The Rules for Disappearing

BOOK: The Rules for Disappearing
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Series: The Rules for Disappearing

Title:
The Rules for Disappearing

Author: Ashley Elston

Imprint: Hyperion

In-store date: 5/14/13

ISBN: 978-1-4231-6897-3

Price: $16.99 US / $17.99 CAN

E-book ISBN: 978-1-4231-7976-4

Trim size: 5 ½ x 8 ¼

Page count: 320

Ages: 12–18

Grades: 7–12

ATTENTION, READER

This is an uncorrected galley proof. It is not a finished book and is not expected to look like one. Errors in spelling, page length, format, etc., will be corrected when the book is published several months from now. Direct quotes should be

checked against the final printed book.

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Please send two copies of any review or mention to:

Disney Book Group

Attn: Children’s Publicity Department

44 South Broadway, 10th Floor

White Plains, NY 10601

[email protected]

THE RULES FOR DISAPPEARING

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HYPERION

New York

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Ashley Elston

HYPERION

New York

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ELSTON—Rules for DisappearinG_2ND PASS

Copyright © 2013 by Ashley Elston

All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

For information address Hyperion, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

First Edition

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

G475-5664-5-13060

Printed in the United States of America

This book is set in Bell Regular.

Designed by Marci Senders

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

TK

ISBN 978-1-4231-6897-3

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Reinforced binding

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Visit www.un-requiredreading.com

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Dedication TK

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ELSTON—Rules for DisappearinG_2ND PASS

“Whatdo you want your name to be this time? We have

about thirty minutes.”

I stare at the muted television. The only light in the room comes from the flashing images on the small screen, one of those old Meg Ryan movies that’s on all the time. A movie I’ve seen so often that sound isn’t necessary.

All the other times they asked me this question, I’d stressed out searching for the perfect name. I used each available moment going back and forth, trying to decide.

Not this time.

“Meg.” I answer.

“Meg. Do you want just Meg or maybe Megan with Meg for

short?”

“I don’t care.”

“What about her?” A hand points down to the lump of girl next

to me. My arm curls around her sleeping form and I fight the temp-

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tation to pull her in close.

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It’s very late, somewhere around three in the morning, and I

hate to wake her for this. She was pissed when I made this decision for her last time. I picked the wrong girl’s name from that show she likes. Luckily for her, it had been our shortest identity.

I shake her gently.

“Hey,” I whisper. It’s been hammered into us not to use our real names. Ever. With the suits watching, I can’t call her anything.

“What name do you want? I don’t want to pick for you again.”

She tosses around, trying to wake up. Slowly, her eyes open.

“What’d you choose?” Her voice is hoarse.

“I went with ‘Meg.’”

Lines race across her crumpled forehead. It’s almost like I can hear the wheels in her brain turning over possibilities. Each time she’s had to make this decision, she’s chosen a TV character she likes. Can’t think if there’s one left she hasn’t used.

“I don’t care,” she answers in a ragged huff.

Just like that she shuts off. Her eyes close and her knees curl in closer to her chest. My throat constricts. I hate seeing her like this.

“What about Mary? You’d be a cute Mary.”

She’s quiet a moment more and then gives me a small nod.

If she doesn’t like it, I’m sure we’ll be changing them again

soon. At this rate we will go through a dozen names. “We’ll be the M&M girls. How’s that?”

A ghost of a smile crosses her face, and she drifts back to sleep.

I watch her for a few seconds. She’s talking less and less with each move, and I’m scared she’ll stop all together. She doesn’t act like an S—

eleven-year-old anymore. Most days, she needs help bathing and N—

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doing her hair like she’s five or six. And it’s not like Mom’s up to the task.

The woman taps her pen against a clipboard in an annoying

rat-tat-tat
. She told me her name at some point but I stopped trying to remember them all months ago. I assume my earlier position.

“Mary. She’ll be Mary.” I’m exhausted. Drained.

“Do you have a preference for middle names?”

“No.”

“All right, Meg.” Just like that we are Meg and Mary. We will

not be called anything else until the next move. “The only thing left is your appearance. From your file pictures, I see that you have—

until this point—gotten away without any major alterations. Sorry to tell you—that’s not the case this time.” She squats lower.

“I brought a few things. We can start with you and let Mary

sleep a little longer.” She shifts around the bed until she blocks the TV. Her feet plant squarely on the floor and both hands ball into fists at her waist.

“We’ll have to cut your hair and change the color. I also brought colored contacts for you to change your eyes from blue to brown.

Hopefully, that will be enough.” She talks slow and draws every syllable out as if she’s trying to get through to an old person or small child.

Ignoring her, I stare ahead as if I can still make out the images on the TV behind her. The old me would have revolted. My hair

and eyes are my most striking features, and I know it. Up until this point, I’ve only lost my name. After this I will be unrecognizable.

I count to sixty in my head before I start moving. Inch by inch,

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ELSTON—Rules for DisappearinG_2ND PASS

I slide from the bed, careful not to wake “Mary” up. Her new name doesn’t fit, but that will change in a few days. The bathroom is small and smells like mildew. There’s only one light over the sink. It’s a single bare bulb that gives off a really hard light compared to the muted images from the bedroom. I force my shoulders back and

step in front of the sink.

No matter what changes the suits make, that girl in the mirror bolted with this last move. Gone. Pieces splintered away with each new identity but the last big chunk shattered the second the suits yanked us from our beds in the middle of the night and threw us in that windowless van. No tears after this loss. Not after everything else that’s gone.

My long blond hair is thick and streaked with natural high-

lights that can only come from hours in the sun. It’s straight and falls well below my bra strap. It’s beautiful hair.

“Cut it off.” My voice is firm.

The woman comes up behind me and gathers my hair into a

ponytail. Once it’s secured, she pulls it down, loosening it a small amount. She withdraws a large pair of scissors from her bag and takes a deep breath, as if she too understands what a travesty this is, and begins to cut. It takes a few moments and several attempts but finally the entire ponytail is gone.

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