Watch Me Disappear (12 page)

The song ends and everyone gives Maura a big round of applause. A few people drift toward her to talk and I follow them.

“Ready, Lizzie?” Missy asks, appearing at my side.

“In a minute.”

“Your parents—”

“Yeah,” I interrupt. “I just need to talk to Maura for a minute. My mom won’t mind.”

“Oh, ok,” Missy says. “Do you want—”

“Just tell my mom to give me a minute,” I answer. I know I sound snippy but I don’t care.

Finally Maura starts walking toward her parents, but I rush up and catch her arm.

“Hey,” she says, turning toward me. “Have fun?”

“Yeah, uh, Maura,” I say, not sure how to ask her what I’ve been trying to ask her for ten minutes.

“Did you want a ride to the after-party?” she asks.

“Your birthday party has an after-party?”

“A girl’s gotta have some fun,” she says.

“Right, but are you driving?”

“Duh! Didn’t you see my new car?” she asks.

“But you’ve been drinking,” I say.

“Oh, Lizzie. Sweet little Lizzie. I haven’t been drinking.”

“I thought you were all drinking by the tennis courts.”

“Everyone else was, but I knew I was getting a car. I couldn’t spoil that, could I?”

“Your parents said it was a surprise,” I say.

“Right. Like they could keep it a secret from me. You are innocent, aren’t you?” she says. “So you want to come or what?”

“I can’t,” I say. “Have fun, though.”

“Will do,” she says. She starts to walk away, but then she stops and says, “Thanks, though, for checking on me. It’s sweet.”

I am relieved that Maura has enough sense not to drink and drive, although the entire ride home all I can think about is who is driving the rest of the kids to the after-party. How many drunk teenagers are on the road at that very moment? Thankfully Missy chatters away with my dad for the entire ride home so I don’t have to talk to anyone.

*          *          *

“I wouldn’t get too cozy with Paul if I were you,” I say to Missy later when we are settled on the couch with a bag of chips and a tub of ice cream. Missy is
starving
from all that dancing.

“Which one was Paul again?” she asks.

I describe him.

“Oh, he was a good dancer.”

“I think he’s like Maura’s ex or something,” I say, explaining how I had seen formal pictures of them in her room. I don’t mention the poetry. I haven’t quite explained to Missy how I snooped on Maura’s computer. I can’t imagine what Missy would think if she knew that.

“Whatever,” she says. “We were just dancing. Besides I’m sort of seeing Wes.”

I still wonder what she sees in him. For the rest of the night, I listen to Missy recount every moment she has spent with Wes, analyzing every detail. She knows he likes her. He held her hand on the hike and helped her over the hard parts.

“I just haven’t worked up the nerve to kiss him, and I don’t know if he’ll ever make a move,” she concludes.

“Maybe you should get him drunk,” I suggest.

“Very funny, Lizzie,” she says, and I am thankful she takes it as a joke and laughs instead of being insulted.

We are both quiet for a minute and then she asks what I thought about everyone drinking at the party. We both agree, it was pretty stupid. Why put your parents through all the trouble of throwing a very expensive party so you can spend half the time hiding? Besides, it seems like such a ridiculous risk. I tell Missy that everyone was going to an after-party.

“We totally should have gone!” Missy says.

“Oh, right, my parents would have just waved us on our way. Better yet, they would have offered to give us a ride.” I am tempted to add that the invite was to me, not to me and Missy, but even as I think it, I know it is not a friendly thing to say. The thing is, I like Missy; she is funny and friendly and spunky all the time, and the fact that she seems to genuinely like me makes me feel good about myself, but there’s this part of me—a big part, to be honest—that is so insanely jealous of her that sometimes I find myself snipping at her for no good reason.

“Oh well,” she says.

“Wait,” I say, “you don’t drink, do you?”

She shrugs. “It’s never really come up, you know?”

I know all too well.

“Would you?” she asks.

“I’m afraid I’d just end up puking or make a real ass of myself. I’m too scared.”

“Yeah,” she says. “But who knows until you try it?”

“So you would?” I ask.

She grins. “Maybe just a sip, to see if I liked it.”

“I’m sure there’ll be opportunities,” I say.

We don’t go to bed until almost two o’clock. I finally have to tell Missy to shut up. I am exhausted, but she could talk all night. All of my jealousy aside, I am happy Missy stayed over. It would have been totally depressing to come home from that party and just hang out all alone in my room. It feels good to have a friend, even if the one I have is so annoyingly perfect. I wish I knew what she sees in me that makes her want to be my friend. I suppose she doesn’t want to start senior year friendless any more than I do. And maybe part of it is the fact that we’re such opposites. It is boring, after all, to always be with people just like you.

Chapter 8

I was right; since Maura’s party, there have been plenty of opportunities to go to parties where kids stumble around with plastic cups of “punch” made from Kool-Aid and whatever can be pilfered from someone’s parents’ liquor cabinet or cans of cheap beer procured through the generosity of an older sibling. And Missy and I don’t need to wait to be invited, either. Missy sees something on Facebook (my own zeal for Facebook has cooled off. It’s too much effort to go to the library all the time when I can just call Missy or IM her), and then she asks around until she has the details. She insists we can just show up—she says no one will mind that we haven’t been invited. Missy has decided it’s time to act. She has her heart set on a party this weekend.

“Two pretty girls looking for fun,” she says when I hesitate. “Who’s going to turn us away?”

I’m dubious but willing to give it a try, if only I can find a way around my parents. I need to introduce them to Missy’s parents if I want to go over her house again, but now it is my mother’s turn to avoid the meeting. Every time I try to set up a time to meet, my mother has a reason to say no.

“You could ask Maura if she’s going and then tag along with her,” Missy suggests after we’ve talked through a half dozen other possibilities, each one more doomed to fail than the last.

I’m surprised by the idea, but it might just work.

“You could go with her, and Wes and I will meet you there,” she says.

I figure it’s worth a try. The party is at John’s house—the same John who supplied the drinks at Maura’s party. It’s on Saturday night, and from what Missy can tell, everyone is going. So when I hear Maura gabbing away on the phone by her pool, I take a deep breath, say a prayer for courage, and walk next door.

I haven’t talked to Maura at all since her party. I have thought a lot about what it might be like to be Maura’s friend, to really make an effort to become part of her circle. After Maura’s party and my sleepover with Missy, I decided I was happy enough to know Maura isn’t my enemy any more. It is impossible to relax around Maura and her friends. With them, I always have to wonder if I look all right and if I said the right thing. They all talk behind each other’s backs, and they scrutinize one another constantly. As much as part of me wants to associate with the popular crowd, my rational self knows better than to get involved in that kind of self-esteem destroying situation. I have made up my mind to stop being jealous of Missy and instead to just enjoy her friendship, which is so relaxed and easy that I never worry how I look or what I say.

But it is Missy’s idea that I approach Maura. Missy doesn’t need me to go to John’s party. She can go with Wes and have a great time. But she wants us to go together, and I don’t want to miss out when I’m finally finding out what it’s like to be included.

Mrs. Morgan, as always delighted to see me, leads me through the house to the backyard where Maura sits in the sun, painting her toenails.

“Oh yeah, you heard about that?” Maura says, when I ask if she’s going to John’s party.

“It sounds fun.” I don’t even know John’s last name, but I try to sound casual and in-the-know.

Maura fills me in on the whole story. John lives out in the country somewhere, and behind his house, you can walk through the woods a little ways up a hill to a place with great views. They make a fire pit and probably some kids will bring guitars and, of course, there will be plenty of booze.

“And other stuff, if you’re into that,” Maura says. “A lot of kids eat mushrooms up there. I haven’t done it, but they say it’s fun.”

“That’s cool,” I say, trying to convince myself to ask the question I had really come to ask.

“So you gonna go?” Maura says.

“My parents don’t really let me go to things like that,” I say.

“No one’s do,” she answers. “You have to lie.”

“Yeah, I know, I just mean my parents are sort of insanely strict, so I can’t even get in someone’s car without their permission.”

“That sucks,” Maura says, reclining back in her chair and wiggling her toes with their fresh pink nail polish. I get the sense that she’s getting bored of our conversation.

“So anyway, I was wondering if maybe I could go with you. I mean, I think my parents will let me if I’m with you,” I say.

“Yeah, I guess,” Maura says. “But I’m not coming home after so you have to get a ride home.”

I figure a ride home will be no problem. Wes will be driving Missy home, so I’ll just get him to drop me off, too. I think for a minute and then I ask Maura what I should tell my parents. She looks at me like she’s amused by my needy-baby routine.

“Tell them whatever you want,” Maura says.

“No, I mean, my mom will probably talk to yours, so what should I say?”

Maura instructs me to say we are seeing a movie. When I insist we agree on what movie, I think she almost reconsiders letting me tag along with her, but she continues to help me generate my lie. I’ll tell them we’re going to see the new James Bond
and that afterwards we’re going to the ’50s Diner for ice cream.

“Hey, is your friend Missy coming?” Maura asks.

“Yeah, I think she is,” I say, reaching for the handle of the sliding door.

“She’s really pretty, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, she’s cute,” I say, waiting to see if Maura has more to add.

“I was surprised she came to my party,” Maura says. “I mean, I had never met her.”

“Yeah, about that,” I say. “Your mom said—”

“No, it’s cool,” Maura says. “I’m sure I’ll get to chat with her tomorrow. I’m sure she’s nice.”

“Okay,” I say, opening the door.

“7:30,” Maura says.

When I get home, just as I predicted, my mother is thrilled that I have plans with Maura. Also as predicted, she wants details.

“What time is Maura’s curfew?” she asks, after hearing the movie and ice cream story.

I tell her I doubt Maura has one, but that anyway, she’s staying over one of the other girl’s houses.

“Well, how are you getting home?”

“Someone else will give me a ride,” I say.

Of course my mother doesn’t like that idea at all. “Maybe we should come pick you up,” she says.

“Mom, seriously, it’ll be fine. A few of the girls live around here. Someone will drop me off,” I say.

She thinks it over and concludes that she should consult Patty. I wonder what, if anything, Maura has told her mother about the plans for the evening. I suspect all Mrs. Morgan knows is that Maura is going out and will not be home until Sunday.

Over dinner that night my mother gives me the verdict. “You can go,” she says, “but you be home by 11:00, no excuses.” I know Missy won’t mind getting me home for curfew. Success! I am going out to a drinking party in the woods, and my parents are none the wiser.

*          *          *

At 7:30, Maura, Katherine, Jessica, and I climb into Maura’s car. Maura blasts the music, and the three of them sing along for most of the ride. It’s after eight when we pull into John’s long gravel driveway. It winds up a hill to the house. I can see why people like it. The house is so far off the road that you can park loads of cars and no one driving by will even know they’re all there. We are arriving fashionably late; there are already almost a dozen cars. I wonder what John’s parents will say when they see tire marks all over the lawn, but that’s John’s problem.

Katherine produces a flashlight and Jessica opens her bag to reveal two bottles of Boone’s.

“You’ve never had it?” she asks when I ask what it is. “I’ll give you a taste when we get up there.”

“It’s gross,” Maura says. She holds up her Nalgene bottle, which appears to be full of some red juice. “This is the stuff,” she says. “Cranberry and vodka.”

“Do you have to bring your own?” I ask.

“I never take my chances with the shit they have,” Maura says. “You might luck out and get something good, or you might be drinking mystery punch.”

“Did you bring something, too?” I ask Katherine.

She shakes her head.

“Katherine’s afraid of getting a beer belly,” Jessica says, laughing. “She prefers—”

“Shut up!” Katherine says, interrupting her. “Can we go?”

We walk around the back of the house and up a path through the yard into the trees. It’s a short but steep hike to the clearing where the party is underway. Maura was right about the view. The party is scattered across an outcropping and you can see clear across the valley, the lights from all the towns, the sunset on a lake in the distance. It’s beautiful. Way better than what I always pictured as the typical high school drinking party locations: Someone’s dirty garage or damp basement.

A couple of guys are lingering around the fire, occasionally throwing things into it that cause loud pops or turn the flames strange colors. I scan the crowd for any sign of Missy, but I don’t see her.

“Hey, there,” someone says, walking up to me. In the dim light it takes me a moment to realize it’s Paul. “Know me this time?” he asks.