How to Disappear

by Sharon Huss Roat

  He is wearing the shirt and the new jeans he wore on our date. And his hair looks even better than it did last week.

  “I have to work on my history presentation. I wrote the report over break but I still have to figure out—”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.” I blink at him. “Cheating? Remember, I am a group of one.”

  “It’s not fair that you have to do it on your own when everyone else had a group,” he says.

  I shrug. “I kind of brought that on myself.”

  “Maybe Mr. Braxley will let me help you. I’ll just say I want to work on a second project. He should be happy to find a student so motivated, right?” Lipton crinkles his nose at me uncertainly.

  I crinkle back.

  So Lipton asks at the end of class.

  “You want to do what now?” Mr. Braxley is understandably confused by Lipton’s desire to do a second presentation, after the way he got skewered on the first.

  “I’d like to help Vicky with her project. Since she doesn’t have anyone else on her team.”

  Mr. Braxley squints at me over the tops of his glasses. “You okay with that, Decker?”

  I nod.

  “Fine, then,” says Braxley. “You only get credit for one of the presentations, though. I’ll count whichever one scores highest.”

  Lipton slides back into his desk next to me. “We are going to ace this thing.”

  “Didn’t you ace the Battle of Thermopylae already?”

  “Ninety-eight percent. We can do better.” He notices the flash of panic on my face and quickly adds, “Kidding. No pressure.”

  It takes a couple of days to figure out how and where to work. Everything I’ve done on the project so far is stored on my computer, which makes my house the logical place to go. But Vicurious is on that computer. And I don’t want Lipton anywhere near her. Even if I scrub my browser history, all the files that created her are there. I’m afraid he’ll stumble upon the evidence.

  So I lie and tell him we can’t work at my house, that my mom won’t let me have a boy in my room.

  He offers his house. “We have a game room. We can work on the computer in there.”

  My mother thinks I’m working with Hallie Bryce on this project, so I go with a general, “Is it okay if I do homework at Lipton’s house tomorrow?” I’m still expecting to be grilled, but she must be distracted by the fact that I am willingly interacting with other humans.

  “Sure, sweetie,” she says. “What time?”

  “Right after school.”

  We decide to forgo the whole process of getting approval for me to ride the bus to Lipton’s, because it involves a ridiculous number of permission slips and signatures from practically every person I’ve ever met, in triplicate. The idea of getting on a different bus also isn’t my favorite—all those kids staring and whispering and nudge-nudging and, yeah, not a good idea. My mother drives me instead, and makes a little “hmmm” sound when she sees how close his house is to where she dropped me off for Marissa’s party.

  She stops the car in his driveway and starts to unbuckle her seat belt.

  “You’re not coming in,” I say. “I’m sixteen, Mom. Not six.”

  She purses her lips, pauses for dramatic effect, and refastens the seat belt. “Fine. What time should I pick you up?”

  “I don’t know. Five thirty?”

  “If you had your phone,” she says, all syrupy, “you could call me when you’re ready.”

  “If you give it back to me . . .” I mimick her tone. “I would be happy to do that.”

  “Password?”

  I climb out of the car and say, “Five thirty is good,” before shutting the door.

  I’ve resigned myself to never getting the phone back, and I don’t really miss it that much. The reason I got it in the first place was to text with Jenna. And any hope I had of that ever happening again has been officially dashed.

  The only one I would text or talk to now is Lipton, but there’s something magical about not knowing, not seeing, not sharing everything. It gives my imagination a place to go. It heightens the anticipation of seeing him again.

  I could almost burst with it when he opens the door, smiling tentatively. He tilts his head to the side, and I take a mental picture that will only ever be mine.

  “Hi,” he says. “Come on in.”

  I duck inside. He leans out to wave to my mother. She’ll like that.

  Lipton shows me around the main floor of his house, which is easy since it’s basically one huge room. There are exposed beams on the ceiling and a massive stone fireplace. His cat, Kitty, formerly of the shrubbery, is curled atop a fleece blanket folded on the wide arm of the couch. The kitchen looks out on the dining and living areas, which have wall-to-wall windows as well as skylights. It’s bright and open and I’ve never felt so exposed and cozy at the same time.

  Mrs. Gregory calls hello from the kitchen, where she’s chopping vegetables. Lipton’s little sister is sitting at a nearby table doing homework. She waves energetically, but is clearly under strict orders not to speak to me. She bites her lips and wiggles like she’s got to pee.

  I wave back.

  “In here,” says Lipton, leading me to a smaller room off the living area, which has a big L-shaped counter that runs along two walls. One side has an enormous Apple computer monitor, and the other side has trays and bins filled with every kind of paper and craft supply imaginable. The room is covered in artwork and accolades—including a whole wall of honor roll and perfect attendance certificates. There’s a trio of beanbag chairs in the center of the room, facing a big-screen TV in the other corner.

  “Wow,” I say. “This is . . . wow.”

  “Homework slash game room,” he announces.

  “Wow.”

  “You said that.”

  “I just need to say it one more time and I promise I’ll be done. Wow.” Then I notice the class pictures. Lipton in kindergarten, first grade, second—all the way up to sophomore year. He’s pretty much had the same haircut the whole time. Until last weekend, that is. I point to the one where he’s missing both of his front teeth. “Look at you. You’re adorable.”

  His eyes go wide like he’s completely forgotten the photos were there, and he dives to conceal the worst of them—grades seven through nine—behind his hand and forearm. “Not adorable. Promise you won’t ever look at these again.”

  “How am I going to resist? They’re hanging on the wall.”

  “Avert your eyes,” he says. “Seriously. There are some things so hideous you can’t unsee them.”

  I smile and look toward the opposite corner. “Might make it difficult to get our work done like this.”

  “Hold on.” He darts over to the art supplies and shuffles around there, then back to the school pictures.

  When he finally lets me turn around, he’s taped some blank pieces of paper over the pictures. He scratches the back of his head. “Sorry. Thanks. So embarrassing.”

  I don’t argue or try to convince him it’s not embarrassing, because I hate when people do that—tell you how you should or should not feel. My mother is constantly saying “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about” and “You’re being silly.” Which may be true. But having the validity of the feeling itself dismissed only makes it worse.

  Instead, I lay my stuff on the counter. “You want to get started?”

  Lipton’s face relaxes, and we pull chairs up to the computer. I tell him this idea I have to combine images of the siege from centuries ago with present-day photographs. Show modern-day relevance of the historical event.

  “Brilliant,” he says, grinning.

  I dump everything I have onto his hard drive, and he pulls up what he’s collected. We go back and forth. He suggests using music, something classical and dramatic. I want to put the entire story on the screen in short paragraphs, so I don’t have to talk at all. He convinces me to narrat
e.

  “We’ll record it. It’ll be fine. You won’t have to be in front of the class. All you’ll have to do is press play and take a seat.”

  I give him a look. That’s what he did, and we all know how that turned out.

  “You can use your regular voice,” he says, reading my thoughts. “We’ll put it on a USB drive. No screen savers.”

  My heart rate definitely jumps up a notch, and my stomach churns. But it’s not as bad as it could be. I’ve been diligently repressing any thoughts of my class presentation, afraid of how my body might react to the fear of something so big. And maybe there’s a delayed reaction at work. Maybe I haven’t even begun to process what I’m about to do. But having Lipton to help me is making it all so much less terrifying. Speaking into a recording device versus standing in front of the class? That’s like night and day. Like yin and . . .

  I push the thought aside, the feeling that I may never regain my balance. Lipton actually reaches out to steady me then, physically. He presses his hands to the sides of my arms. “I’ll be right here,” he says.

  I nod. “Okay.”

  Still, I set about writing the briefest script possible. Lipton pairs up images of past and present. We’re so wrapped up in it, neither of us notices how long we’ve been working until I hear my mother’s voice. In the living room. Crooning over the Gregorys’ house.

  “Oooh. What a beauuuuutiful fireplace! And those beams. I’ve always wanted a house with exposed beams,” she says, which is news to me.

  I gather my things.

  “Same time tomorrow?” Lipton asks as we’re joining our mothers by the door.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “You’re welcome to work at our house, too,” my mother chimes in. “Any time. Vicky practically has an entire Apple store in her room.”

  Lipton darts a curious glance at me. I told him she wouldn’t allow it.

  “We’re all set up on Lipton’s computer now,” I say quickly. “They have a special room for homework and stuff.”

  “Whatever works best,” she says, her smile forced.

  We say our thank-yous and good-byes and, as expected, she’s all over me in the car.

  “How much homework do you have, exactly, that you need to meet every night?”

  “It’s a project.”

  “Oh.” She adjusts her rearview mirror. “What project?”

  “World history.” I don’t even consider lying to cover my previous lie.

  “Another world history project?”

  “No, it’s the same one I’ve been working on. Siege of Jerusalem.”

  “With Hallie Bryce?”

  “No.” I swallow. “She’s not in my class.”

  “But I thought you said—”

  “I made that up.”

  She sucks in a breath. “You . . . Why would you lie to me, Vicky?”

  I shrug.

  “What on earth would compel you to lie about something like that?” Her voice has moved into its higher octaves.

  I could lie some more to cover the lie, but I’m tired. It’s getting so hard to always put a false face forward to hide the real one. I feel like Marissa did the other day—I just can’t sustain it. I’m holding as much as I can carry and it’s all going to fall apart if I don’t find a way to lighten my load.

  So, I sigh, and I spill. “I lied because it made you happy to think I was working on a project with someone like Hallie Bryce, who is beautiful and talented, rather than working alone, which is what I was doing until Lipton offered to help me. I lied to give you a rare opportunity to not be disappointed in me.”

  “Vicky, how can you say that?”

  “It’s okay, Mom. I’ve been a disappointment. It’s understandable that you would be disappointed.”

  She glances at me, eyes watery. “I don’t think you’re a disappointment, sweetheart. Is that how you feel?”

  “It’s not a matter of feeling. It’s a point of fact,” I say. “I haven’t lived up to any expectation you’ve ever had of me. I don’t dress the way you like, or wear my hair the way you like, or have friends or activities or achievements you can brag about. By definition, I’m pretty sure that makes me a disappointment.”

  We pull into our driveway, and my mother kills the engine. She doesn’t move, though. She just sits there, hands on the steering wheel at ten and two.

  It’s making me nervous. “Look, never mind. I was thinking about Hallie Bryce that day and I don’t know why I said we were working on the project together. Wishful thinking or something. And it made that look on your face go away.”

  I fiddle with my backpack so I don’t have to meet her gaze.

  “What look on my face?” she asks.

  I didn’t mean to get this honest, but now it won’t stop coming out. “That look of disappointment.” I lift my eyes and see that she’s got the expression on her face right now. She’s disappointed in me even now. I point to her face. “That look.”

  She flips the rearview mirror down to see her face, then turns to me.

  “Vicky, this isn’t disappointment. This is concern. This is love. This is a mother wanting everything for her daughter, wanting her to be happy, and trying desperately to figure out what will make her so. If there is disappointment on my face, it is disappointment in myself, for not knowing how to fix . . .” Her voice catches. “I can’t stand to see you unhappy, sweetie. And I know you have been. But I don’t know how to fix it.”

  “I don’t need to be fixed,” I say. “I just need you to accept me the way I am. I need you to understand.”

  She nods, wrapping her arms around her middle. “I can do that,” she whispers. “I can try.”

  We sit there quietly for a minute and she keeps inhaling like she’s about to speak, then stopping herself. Finally, she says, “I didn’t mean to suggest that you need to be fixed, that I don’t love you just the way you are. Because I do. It’s just, if something’s wrong or making you feel bad and you need help, someone to talk to . . .”

  I scuff my feet back and forth on the floor mat. “Then why are you always telling me it’s just in my head? That all I need to do is face my fears, and everything will be fine?”

  My mother’s face screws up, and I realize she’s starting to cry. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I thought—” She reaches a hand to my knee. “I messed up. I see that now.”

  I blink at her, at the tears coming down her cheeks. I nod, and she reaches for me, pulls me to her, hugs me. I can’t remember the last time she held me like this, and it doesn’t make everything better, but it helps.

  “I’ve been thinking I might talk to the school psychologist,” I say.

  “Okay.” Mom leans away from me and looks in my eyes. “Is that what you want? Or I could find someone—”

  “I like her. I think maybe she can help.”

  “Okay.” Mom wipes her own tears, then strokes my cheek. “You just let me know whatever you need. Anything.”

  She hugs me again as Dad is pulling into the driveway. He gets out of his car and starts walking toward ours, sees us embracing, and gets the most adorably confused look on his face.

  Mom lowers the window.

  “Everything okay?” he says.

  My mother turns back to me and smooths her hand over my hair.

  “Not exactly,” she says. “But it will be.”

  After Dad leaves us to head into the house, Mom makes me promise I’ll visit Mrs. Greene. I’m nervous to open up what I’ve been trying to keep sealed for so long, but I know I have to.

  “After my history presentation. I promise.” I don’t think I can handle both in the same week, because talking to Mrs. Greene is going to mean unveiling Vicurious to her, and I’m not quite ready to expose myself like that.

  30

  MOM TAKES ME TO LIPTON’S house after school the next day and the next, and Mrs. Gregory invites her in and they chat over coffee while we’re working on the presentation. And it’s okay.

  I’m not saying she’s a compl
etely different person or anything, but I can tell she’s trying. And I am, too. I put on a little bit of the makeup from Neiman Marcus. I reconsider some of the clothes she bought me and find a couple of sweaters that aren’t too terrible.

  Lipton says I look nice.

  He says it in front of my mom, and she almost breaks her face smiling.

  She even gives me my phone back. We’re eating dinner Friday evening and she slides it across the table. She doesn’t ask for my password.

  “What’s this?” I hardly recognize it.

  “You may have it back,” she says. “Under one condition. You talk to me. I don’t expect you to tell me everything you’re thinking or feeling, but let me know if something’s wrong. If I can help. Even if you don’t think I can. Don’t shut me out. Okay?”

  Dad stops eating to look at her, then at me, like he’s suddenly noticed a pair of deer have walked into the room and are grazing at the table.

  “Okay,” I say.

  Mom nods and smiles, and dabs her napkin to the corners of her eyes.

  Dad says, “And they all lived happily ever after.”

  We laugh, and for a moment it feels like that might be true. But my story isn’t over yet, and I’m not sure how it’s going to end.

  I pick up the phone, which is completely dead, and it feels like a thin, smooth brick of nothing. I’ll plug it in later, maybe, if I feel like it. But for now I feel like watching a movie with my parents, which is what I do. We pick Boyhood, a movie filmed over a period of twelve years, the length of my friendship with Jenna. It is weird to watch someone grow up like that, and grow away. But maybe that’s what happens. People just grow away. Mom cries at the end like Patricia Arquette. I hug her, and she cries harder. I’m nothing like the boy in the movie, so I’m not sure why she’s crying, and she doesn’t say.

  Sometimes you just need to let stuff out.

  I set my phone on my dresser that night when I go to bed. I don’t plug it in. I’ve managed to stay away from Vicurious all week, aware of her activity only by what I hear around school. I haven’t posted anything since the self-care image on Thanksgiving, but Ellen has apparently Photoshopped us skydiving together. I’ve reached two million followers, so I’ve heard, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. It is both empowering and terrifying. It seems almost everything is a balance of yin and yang.