Watch Me Disappear (28 page)

“Well, you sure are acting the part.”

“This whole thing is ridiculous.” It’s cool and quiet in the garage. I stand there and take a deep breath, savoring the moment.

“As far as I’m concerned, any party that I’m not in charge of is a good party.”

I roll my eyes. “Your parties are outside in the woods. You don’t have to worry about people breaking shit or spilling all over the furniture.”

“True,” he says, “but I do have to worry about people falling off cliffs or breaking their ankles on a tree root on the path. And I have to haul all the empties and shit all the way down to the house.”

I hadn’t thought about that.

“So you didn’t feel like going to the prom?” he asks.

“It’s all just a waste of money,” I say.

“Nah. It’s part of the high school experience. I’m not sure you can call yourself an American if you haven’t been through these rituals.”

“So are you and Jessica a thing?”

“You’re kidding, right? She’ll look great in the pictures, but she’s about as smart as an empty cup. I need a girl I can have a conversation with.”

“I see.”

“I would have gladly taken you to the prom, you know,” he says.

“Oh,” I say.

He steps in closer to me so that I have to look up. He is one of those tall gangly kids who hasn’t even begun to fill out yet. He has freckles all over his face, but he has nice eyes, very round but slightly turned down at the corners. Would it be so bad to let him kiss me?

“I like you,” he says softly.

“You don’t even know me,” I say, stepping back a little.

“Let’s see,” he says, turning and leaning against Maura’s stepdad’s SUV. “You’re ridiculously smart, you’re cute, and you’d rather not be in the spotlight,” he says.

“I’m not that smart and no one’s ever called me cute and meant it, but you’re right about the spotlight.” I cross my arms.

“Well, I think you’re cute, and you’re a heck of a lot smarter than me, which I like.”

Unfortunately, I don’t like dopey guys. I just shake my head.

“If we stay out here too much longer, someone will notice we’re both missing, and you know what they’ll think,” he says.

“So what are you suggesting?” It seems to me that he is suggesting we make out and fulfill the prophecies of rumor that will spread if anyone realizes we are both absent from the party. I seriously doubt anyone will notice.

“That we might be missing the best part of the party,” he says, pushing himself away from the car.

I follow him back inside. Everyone has migrated out to the pool deck. It got pretty stuffy in the house, but it is nice outside and the sky is clear and starry. I scan the crowd, but I don’t see Maura. I also don’t see Jason, but the thugs are standing at the keg. I ask them if they’ve seen Maura and they laugh and grunt a response. Maura and Jason are inside. I can take a hint, so I don’t go looking for them.

A big burly guy walks out to the middle of the diving board. “Who’s going in first?” His voice carries easily across the water. A few people laugh. “Come on!” he says. “Let’s get this party started!” More laughter, but no one moves. “Ah, you all suck,” he says, turning and walking back down the diving board.

Just then Maura comes out onto the deck. She has on tiny shorts and a camisole. Her face is flushed and her eyes look huge and wet. “Everybody having fun?” she asks, walking past the keg and around the edge of the pool. “What’s a pool party without a splash in the pool?” Her words slur a little. Then she walks out onto the diving board. A few people hoot, and somebody whistles. Every eye is on Maura. She bounces a little on the board, and then she stops and turns around, walking back toward the deck. A few people boo, but she just sticks a hand out in a “wait” gesture. At the back of the diving board, she grabs the bottom of her camisole and pulls the shirt up, over her head, revealing her sunken stomach, bony rib cage, and bare, small breasts. Some girls giggle, and some guys whistle. She runs a hand through her hair and then reaches down and slips her little shorts off, flicking them from her foot. Her hip bones look like sharpened weapons protruding from her body. Nobody makes a sound. She steps back up onto the diving board, walks to the edge, and dives in with a great bounce. Everyone is too stupefied to respond. They stare at the surface of the water where Maura disappeared, or at the sky, or at each other. Then somebody starts applauding.

“Isn’t anyone going to join me?” Maura says, swimming toward the shallow end of the pool.

“Hells yeah,” one of the guys I don’t know yells, leaping into the water fully clothed.

He swims toward Maura, who moves away. “No,” she says. “No clothes allowed.”

“No prob,” he says. He struggles out of his shirt and tosses it to the side, and then his shorts and boxers follow.

“Can I get in and then take off my clothes?” some girl, an underclassman who tagged along with her date, asks.

Jason missed the entire display, but his buddies have retrieved him by this point. He comes outside, fresh beer in hand, and studies the scene. “Get the hell out.”

Maura shakes her head, and swims up to her now naked swimming companion. “Me and Jimmy here are taking a swim.”

“I said, get the hell out.”

“Maybe you should come in,” she says.

I watch a few people scoot behind Jason to get inside. It seems the party-goers are torn between a fascination that makes it impossible to look away and a sense of horror so overwhelming that they need to remove themselves.

“Listen, bitch,” Jason starts.

John steps in front of Jason then, interrupting him. “Hey, man—”

“Was I talking to you?” Jason shouts. I wonder if my parents hear him. I know Maura’s parents can. They’d have to be deaf not to.

“Just cool it,” John says. “Everyone’s having a good time.” You can tell John has experience with a rowdy party crowd.

Jason shoves him and John stumbles back a few steps, close to the edge of the pool. “Mind your own damn business,” he shouts.

“We’re all just here to have fun, man,” John says, holding his hands up in the air like he’s being arrested.

“Fun?” Jason says. He pulls back and then slams his fist directly into John’s nose.

I watch John’s head snap back and blood pour forth as he falls backwards into the water. We all stand there, frozen, as John sinks for a moment, and then somebody says, “Jesus! Help him!” and everyone leaps up at once. The kid who was swimming with Maura gets there first and pulls John up and to the shallow end stairs. Blood runs down his face.

No one thinks to keep an eye on Jason, which is a mistake.

“Fuck you, fucking rich assholes,” he shouts, picking up a chair and launching it into the pool. Several pieces of deck furniture follow, and then, finally, Mr. Morgan appears through the sliding door.

“Enough,” he says—not yelling, not pleading, just “enough.”

At the sight of her stepfather, Maura, realizing she’s naked, swims into the deep end and treads water under the diving board, apparently hoping the shadows will make it hard for him to see her. Everyone else turns toward his voice, even Jason. Mr. Morgan looks tired and far too defeated to really seem angry.

“You’re going to need to leave,” he says, looking at Jason. “Or I’m going to have to call the police and have them escort you.”

“Fuck this shit,” Jason says, wiping a hand across his face. He turns and points to Maura. “And fuck you, too.” He pushes past Mr. Morgan into the house, his posse following him.

Mr. Morgan waits until he’s sure they’re gone. “Our neighbors are upset about the noise,” he says. “I’m going to have to ask you all to come inside for the rest of the night.” He looks like he might actually cry. I’m sure he wants nothing more than to send us all home, but he can’t, because he has been letting everyone drink. He looks around, takes in the sight of the furniture floating in the pool, and then, after a moment, John, propped up against the pool steps, a bloody t-shirt against his nose. “Is he okay?” he asks to no one in particular.

“I think his nose is broken,” one of the guys answers.

Mr. Morgan nods. “Does he need to go to the emergency room?”

“I’m fine,” John mumbles. “Some ice, maybe? And aspirin?”

Mr. Morgan nods again. “Okay, everyone inside.” He stands aside as everyone files in silently, until only Maura and her naked swimming partner are left in the pool. I don’ t know what Mr. Morgan says to them, but after a moment he comes inside and asks me to take some towels out, and then he adds, “Your parents want you to come home.”

*          *          *

Amazingly, my parents do not ask me about the party or offer lectures of any kind. My mother pushed me into friendship with Maura, and now, unless she is willing to admit she was wrong, she can’t fault me.

“Want to drive up to Amherst this afternoon, just you and me, walk around, check out the town?” my dad asks the morning after the party over breakfast. I have no desire to go anywhere near UMass any sooner than is absolutely necessary, but I can’t turn down a rare offer for an afternoon with my dad.

It is a gorgeous spring day, warm and sunny. We drive into town on back roads past farms and old houses, and then come into town along the edge of Amherst College’s beautiful campus, with its brick buildings and wide open lawns. I slump in my seat.

“You know, you can take classes there,” my dad says. “UMass, Amherst, Mount Holyoke, Smith, and that other school—”

“Hampshire,” I supply, having read up on my options as soon as I knew my fate.

“Yes, Hampshire, they let you take classes at any of the schools.”

“I know.” Because all of us dumb, public school schmucks want to go see how the other half lives. The last thing I need is to take a class at Amherst and have all those kids know that I wasn’t good enough to get into their exclusive school.

My dad turns the car down the tree-lined common and along Pleasant Street until he finds a parking space. It’s a great town—better than Williamstown, certainly better than New London. We go in a few book stores and get iced coffee from a place called Rao’s, and then my dad suggests we walk over to the campus. Our walk takes us past the frat houses, which are not the mansions that house frats at small liberal arts schools. These are ragged buildings with brown lawns and peeling paint. My dad seems to know exactly where he’s leading me, so I follow him past the ’70s-era, poured-concrete, modern building known, ironically, as the Fine Arts Center. We pass a mucky pond, the 30-story library, and finally arrive at a small area of campus where there are smaller brick buildings that look more like what I think college should be.

“Not all bad,” dad says, sitting down on a bench.

I shrug and sit next to him.

“I know it’s not what you wanted,” he says.

“It’s fine,” I say unconvincingly.

“I’m sorry, Lizzie,” he says. “I really am. If we hadn’t moved around so much, if you had started and finished all at one school and really had a chance to get involved, you probably could have gotten into any school you wanted.”

“It’s not your fault, dad,” I say. I am suprised. I knew this visit was to make me feel good about UMass, but I didn’t expect some kind of apology-confession from my dad. I wonder what prompted this deep reflection on his part.

“I feel like your mother and I really let you down. All this moving, I always told myself it was for you and your brother, to give you the best. I don’t know.”

My father grew up in a working-class family where there wasn’t always enough to go around. All he wanted was for me and Jeff to have all of what we needed and most of what we wanted. I hated moving from place to place, and often I took for granted all that we had, but in my heart, I have always known my parents were just doing what they thought was best for us.

“You have,” I say. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I should be thanking you.”

He puts his arm around me. “I’ve been so caught up in my career, I haven’t even noticed all the things that really matter, like family and friends. The day-to-day stuff.”

“You’ve always been there for me,” I say.

He shakes his head. “You’re a great kid, Lizzie. You’re the best. I want you to know that.”

But I’m not. For the past year, I have wanted to be popular more than I wanted to be a good friend or daughter. I was selfish and self-absorbed. If my short friendship with Paul taught me anything, it’s that.

“Do you know how proud your mother and I are?” my dad asks, giving me a squeeze.

I nod.

“And we don’t want you to feel ashamed about this whole college thing. UMass is a wonderful school. We’re proud of you.”

I just keep nodding while he goes on with his words meant to comfort. I know UMass is a good school, for a state school anyway, and I know my parents are proud of me. They never put pressure on me to go to an Ivy League school or anything like that.

“So,” my dad says, perking up. “One of the ladies at work told me we should go to this place called Judy’s for lunch, and then we should drive over to Northampton before heading home. What do you say?” He stands up and I follow him.

Chapter 19

The last week of classes flies by. My mom lets me drive to school every day. Classes are a joke—after AP exams, what’s left for teachers to do but show movies? School is just a social scene.

My big chat with my dad really got me thinking. I know it’s past time to mend things with Missy and Paul. I have been behaving like an immature brat, and I just hope they are more mature than I am and accept my apology. I find Missy at her locker Monday morning.

“Hey,” I say, approaching her. She looks, as always, amazing. When she turns to look at me, her mouth opens in surprise, and I see she got her braces off. She really could be a model. She doesn’t say anything.

“Listen,” I say.

“Why should I?” she asks.

I hadn’t expected that reaction. In fact, I expected her to be as sweet as ever. “I don’t know,” I say, losing my nerve. “I haven’t given you much reason.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Well, I just came to say I’m sorry.”

She stands there expectantly.