Watch Me Disappear (7 page)

“He’s here. I saw him a minute ago. With some other guys,” she says.

“But he doesn’t know what you look like, right? I mean, you don’t have a picture on your profile,” I say, realizing as soon as I say it that she probably sent him a picture. My stomach is churning.

“I sent him one from my cell phone,” she confirms.

“So you’ve, like, talked to him?”

“Yeah, a few times.”

“Wow.”

“I should have told you sooner,” she says, her voice rising like a question.

“Probably.”

“Don’t be mad,” she says. “I’m so glad you were able to come with me tonight, Lizzie. I would be so nervous if I didn’t have a friend to back me up.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“And anyway, wasn’t the whole point of coming here to meet people?” Missy forces a grin.

She wants me to cheer up and go with her to meet Wes. I guess I thought the point was to meet each other, and already I’m being pressed into service as her defensive guard. I want to shout, “Meet people? I haven’t even really met you yet!” but instead I just nod.

“So I look all right?” she asks again.

“Yeah, you look great,” I answer.

“Ok, let’s risk it,” she says, walking back into the pavilion.

*          *          *

Wes and his friends are a grade behind us, which makes me feel a little better about the whole situation. We might be the new girls, but they are still lower on the totem pole. Also, Missy is a good two inches taller than Wes, which cracks me up, but she doesn’t seem to mind (or notice). On the whole he seems kind of nerdy. Wes and company are not the guys who get all the ladies; they’re probably just psyched to have two senior girls hanging out with them.

Missy is as friendly and enthusiastic with Wes and his friends as she is with me. She keeps up a steady stream of questions, half the time answering them herself. What she has in book smarts she seems to lack in social sense, but her outgoing nature is working in our favor, so I decide to just go with it.

Our little group—Missy, me, Wes and his three pals—move back to one of the tables far from the speakers so we can talk. Mathletes though they are, they are knowledgeable sources of school gossip. It doesn’t take long before I am totally engrossed in the dirt they’re dishing. Apparently Maura’s friend Katherine, the pageant queen, was hospitalized for bulimia in ninth grade. No one seems very sympathetic about that, and behind her back she is still called “Retch.” The boys insist she deserves no sympathy because she considers everyone to be ten steps beneath her, something I have experienced firsthand. I am disappointed they don’t have much dirt on Maura, but they give us little tidbits about almost everyone else who walks by our table.

“That kid,” Wes says, nodding his head toward a tall, thin, brown haired kid who is buying a cookie at the bake sale table, “He’s the one to beat.”

“To beat?” I ask.

“Yeah, he’s got the highest average in the senior class. He’s won the high average award the past three years, so unless someone can knock him down this year, he’ll be valedictorian.”

“Him?” I ask. The kid in question looks like some kind of wide-eyed farm boy, not like a valedictorian. He is tan and athletic-looking, but there is nothing cocky in his walk or his expression. If I had to guess just based on appearances, I would say he is probably of average intelligence at best but great with big animals like cows and horses. It is hard to picture him acing a calculus exam.

“Yep. His name is Hunter Groves. Valedictorian and star of the soccer team.”

“No kidding,” I say.

“He’s a nice kid,” Wes adds. “Usually the number one guy is a serious geek, but Hunter’s ok.”

I either hate Hunter Groves or love him. Maybe I am even madly in love with him. It may be shallow, but the guy of my dreams is both hot and smart, and he’s genuine enough to fall for me despite my mere average appearance. I know it’s a double standard to want a guy with looks and brains and maybe even athletic talent, and simultaneously to want people not to judge me by my looks and lack of athletic talent, but there it is. I guess I’m not a good person. And anyway, whatever dream guy I have in my mind, real boys intimidate me completely, and I steer clear of them. The good-looking jocks use their arrogance to compensate for their dull minds, and the really smart guys usually have the people skills of lab rats. There I go again, proving myself to be superficial and judgmental, but I’m just calling it like I see it. The point is, if Hunter Groves is the smart, athletic, nice guy Wes says he is, maybe dreams do come true.

“Lizzie!” Missy says, plopping down beside me on the picnic table bench. “Brian lives just down the street from you!”

I can’t remember who Brian is, which is terrible because there are only four of them to keep track of, but I guess I haven’t paid much attention. I swivel to look at the guys on the bench behind me. A kid with wavy, dirty blond hair and glasses gives a little wave.

“Cool, right?” Missy says. “You should go talk to him.”

It occurs to me that I have been monopolizing Wes. As this is a sort of date for Missy and Wes, she might want me to buzz off. I can’t believe she’s still interested in him in more than a purely curious way. Think about it: Missy is drop-dead gorgeous, and Wes is short, with silly hair (chin length, but all slicked back behind his ears and sort of flipped up at the ends), and a habit of irritatingly wiping the back of his hand underneath his running nose.

“I think I’ll go grab a soda,” I say, standing up. I have no intention of going to chat with Brian, but I have to get a closer look at Hunter.

He is standing with a couple of other guys facing the stage. From the Boy Scouts’ snack table, I can clearly see his profile. I desperately want to hear him talk—I want some confirmation that what Wes said is true. I imagine he has the tell-tale Massachusetts accent—that would make sense with his appearance. I am curious about his friends, too. I mean, smart kids don’t hang around with really stupid ones, so they must be smart, too, right? There’s nothing like coming face to face with someone who challenges half a dozen stereotypes that you hold dear. I wish I were the sort of girl who could walk over to three strange guys and say hello, but I’m not. I consider moving closer to get a better look, and then I see something that deters me: Maura.

She is teetering down the center aisle between the picnic tables and there is no place for me to hide. I probably should have expected to see her—I knew she was planning to attend—but once I made plans with Missy I dismissed any thought of Maura from my mind. And now here she is, slightly wavering as she walks in my direction. I watch as one of Hunter’s pals motions with his head toward Maura, says something to Hunter, and then laughs. Maura gives them a little wave, stumbling as she does. It takes me that long to realize she must be roaring drunk.

For a moment I think I am safe. I think that perhaps in her drunken haze she will not recognize me. I am wrong.

“Lizzie! Is that Lizzie?” she shouts, vaguely pointing in my direction.

Hunter and his friends turn to see who she’s pointing at. I am frozen on the spot.

“Little Lizzie two shoes,” Maura slurs, walking up to me. “Too good to come to the concert with Maura, but not too good to come all alone.”

I guess Maura is not a happy drunk.

“Lizzie,” she says again, poking my shoulder with a pointy fingernail. “A lot of nerve you’ve got.” She sways and hiccups.

Maura is attracting attention, and I can feel my face turning red. I cannot think of a single thing to say that will defuse the situation because I cannot imagine what she is thinking or what she might do next.

“I warned you. Remember?” she says. Then she burps in a most unladylike way, and I can see her face turn green.

“Maura,” I say, taking a step back.

“No, you listen to me!” she shouts, her voice shrill. She stumbles toward me and suddenly she is doubled over puking at my feet.

The sight, the sound, the smell—it’s everything I can do not to puke in response. There is vomit on the tips of my toes and I feel sweat trickling down my back. A lot of people are looking now, and laughing. I want to run away and rub my feet in the wet grass, but I can’t move. I glance up and for a moment make eye contact with Hunter. He isn’t laughing. If anything, the look he gives me says, “Sorry.” I adore him.

“Lizzie?” a voice says at my ear. It’s Missy. She tugs my elbow. “Come on!”

I take a step in her direction.

“Not so fast, girls,” someone says. We both look past Maura to see a police officer behind her.

“We aren’t with her,” Missy says.

By this point Maura has stopped puking but has dissolved into a drunken puddle sobbing on the ground next to a pool of vomit.

“Is that so?”

None of Maura’s friends have come forward to claim her, although pretty much everyone except the band on stage is now watching the spectacle unfold.

“She’s my neighbor,” I say softly. This is everything I dread in life: standing in the spotlight, looking like a fool.

“We didn’t come here together,” Missy adds. “Our friends are over there,” she says pointing.

“Officer?” a boy’s voice says.

We all turn to see one of the guys who’d been standing with Hunter. He has the smug look of a kid who is used to charming his way through life.

“They’re telling the truth,” he says. “She’s not with them, but she’s my friend. I can take her home or call her parents.”

The police officer looks at me and Missy, then down at Maura, and then the boy. After a moment, he nods. “You girls get out of here,” he says.

We do not waste a minute.

The drizzling rain has returned. I drag my bare feet in the grass. My hands are shaking. Wes and his friends follow us from the pavilion. We stand in a misshapen circle in the dark.

“What the heck was that about?” Missy asks.

I shake my head. “She’s my neighbor, and she hates me.”

 “No kidding,” Wes says. After a moment he adds, “If it makes you feel any better, most people hate her.”

“Her? Miss Popularity?” I ask, looking at him.

He pushes his hair back behind his ears. “Maybe she used to be,” he says, “but she’s been making people’s lives hell since middle school, and even the prettiest girl can’t get away with that forever.”

That’s news to me. I am pretty sure that beautiful people are generally immune to the rules of polite society that the rest of us must obey. “Yeah, but she doesn’t know that, does she?” I ask.

“I doubt it,” he says.

“Uh, Lizzie?” Missy says, touching my elbow. “Is that your dad?” She points toward a man who is indeed my father, standing in the middle of the pavilion.

“What time is it?”

“9:20,” one of Wes’s friends chimes in.

I had lost track of the time. It had been such a gray and gloomy day that it never sunk in how dark it had gotten outside. And I have to admit, before Maura lost her dinner at my feet, I was having fun. I guess the old “time flies” expression contains some truth. As I hurry toward my dad, I hear Missy quickly explaining to Wes and his friends.

“If it were up to me, I’d let you stay until the end,” my dad says when I reach him. He turns to lead Missy and me to the car where undoubtedly my mother is getting ever more annoyed with me.

Oddly enough, I don’t feel the usual dread of my mother’s anger. It was sort of a fun night (up until the end), and I guess I am ready to pay the price. Besides, I so seldom give her real cause for anger (sure we snip at each other, but I don’t get into real trouble. Even tonight—9:20—it’s not like I stayed out hours past curfew or anything). Anyway, I know she will save her true temper for when we get home. She won’t get too heated in front of Missy.

*          *          *

Turns out my mother thought her best reproach tonight was the silent treatment. She said nothing to me or Missy in the car, she said nothing after we dropped Missy off, and when we got home, she went straight upstairs without a word to me. My dad and I sat in the living room watching TV until around 10 when he went to bed.

I finally had my first real high school social experience. I went out with a friend to a large gathering of teenagers where there were few adults. I sat around gossiping with other kids from school. I was actually part of a group, if only for a couple of hours. And—the only part I would have liked to skip—I was the center of attention in a scene of teenaged drunkenness. At least I had not been the one drinking, and I had not gotten into any trouble. But best of all, I have a friend. Missy came to my side when I was on the spot, while Maura’s friends, except that one boy, just stood by and watched.

As I sit here now, half replaying the evening in my mind, half-watching
Tosh.0
(Just imagine if my mother came downstairs right now and learned that on top of everything else, my dad did not enforce “bed time” and I’m watching completely trash on TV!), it occurs to me that although I still cannot get away with using Facebook at home, I can communicate with Missy freely on the phone now, and I can even talk to Wes and his friends without wondering how I will explain meeting them to my parents. I can have an almost normal teenage existence. All I am missing is a cell phone.

Chapter 5

This afternoon I was hanging out in the kitchen while Mrs. Morgan and my mom sat in the living room. They weren’t talking to me, but they weren’t talking so softly that I couldn’t hear them either. I wanted to see if Mrs. Morgan would reveal Maura’s bad behavior to my mother. I hadn’t mentioned it. The less I mention the Morgans to my mom the better. She already takes every opportunity she can find to compare Missy to Maura. No need to give her an opening.

Anyway, as I slowly spread peanut butter on graham crackers, what I heard was not a despairing Mrs. Morgan asking my mother how to make her wayward daughter into a good girl like me. Instead, I heard that one week from Friday they are having Maura’s birthday party at the country club. Apparently Maura not only got through the weekend without punishment, but she is also about to have the birthday party of the century.