Watch Me Disappear (13 page)

“Hey,” I say.

“I don’t see a drink in your hand,” he says, extending a beer toward me.

I can’t exactly turn it down; I’m at a drinking party. I take it, and seeing he’s holding up his beer to toast, I tap my can to his and take a sip. It’s disgusting, and I try not to grimace, but I fail, and Paul laughs.

“Have you said hello to our kind host?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“I think he’ll be very interested to know you’re here,” Paul says, putting an arm around my shoulder and steering me toward the fire.

John is holding a beer and roasting a marshmallow. He does seem particularly interested in talking to me, firing off one question after another and shamelessly looking me up and down. I guess I’m fresh meat. I wish Missy would get here already. Then everyone can ogle her instead. Besides, it took a while to get here, which means we’re going to have to leave pretty early for me to make curfew. Thankfully someone else comes over and demands John’s attention so I’m able to slip away. There’s a circle of kids sitting around listening to someone play guitar, and I find a place to sit just on the edge of their circle. No one seems to notice me. I’m still holding the same warm beer, and it occurs to me that I can hold that same can all night and probably nobody will notice. They’ll think I’ve been knocking them back, just like everyone else. I feel comforted by the thought. I am startled when the kid next to me nudges my arm. I turn to see that he’s offering me a joint.

“No thanks,” I say.

“Pass it on,” he says, nodding to the kid next to me.

Another first for me. I hand it carefully to the kid on my left.

I sit there for a while, and then someone is draping her arms around me from the back. It’s Katherine, being absurdly affectionate. She must have changed her mind about drinking tonight. “Somebody’s looking for you, pretty Lizzie,” she says, practically purring. Missy and Wes have arrived. Thank God.

“What’s she on?” Missy says, when Katherine wanders away.

“Probably E,” Wes answers. We both look at him, wondering how he knows this. He just shrugs. “Her reputation precedes her. Either E or valium.”

I notice the two of them are holding hands, and Missy is beaming. “Sorry we took so long,” she says. “We got lost.”

I look at my watch. Almost ten o’clock. “But you can still get me home for curfew, right?” I ask.

“Oh yeah, no problem. We don’t have to stay here long,” Missy says. “I just wanted to check it out.” Then she notices the beer I’m holding. “Are you drinking?” she asks.

“Not really. Somebody gave this to me.”

“I want one,” Missy says. Wes wanders off to find her one. “We totally made out,” Missy says as soon as Wes leaves.

“Wow. And you didn’t even have to get him drunk,” I say.

“I know, right? I just told him I really want to kiss him.”

I’m impressed that Missy found the guts to declare her interest and make things happen. I still have no clue what she sees in Wes, but she’s happy. Once again I find myself feeling a little jealous. I wish I had someone to like who liked me back. “Did you do anything else?” I ask.

“I let him feel me up a little,” Missy confides. “And how about you? How’s the party? Any sightings of Hunter?”

“I haven’t seen him,” I say. “The party’s OK, though.”

“Good,” she smiles and hooks an arm in mine. “Let’s go by the fire. I think I smell toasted marshmallows.”

Wes finds us and hands Missy a beer. We discover that not only do they have marshmallows to toast, but also all the ingredients of s’mores, and somehow I quickly become the official s’mores maker of the evening, which is ok with me. It gives me something to do.

“We’ll be right back,” Missy says, setting down her empty beer can beside me. So I sit there with some strangers making s’mores until no one else requests one, and then I just sit there. John notices and sits beside me.

“So. Does the new girl play with boys?” he asks, sliding his hand behind me on the log where we are sitting.

“What?” I say. I should be flattered, I guess. Isn’t this what I want—a reasonably attractive guy (not my type at all, which is to say not tall, dark, and handsome, but he’s okay) asking me to make out with him? But he smells like beer and hot dogs, and he is staring at my chest instead of looking me in the eye.

He leans in toward me and puts his other hand on my leg. “You’re very cute,” he says.

And you’re very drunk, I think and stand up. “I have to go,” I say. And when I look at my watch I discover that I have not lied. I need to find Missy immediately or I am going to be late, and that might be the end of my freedom, regardless of my mother’s adoration for Maura.

I scurry from group to group looking for Missy but not finding her.

“Everything okay?” Paul asks, noticing me standing alone near the path back to the cars.

“I have to go home,” I say, nearing hysteria.

“Okay, chill out,” he says. “Bad trip or something?”

“What? No. Curfew.”

“I think I know where your friend is,” he says. “I saw her walking over there with her little boyfriend.” He points up the hill further. “If you really want to interrupt that,” he says.

“My parents are going to kill me,” I say.

“I can take you home if you want,” he says. “This party is pretty lame anyway. Too many stoners.”

“You’re drunk,” I say.

“Maybe.”

What options do I have? Wander into the woods in search of Missy who is making out with Wes, sit around waiting for Missy and get home late, or get in a car with someone who probably shouldn’t be driving. “You’d seriously take me home?” I ask.

“Sure. What the hell,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.” I am so angry at Missy for her typical inability to keep track of time that I don’t even care. She’ll figure out that I got a ride and she’ll probably be relieved. She and Wes can have their gross little romance without any interference from me.

 “You live next door to Maura, right?” Paul asks once we’re on the road. I confirm this. “You know I was pretty surprised to see you at her party,” he says. When I don’t respond, he continues. “She launched a real campaign against you back at the beginning of the summer, you know. She warned everyone that you were, and I quote, ‘a sneaky little bitch with a bad attitude.’”

“We had a misunderstanding,” I say.

“I see.”

“Does she know there’s a Facebook group devoted to hating her?” I ask.

“I’m surprised you know about that,” he says, “and I’m sure someone must have told her, although she pretty much thinks all press is good press.” Neither of us say anything for a moment, and then he asks how Maura and I patched things up.

“I don’t know really,” I say. “Our moms are friends, and one day she just sort of extended an olive branch.”

“And you trust her?”

“No,” I answer. “Not really.”

“Smart. She’s one imbalanced girl, if you know what I mean.”

“Good to know.”

“And what about your friend Missy?” he asks.

“Everyone wants to know about Missy,” I say. I am tired and cranky and it’s dark in the car, which somehow makes talking to Paul easy.

“Sure. She’s beautiful. Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls who won’t admit another girl is pretty,” he says.

“What girls are like that? I think you’re thinking of guys who are afraid everyone will think they’re gay if they say another guy is good looking,” I say.

“Touché. But you have to admit, Wes is one lucky guy.”

“Yeah, I have no clue what she sees in him.”

“Me either, but I’ll tell you this; Wes has gone out with a lot of really hot girls, so he must have something the rest of us don’t.”

“You’re joking,” I say, looking at him to see if he’s smirking. He isn’t.

“I wish,” he says. “Seriously, he’s gone out with most of the hot girls in his class, and a few in ours, including Maura’s pal Katherine.”

“No way.”

Paul insists it’s true. I tell him how Missy is convinced that Wes is shy and insecure. Paul suggests that perhaps that’s Wes’s approach, that maybe Wes lets girls think they’re doing him a favor, building up his ego and making him feel better about himself. That doesn’t seem very likely to me.

“Believe what you want, but maybe Missy should ask Wes a few more questions about his relationship history before she rides that train.”

“Nice,” I say.

“Good metaphor, huh?”

“Disgusting.”

He laughs. “And you didn’t care much for my buddy John, I noticed,” he says. “Too bad. You’re totally his type.”

“His type?” I really want to know what type Paul thinks I am.

“You know,” he says, “curvy.”

“You mean busty?”

“Yeah, sure. I was trying to be polite, but if you want me to be blunt, John really goes in for the double D’s.”

“Well, John’s not really
my
type, thanks,” I say. I am starting to wish the drive wasn’t so long or that Paul would at least shut up.

“Let me guess,” he says, “your type is taller, darker, more intellectual. Perhaps a tall, dark, handsome poet.”

“You really have me figured out,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Oh no, there’s more. If you could have any guy in the senior class, you’d pick Hunter Groves,” he says. I don’t answer, which is all the confirmation he needs. “Listen, don’t waste your time. All the girls are in love with Hunter, and Hunter is so busy studying and playing soccer that he doesn’t have five minutes for any of them.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” I say. “And as for you, your type is the standard long-legged, long-haired, skinny mini who bats her eyes at you and lets you feel big, strong, and intellectually superior.”

“Ouch.”

“But true.”

“I don’t see your friend Missy as an eye-batter,” he says. “And I’m guessing she’s probably smarter than me.”

“So you want me to put in a good word with Missy, is that it?”

“You could mention me if you want.”

“But she’s dating Wes.”

“Not for long.”

“We’ll see,” I say.

We pull into my driveway with about two minutes to spare.

“Well, Lizzie,” Paul says, reaching across me to unlatch the door, “it’s been a pleasure.”

I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “Thanks,” I say, an edge of sarcasm in my voice.

“No, seriously,” he says. “It was nice talking to you. You’re honest. I like it.”

“Oh, okay,” I say.

“And for the record,” he says, “I don’t drink, so you don’t have to spend the rest of your life imagining what might have happened the night you got in the car with a drunk.”

“But you put a beer in my hand.”

“John’s not much of a host, so I help him keep the party going.”

“Ok, well that’s a conversation for another day, because right now, I have to get inside before my mother comes out here and gets me.”

“Until next time,” he says. “And don’t forget to talk me up to Missy,” he calls as I shut the door.

*          *          *

This morning Missy called and gushed a stream of apologies before I could get a word in. It was not what I expected. I thought she might be pissed that I left without at least attempting to tell her. I would have been wild with rage to be ditched at a party. Then again, I was pretty upset that she had left no choice but to get another ride home. It was hard to imagine what scenario wouldn’t have pissed me off at least a little bit.

“I lost track of the time,” she said. Then she launched into an explanation of how Wes was showing her the constellations, which sounded to me like a euphemism for something dirty, but she insisted it was just about stars. “But hey, look on the bright side—you got a ride home from a really hot guy,” Missy concluded, apparently hoping we could just put the whole mess behind us.

“Oh, right. About that. He’s in love with you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He said I should tell you how great he is and how you should dump Wes for him.”

“Knock it off, Lizzie. It’s not funny. You know, at Maura’s party when you were melodramatic about Hunter asking who I was, I let it go, but—”

“Not funny? Like realizing you might be grounded for the rest of your life because your ride is off in the woods with her boyfriend and forgot about you?” I was exaggerating just to make her feel bad. I wasn’t fighting fair and I knew it and I didn’t care.

“I’m seriously so sorry.” She did sound contrite.

“Yeah, well I’m seriously telling you that Paul is into you and he wanted me to let you know.”

“Because he asked who I was?” she asked.

“Because he said, ‘Your friend Missy is hot and I want to bang her.’”

“Lizzie!”

“I’m just telling you what he said.”

“Look, I know last night was a disaster, and you have every right to be mad at me, but I am sorry, and in the end it turned out ok, right? You made it home in time for curfew, so no problem?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

“And you know, Lizzie, I think you’re being unfair to me right now. I was pretty worried when I couldn’t find you, and then when someone told me you left, I was completely convinced you were going to be front page news this morning, dead in a car accident because of some stupid kid drinking and driving. I was really glad when you answered the phone.”

How could I not feel guilty after a speech like that? Like I said, sometimes I’m so self-centered, and I don’t even know it until someone calls me on it. I apologized.

Then Missy returned to her upbeat self. “So seriously, Paul thinks I’m cute?” she asked, switching instantaneously from guilty to giggly.

We laughed and Missy told me what I missed as the party wore on. Not much.

So we had our first fight and then it was over and it was okay. It wasn’t like fighting with my mother, where the same petty problems are the subject of days of lengthy tense discussions and occasional shouting matches, where the implication is always, why aren’t you the way I want you to be? Missy didn’t want me to be anything other than myself.

Chapter 9

Missy doesn’t have much time on her hands these days. Last Thursday morning, Anna had a baby boy—Lucas Ryan Howston, 9 pounds 4 ounces. Then Monday, Missy’s cross country practices started. Between her practice schedule and her enthusiasm to be her mother’s helpmate, she’s too busy for much else. She keeps suggesting that I come over, but my mother feels it’s terrible timing for our parents to meet “with all her parents have going on,” so I am still banned from her house. One afternoon, Anna even got on the phone when Missy and I were talking and insisted that it wouldn’t be any trouble at all to meet my parents; actually, she’s so happy showing off the baby that she’d be thrilled.