Chapter 2 Rules of Disappearing

There are rules to disappearing. I'm learning them one night at a time.

Rule #1: Stay off the radar.

Don't skip too many classes. Don't act weird. Don't let people know you're alone.

Rule #2: Don't trust systems.

Teachers mean well. So do counselors. But their job isn't to save you. It's to report you.

Rule #3: Keep moving.

Stagnant things rot. That goes for food, plans, and people.

I sleep in Mom's old hoodie, the one with the fake fur lining and broken zipper. It still smells like her-cheap cigarettes and strawberry shampoo. I keep it tight around me like armor. The night creaks and groans. I hear a raccoon knock something over outside. My heart stutters in panic before I realize it's not a person.

I haven't turned on the heat. Can't afford the risk of another shut-off notice. I sleep in layers, under two coats and a beach towel.

The morning comes cold and loud. I open the fridge again like a fool and find exactly what I expect: nothing. I eat the orange I stole yesterday, peel bitter and stubborn. My stomach thanks me anyway.

On the way to school, I pass the park where the little kids play during summer. It's empty now, swings moving in the wind like ghosts. There's a bench where Mom used to sit with a Styrofoam cup of diner coffee, watching the world with tired eyes.

Flashback:

She didn't say "goodbye" the last time she left. Not in a real way.

"Don't wait up," she said, grabbing her purse off the couch.

"You working a double?" I asked.

She looked at me like I'd asked something too big. Her eyes flicked to the window. "Something like that."

Her hair was pulled into a messy bun. I could see her roots-gray streaks she hadn't had time to dye. Or maybe she didn't care anymore.

"Leave the porch light on," she said.

That was it.

That was the last thing she said to me.

And I did. I left it on. For two nights straight, until the bulb blew. Then I sat in the dark and waited anyway.

I get through school on autopilot. Smile when I need to. Nod. Write my name at the top of papers and doodle stars in the corners to look normal. In English, we're reading Of Mice and Men. The teacher says it's about dreams and loneliness.

No kidding.

At lunch, I try to slip an extra granola bar from the tray, but a kid behind me sees.

"Hey! That's not yours!"

I freeze. My chest tightens.

But before the lunch lady turns, I drop it back. Shrug like I didn't mean to. "Thought it was mine."

I hear snickering. I don't look back. I sit and eat and keep my eyes low.

After school, I walk to the thrift store on Oak Street. Mom used to bring bags of clothes here for "store credit," which basically meant five bucks for three bags. I lug one of her old duffels with me, stuffed with jeans, heels, and a sequined dress she wore to a wedding once. The handle digs into my palm.

Inside, it smells like dust and old perfume. The woman at the counter doesn't smile.

"Store credit or cash?"

"Cash," I say.

She rifles through the clothes like they're garbage. "Four dollars."

"That dress alone cost fifty."

She shrugs. "That was then."

I take the money and stuff it in my sock.

That night, I try to call Cassie. She's the closest thing I have to a best friend. We used to hang out every Saturday, painting our nails and watching cheesy movies. But I haven't told her anything.

I stare at the phone screen. Thumb hovers over her name.

What do I even say?

"Hey, can I come crash with you? My mom's gone and I'm kinda starving."

She'd tell her mom. Her mom would tell the school. The school would tell child services. And then it's foster care or some shelter or worse.

I close the screen. Toss the phone across the couch.

Rule #4: Don't reach out unless you're ready to lose everything.

The street outside is quiet. Just a couple cars humming past. I sit by the window with the lights off and count them.

One.

Two.

Three.

The world keeps moving. Even when you stop.

Even when you disappear