Watch Me Disappear Read online

  “Well, it was a pool party of a sort.”

  “They don’t want to be my friends. They were totally fake, and some of them couldn’t even fake friendliness.”

  “They’re probably intimidated by you.”

  “Right.” They were intimidated by me. Four skinny beauty queens. For one thing, they have safety in numbers. Maybe one of them alone might be intimidated by the thought that I am somehow more sophisticated than them because my family moved around (and because I lived in California, which is apparently their Mecca), but four against one, why should they be intimidated? They can’t possibly be worried I’d steal their boyfriends. To them I am a weirdo with a few pounds to lose. And my mother’s desire for me to make friends with them is infuriating and absurd. She wants me to be the perfect, straight-A student and to be pretty and popular, but she doesn’t trust me to be either of those things without her firm hand guiding me. She has no clue what a walking contradiction she is. “What did you think of the adult crowd?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “They seemed nice,” Mom says, not looking up from the box she’s unpacking.

  “Did you talk to any of them?”

  That makes her look up. “We were introduced to just about everyone there. They seemed very nice.” She bends back over the box for a moment and then pauses again. “Are you going to help me or are you going to just sit there?”

  I had been planning on just sitting there. “I have to go do summer reading,” I say, excusing myself.

  * * *

  I know eavesdropping isn’t nice, but is it eavesdropping if you are sitting in your own backyard, minding your own business, and someone else talks so loud that you cannot help but hear? The fact is, my new neighborhood is a ghost town from nine to five, with one little exception: Our cul-de-sac, or more specifically, the Morgans’ pool deck. Apparently, Maura is used to being able to gab all day without anyone overhearing. All the adults are at work and all the kids are either at camp somewhere or are hiding in the air-conditioning playing video games. And I guess it doesn’t occur to her that I might be on the deck in the middle of the day; it’s not like we have a pool to sit by. But as it happens, I like being outside, and while the house is a mess of boxes and clutter, the deck is clean and calm. If I go out there to do my summer reading, my mom leaves me alone and even applauds my studious efforts. So while I sit as quiet as a librarian, book in hand, Maura gabs away at the top of her lungs, and once Maura gets started, she’s hard to ignore. Earlier today I overheard her half of a conversation that went something like this:

  “She’s not going to be around this weekend… Nope. One of her pageants… You should come over… Uh-huh, I’m babysitting my brother… My parents won’t be home until like two A.M…. Hardly. I can’t, like, have a party with Billy in the next room…Just you and me…Play Monopoly!” She laughed. “I’m sure I can keep you entertained… OK, I’ll be waiting for you.”

  It’s pretty much what I expect of a girl like Maura, obviously luring some boy over while she’s supposed to be watching her brother. She’d been off the phone only a minute when it rang again.

  “Hey,” she answered. “I know. I was on the other line… Shit, I have to babysit… My brother. I can’t get out of it… Yeah, you should see if she wants to go… She seems like a real party animal.” Maura laughed. “No seriously, though, she can probably drink you under the table.” More laughter. I wondered if they were talking about me. I knew they could have been talking about anyone, and I also knew that girls like them probably find plenty of people to ridicule, but still, I couldn’t help but wonder. “And what’s up with Jess? Why do we even hang out with that moron? Did you see the way she was hanging all over John? Talk about obvious… I know, right?... Well, I can’t go, and Katherine’s got some pageant, so it looks like you’re stuck with her… Oh, please, everyone knows she does pageants… She tells people herself! You can’t tell one person and expect that no one else’ll find out… Hold on, I got a beep.

  “Hey… Yeah, she’s on the other line… Yeah, I heard about the party… Nope… Lemme call you back later.

  “Tina?... Yeah, it was Jess… Listen, I gotta go. I’m supposed to drive Billy to karate… I know, right?... Good luck with Matt… Yeah, call me if you need to… okay. Bye!”

  I heard a little shuffling from the other side of the fence, the slider opened and shut, and quiet returned to the neighborhood.

  I feel a little bad for listening to her conversations, but then again, it isn’t like Maura is acting secretive. It is hilarious to think of Katherine doing a pageant smile and wave. She wasn’t too smiley at the party. I do feel bad for Jessica, though, knowing her so-called friends talk about her like that. But then again, at least she has friends.

  Chapter 2

  I’m not surprised when Mrs. Morgan knocks on the door on Friday afternoon to ask if I can babysit. I listened to Maura’s entire plot unfold the day before. The plan went something like this: Friday morning Maura told her mother that Tina’s boyfriend just broke up with her, so Maura needed to go be a good friend and cheer Tina up. Maura then helpfully suggested they ask their nice new neighbor to watch Billy.

  As Mrs. Morgan stands at the door explaining the pitiful situation, I am tempted to say no just to make Maura’s life more difficult. But then again, my curiosity is high; I want to get inside the house and see what Queen Maura’s life is like. Anyway, my mother doesn’t give me a chance to say no.

  “Lizzie loves kids!” she says, coming up behind me at the door. “She’s a great babysitter!”

  This is an embellishment. Children too young to speak in utterances that at least resemble sentences make me nervous, but I do have a fair amount of practice as a babysitter thanks to my dad, who is always encouraging his colleagues to call me whenever they need a sitter. He sees this as a win-win-win proposition: It saves me the embarrassment of another Friday or Saturday night at home; it keeps me in spending money so he doesn’t have to; and his colleagues have someone to babysit when they want a night out. The money is good. Most people come home and round up whatever hourly figure they promised me before they left.

  “Wonderful!” Mrs. Morgan says, clasping her hands in front of her chest. She has a way of addressing me that makes me feel like some sort of munchkin in the presence of Glenda the Good Witch. “And what’s your usual rate?”

  I pause. I hate it when they expect me to name the price.

  “Don’t be silly,” my mother jumps in. “This is a favor between neighbors.” She gives me a knowing nod and smile.

  “No, no, no—we’ll insist on paying Lizzie for her time,” Mrs. Morgan says. “I’ll talk to Maura and see what the going rate is these days among her friends. We rely on her so much that we never have to call a sitter anymore.” She smiles at me again. “OK, then! Tomorrow at six thirty.”

  * * *

  When I arrive, Mrs. Morgan explains that Billy was at soccer camp all day, so he will probably fall asleep early. I look across the breakfast bar that separates the kitchen and living room. Billy sits on an ottoman in the center of the floor in front of a huge TV. He doesn’t take his eyes off the video game he’s playing. I wonder if he even knows I’m here.

  “You can make him this macaroni and cheese for supper,” Mrs. Morgan says, setting out a box and a saucepan. “Aside from using the stove and remembering to brush his teeth, he’s pretty self-sufficient. He’s old enough to entertain himself.”

  I nod, half listening. I’m thinking about what I saw an hour ago. I was in the living room when I heard a car screech to a halt outside. When I looked out the window, I saw a red Volkswagen bug in front of the Morgans’ house. The driver beeped a couple times, and then Maura trotted down the driveway and gestured to the girl in the passenger seat who got out and moved to the backseat so Maura could ride shotgun. Then the little car peeled out, music blaring.

  “Well, if you’re all set, I’ll be heading out,” Mrs. Morgan says.

  “Sure. All set,” I answer. />
  Mrs. Morgan’s prediction that Billy will conk out early is accurate. He practically falls asleep in his dinner. By eight o’clock I have the house to myself. I sit in a recliner in the family room and try to read but I can’t concentrate. Looking around the room, I can’t help but think the décor is odd. The house, like my own, is a newer home built in the colonial style, but the Morgans have stylish, modern furniture and decorations inside. The couch, love seat, and recliner in the living room are all black leather, the smell of which is starting to get to me. The coffee table has a metal base and glass top, and the lamps in the room are all sleek and modern with shiny stainless steel bases. Everything is black, gray, or beige, colors that carry through the whole first floor and the hallway upstairs. When Mrs. Morgan gave me the tour, I noticed a few odd abstract sculptures on end tables or in corners. Not at all what you’d expect to find inside a plain green colonial with tidy tan shutters. The rooms look like a page from the IKEA catalog, but not as logically coordinated.

  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 proba
bly 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.