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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

I haven’t actually given my new school much thought, but now I’m wondering if Mom is right. Will I make friends? Because kindergarten was a long time ago. Making friends now is probably much harder. Especially when you don’t know anyone. I wonder if there will be any other new kids.

I follow Mom around the department store, lugging my two bags of books as she leads me to the accessories section. We pick out tights first (“I expect you to take better care of these, Emma”) and a hat with matching gloves that I like because they’re purple—Gram’s and my favorite color. I find a fleece jacket that’s really soft and warm. Then, just when I think we’re done, Mom finds a rack of jeans that are on sale and forces me to take two pairs to the dressing room.

The lights are bright as I wiggle out of my shoes. It’s when I’m pulling the jeans off that I glance at my foot and I see it.

The white spot.

It’s not that I’ve forgotten about it since Gram’s funeral. It’s just that I’ve been hoping if I ignored it, it would go away. I’ve been wearing my socks around the house so Mom won’t see and I don’t have to look at it.

It hasn’t gone away, though. It’s still there and bigger now, but less round. It’s kind of . . . shapeless. Like a snowball that’s started to melt.

There’s something else, too. A new spot in the same place as the first one, just on the other foot. It can’t be a coincidence.

I scrunch back out of the jeans and gaze at myself in the mirror, checking my body for more spots. I don’t find any more on my legs, but as I gaze at my arms, I see a little cluster of them by my elbow, like white freckles. And when I peer very closely at my face under the bright lights, I’m sure that I can see pale pinpricks above my eyebrows. Were these little spots already there? Or are they new?

My palms are sweating, and my mouth goes suddenly dry. What’s happening to me?

“Emma?” Mom calls. “Do the jeans fit? I was thinking we should look at shoes before we leave.”

“No,” I say. “No, they don’t fit. I don’t want to look at shoes, Mom. I’m tired.”

She must hear something off in my voice, because she walks closer to the dressing room. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” I say again, because the last thing I need is her freaking out right now. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

Except I think I might be lying.

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