by Ali Standish
But there he is, standing over her grave on Thanksgiving. And I need to know why. I tug Boomer through the church gates and into the grassy graveyard.
“Hi, Professor Swann,” I call.
It’s not until he turns around and we’re a little closer that I realize he’s not standing in front of Gram’s grave at all. He’s standing in front of Isabella Fortune’s. The teacher Gram liked who died so young.
“Hello, Emma,” he says. His hat, for once, is pressed against his chest instead of on his head. He beckons me over. “Come to visit your gram?”
“Kind of,” I say. “I saw you in here, and I wondered—well, was she a friend of yours?” I nod toward Isabella’s grave, remembering how untidy and overgrown it had been the day of Gram’s funeral. Now a rosebush has been planted over the neat grass.
Professor Swann’s eyes swim. “She was my first true love,” he replies, turning to stare at the name like he might see her face there if he looks hard enough. “My only true love, to tell you the truth, Emma. She was a schoolteacher here in town. She probably taught your gram, actually.”
“She did,” I say. “Gram told me about her. She said she was a great teacher.”
“Yes, she was,” agrees Professor Swann. “I didn’t visit her here for many, many years. It was too hard. But then, at your grandmother’s funeral, I saw her grave so overgrown, and I knew I couldn’t stay away any longer. She doesn’t deserve to be forgotten.”
For a moment, he looks lost in thought. Or memory, more likely. Then he shakes his head and pins a smile on his face. “Anyhow, happy Thanksgiving, Emma.”
“You, too,” I say. I remember what Ruth said about Professor Swann not having any family. “Professor? Do you have—I mean, do you have plans for dinner today? You could come to our house if you wanted. We’d love to have you.”
Madeline isn’t the only lonely person in Lanternwood. The only one who could use a little company. And like Dad said, we have plenty of food.
He hesitates, leaning his head to one side. “Well, if you’re sure.”
“I am.”
Professor Swann smiles. “In that case, I’d be very grateful.” Then he settles his hat back on his head, takes one last look at Isabella’s tombstone, and follows me out of the graveyard.
Mom and Dad are clearly surprised when Professor Swann walks in behind me and Boomer, but they usher him in. The Ramirezes have already arrived, and Ms. Ramirez immediately starts up a conversation with Professor Swann about what Hampstead College was like when he taught there.
I find Fina talking to Lily in the kitchen. I’ve never seen it so full of food. Mr. Ramirez made chili corn bread, and Ms. Ramirez made pumpkin empanadas and Brussels sprouts with chorizo. The dishes sit alongside Mom’s mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce, and Dad’s green beans with almonds. From the oven comes the mouthwatering smell of turkey.
For the first time since Gram died, the house feels really full.
I pull Fina aside, and I tell her about going to Madeline’s house.
“Do you think she’ll come?” she asks.
“I’m not sure,” I say, just as her phone rings. It’s her grandmother calling to wish her a happy Thanksgiving. She puts the phone on FaceTime and introduces me to all her family, who are together in San Diego. Her grandmother says it’s eighty degrees there, and Fina pulls her sweater tighter around her, even though the oven is keeping the whole house toasty.
“Do you miss them a lot today?” I ask once we hang up.
“Yeah,” Fina says. “Abuelita especially. But I’ll get to see her at Christmas. And anyway, I’ve got you!”
“Yeah,” I say, wrapping my arms around her and squeezing. “You do.”
Lily pulls out a board game she’s been too cool to play since she was like ten, and the three of us play while the grown-ups finish cooking. Every few minutes, I look over at the door, but nobody rings the bell.
So I’m actually a little sad when Mom says it’s time for dinner. But when we sit down, Lily and Professor Swann start talking about study abroad programs, and Mr. Ramirez and Dad get into a dad joke-off. Their jokes get worse and worse, but everyone just laughs harder and harder. We eat firsts and seconds and thirds until I literally can’t have another bite. And that’s before dessert.
By the time the knock comes at the door, I’ve almost forgotten I was hoping for Madeline to come.
Everything goes quiet as we all look at one another.
“Is someone going to answer that?” Ms. Ramirez says.
I shoot up from my seat and walk to the door. I open it and have to hide my disappointment. Old Joe is standing on the doorstep.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Emma!” he says.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Joe.”
“Gloria sent me. The lights are about to go on. And she wants you to plug them in this year.”
“Me?” I ask. “Why me?”
“I learned a long time ago not to question Gloria,” he says, shaking his head.
I laugh. “Okay. Hold on. I’ll get everybody together.”
“Great,” Old Joe says. “And here—this was sitting on the stoop when I walked up.”
He hands me a hot dish covered in tinfoil.
I shut the door and bring the dish into the dining room. There’s a note stuck on it.
“What is it?” Fina asks. “What does the note say?”
I unfold it and read aloud the words—written in familiar handwriting. “‘Dear Emma, Thank you for your invitation. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.’”
“That’s all?” Fina asks, her face falling.
“No,” I say. “There’s a P.S.”
Keep knocking.
I hand Fina the note so she can see for herself, then pull back the foil from the dish. Inside is a warm apple pie.
After we all have our hats and gloves firmly on and scarves wrapped tightly, we walk the short distance to the village hall, where people are gathered around, talking and wishing one another happy Thanksgivings. Professor Swann has to stand on tiptoe to see over the crowd. Old Joe goes to stand by Older Joe, who is wearing a truly terrible purple wool hat and has cranberry sauce caught in his white beard.
There are also a few kids from school here with their families, and lots of people I don’t recognize. People who drove here to see the lights go on. The crowd takes up the whole street in front of the hall.
Gloria waves me up when she sees me. I grip Fina’s gloved hand and drag her with me, weaving through the crowd of strange and familiar faces.
“Aha,” says Gloria. “Finally! We’ve been waiting.”
As if we had an appointment.
“But why me?” I ask. Usually the person who gets chosen to plug in the lights is someone who’s done something really special for the village that year.
“Because, dear,” Gloria says simply, “it’s what your gram would have wanted.”
She claps her hands and calls for everyone’s attention. Before I have time to think about what she said, I suddenly become aware of hundreds of eyes turning in my direction.
I can’t remember ever being in front of this many people. My dinner seems to flip in my stomach. Even in the dusky light, I’m sure they can make out my patches.
“Is everybody ready?” Gloria calls.
“Just do it, Gloria!” Ruth cries. “Some of us have bad backs!”
A few people laugh. I wonder if anyone is staring at me, whispering to the person next to them. Do you see her face? What’s wrong with it?
And you know what?
Maybe they are and maybe they aren’t. I decide I don’t care. A smile creeps up my face. It’s Thanksgiving. My best friend is standing beside me. Nobody is going to ruin this moment.
“Countdown!” Gloria demands, handing me the end of the string of lights.
“Five!” someone yells.
A snowflake appears in the sky. It lands on Ms. Ramirez’s coat. Her eyes light up when she sees it. Fina and I look at each other and grin. “Four!�
� we yell.
Mom has one arm wrapped around Dad’s waist and the other looped over Lily’s shoulders. Lily squints up at the sky. Nearby, a kid calls out, “Snow!”
“Three!”
That’s when I see a dark figure in the back of the crowd. I squint, but all I can make out is a shape, standing slightly away from everyone else in the shadows.
“Two!”
A snowflake lands on my nose. I bend down toward the outlet, gripping the end of the light strand firmly in my hand.
“ONE!” everyone shouts.
I plug in the lights.
When I stand up again, I look for the figure I saw. But there’s nobody. Whoever it was has just slipped out of sight.
Everyone starts to clap and cheer. One by one, up and down High Street, the houses turn their lights on. The crowd gasps as rooftops and doorways and yards begin to twinkle and glitter. Color spills from everywhere. The village is bathed in its brightness.
The lights illuminate the snowflakes that have begun to fall faster and faster. People are looking up and pointing. Fina tries to catch a snowflake on her tongue, and suddenly everybody—even Ruth—is laughing and clapping their hands like little kids.
Snowflakes land on the ground. On noses and ears and eyelashes and cheeks.
The entire world is suddenly dappled with white.
And it is magical.
Acknowledgments
This book starts and ends with Aki Laakso. Thank you for inspiring this story, and for encouraging me to write it when I wasn’t sure I could. Your strength, determination, optimism, and—above all—your kind heart have made you a wonderful husband, and I know they will make you the best father a kid could ask for.
Thanks to Sarah Davies and Polly Nolan for their enthusiasm for this book, their never-ending well of patience and support. I am prouder than ever to be part of the Greenhouse family.
To Alyson Day for giving this story a home and for her confidence in me to tell it. Thank you for all the passion you poured into this book! That goes for the whole team at HarperCollins: Megan Ilnitzki, Manny Blasco, Jon Howard, Laura Mock, Joel Tippie, Emma Meyer, and Aubrey Churchward. Thank you for all your dedicated work to make this story into a real live book.
To Yaoyao Ma Van As for creating a spellbindingly beautiful cover that captures the essence of Emma’s soul and her story.
Special thanks to those who lent their time, experience, and expertise to show me how to write this story in the best way I could. To Dr. Edith Bowers for taking the time outside the office to read and offer me her feedback, and for taking such good care of her patients inside it. To Dr. John Harris for reading, for patiently answering all my many questions, and for being an incredible resource and advocate for those in the vitiligo community. To Julia Lodewick, Aki Laakso, and Jesica Perez for lending me their wisdom and sharing their life experiences to help me craft the characters in this book. And to my beta readers, each of whom made critiques and suggestions that were instrumental in transforming this manuscript into a novel, and each of whom has become an inspiration to me in her own right: Kristin Gray, Supriya Kelkar, Tae Keller, Jen Petro-Roy, and last but never least, Nancy Ruth Patterson.
To the Cramp for being a combination of writing critique/support group, and wonderful people to boot: Paige Nguyen, Keith Dupuis, Christie-Sue Cheeley, Scott Reintgen, Emmalea Couch, and Kwame Mbalia.
Finally to Mom, who continues to read every piece I write and offer thoughtful feedback on them all. And to Dad, who always gets around to it eventually, and always lets me know he’s proud when he does. You guys are pretty great.
About the Author
Photo by Aki Laakso
ALI STANDISH, author of the critically acclaimed The Ethan I Was Before, August Isle, and Bad Bella, grew up splitting her time between North Carolina and several imaginary worlds. The only award she ever won in school was for messiest desk, but that didn’t stop her from going on to get degrees from Pomona College, Hollins University, and the University of Cambridge. She still spends most of her time in her imagination, but you might just spot her walking her two rescue dogs with her Finnish husband around her neighborhood in Raleigh. You can visit her online at www.alistandish.com.
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Copyright
HOW TO DISAPPEAR COMPLETELY. Copyright © 2020 by Alice Standish. Interior illustrations © 2020 by Yaoyao Ma Van As. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com
Cover art © 2020 by Yaoyao Ma Van As
Cover design and hand lettering by Laura Mock
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2019946024
Digital Edition APRIL 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-289330-7
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-289328-4
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2021222324PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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