Watch Me Disappear

by Diane Vanaskie Mulligan

  “It was a misunderstanding,” I say and everyone laughs.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” he says. He looks amused.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “what’s your name again?”

  “Ouch,” another male voice says. “That’s gotta hurt.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s just, we all thought everyone knew Pauly, here.”

  Paul. That name came up in several of Maura’s poems. I look at him again. He is tallish with light brown hair and dark brown eyes. His smile reveals dimples. And he is the guy in Maura’s prom pictures.

  “Not the new kid,” I say.

  Paul steps across the circle and sticks out his hand. When I extend mine, he takes it, and instead of shaking it, he brings it up to his lips. Everyone has a good laugh over that, and I can’t even imagine the shade of red my face has turned. “Pleased to meet you, Lizzie,” he says, like some sort of prince charming.

  “And in case you forgot me, I’m John,” says the guy who introduced Paul. He takes my hand and kisses it. I am too stunned by all this to do much of anything.

  “Now, boys,” Katherine says, rescuing me when she’s deemed I’m sufficiently flustered. “Don’t embarrass our new friend.”

  Thankfully everyone backs off. People resume the conversations Katherine had interrupted to introduce me and I wish I was still standing off to the side with Missy. Here in the middle of the patio in Maura’s inner circle, I have no one to talk to. I stand by myself for a minute, and then I start back toward Missy.

  “Lizzie,” a voice says behind me.

  I stop and turn around. It’s Hunter. He reintroduces himself, which is totally unnecessary.

  “What’s your friend’s name?” he asks gesturing toward Missy.

  Of course he wants to meet her. “That’s Missy Howston,” I say.

  “She was at the battle of the bands with you.”

  “Yep,” I say. When he doesn’t say anything else, I ask him if he wants me to introduce him.

  “Maybe later,” he says. “Nice to meet you.” And he turns to walk back to his friends.

  Yeah, nice to meet you, too, I think.

  * * *

  It isn’t long before the DJ announces that everyone should take a seat for dinner. My mother signals me unmistakably to come sit with her and my father.

  Missy and I walk over to the table where my mother saved us seats.

  “So are you girls having fun?” my dad asks when everyone is seated and we have been introduced to the others at our table, Mr. and Mrs. Beaudry and Mr. and Mrs. Perkins, who also live on our cul-de-sac.

  “This is fantastic,” Missy says. Fantastic is her word of the day.

  “It sure is some party,” my dad replies.

  “The Morgans spare no expense,” Mrs. Perkins adds.

  “Every year it gets bigger and better,” says Mrs. Beaudry.

  “Do you golf, Greg?” asks Mr. Beaudry, and the table splits into several conversations at once.

  After we eat our salad and before dinner is served, I nudge Missy and excuse myself to the ladies’ room. She follows me.

  “Why so glum?” she asks, leaning against the sinks while I listlessly rearrange my bangs.

  “This party sucks,” I say.

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s boring.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. This is the best people-watching I’ve had since my last trip to New York.”

  I try not to pout, but I can’t help it.

  “Did something happen when you met everyone?”

  “Some of the guys acted like real dicks, you know?”

  “What did you expect?” Missy says. “They’re the cool kids. They aren’t going to fall all over your feet and beg you to like them.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I saw you talking to Hunter,” Missy says.

  I sigh and then say, “He likes you.”

  “He hasn’t even met me,” Missy says.

  “He only talked to me to ask me about you.”

  “Well what did he say?” If anyone else asked that question, I would think they were asking because they were flattered, but I can tell from Missy’s tone she’s asking because she wants to show me how silly I am being.

  “He wanted to know who you were.”

  “Right. Everyone wants to know who we are,” she says. “We’re the new girls.”

  “No, they want to know who you are.”

  “Well, you’re the one who got the endorsement from Maura’s lady-in-waiting. You’re the one who actually got an introduction.”

  “I think they’re up to something,” I say.

  “Stop it, Miss Cynicism. We’re here to have fun. After dinner, there’s going to be dancing.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Let’s go,” Missy says, leading me back to the table.

  * * *

  Missy is right. There is dancing after dinner. Or at least there is a DJ loudly playing dance music and half-heartedly encouraging people to fill the dance floor. The adults have regrouped near the bar, and for some reason the teenaged crowd seems to have shrunk. Missy keeps tapping her foot and swaying. She wants to dance desperately.

  But as we stand there, I notice that the crowd is diminished.

  “Where’d everyone go?” I ask.

  Missy shakes her head.

  A few minutes later, I notice them trickling back into the crowd a few at a time, looking flushed and bright-eyed. The girls seem more giggly than usual.

  “I think they’re drunk,” Missy says.

  I see Maura talk to the DJ, and he switches songs. “The birthday girl wants everyone to get this party started,” he announces, and like brainwashed morons, all the girls move to the dance floor. Most of the guys stand off to the side watching, but those who are dancing are really showing off their moves.

  “Finally!” Missy says. She starts walking toward the dance floor, but when she realizes I’m not with her she stops. “Come on! This is the fun part.”

  “We’ve been through this,” I say. “I don’t dance.”

  “Fine. But at least come closer to the dance floor.”

  I cross my arms, but reluctantly follow her. So I just stand there, yawning, watching everyone dance in a manner that strikes me as out-of-sync with the party’s theme. It is hard to believe none of the adults realize that most of the kids are hammered, and I conclude that in fact most of the adults understand the situation and are just letting it happen. I wonder when my own parents will get wise and decide it’s time to go home. I am about to go ask them how much longer when Jessica finds me.

  “Lizzie! I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, slurring her words, and draping a sweaty arm around me. “Back when we met, I thought how much I’d like us to be friends.”

  Her breath could kill a cow.

  “Come dance with us, Lizzie!” she says, trying to tug me toward the dance floor.

  “You know, I kind of have a headache,” I say.

  “Ah, we can fix that. Just ask John. You have to come dance,” she says. “Come get a drink and then you’ll want to dance.”

  I try to remove Jessica’s arm gently and when that doesn’t work I shrug her off forcibly. “Maybe next time, ok?” I say, walking away quickly to find my parents.

  “I promised Patty we would stay until the end,” my mother says when I plead to go home. “She wants some adults to stick around to keep an eye on everyone.”

  “So you’re the chaperones, now?” I say. Some job they’re doing. All the kids are getting drunk under my parents’ watchful eyes.

  “Anyway, they have a big surprise gift for Maura and I want to see the expression on her face.”

  I look to my father, but he just shakes his head. “Looks like Missy is having fun.”

  I turn to face the dance floor. Missy does indeed appear to be having fun. She has gone through a number of dance partners. Even from across the room, she is easy to spot with her red hair and gold dress. As I look on, I am surprised
to see that her newest partner is Paul, and neither of them is holding anything back.

  My mother follows my gaze and makes a “humph” noise. “They call that dancing,” she says.

  A few minutes before ten, Mr. and Mrs. Morgan appear behind the DJ table to make the big announcement. “We are so excited you all could join us to celebrate our Maura’s eighteenth birthday,” Mrs. Morgan says, sounding a little nervous and out of breath. “Of course, her actual birthday is Monday, so she can’t go out and buy any lottery tickets until then.”

  “Or cigarettes,” some kid shouts out, interrupting her.

  Mrs. Morgan laughs nervously and looks puzzled, as if she had memorized her speech word for word but now, having been interrupted, she cannot locate in her mind the next word. Mr. Morgan takes over. “I’m so proud of Maura,” he begins. “When Patty and I found each other and decided to get married, I didn’t just get a wife. I got the best step-daughter I could ever ask for.” He focuses directly on Maura. “Maura, honey, we know you are destined for success.” He pauses and clears his throat. He looks at Patty who nods for him to continue. He digs in his pocket for a moment and then holds up a set of car keys. “We thought you’d like to cruise into your future in a car of your own,” he says.

  Maura squeals like a game show contestant. She runs to her parents and hugs them both, and I wonder if they can smell the booze on her or if they are too drunk themselves to notice. They walk across the patio toward the parking lot. The car is a silver Volkswagen Jetta. Mr. Morgan places the keys in Maura’s hand and steps back as she clicks the remote lock. Everyone oohs at the sight of the interior lights coming on. Maura gets in and rolls down the window so everyone can admire her behind the wheel. All I can think is how insane it will be if they let her drive home.

  “One more thing, honey,” Mr. Morgan says, stepping over to the window. He hands her a credit card. “A gas card. We’ll keep you cruising, at least until you finish school.” Then he turns to the rest of us who had followed them to see the car. “Now, I think the DJ has one more song for us, if everyone wants to head back to the dance floor.”

  Most people do as Mr. Morgan suggests, but a few of Maura’s friends move closer to the car to get a better look. I linger behind them.

  “All right, birthday girl! We need you on the dance floor,” the DJ announces after a moment. Reluctantly, her friends start back to the dance floor and Maura gets out of the car.

  I fall in beside her as she heads back onto the patio. I try to get her attention—I have to make sure she isn’t going to drive. If she’s planning to get in that car, I will have no choice but to tell my parents what’s going on. All those lectures about drinking and driving apparently got through to me. But of course it isn’t a good time to talk. Everyone is waiting for her.

  “Come on,” she says, reaching out for my hand. And despite myself, I grasp her hand and hurry along with her to the dance floor. I feel special, walking up to the expectant circle with the birthday girl. I know everyone is looking at me, probably wondering what the hell I am doing, but it feels OK, too. If I’m with Maura, I have to be cool, right?

  When we arrive at the edge of the circle, Maura lets go of my hand and sashays into the middle of the group as the DJ starts the music. At first, “It’s my party, I’ll cry if I want to,” comes on, and when he is sure everyone recognizes the song, the DJ scratches it out and a Katy Perry song replaces it. “It’s my song!” Maura says, wiggling her hips. For the entire song, Maura stays in the center of the circle, luring different people in with her for a few seconds at a time. I had enough of the spotlight a few moments earlier, so I withdraw away from the dancers to wait it out. I plan to grab Maura for a minute before she leaves.

  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.