How to Disappear

by Sharon Huss Roat

  I add the mixed feelings over my growing number of followers to a new mental list of things I’ll talk to Mrs. Greene about, when I talk to her. Which I will. Soon.

  Most of my weekend is spent with Lipton, finishing the Siege of Jerusalem project and fiddling around on Minecraft. He shows me how it works. “Adam would give himself a concussion if he knew about this,” he says.

  But I’m curious, and I like the fantastical worlds you can create on there. Lipton has a whole island, with castles and waterfalls and farmland and shops. Even a bowling alley. He switches over to a different server where there are other players, and monsters, and he’s this sword-wielding, fire-throwing ninja. When he comes across little figures who are standing idle, their “masters” having stepped away, he picks them up and tosses them off a nearby cliff.

  “Did you just kill him?”

  He grins at me.

  “You totally threw a completely innocent person to his death. Without even blinking.”

  “He’ll regenerate.” Lipton shrugs. “Serves him right, standing around like that in the middle of a battle.”

  “Remind me never to go to the Grand Canyon with you.”

  He laughs as I pantomime falling off a cliff. And we get back to work. Aside from a kiss on the cheek when I arrive both mornings, we’ve managed to keep our hands off each other. Mostly. It helps that his sister keeps flitting in and out of the game-slash-homework-slash-craft room, making puppets out of paper bags.

  Lipton gets permission to banish her when it’s time to record my voice-over, though. He also gets permission to close the door while we’re recording.

  Even in my state of relative calm, I can’t do the whole script without messing up, so we record it in sections. Lipton keeps saying it’s great, but when he plays it back to me I sound like I’ve swallowed sandpaper.

  “Is that what I really sound like? It’s awful.”

  “Everyone’s voice sounds weird to them because you only hear it from inside your head,” he says. “It sounds different out here.”

  “It sounds awful.”

  “It sounds amazing.”

  “If you like the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard.”

  “I do,” he teases. “I love that sound.”

  “Oh, God. Do I really sound like that? I can’t do this.”

  “You don’t sound like that.” He laughs. “And you did it. It’s done.”

  We layer the sound over the visuals. Lipton lowers the lights in the room and we move our chairs back to watch it all the way through. He leans forward to push the play arrow and then settles in next to me and takes my hand in his.

  I cringe when I hear my voice, but it plays smoothly. The script matches up with the images. The ending is my favorite part. We show the modern-day photos of people at Jerusalem’s Western Wall, including close-ups of prayers crammed into all the tiny crevices. I found some blog posts and articles written by people from all over the world who visited the wall and had really touching experiences there. I pulled quotes of hope and love and understanding from their stories, but instead of reading their thoughts aloud, I typed them in so they scroll down the screen with the photos in the background. In silence.

  When it finishes, I turn to Lipton. “Do you think it needs music or something at the end?”

  He clears his throat. “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He gets up and turns the lights back on, but doesn’t look at me right away. He busies himself downloading the presentation on two USB drives, just in case one of them is lost or malfunctions or gets swallowed or accidentally-on-purpose thrown out a window in an attempt to avoid the whole thing. (Though he made me promise I wouldn’t do that.)

  The way he’s not saying anything makes me worried he’s disappointed, that it’s not as good as his Battle of Thermopylae and he won’t beat his other grade.

  “Do you think they’ll ask questions?” I’m terrified of this prospect. Obviously.

  “They’re more likely to be stunned into silence,” he says.

  “It’s that bad?”

  Lipton closes his eyes and sighs. “You really have no idea, do you? It’s brilliant. You’re brilliant!”

  I laugh. “And you’re delusional.”

  He steps closer and tips his forehead down to touch mine. “It’s great. Trust me.”

  “Okay,” I say, unconvinced.

  He leans away then, an incredulous smile forming. “You don’t trust me.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “You totally don’t trust me.” He thinks it’s funny. Sort of. But there’s a hint of hurt behind his eye. I know what it looks like.

  “I’m just nervous,” I say, “about getting up there. If they . . . what if they laugh? If they point and stare and I mess it up and I can’t, what if I can’t get up there?” My breath starts to get choppy. “I think I . . .”

  “Whoa. Here.” He holds me up by the arms and guides me into a chair. “You okay?”

  I drop my head between my knees. Take deep breaths. The room spins. I lower myself to the floor. I curl up.

  “What’s happening?” Lipton is on hands and knees next to me.

  I close my eyes. Try to breathe, deep and slow.

  “Paper bag.” Lipton is talking to himself now. “Paper bag.” He runs to the craft supplies and grabs something and is crinkling it and then he brings it to my face. “Breathe.”

  And I breathe. I breathe again. And again. Slower, until the room stops spinning. Lipton’s eyes are wild as he leans over me, holding the bag to my mouth. It’s one of his sister’s puppets, with googly eyes and a pink pom-pom nose. I take a few more breaths, watch the pom-pom move up and down with each inhale and exhale until my breathing is back to normal.

  “I’m okay now,” I say into the bag.

  He takes it away.

  We stare at each other for a minute, me curled on my side and he kneeling over me. The door is still closed.

  “I’m sorry I’m such a freak,” I whisper.

  “You’re not—”

  “It’s okay.” I push myself up. “I know I am.”

  He starts to object again, but I press my fingers to his lips. He closes his mouth.

  I take my hand away. “Don’t try to convince me I’m someone different or better or stronger than I am. Okay? I’m doing the best I can, but sometimes it’s not very good. Sometimes I have to lie on the floor and breathe into a paper bag. That’s who I am.”

  “I understand.” The expression on his face is, in fact, very understanding.

  “Sometimes I am so scared of people, of being around people, that I have to hide. In the bathroom or, or . . . behind shrubbery or something.”

  He nods. “I get it.”

  “I say really stupid things all the time. I’ll probably pass out trying to give this presentation. Or vomit. That happens, too. I could vomit all over the place. I’ll never be able to show my face again. We should probably say our good-byes now.”

  “Stop it.”

  “I’m serious.”

  He drops from his kneeling position to sit on the floor next to me. “I don’t care about any of that.”

  “Just wait till I vomit on you,” I say.

  He laughs. “Stop trying to scare me away. “

  “I’m not.” I drop my gaze to my lap. Fiddle with the hem of my shirt. “It’s just, I lost the one friend I could be myself with, and I’m afraid—”

  Lipton scoots even closer. His face is inches away. His eyes steady. “You can be yourself with me. I don’t want you to be anyone else. Okay?”

  I return his gaze. I nod.

  He leans in, and his lips are on mine, and I do not want to be anyone else. Not even a little bit.

  31

  WE MEET AT LIPTON’S LOCKER on Monday morning. He’s trying to be calm so I don’t freak out, but I can tell he’s nervous. Which actually helps me feel less nervous.

  “I have something for you.” He digs around
in his backpack, opening all the zippered compartments and becoming increasingly frazzled when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. I’m thinking he’s going to give me another bag of M&M’s, and why is he doing that now? Then he pats his pocket. “Here it is.”

  He produces a small rectangular box. It’s wrapped in glittery silver paper.

  I take the box in his hand. “What’s this?”

  “A present.”

  “What for?”

  “For you.”

  “Why?”

  He sighs. “Will you just open it?”

  I look around to make sure nobody is watching, because it appears to be a jewelry box of some kind, a ring box maybe, and the part of my brain that isn’t thinking clearly is a little worried that Lipton did something completely insane like buy me a promise ring. Which I sincerely hope is not the case because promise rings are the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of and now is not the time to . . .

  Calm down.

  I force myself to stop the internal brain vomit, and I tear open the wrapping paper. The box is not from a jeweler. It’s from the store at the mall that sells spiked bracelets and skinny, acid-washed jeans.

  My eyes blink nervously to Lipton’s.

  “Will you just open it, please?” He is starting to look like he might vomit.

  I pull the lid off the box. There’s a necklace inside, a silver chain with a silver sword hanging from it. Kind of like the tiny swords the Minecraft soldiers were clicking together in his Battle of Thermopylae video.

  “It’s . . . a sword?” I stroke my finger over its surface, but don’t lift it from the cotton padding.

  “A diamond sword,” he says.

  My eyes bulge as I take a closer look.

  “Not real diamonds. That’s just what it’s called in Minecraft.” He shifts his weight, hands shoved into his pockets. “The diamond sword can protect you from almost anything. It makes you stronger, especially if it has enchantments on it. And I put all the enchantments on this one.”

  I take the tiny sword in my fingers. “How did you do that?”

  “Well, in the game, you can buy enchantments with points you accumulate in battle. But this one, I just . . .” He shrugs. “I just pretended. It’s for luck. For the presentation. Ward off evil classmates and all that.” He shrugs again.

  It makes me want to happy cry. I blink rapidly to keep that from happening. “Can you help me put it on?”

  He takes it from the box and secures it around my neck after getting it tangled in my hair and then untangled. The sword rests right below the little hollow where my collarbones meet. My sweater covers it, but I can feel it there.

  It helps me get through the door and into the classroom, but then I remember what I’m about to do and time starts to move really slowly. The roar comes back to my ears and takes on a slow-mo sound, the vacuum cleaners dropping to a lower pitch. My footsteps reverberate through the room with a thud . . . thud . . . thud. I can see every face, every smirk, every snicker as if captured on video and played back with a heavy hand on the pause button.

  I’m pretty sure I’ve stopped breathing entirely.

  Lipton breaks the horrible spell I’m under by whispering my name. “Vicky . . . Vicky.”

  “Huh?”

  “Mr. Braxley said we can start now.”

  I grip the edges of my desk. I nod, but don’t move. I don’t even remember sitting down.

  Lipton holds up the USB thumb drive. “I’ll just put this in and push play and off we go, okay?”

  I look up at him as he stands, the roar in my ears a swarm of bees now.

  He leans down to whisper through the buzzing. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. You’ve got the diamond sword, remember?”

  I put my hand to the necklace, pinch the tiny sword between my fingers. Pretend or not, the enchantments seem to work. My shoulders relax, the roar quiets to a low hum. I manage to return Lipton’s smile. He walks to Mr. Braxley’s desk and puts the thumb drive in the computer. He turns out the lights and presses play.

  The video starts, and the room gets quiet. I watch as if I’m having an out-of-body experience, floating above and looking down on my classmates. I brace myself for their laughter. For nudges and stares. But the whole class is strangely still, eyes glued to the screen. By the end, after my narration is over and the quotes by visitors to the Western Wall are scrolling, they are silent. The presentation is over.

  I wait nervously for the reaction. A polite smattering of applause, perhaps. A slow clap? I’d settle for a slow clap. What I get instead are sniffles. Several of the girls are reaching into their bags for tissues, and dabbing at their eyes. Adam is not head-desking or face-palming but dragging a sleeve across his nose. I chose the quotes at the end because they moved me, but I get choked up at sappy TV commercials and reruns of Little House on the Prairie. I didn’t expect my classmates to get this emotional. Mr. Braxley starts clapping then, and everyone joins in. I wouldn’t call it uproarious exactly, but definitely enthusiastic. Jeremy Everling even gives me a thumbs-up.

  I stroke the diamond sword at my neck. I will never, ever, EVER take it off.

  Everyone’s coming up to me and saying “Great job” and it’s nice and positive and everything, but I feel like one of those whirling teacups on the ride at a fair. I’m dizzy and jittery, and I need to get out of here.

  The bell rings. Lipton calls for me to wait up but I can’t. I shoot him a pleading glance as I dart into the hall, hoping he’ll understand.

  I maneuver through the crowded hallway and head for the bathroom. But then I think of Mrs. Greene. This is my opportunity to talk to her. When I reach her office, the door is open. I practically dive through it and land on the comfy chair. She puts out the “Do Not Disturb” sign, plugs in the twinkly lights, and turns off the overhead fluorescents.

  She doesn’t prod me to talk. But I feel like I might burst if I don’t.

  “I did it,” I say.

  She doesn’t ask what, just listens.

  “My presentation for world history,” I continue. “I didn’t think I could. But I did. It was okay.”

  She smiles. “That’s great, Vicky. Excellent.”

  “I’m sorry to barge in.” I’m still panting.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  I nod. Breathe.

  Mrs. Greene offers me a cup of water. She has one of those big blue water dispensers.

  I take the cup and try not to spill. My hand is shaking. “I don’t know why this happens to me.”

  She waits a beat. “We can talk about it when you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready,” I whisper, and we spend the next fifteen minutes talking. Well, I do. She nods mostly, like she understands completely and I am not weird or wrong for feeling the way I do. I tell her all about the presentation, the roaring and buzzing and slow motion . . . everything.

  At the end, Mrs. Greene says, “We can set up an appointment to talk some more if you like; discuss why this happens and how you can deal with it.”

  And I want to, because a weight has been lifted and I can breathe again. But I also feel dangerously exposed. Like I’ve taken off a bulletproof vest in the middle of a battlefield. I want to pull it back on and hide behind the nearest rock.

  She leans forward to rest a hand on my arm. “It will all be completely confidential. Nobody has to know what happens in this room. Just you and me.”

  “Okay.” I nod. “I’ll think about it.”

  She gives me a pamphlet on social anxiety. A quick flip through it is like reading my résumé. “You can share this with your parents,” she says. “Or not. It might help them understand what you’re going through.”

  I try to imagine handing the pamphlet to my mother, watching that awful look appear on her face—the one she swears is concern and not disappointment, but I’m still not sure. I’d much rather give her something that makes her proud and happy, like a photo of me surrounded by friends, or a party invitati
on.

  And what about Vicurious? What happens to her when I start talking about everything and—does telling the truth mean I have to give her up?

  I leave at the end of the period, a jumble of conflicting emotions. Hallie Bryce is waiting in the hall to see Mrs. Greene. I hold the door for her. She pauses and turns to me before entering. “What you’re doing is really special, you know.”

  I blink at her, because while seeing Mrs. Greene is a huge step for me, I’d hardly call it special.

  “On Instagram,” she whispers. “It makes a difference.”

  I start to stammer, to deny.

  She holds a finger to her lips to quiet me. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

  32

  SO, HALLIE KNOWS. HOW DOES Hallie know? It brings the roar to my ears, and I want to run right back to Mrs. Greene’s comfy chair. But Hallie is sitting there now. She said she wouldn’t tell, but if she figured it out, will everyone else?

  I walk to precalc. I do my work. I hold it together. I help Marvo pick photos of the dog walker, the skateboarder, the car builder.

  I see Hallie again at the end of the day, by our lockers.

  She says, “Hi,” and I say, “How . . .” Because I need to know.

  “Your hands,” she says. “I notice hands.”

  I look down at mine, the right one holding my backpack and the left one balled tight at my side, as opposed to Hallie’s, which are positioned as gracefully as if she were dancing.

  “You clench your left fist all the time,” she says, then lowers her voice to a whisper. “So does Vicurious.”

  “Oh.” I stretch out my fingers.

  “I don’t think anyone else will notice,” she says. “I’m kind of a freak that way. Hands, feet. I can tell you who bites their nails and who’s pigeon-toed and who pounds their heels when they walk. It’s one of my many useless skills.”

  “You’re the only one who knows,” I say.

  “Really?” She lifts her eyebrows.

  I nod.

  “Wow.” She gets her books from her locker. “You haven’t told Mrs. Greene?”