Watch Me Disappear (3 page)

The one room Mrs. Morgan didn’t include on the tour was Maura’s room. “It’s a mess,” she said, gesturing toward the closed door. “We just keep the door shut. You know how it is,” she added, and then she looked at me and shook her head. “I’ll bet your room is always in order.”

“Not always,” I said. This is partially true. At the moment, my room is a mess, but my general habit is to keep it pretty neat. Since we moved in, I haven’t figured out how to organize things in my new room, and my parents haven’t had the time to help me get situated.

I know it isn’t right to go snooping around Maura’s room, but I want to anyway. After all, I’m doing Maura a favor, right?

I try to put the thought out of my mind by turning on the TV, but I can’t figure out how to make it work. The Morgans have one of those Direct TV things, and none of the buttons I push on the oversized remote make a picture appear.

I wander into the kitchen and look through the cupboards. This is one of my favorite babysitting diversions. The best babysitting jobs are those where the kids fall asleep early and the cabinets are full of snacks. Not much by way of tasty treats here, though. The Morgans have every manner of diet protein bar, low-fat cookie, and baked (not fried) potato chip, even two kinds of fat-free ice cream in the freezer, but nothing I can even imagine enjoying. In the back of the bread drawer, I find a half-eaten box of Fig Newtons, but when I try one, I discover that they must have been there since the dawn of time.

No TV, nothing to eat, nothing good to read, and Maura’s room upstairs beckoning like a high tree limb to a curious kitty. I tiptoe up the stairs, listen for a moment at Billy’s door, and then creep down the hall to Maura’s door. The door swings open silently and I slip inside.

The room is indeed a mess; that wasn’t just an excuse Mrs. Morgan came up with to keep me out. The bed is unmade. There are clothes on the floor and a few sketchy half-full glasses of soda or juice or something on the bedside table. The room smells of perfume and hair spray from Maura’s pre-party preparations just a few hours ago. The dresser is littered with makeup tubes and compacts and hairstyling products. There are a few photos in the edge of the mirror, and I carefully lean across the dresser to take a look. Two are of Maura and a boy, both professional wallet-sized pictures from formal dances, and the other is a picture of Maura and a girl I didn’t recognize. Also on the dresser is a framed snapshot of Maura as a little girl, maybe six or seven, in a fancy dress, sitting on the lap of a middle-aged man with dark hair just turning gray around his temples. Too young to be her grandfather, but I can’t imagine who else it could be. Turning from the dresser, I notice that on the door of the closet Maura taped up Absolut Vodka ads from magazines. I wonder what Mrs. Morgan thinks about that, and then I conclude that Mrs. Morgan hasn’t been in this room in quite some time.

Stepping over a pile of clothes, I cross to Maura’s desk in the corner of the room, noting with a twinge of jealousy that Maura has her own computer. In fact she has her own computer, television, and phone—all things forbidden from my bedroom. I notice the green monitor light on the computer and tap the mouse. The screen comes to life and I’m staring at an image of Maura and Katherine posing at the beach in their tiny swimsuits.

In the lower right of the screen, I spot a flashing icon and without even thinking about what I’m doing, I click on it. The Internet browser opens revealing Maura’s Facebook page, with a chat window open. I’m not allowed to have a Facebook account. Jeff tried to convince my parents to let me have one when he went to college so that we could keep in touch, but they told him the phone was good enough. Fascinated, I scroll down Maura’s profile. Her latest status reads, “See ya at John’s, beee-ahtches!” Charming. On the side of the screen I notice that Maura has 1,168 friends who theoretically have seen that status. For once, I don’t feel like I’m missing much by not having my own account.

You know how sometimes, half-way through doing something, you realize that you don’t even know how you got started? It’s like your brain goes on autopilot. That’s what happens to me as I stand in front of Maura’s computer, because next thing I know, I am sitting at her desk staring at the contents of her “My Documents” folder. And the thing is, when I realize that I am snooping on Maura in a completely uncool way, I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I scroll through her files, seeing some stuff that looks like schoolwork, pictures that I skim with growing disgust at Maura’s revealing attire and love of posing, and then a file called “poetry.” How can I resist? I click on it. There are probably fifty files in it with titles like “Vengeance” and “Not this time.” I open one called “Illusive Reflections.”

Illusive Reflections

By Maura Campbell

Maura Campbell? I think for a moment, and then I remember once overhearing Maura say something like “he’s not my father.” It occurs to me that her mother is probably remarried. Sometimes it seems like my parents are the only people on the planet who have only been married once. I keep reading:

Looking in the mirror

I see fading reflections of who I used to be

Slowly dying images

Of the little girl that’s me.

If I close my eyes and open them

The reflections just grow older,

Smiles less often seen,

Something in my eyes grown colder.

And deep inside my eyes

You may detect a speck of fear

For all of the uncertainties drawing oh so near.

And peeling back a façade of smiles

You’ll find a veil of tears

Shed for my insignificant sorrows of passing years.

Looking in the mirror

I see fading reflections of what used to be me.

I don’t even recognize myself.

I read and reread the poem. A little juvenile, but not terrible. Could there be more to Maura? I am tempted to open more, but then I notice the clock—almost 11. The Morgans are supposed to be home by midnight, and the last thing I need is to be caught in Maura’s room. I make sure the screen is just as I found it and quietly step back into the hallway.

I could have spent another hour and a half at Maura’s computer without being caught. The Morgans are late getting home. Instead I sit in the living room listening to the clock tick and trying to stay awake. I do not succeed.

I awake to the sound of the garage door and have just a few seconds to rouse myself before the Morgans come in. They are, of course, all apologies, and they pay me generously for keeping me so late.

But back in my own room, I’m wide awake. I can’t get Maura’s poem out of my head, not because it was so good or anything, but because I haven’t written anything in ages. Ever since I learned how to write, I have wanted to be a writer. Back in grade school I wrote terrible imitations of Shel Silverstein and called myself a poet. In eighth grade, after reading
Romeo and Juliet
, I tried to be a playwright, writing a modern-day version. But since I started high school, all I ever do is study. I’m probably the only person who actually does all the summer reading. But if Maura, with her crazy social calendar, can find time to write, I can, too.

Which brings me to what I’m really thinking about right now: I can write a better poem than Maura, right? I mean, she’s prettier than me, and she has more friends, but I’m a better poet. I think. I mean, I have to be. This is the one arena where I can actually compete with her. So why have I been sitting here for two hours without writing a single decent line?

Chapter 3

The afternoon after my big babysitting gig, I came downstairs after hours of trying to make progress on boring summer reading to find Mrs. Morgan in the living room having tea with my mother.

“Lizzie!” Mrs. Morgan said. “I was just telling your mom how much Billy enjoyed your company. And it was so nice of you to take care of his dinner dishes!”

“Oh,” I said. Billy enjoyed my company? Billy and I exchanged maybe a dozen words.

“No surprise there. Right, Liz?” my mother said.

So I am now Billy’s and Mrs. Morgan’s new favorite babysitter. I watch Billy on Thursday evenings when Mrs. Morgan goes to her book club (which my mother is going to join, too) and Mr. Morgan plays golf. Apparently Maura’s schedule is too unpredictable for her to be a reliable sitter anymore.

Sure, I enjoy the steady stream of money, but I may as well be honest. My real motive in agreeing to this regular babysitting schedule is to get back onto Maura’s computer. Of course when I said yes, I failed to consider the fact that the hours of the book club meeting are early enough that Billy will not be asleep, and I will not be able to sneak into Maura’s room. So each Thursday I arrive at five forty-five, feed Billy his supper, and watch him play video games until Mr. Morgan comes home, usually around eight o’clock.

Ever since I looked at Maura’s poetry, I can’t seem to write any of my own. I need another look at Maura’s work. Why? I know it’s ridiculous, and I want to convince myself it is just innocent curiosity, but I know that really I want to read more to prove to myself that Maura’s poetry isn’t very good—not as good as mine, anyway. Finally this Saturday I’ll get my chance. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan are attending a wedding. Maura is going with them, but Billy is too young, so he’s staying home with me. You won’t hear me complaining about giving up my Saturday to babysit. Not this time, anyway.

*          *          *

As soon as I am sure Billy is asleep, I go to Maura’s room and sit at the computer. I open the poetry folder and scan the titles. I read a few and, almost against my will, start to feel a sort of sympathy for Maura. Maybe she isn’t so bad. Certainly her life isn’t perfect. Then I read one that convinces me that if Maura and I can ever have an honest conversation, we might discover we have a lot in common.

Thoughts on a Page

By Maura Campbell

I hate the way my life works.

I hate the confusion,

I hate the loneliness,

and I hate the pain. I hate sad love songs

and fairy tales. I can’t even watch

Disney movies. I miss the days when life

was Sesame Street and friends

were friends. Where have all the Muppets gone?

I hate the way

everyone must wear a label

at all times,

a brand on their foreheads.

You say everyone loves me.

They only hurt me anyway.

You never admit

that you’re wrong.

Why can’t you just be wrong for once?

Why can’t you let down your guard?

Why can’t you look into my eyes

and see me beyond the brand?

Why must you lead me down the road

to this dead end,

This hole in the ground, this hole

in my soul can’t recover.

After I read it, I reach over and grab a sheet of paper from Maura’s printer and search the desk for a pen. I feel like I absolutely need to write something right this minute, something about how people aren’t as different from one another as they seem. I want to write something and give it to Maura. A crazy thought, I know as soon as it enters my mind.

I close the poem and look at Maura’s picture again, the smiling face, the bikini, the hair perfectly styled, even at the beach. How can I ever have a real conversation with that girl? How can that girl have written that poem?

I am about to stand up, but then my hand reaches for the mouse without the full consent of my brain and opens the Internet browser. Surely I can cheer myself up with mindless browsing. The homepage is set to Facebook, and Maura is still logged in.

I feel a familiar tug of annoyance at my parents for their stupid rules. They don’t even allow me to have my own Email address. If I have a reason to use Email, I have to use the family account, and they always read my messages. They are convinced that the only thing that can come of letting a teenager use the Internet for fun is that she will become plotting and secretive and will fall into the grasp of some sexual predator. They monitor the home computer constantly and have strict parental controls set to keep me “safe” and “out of trouble.” And they wonder why I’m not more popular.

Sitting at the computer in Maura’s room and scrolling through her Facebook account, I see my chance to finally find a group of friends and maybe even fit in for my senior year of high school. I can create a profile and become virtual “friends” with Maura and the other girls I met at the cookout a few weeks ago, and I can be “friends” with their “friends,” too. At least I’ll be in the loop, if not genuinely part of the clique.

As I read through Maura’s friends’ status updates and event invitations and open some of her friends’ profiles, I become more convinced that this is the perfect way to get to know people at my new school—and maybe even get them to like me—before ever setting foot on campus.

Spotting the words “log out” at the top of the screen, I click the mouse and, with my stomach fluttering, begin to set up my own profile. The first problem I encounter is that I need to have an Email address to sign up for the site. Certainly my family account won’t do, so I have to get one of my own. I remember the silly voice of the “Go Mail” commercials and type the address into the browser. Within minutes, I have an address: [email protected]. I can hardly believe how easy it is. Giddy, I go back to Facebook and set up an account.

Soon, however, I run into my second problem. I have no picture for my profile. If I try to befriend people who don’t know me, they’ll probably think I’m ugly or fat or weird. I decide to fill out all the rest of the profile and wait to try to make Facebook friends until I have not just a picture, but a whole bunch of pictures to make an album like those of Maura and her friends.

I am contemplating what I should list as my favorite quotation when I hear a door open in the hallway. I freeze and listen. I hear Billy’s footsteps on the stairs. Scrambling to make sure the desk looks as I found it, I slip as quickly and quietly as I can out the door and down the stairs. Billy is standing in the middle of the TV room, wide-eyed, lower lip quivering.