How to Disappear by Sharon Huss Roat
DEDICATION
For anyone who has ever felt left out
or overlooked or not good enough
1
STANDING BY MY LOCKER, I can already feel the sweat circles forming on my T-shirt. Nobody can see that, I assure myself. Not through the enormous sweater I’m wearing, or beneath my nearly impenetrable wall-o-hair.
Still, I pull the drab-yellow knit away from my armpits. My mother took one look at me this morning and managed not to mention what she was probably thinking—that I won’t win any popularity contests dressed like a giant blob of Dijon mustard.
Instead, she joked, “Are you in there?” and kind of paused while spreading the Grey Poupon on my sandwich, her eyes flitting between the jar and my sweater.
She’s subtle like that.
And I’m perfectly aware this is not my best color. It doesn’t make my hazel eyes “pop” or help me stand out in the crowd. In fact, this particular shade of brownish-yellow is a perfect complement to both my hair and the painted-block walls of our school. Which is exactly why I’m wearing it. If the dare I’m about to attempt goes badly, I’ll be able to blend into my surroundings and disappear before anyone notices.
My best friend, Jenna, is making me do this. We were Face-Timing last night from our respective bedrooms, mine in its usual place, and hers in the very far away state of Wisconsin, where she now lives. Her mom got a really good job there, so their family moved in mid-August, a couple of weeks before the start of our sophomore year.
“I’m worried about you,” she said.
I leaned out of view, so all she could see was my cat, named Kat, curled into a tabby fuzz ball on the bed.
“It’s been two months.” Jenna put her face extra close to the screen and whispered, “Have you spoken to anyone in two months?”
“I speak to you,” I said.
“A real person.”
“You’re not a real person?”
“You know what I mean.” She tipped her phone sideways and propped it on a dresser, giving me a panoramic view of her new bedroom, which I hated on principle. “A real live person. Not your parents. And teachers don’t count.”
I tried to think of the last time I spoke to someone at school, aside from mumbling “sorry” when I got bumped into or whispering “bless you” when the kid next to me sneezed. For pretty much as long as I can remember, Jenna has been the only person I ever really talk to. When it comes to communicating with anyone else, she has always spoken for both of us. Even if someone directs their question to me. I hesitate, and she jumps in to answer. It’s just the way we are. Like how I always tied her shoes for her. I was better at it, so she never really learned. Now she just buys shoes that buckle or zip or slip on.
And I don’t talk.
“All you have to do is say hi,” said Jenna. “That’s how we became friends, isn’t it? You said hi and the rest is history.”
“I was five,” I said. “I didn’t know any better.”
She laughed. “So, pretend you’re five again. You’re sitting cross-legged in the grass chewing on a Popsicle stick when a girl with tragically unfortunate bangs walks out of the house across the street. She looks like somebody cut her hair with a machete. Say hi to the poor thing.”
I sighed. “It’s not that easy. You know how I am.”
Her face filled the screen again. “I know exactly how you are. That’s why you need to do this. Or you’ll spend the rest of high school alone and miserable. Hiding in the bathroom, probably.”
She did know me.
So I promised to say hi to somebody at school today. And the somebody I’ve selected as recipient of my greeting is Hallie Bryce. Her locker is right next to mine, which regularly puts her within earshot of whatever sound I can force from my vocal cords. I won’t have to go out of my way or approach anyone.
I clear my throat to make sure it’s still working, and that’s when I spot Hallie’s gloriously perfect dancer bun gliding down the hall toward me. Immediately, my pulse is pounding in my ears.
She reaches her locker and squats down to enter the combination. It’s not really a squat, though, what she’s doing. The proper term is grand plié, which I learned from her Instagram, which is composed entirely of ballet photos. (Mostly of herself on pointe in various locations where you wouldn’t normally find a ballerina. In a tree. On the beach. Against a backdrop of urban decay.) I don’t “follow” follow her. As in, I haven’t clicked on the follow button or anything. I’m more of a lurk-in-the-shadows kind of girl. Not in any creepy way—in more of an admiring-from-afar, “I wish I could be like this” sort of way.
So, here she is plié-squatting right next to me, and all I have to do is say that one tiny word to fulfill my mission. I’m not even asking myself for a full-on “Hello” or anything insane like “How are you?”
Just “Hi.”
Hallie glances up at me then. One of her beautifully curved eyebrows arches high on her forehead. She’s waiting. Because I’m staring. I know I am, but I can’t seem to stop, or move, or otherwise behave like a normal person. Her brows pull together in a V-shape and her head tilts slightly to the side.
“Did you say something?” She knows I haven’t said anything. She’s just being nice.
I throw my eyes to the floor. Forget saying hi. It’s all I can do not to hyperventilate.
She sighs, stands, clicks her locker shut, and pirouettes down the hall. Okay, maybe she just walks, but in that ballerina way of hers—toes pointed, feet turned out. I watch her go, exhaling the tightness from my chest. There’s a moment of relief as my fear subsides, but it’s quickly replaced by a feeling I like to call “I suck.”
One simple thing. That’s all I had to do.
I drag my gaze to the interior of my locker, to the photo of me and Jenna taped on the back wall. We are standing arm in arm. I’m wearing her pink camisole dress that was too tight but she insisted fit me perfectly, and we’re smiling with all our teeth.
I touch the picture, because it helps. I don’t know why. Only seven hours to go, and I’ll be on the bus home, texting her. I’ll confess my failure, but she’ll still be my friend. She told me so when she moved away, that we won’t let the distance come between us. We’ll finish high school. Graduate. Go to college together. Be roommates. Just like we’ve always planned.