Lipton pulls away just far enough to see me. “So, it’s okay if I like you? This you.”
“I can’t believe you like any version of me at all,” I say. “But, yes. Please.”
He laughs again and then holds me closer and kisses me like, wow. Really good. I’m a little dizzy when he pulls his lips from mine.
“I should warn you,” I say, “that this me is kind of a mess right now.”
“I saw what happened,” he said. “Are you okay? Is Jenna?”
I nod. “They found her. She’s supposed to call me when she gets home.” I realize my phone is still in my hand, pressed to Lipton’s back. I bring it around to make sure I didn’t miss her call. “She doesn’t hate me, though, so there’s that.”
“Nobody hates you. I don’t know why you would think that.”
I shrug. “My brain is—”
“Not an asshole,” he says. “It’s your brain, and I like it just the way it is.”
I rest my head on his shoulder and we sit in the living room for a while, until Mom comes and asks if we want something to eat. We follow her into the kitchen.
“I called Mrs. Greene,” she says. “I’ll take you to school tomorrow and you’ll go straight to her office. Lipton, would it be okay if I gave you a ride, too? Mrs. Greene thought it might help if Vicky has a friend with her tomorrow.”
“I can do that.” He smiles.
“Unless you want to stay home, Vicky. That’s an option.”
I honestly would like nothing better than to stay in my room and not come out for a very long time, but putting it off will only make the fear of it even worse.
“I’ll go,” I say.
Jenna calls around midnight, after Lipton’s gone and I’m in my pajamas but unable to sleep until I hear from her. I crawl into bed with my phone.
“They took me to the hospital,” she says. “I had to talk to this lady in the psych ward and I told her I was fine, but they wouldn’t let me go until my mom got there. She was freaking out for a while or I would’ve called sooner.”
Jenna starts telling me what happened, how Tristan was really nice at first but everything was going too fast. He kept pressuring her to do things she didn’t want to do. Every time she resisted he’d say, “I thought you were cool” and “I didn’t realize you were such a tease.” She was afraid to break it off with him because her only friends were his friends, and then she’d be completely alone.
I keep murmuring “I’m sorry” as she tells the rest, how he got her alone at a party, and kept pressuring her.
“I told him I only wanted to be friends,” she says. “That I wanted to go home. And he got mad.”
“He didn’t—”
“No. But he wouldn’t let me leave the room so he could tell everyone we did. Then he made it sound like I was totally obsessed with, you know . . . And the rumor spread and everyone was saying stuff about me and I just got really depressed.”
“I should’ve been there for you. I’m so sorry.”
Neither one of us says anything for a while, but it’s not awkward. I can hear her breath. I’m sure she can hear mine. We’ve sat in silent togetherness a thousand times, just being there for each other. It’s normal. Comfortable.
“I can’t believe you found me,” she says quietly. “On a cliff in the middle of Wisconsin.”
I swallow, wanting to ask but afraid to know the answer, of finding out how close I came to losing her. “Are you okay? I mean, you’re not . . . you wouldn’t . . .”
“I wasn’t going to jump or anything. I mean, I thought about it. I didn’t want to go back to school. I didn’t want to do anything. I just wanted it all to stop. But then I hiked up there and looked out over the valley. It was clear and I could see really far, and I guess I realized there’s so much more out there, so much ahead of me. I really want to know what happens next. With you, with me, with . . . I don’t know, the world.” She laughs. “It gets better, right? I mean, high school isn’t forever.”
“Thank God.”
Jenna laughs again. “I knew you were Vicurious. And she wouldn’t abandon me. You wouldn’t.”
“But I did. I thought you were better off without me. I abandoned you.”
“I deserved it, the way I was acting.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I don’t know who I was trying to be. Someone I don’t even like. And then you wouldn’t talk to me and I texted stuff I didn’t mean. I don’t know why I did it. I’m so stupid.”
“And I imagined the worst, and then it really was the worst. I’m like a walking, talking, self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“We both screwed up, big-time.”
“And then I made Vicurious.”
“Which, holy crap.”
We laugh, and talk about all the crazy images I posted, and the yin-yang, and even the name Vicurious, how it all started with our friendship. We make plans to see each other over Christmas. We’re not sure where, but one of us will fly to the other. Even if my fear of the airport, and walking through security, and taking my shoes off in front of people, and sitting next to a complete stranger kills me . . . I will see Jenna in December.
“What about Vicurious?” she asks. “You going to keep doing it?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll talk to Mrs. Greene about it. She’s my, uh . . . therapist?” I say it like a question, because I’ve never really spoken it aloud. I have a therapist.
“School counselor Mrs. Greene?” says Jenna.
“Yeah. She’s going to help me figure some stuff out, I guess.”
“Mom said she’s getting me a therapist, too. And I’m changing schools. I’m really going to need you, Vicky. Promise you won’t disappear again.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
We talk until we’re both too tired to stay awake, but right before we hang up, Jenna says, “I hope you keep Vicurious.”
And I feel a twinge, a jealousy of my own creation. “You like her better than me, don’t you.”
“No, dummy,” says Jenna. “It’s just that she’s the only thing that got me through some days.”
34
“IMAGINE THERE’S A TIGER IN the room. Right there.” Mrs. Greene points to the far corner. “What do you do?”
My eyes dart to where she pointed. There’s no tiger, of course.
“Would you fight it? Run?”
I shake my head. “I’d sit very still. Hope it doesn’t see me.”
“It sees you. It’s walking toward you now. Getting closer.”
I make myself smaller.
“It’s right in front of you. It looks hungry.”
It’s been a week now since my unmasking as Vicurious, and this is my third session with Mrs. Greene. She’s trying to help me understand why I behave the way I do, why I panic over normal, everyday stuff. The suggestion that I’m about to be eaten by a tiger is triggering some of my usual reactions. Palms sweating, heart pounding.
“When your brain senses danger, there are three defaults,” she says. “Fight, flight, or freeze. You can try and attack the tiger, you can bolt, or you can do what you did, which is to freeze.”
“And get eaten?”
Mrs. Greene chuckles. “Luckily, we don’t run into a lot of tigers around here.”
She pulls out a diagram of the brain and points to this little almond-shaped blob on each side. It’s called the amygdala, and it’s the asshole that’s been ruining my life, apparently. Whenever it senses danger, it pulls an alarm. And in the absence of a fire or hungry tigers, mine has decided to pull the alarm for everything else.
Which explains a lot.
Like, how sometimes I can’t speak at all and other times I can’t stop. Or the way the roaring in my ears drowns everything else out. “When there’s a tiger in the room, it’s kind of hard to think about anything else except how to not get eaten,” she says.
I’m hyper-focused on the tiger, or whatever is my tiger. Things like walking into class late, conversations wi
th strangers, getting called on by a teacher . . . all the things on my Terror List.
I’m supposed to write them down now. My tigers. Then we’ll figure out how to tame them. (Or keep them in their cages at least, and learn to trust that they won’t get me.)
For now, it helps to have someone who sees my tigers for what they are, and tells me, “It’s safe, it’s not going to hurt you, you’ll be okay, you can do this.”
That someone used to be Jenna. Now it’s Lipton, and Mrs. Greene, and my mom. Someday, I hope I can be that person for myself.
35
THEY STARE. THEY POINT. THEY whisper. They’ve been doing it all week, but it’s my first time in the cafeteria, so they’re ogling en masse rather than one at a time as I pass in the hall. Mrs. Greene convinced me it was time to venture out of her office for lunch. I suggested the yearbook office, but she didn’t think that was a very big step.
And we’re taking actual steps. She gave me this worksheet to fill out, which was basically a picture of a ladder. On each rung, I had to write one of my “tigers,” from least scary to most. I could’ve come up with at least a dozen less frightening fears for the lower rung, but I put “cafeteria” down, so here we are.
Lipton’s been my human shield all week. He blocks for me on the way in, and Adam is there with a table. Still, I can hear people talking. Some don’t believe I could possibly be Vicurious.
Others remember that I had a best friend named Jenna who moved to Wisconsin, so they believe, but just barely. I’m too much of a nobody to be that big of a somebody. And I don’t blame them. I can’t believe it, either.
Lipton prompts me to breathe, per Mrs. Greene’s suggestion. I’ve brought him as part of my “crisis plan,” which is basically any distraction I can focus on to deal with an uncomfortable situation. I touch my sword necklace, and I also have the picture of Jenna and me from my locker in my pocket.
We sit at the table with Adam, and Lipton pretends it’s all perfectly normal, that every single person in the room isn’t staring at us.
Four kids approach us and I’m about to hyperventilate until I realize it’s Marvo, Beth Ann, Marissa, and Adrian. I might hyperventilate anyway because they’re making me want to cry, and “crying in the cafeteria” is definitely on the list.
Lipton squeezes my hand and smiles his gap-toothed smile and it pulls me out of my crazy, roaring head. Just like Jenna used to do. I squeeze back.
There’s one seat remaining at our table and Raj shows up and asks if he can join us. Then I notice Hallie gliding over just as he sits down. She blanches a bit when she realizes she’s stranded and starts looking around for somewhere else.
I whisper in Lipton’s ear and he says, “Make room.” And we all squeeze together and Hallie sits down next to Raj.
“I’m Raj,” he says to her.
“I know.” She smiles and is even more beautiful than usual. “I love your Instagram.”
Raj’s head explodes.
People at the tables nearby keep daring their friends to come up to me and ask if I’m Vicurious.
My friends—my friends!—shoo them away.
Jeremy Everling gives me a thumbs-up from across the cafeteria, and it’s not that I care what Jeremy Everling thinks, but somehow that is the signal that tells me it’s going to be okay. It’s okay to be me—as flawed as the dusty, imperfect floor of my bedroom. To be afraid and weird. To blurt out whatever pops into my head, or refuse to speak. If Vicurious has taught me anything, it’s that there are more people out there like me than I ever could’ve imagined. I can be myself, whatever form that takes, and I’ll never be alone.
I look around, and it’s pretty obvious that everyone’s waiting for something to happen. Maybe they just need me to say I’m okay, so they can be okay, too. Maybe if I show them I’m just a girl with problems, too, they can all go about their business.
My friends are doing the most amazing job of pretending it’s a normal day in the neighborhood; they’re joking and laughing. Adrian is twirling butter knives and Marissa is threatening to break up with him if he stabs her. Beth Ann and Marvo are trying to twirl spoons and they keep clattering to the table. Raj and Hallie are looking at each other’s Instagrams, pointing out the ones they like best.
Lipton is watching them, or pretending to, but he keeps squeezing my hand under the table. He’s the only one who notices when I lift my phone and snap a selfie from behind my lunch bag. I hate it, of course. I’m so dull and white without the wig, sunglasses, and bright red lips. I crop out most of my face, leaving barely enough to prove it’s me—one eye, cheek, jaw, shoulder, lots of hair. It reminds me of invisiblemimi, one of the first who reached out on Vicurious to share her pain.
I risk a glance around the room. Eyes at nearby tables dart away, not wanting to be caught. I lower my phone to my lap, open Instagram, and click on “edit profile.” I leave “vicurious” as my username but change my name to “Just Vicky.” When I tap “done” a murmur goes around the cafeteria. They have their phones out. They’re watching.
“Breathe,” says Lipton.
I smile. I breathe.
Then I pull up the cropped photo I just took of myself. No filter. And I write:
Hi. It’s me. Real me. #faceyourfears#onestepatatime
I turn off the phone. Completely. Slide to power down and slip it into my backpack. The buzz of the cafeteria rises to match the roar in my ears. I can’t hear anything else. But I see them, as they #seeme. And I know I won’t ever be #alone.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My first and biggest thanks go to you, dear readers. It has been my privilege to write for you.
A big thank-you to my editor, Karen Chaplin, for always knowing how to bring out my best work; to editorial director Rosemary Brosnan; to Andrea Pappenheimer and the sales team; to Emily Rader in managing editorial; to Olivia Russo in publicity; to Bess Braswell and her marketing team; to cover designer Katie Fitch; and to everyone else at HarperTeen who makes the magic happen.
To my agent, Steven Chudney, thank you for championing my books and guiding me through the sometimes puzzling yet always fascinating world of publishing.
Thanks to all who played supporting roles in the making of this book or its welcome to the world: Rhe De Ville, for naming Vicurious long before I knew who she would become; to my son, for reading chapters as I wrote them, plus all the lessons in Minecraft; Julia Barta, who shared her expertise on social anxiety and the role of a school psychologist; Amanda Mattei, who offered additional insights on how social anxiety affects students in the classroom; Joy McCullough-Carranza, Paula Stokes, and Sona Charaipotra, for their valuable input on an early draft; the many librarians and booksellers who have welcomed me and my books, especially Rebecca Dowling at Hockessin Book Shelf; the Fearless Fifteeners and many other author friends who have been a constant source of support and friendship; and to all the book bloggers, booktubers, and bookstagrammers who make the YA community such a wonderful place to be . . . THANK YOU!
Finally, to my beautiful family: Rich, Sebastian, and Anna—thanks for being my happy place.
RESOURCES
Anxiety and Depression Association of America
www.adaa.org
Teen Mental Health
www.teenmentalhealth.org
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org
1-800-273-8255
HelpGuide
www.helpguide.org
National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH)
www.nimh.nih.gov
Find a Therapist—Psychology Today
www.therapists.psychologytoday.com
Teen Health & Wellness
www.teenhealthandwellness.com
MindShift App
www.anxietybc.com
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Rhe De Ville
SHARON HUSS ROAT grew up in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, and now lives in Delaware with her husband and two children. She spent her teen years trying to avoid embarrassment, yet it followed her at every turn. (Ask her about that time she jumped off a stage during a clarinet solo, wearing a gown. . . .) When not working on her next project, she can be found reading, gardening, cooking, or napping! Between the Notes was her debut novel. Sharon loves hearing from readers, so visit her online at www.sharonroat.com or on Twitter @sharonwrote. And see Vicurious on Instagram @vicurious.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
BOOKS BY SHARON HUSS ROAT
Between the Notes
How to Disappear
CREDITS
Cover photo © 2017 by Jovana Rikalo / Trevillion Images
Cover design by Katie Fitch
COPYRIGHT
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
HOW TO DISAPPEAR. Copyright © 2017 by Sharon Huss Roat. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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