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Back How to Disappear Completely Save as PDF
Chapters (58)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. Acknowledgments
  56. About the Author
  57. Back Ad
  58. About the Publisher

“From the second I got diagnosed,” I say over the sound of my blood, which seems to hum with anger, “all you’ve cared about is getting rid of my patches. All the creams and the light treatments and sending Lily to do my makeup. But now that I’m not wearing makeup anymore, you want me to be some guinea pig for scientific trials or take away the rest of my color so I can fit in again.”

“Emma, I—”

But I can’t stop the words now. “Every time you look at me, I see you staring at my spots, trying to see if I have new ones. It’s like I’m not even your daughter anymore. I’m just this big problem you can’t wait to fix so you can go back to having a perfect life. Well, news flash. I’m not perfect. And neither is Lily, by the way. I’m sorry you didn’t get a daughter like Edie O’Shea, but you know what, Mom? Edie isn’t a very nice girl. And I would rather have spots and be nice than be popular and mean.”

Now I’m done. I wrap my arms around myself, hunching my shoulders, and start to sob. Mom slowly reaches over and pets the back of my head. I scoot against the window, away from her hand. There’s a long moment of silence.

Then, “Emma,” Mom says again, her voice soft. “Maybe I haven’t been— I haven’t done the best job supporting you. I see that now. But believe it or not, up until this moment, I really thought I was doing the right thing.”

“How is making a list like this supporting me?”

“I thought you wanted to get rid of your spots,” Mom says. “You seemed so scared when you were diagnosed. So I’ve been researching anything that might help. Or at least give you some hope. Of course I don’t want you to do the depigmenting cream. And I’m not going to put you in some trial. I just thought it would be nice for you to know if there’s anything promising for the future. But was I wrong about you wanting to treat your vitiligo?”

“No,” I say, sniffling. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just want to know that whatever I want, it’s okay with you.”

She reaches over again to stroke my head, and this time I don’t pull away. “Emma, of course it’s okay. I thought you— Well, it doesn’t matter. I should have said that right away. Maybe I didn’t listen well enough. Maybe I just thought you were scared because I was.”

“Scared of what?”