Watch Me Disappear (18 page)

When we finally get home, I get a better look. She’s short, like me, or maybe a smidge taller, and thin, but athletic looking and not waifish. Her hair, which is definitely professionally dyed (although she may have been born blonde), is cut into a chin-length bob that is perfectly styled. She’s wearing slim-fitting khaki pants and a green cardigan over a green camisole. She has on cute flat shoes. She looks like a walking J. Crew ad.

We stand in the kitchen while my mom gets dinner ready. Jen has her manicured hands folded over the back of one of the stools at the kitchen island. Her fingernails are a perfect medium length, carefully shaped, and painted in a French manicure. I know she must be wearing makeup—no one with hair that perfect and nails so carefully kept would go out without makeup—but her face looks very natural, no heavy eyeliner or garish lipstick. In fact she is so put together, I can’t help but think she looks more like a soccer mom than a college student. She seems too old for Jeff. Jeff rambles on about school, answering all my mother’s questions, and Jen just stands there quietly, looking nice.

I have never been one to wish I had an older sister. I think some kids who grow up in households like mine, always on the move, never staying in one place for long, wish for big families because then they’ll always have friends. No matter where they might move, there’s always someone to keep them company from the moment they arrive. Not me. I’m content with one big brother. And besides, it was hard enough to live in Jeff’s shadow, to follow Mr. Popular through life. At least no one expected me to have his interests or athleticism; after all, I’m just a girl. Sometimes when I was much younger I thought it might be fun to have a younger sister, but once I started babysitting I got over that idea.

Standing in the kitchen with Jeff and Jen, though, I realize that at some point Jeff will get married and I will have a sister-in-law. I know I am just being childish and insecure, but I keep thinking that I don’t want anyone comparing me to Jen. How can I possibly measure up? Why did Jeff bring her here when this was supposed to be a fun family weekend?

At the end of dinner, I excuse myself from the table in the middle of some story about Jeff’s soccer coach. If Jeff isn’t going to have time for me this weekend because he is too busy entertaining his girlfriend, at least I don’t have to hang around them more than necessary.

*          *          *

I spend the beginning of Thanksgiving break hiding out in my room on the phone with Paul or Missy instead of hanging out with my brother, but he is relentless in his insistence that he get to meet some of my new friends. The more I try to avoid him, the more he annoys me. He says that if these new friends are so important that I’d rather talk on the phone with them than be with the rest of the family, he should at least get to meet them. His protective big brother routine is sweet—after all, before he went to college, any social life I had was thanks to him. So Friday night, we meet Paul, Missy, and Wes at Mel’s Diner. Two pairs of love birds and me and Paul. At least the numbers will balance out all right.

Of course as soon as we arrive there’s a problem: the hostess wants to seat us at a big booth, three on a side. Logically, Paul and I should sit on separate sides so the couples can sit shoulder to shoulder, but that arrangement makes me feel alone and vulnerable. I practically glue myself to Paul’s side so I can slide into the booth alongside him. Wes, as always, has his arms around Missy and is not going to let her go. Jeff looks terribly amused in the way that adults often look at teenagers, which annoys me because he is only three years older than us. Besides Jen holds Jeff’s hand in a way that suggests she has no desire to be physically separated from him, if only by a table. We all stand there, no one choosing a seat.

“Can we have that one?” Jeff asks, pointing to a big, circular booth in the corner.

“That’s really for bigger parties,” the hostess begins, looking impatient, but Jeff gives her his winning smile, and her tone softens. “I guess it’s not going to be too busy tonight,” she says, leading us that way.

We slide around into the booth, Paul and me in the middle, with Jeff and Jen to my right, and Missy and Wes to Paul’s left. We all order coffees, except Jen who gets tea, and Missy and Jeff order pie. We only have to suffer awkward silence for a minute before Paul can’t take it anymore. “So you’re a soccer player?” he asks, turning to Jeff. I know we won’t have another lapse in conversation for the rest of the night. If you want nonstop chatter, just put Jeff, Missy, and Paul at the same table. Jeff is a storyteller, Paul is a questioner, and Missy is both. Also Wes is in a good mood, which is a relief. I wasn’t sure how he’d be with Paul here, but he is acting relaxed, like when I first met him. He seems happy enough to add details to Missy’s stories, as if his ability to do so is proof of their flourishing romance or something. Actually, they’re acting like a boring old married couple, but at least everyone is getting along. 

Jeff regales us with stories about college life and hands out advice about choosing a college and writing application essays like he’s some sort of expert. He is working in the admissions office, so I guess he has some inside information, but mostly I think he’s just enjoying his senior status at our table. He and Paul talk about sports and Missy asks Jen a million questions about southern living, since Jen is from Georgia. Jen isn’t much of a talker, though, so her answers tend to be shorter than Missy’s long, rambling questions. We sit there longer than the waitress would like, taking up precious time at her biggest table, downing free refills of coffee and not much else. At least we leave her a big tip.

It is freezing when we go back outside. Jeff and Wes, good boyfriends that they are, wrap themselves around their girls as we walk down the block toward the cars. Paul and I walk along behind them, taking turns shoving each other playfully to the side. When we reach the parking lot, Wes is suddenly in a big hurry to take off, which leaves the four of us standing there in the cold dark.

Jeff extends a hand to Paul. “Take care of my sis,” he says.

“As if she were my own.”

Their handshake turns into that fake boxing thing guys are so fond of, and that turns into some typically male wrestling hold, and then Jeff is clapping Paul on the back and Paul is getting into his car.

“I’ll pick you up at 8 tomorrow,” he says to me, before he shuts the door.

I get in the back seat and give Jeff some directions to get us home.

“Lizzie, he is so cute,” Jen says, turning around in her seat to look at me. It is the first time she’s attempted to initiate conversation with me all weekend.

“He’s just a friend,” I say.

“Mom said he’s at our house like three times a week. And you two are skipping the semi tomorrow together, right?” Jeff asks.

“Yeah, but if we weren’t just friends, maybe we’d be going to the semi together,” I say.

“I bet he likes you,” Jen says.

I fill them in on how Paul and I became friends thanks to his crush on Missy.

“Whatever,” Jeff says. “Wes seems to have a pretty firm grip on Missy.”

“And Paul and I are just friends,” I say.

“I’ll bet you’ve never seen
When Harry Met Sally
,” Jen says.

I haven’t.

“Well, you should. Believe me, men and women cannot be friends.”

I want to believe her, but I know Paul is not interested in me. Still all night I have been letting myself pretend that Paul and I are a couple, just like Jeff and Jen and Wes and Missy. It’s fun to pretend. And we have better chemistry than Missy and Wes any day, anyone can see that. There is none of the under-the-surface tension lurking between us that has recently developed between them. Maybe if I were prettier, thinner, taller. Maybe if I were nicer, less cynical. Maybe if I were Missy.

There is no sense in pining for Paul. I’m glad we’re going out tomorrow, just the two of us, and probably Tuesday after school he will come over to study again. That is already more than I ever imagined. If he wants to think of me as the sister he never had, at least he wants to think of me.

Chapter 13

The next night Paul is right on time, as usual, and just like homecoming, he arrives with a bouquet.

“We’re not even going to the dance,” I say, when he hands it to me.

“You’re still my date for the evening,” he says.

His date. “I don’t have a boutonnière for you,” I say. “And you’d look so cute with a flower pinned to your sweater.”

“A thank you will do,” he says.

I feel my face color. It is rude to respond to a gift with sarcasm. What sort of person am I? “Thanks,” I say.

The movie is sometimes funny but mostly stupid. Afterwards we have some time to kill before the party. We stop at Mel’s and share dessert, and then we drive around, looking at the Christmas lights people put up over the weekend. We don’t talk much and it’s nice. We are comfortable enough around one another to sit in silence without having it be awkward.

“Missy and Wes seemed pretty cozy last night,” Paul says after a while.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I thought they were acting kind of weird.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Like they were putting on some act, trying to be like some mature adult couple,” I say.

 Paul considers this. “Yeah, I guess. They were all smiles, but it did seem a little forced.”

“Definitely.”

“So what are you saying, I still have a chance?” he asks in this cheesy movie voice he likes to do.

“Not in this life, pal,” I say.

“Shoot. Well, what about you? Got your eye on anyone?”

“You know me, Luscious Lizzie, man killer.”

“I’m serious. I know you’re over Hunter, but who is the object of your affection these days?”

“No one, really.” What am I supposed to say? You?

“So you haven’t warmed up to John at all, huh? He still thinks you’re a hot ticket.”

“Then why didn’t he ask me to the semi?”

“Fear of rejection. But if you’re interested, I could let him know.”

“No, thanks.”

“That’s too bad,” he says. “You should be more open-minded.”

You should see what’s right in front of you, I think.

“You’ve never had a boyfriend, have you?” Paul asks.

This is new territory. We never talk about my romantic history or lack thereof. “So?” I say.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit sometimes, Lizzie. There are probably loads of guys who have had crushes on you, but you were too busy being defensive to notice.”

He sounds like my brother. I shake my head.

“I’m serious. You’re smart and cute. Sometimes you’re even fun to be around.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say.

“You deserve to be happy and to be treated nice,” he says, looking away from the road to look at me.

“I don’t need a boyfriend to be happy,” I say.

“Don’t you want to know what it feels like to be kissed?”

That hurts a little. “How do you know I’ve never been kissed?”

“Have you?” he asks.

We both know the answer, though.

We are driving along edge of the park. Paul pulls to the side of the road and turns to look at me. My heart is pounding so fast I think I might explode. I close my eyes as he leans toward me and I feel his lips gently brush against mine. That’s all. It isn’t a long, sloppy, impassioned kiss. Just his lips softly sweeping along mine. He pulls away but I keep my eyes closed for a minute. I can feel tears welling up behind my eyelids and I am afraid to open them.

Paul pulls the car back onto the road and turns around to head toward Jessica’s house. I face the window and open my eyes, brushing back the tears that had leaked out and trying to keep my breathing steady. I don’t understand what it means. One minute he’s asking me about his chances with Missy and then the next he’s kissing me. Is it just pity? He feels bad because I am seventeen and have never been kissed? I can’t believe that he likes me, as much as I want to think he does.

“Here we are,” he says, pulling up in front of a split-level house at the end of a dead-end street. There are already a lot of other cars there. Amazingly my parents gave me permission to stay over at Jessica’s. Apparently in the past few months, I have proven myself trustworthy in their eyes. Plus, they have gotten used to me having a cell phone. They can reach me at any time and vice versa. They insist that if anything happens at the party to make me feel uncomfortable, I should call them and no matter what time they’ll come get me. My mom must have been watching lots of talk shows offering parenting advice to inspire her to make such a statement. I think the biggest reason they are willing to let me stay over is Paul. He has charmed them so thoroughly that they have utter faith that he would never do anything wrong.

As we walk up to the door, Paul leans into me and gives me a playful shove. Whatever the kiss was, that shove is Paul telling me everything is the same as it has ever been.

*          *          *

Jessica’s parents are of the philosophy that if kids are going to drink, they may as well do it where someone can keep an eye on them. They greet us when we come in and take Paul’s keys. Then they send us down to the basement where the party is.

Maura, Katherine, and Jessica are in one corner with some rather tough-looking guys, one of whom is apparently Maura’s date.

“I can’t believe she’s hanging out with them,” Paul says, steering me toward the far side of the basement. “That guy, Jason, spent last year in juvie.”

He looks like it. He’s a big guy, tall and muscular, and he has on low-slung jeans and a wife-beater. He has a tattoo on one shoulder and a goatee. He looks like he could be twenty-five. Maura is sitting on his lap and he has one hand resting on her upper thigh and one shamelessly on her boob. It’s hard not to stare.

We walk through the basement into the garage where some of Paul’s friends are playing beer pong. They offer us a royal welcome and fill us in on the details of the semi. Paul brings me a soda and we stand around watching the game.