.”
Lipton says a quick “Bye!” and disappears.
I’m about to take my seat behind Mallory-of-the-bathroom when someone jumps up from the back row and says, “Vicky! Hey!”
It’s Raj. I feel bad I never noticed him there before, because of keeping my head down, but I can’t miss him now. He bounds to my desk and shows me the photo he took at the concert. “I’ll send you a copy. What’s your email?”
I give it to him and he types it in. Mallory says, “You were there?”
Suddenly everyone is staring at me and I can’t answer. I can only blink at her.
“We both were,” says Raj, chest puffed out. He holds his phone so she can see the photo.
Her eyes light up. “With Tea Bag Gregory?” She snorts and turns away from us. “Sounds like a great time.”
“Actually, it was,” says Raj, sticking his tongue out at the back of her head before returning to his desk.
I want to do more than stick my tongue out. I want to shove her. Or yank her hair. The urge builds all through class, held down (barely) by the ever-present fear of drawing attention to myself. I seethe so hard my jaw starts to ache from clenching my teeth.
I could ruin her. Well, Vicurious could. Expose her to a million people. Call her out as a bully, a snob, a . . .
Wait. No.
I take a deep breath. Vicurious is not about vengeance. Or shaming people. Mallory isn’t the nicest girl I’ve ever met, but maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe her home life is horrible or the boy she likes doesn’t like her back. Maybe if I just talk to her, give her a chance to apologize?
By the time the bell rings I am calm, but pretty terrified over what I’m about to do. I stand and tap Mallory on the shoulder.
She turns, one hip jutting out.
“His name is Lipton,” I say, trembling under her glare. I can feel my sweat starting and my stomach twisting in knots, but I need to say this. Lipton would do it for me. “Lipton Gregory, not Tea Bag.”
How to Disappear Page 20