Watch Me Disappear (14 page)

I could have put my mom on the phone to hear these words directly from Anna’s mouth, but I didn’t. I was falling back into the same old trap of savoring my seclusion and milking my misery. I was getting back in touch with the old familiar Lizzie who sits home reading books, feeling jealous of the kids who have friends and places to go. I know it’s perverse, but sometimes I think part of me wants to be miserable. It’s easy, anyway, and I am accustomed to it.

My mom keeps telling me to go see if Maura’s home, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to try to play the part of Maura’s friend. I don’t want to put on the expensive makeup that’s collecting dust on my dresser, I don’t want to style my hair or suck in my stomach or laugh at jokes that are stupid anyway. Paul thinks I shouldn’t trust Maura, and he knows her pretty well. I had my taste of a “normal” high school experience, it was interesting enough, and now it’s time to get back to
my
reality.

*          *          *

 “This moping has got to stop,” my mother says to me one afternoon as I listlessly flip through TV channels. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“If you’d just let me go hang out with Missy,” I say.

“Fine.”

Her agreement is an unexpected turn of events. I am too shocked to respond.

“I like seeing you happy,” she says. “It was nice to see you having some friends and acting like a kid. So if you want to go to Missy’s, fine.”

“You know her mom would like to meet you, too,” I say. “She said she’d be happy to meet you anytime.”

“Lizzie, let me ask you something,” my mother says, stepping away from the ironing board where she’s working. “Have we been unreasonable?”

“What do you mean?” I wondered where this was coming from. Of course they’d been unreasonable. My whole life they’d been insanely strict and controlling. Well, mostly my mother, with my father just nodding along in the background.

“We’ve just wanted to keep you safe, to help you stay out of harm’s way, but maybe we’ve been too strict,” she says. “Seeing how Patty interacts with Maura and little Billy—it makes me think. Honestly, Lizzie, you’ve never been a very happy child, and I told myself that was just your nature, but maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I’ve been wrong.”

Of course she’s been wrong. Of course she’s to blame. But there’s no way I can openly concur, is there? “You have been strict with me,” I say.

“Well, I’m sorry, Lizzie, but everything we’ve ever done for you was because we love you.”

I nod.

“And there are some things that are going to stay the same, too,” she says. “We’re not going to let you have a computer in your room or stay out all night, but maybe it’s time we gave you some more freedoms. I mean, look at your brother. He always had the same rules you had, and then he went off to college and was totally unprepared to live his own life.”

This is true. His freshman year he failed two courses and got put on probation by the school for having a big party in his room.

“We should have let him make more of his own choices before he left home,” my mother continues. “I know you’re a good girl, Lizzie. I think you know well enough to make good decisions.”

“I do,” I say, wondering where exactly this is going.

“All right. Your father and I talked it over. We’re going to get you a cell phone, but we have conditions: No texting—we’re not paying for it, so you’re not doing it. No sending pictures to people, because we aren’t paying for that either, and every night you hand it over until the next morning.”

I barely hear her rules and conditions. They are getting me a cell phone! Whatever the rules are, it is still unprecedented freedom.

“And of course, one of these days, you’re going to have to learn to drive, and if we ever catch you talking on the phone and driving, that’ll be the end of that,” she says. “Now, go get dressed in something decent, and we’ll go to the mall and see what we can do.”

Later that day I have the extreme pleasure of calling Missy from my very own phone.

“What number is this?” she asks.

“My cell phone.”

“No way! I can’t believe they let you get a cell phone!”

“Honestly, me either. My mom’s friendship with Mrs. Morgan is finally paying off. My mother actually asked me if she’s been too strict with me.”

“Crazy!”

“And part of my new relationship with my mom includes the ability to choose my own friends, which means I can come hang out with you.”

“Lizzie, this is awesome,” Missy says. “Can you come over tonight? I have practice until 6, but you can come for dinner after that.”

It seems as if true and lasting happiness can come from something as simple as a cell phone. Things are looking up again.

My newfound liberty is extended beyond having a cell phone and hanging out with Missy. I am also allowed to have my own Email address, as long as I write the password down and put it in a sealed envelope next to the computer. My mother promises she will not open it unless something happens to me, in which case she can access my account like some kind of super-sleuth. She got that idea from a PBS documentary on teens and the Internet. She also told me I can have a Facebook account if I want, but for that one, I have to give her the password now and let her patrol my account whenever she wants. I opt out of that. For one thing, I would have to make a new profile or she’d see that I’d been a member for two months already. Besides, a lot of the appeal of Facebook for me was that I was doing something forbidden, and anyway, I can still log on at Missy’s house or the library without having my mom scrutinize my profile or stuff other people are posting. Lastly, she set up lessons for me with a driving school, so I will finally be able to drive myself places instead of having to rely on someone else all the time. It’s all pretty overwhelming.

The first time I go to Missy’s house after I get my cell phone, I add my number to my Facebook profile. If my mother knew, that would be the end of the cell phone and my friendship with Missy. Somehow, even with all my new privileges, I still have to sneak around.

I spend the last week of the summer hanging out with Missy and Wes, who have become inseparable. We watch Lucas when Anna runs errands or just wants a nap, or we drive out to the state park where the water in the swimming area is spring-fed and therefore always freezing, even at the end of August. Even I go swimming; I know neither Missy nor Wes care what I look like in a bathing suit or what my hair looks like when it air-dries in the sun. I know I’m going to sound melodramatic here, but honestly it’s the best week of my life so far.

Chapter 10

And then school starts. Summer is gone as if it never happened, and I am once again learning my way around, trying to keep track of all the new faces and names. At least this time I know a few people, some of whom even smile or say hello in the hallway.

Missy and I have two classes together, AP Physics and AP History. I also have one class with Maura, AP Art History, and I see Maura bright and early every morning, as she is my ride to school, an arrangement worked out by our mothers. Right from the first day, I have been drowning in work. Maura and her friends are talking about senior slide, but I know I will be working straight through May to do well on my AP exams. Maura and Jessica seem utterly unconcerned with college admissions. Both have already made up their minds on UMass Amherst, and they are both certain they’ll get in. Katherine is more studious; she intends to go to Wellesley like her mother and her grandmother before her. Katherine and I have several classes together, but she’s wound so tight I mostly try to steer clear of her.

The person with whom I have the most classes is Hunter Groves. It is no surprise really; we’re both taking mostly AP classes. The only class we don’t have together is studio art, my one non-AP elective, a class I share with Paul. Hunter takes AP Anatomy and Physiology that period. There are a few of us who travel together all day from one AP to another. Kids were already talking about study groups before any tests had been announced, and they included me in their plans. I’m glad; if school is going to be my entire life until May, at least I’m not alone.

At my last school, there weren’t many opportunities to take advanced classes, and it wasn’t “cool” to be smart. If you did well in school, you either had to accept outcast status or not tell anyone. I had no social life anyway, so I had no one to tell about my grades one way or the other. I just floated along, asking for extra assignments from my teachers. To get accepted to Middlebury, I have to do more than just get good grades, especially considering the lousy system my old school was in. But Wilson is a really good school, so now if I want to stand out, I am going to have to make an effort to do so. I can’t just rely on A’s to win my teachers’ good graces. I have to raise my hand and participate, I have to jockey for position with all the other smart kids, which is something I’m not used to at all.

On the first day of school, we were sorted into alphabetically-assigned seats in every class except art. Generally, being an “R,” I sit somewhere near the middle of the second-to-last row. Hunter usually sits near the front of the middle row. In Physics and History, Missy is seated directly behind him. She tells me the same is true in Anatomy and Physiology. I wish my last name started with F or G or H. I also wonder if alphabetical luck has contributed to Hunter’s and Missy’s academic success, always sitting right in the center of the room where they have so much of the teacher’s attention and very little chance to let their own attention drift.

In the art studio, however, there are no assigned seats. The room is full of tables with four students to a table and we sit wherever we want. Whenever I have a choice, I sit in the back corner as close to the windows as possible. I have art second-to-last period. By that point on the first day, I was exhausted from the strain of remembering the names and “essential rules” of my teachers. I dropped my bag and scooted onto the stool before me, rubbing my eyes before remembering that I had put on makeup that morning (to make a good first impression). I wondered if I now had mascara everywhere, but quickly decided that there probably wasn’t any left on my lashes at that point in the day anyway. At that resigned thought, I rummaged in my bag and produced a hair elastic, hastily tucking my hair back into a ponytail, knowing that the front would fall down and not even caring. Besides, no one had noticed me all day, or if they did, they didn’t care about my hair or makeup. I rested my head in my hands and waited for class to start.

“If it isn’t my new best friend, the beautiful and talented Lizzie Richards,” a voice said. A backpack thudded to the floor beside me. I looked up. It was Paul. “This seat taken?”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. I wasn’t in the mood for Paul.

“Perfecto,” he replied, sitting beside me. “Didn’t know you were an artist.”

“I’m not.”

“Me either. Mr. Simmons is hilarious. That’s pretty much why I took this class. He was my favorite teacher freshman year.”

“Oh,” I said. “My guidance counselor signed me up because you have to take an art elective to graduate. It was this or theater arts.”

“You chose well.”

“I’d rather be in study hall,” I said, thinking of all the homework I had that night, the first night of school. It wasn’t a good sign of things to come.

“You don’t have a study? I knew you were an overachiever, but seriously, you have to learn when to quit,” he said.

I just shrugged.

“You can probably do your homework in this class. Mr. Simmons doesn’t care.”

The bell rang and Mr. Simmons came in and introduced himself. He is one of those teachers whose method of presentation is something akin to a stand-up comedy routine. Usually teachers who go that route aren’t very funny and I generally wish they’d just get on with things, but in the wake of the seriousness of all my other teachers, it was a welcome change. I just sat there, not feeling any need to pay much attention to his rules and policies. After all, it was just art class.

“I look forward to seeing your talents blossom this year, Miss Richards,” Paul said dramatically when the bell rang.

“Already tried to put in a good word with Missy,” I said.

He laughed. “I knew you would.”

*          *          *

The next day at lunch, Missy and I are doing homework rather than eating—a habit I suspect will only get worse as the semester wears on—when Paul comes over and plops himself down into the seat beside me. He’s eating an ice cream cone and looking as if he hasn’t a care in the world.

“Say, Lizzie,” he begins. “Did you finish that homework for art class?”

We both stop working and look at him.

“Just kidding. But this does look like some serious work,” he says, pointing to my physics book.

“Yeah,” I say, turning my face back down to my notebook.

“Come on! You can’t be this stressed out on the second day of school,” he says.

I look up at him again. “Do you want something?”

“Want to hear a joke?”

“No,” I say.

“Sure,” Missy says.

“What do you call a guy with no arms and no legs at your front door?”

“Seriously?” I say. “That’s the joke?”

“What?” Missy says. She has to already know the answer. Everyone knows the “no arms and no legs” jokes.

“Mat!” Paul says. “What do you call a guy with no arms and no legs floating in the ocean?”

Missy shakes her head.

“Bob!”

“Do another!” Missy says, finding this all to be too funny.

“What do you call a guy with no arms and no legs hanging on the wall?”

“Art?” Missy says, pleased with herself for figuring out the game.

“Will that be all?” I ask, flashing Paul a fake smile.

“See you next period,” he says, getting up from the table.

“He
is
cute,” Missy says, when he’s gone.

“He’s yours for the taking, my dear,” I say, wanting to get back to work on physics. I am already painfully aware that without Missy’s help I will not survive the class.