I’m becoming invisible. Every day more and more light shines through me. I think about writing Karen at the hospital and telling her. If I wrote her and told her I was becoming invisible, I think she’d tell me to stop being so dramatic, and she’d say that she understood.
Once I realized that I was becoming invisible, once I realized that no one really noticed me anymore, I stopped fighting it. I stopped taking the tiny bit of room they left me on the bench at the lunch table and sat by myself at the end of the teacher’s table, which is pretty much the worst place any kid can sit, ever. Unless that kid’s invisible, and then it doesn’t matter. Every day since Karen’s been gone, I practice floating through the school halls like a ghost. I don’t touch anyone and I imagine that the times I do brush up against their arms it feels like a clammy, cold breath on their skin. I sit in the back of class and I don’t raise my hand. I ignore everyone, even the teachers. Not the kind of ignoring where you jut out your chin and hope that everyone notices you ignoring them. I ignore them like we’re not even in the same universe. I ignore them because it’s easy: I’m not even here. My goal is to get through the whole school day without anyone talking to me. I decide once I do that, I’ll become a superhero. I’ll become Donnie Disappeared.