Watch Me Disappear

writes poetry, has no right to call anyone two-faced.
    I hear the back door squeak open behind me, and I leap up before my mom has a chance to call me and make known to Maura just how close our deck is to her pool.
     
    *          *          *
     
    At the library, I head straight for the computers. I have about an hour before my mom will be back to pick me up after getting the groceries. It’s a weekday so there’s no line for the Internet stations. I go straight to my new Email account. My inbox is shockingly full, considering I haven’t given the address to anyone. It’s mostly spam, but then I see a message that catches my eye.
     
     
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    Subject:
     
    U THINK IM TOO DUMB TOO CATCH A SNOOP?
    JOKES ON U.
    I CAN MAKE UR SENIOR YR HELL.
    U SHOULD OF THOUGHT OF THAT.
    SO MUCH FOR SWEET, INNOCENT LIZY.
     
     
    She couldn’t even copy the correct spelling of my name. I could hardly believe this message was from the same person who’d written those poems. I’m not used to the shorthand of Email or text messages and it isn’t what I expect of Maura, although I realize that I probably should have expected as much. I stare at the message for a minute and then delete it. I sign into Facebook.
    “Four friend requests,” I read on my home page. Three are from people who will be my classmates in the fall. One of those requests includes a message saying, “I’m new, too.” My faith is renewed. This really might work, with or without befriending Maura. But at the last request, my heart sinks—my brother. He included a personal message in the request: “Busted. Mom and dad are gonna kill you.”
     
    *          *          *
     
     “So your brother called this afternoon,” mom says at dinner, passing me the salad. My heart beats so hard I’m afraid I’ll have a heart attack, and I have a hard time keeping the worry off my face. “He can’t make it home in August after all.”
    No mention of Facebook. He hadn’t ratted me out. If he had, she’d already be yelling. I dump some salad onto my plate.
    “I guess between his internship and soccer,” she continues, “he just can’t get away. I’m going to find him a flight for Thanksgiving.”
    “Whoever would have thought our party-boy would turn out to be so industrious,” dad says, winking at me.
    My mother glares at him. Her beloved son isn’t going to come home until Thanksgiving. She is not in the mood for joking or for the sarcastic reminder that Jeff’s behavior since leaving for college has not always been admirable. During the semester, he lives for the weekend, and we all know it.
    “Thanksgiving will be here before we know it,” I say, hoping to bring mom back to her happy place. And it’s true—time is flying by. It’s already the end of July. Still that’s a small consolation. I’ve been looking forward to having Jeff home in August, too. I have hardly talked to him since we moved.
    Since Jeff left for college, he’s managed to come home as little as possible. Last summer he stayed at school to work in the admissions office. If I were him, out of the house and free all through the school year, I wouldn’t want to come home and deal with our nutty mother either. She’s enough to make anyone want to head for the door. Then again, she adores Jeff and she’s much nicer to him than to me, so he has less cause to flee her grasp than I do.
    Everyone loves Jeff. He’s good looking and charming, an All-American soccer player, a decent student. What’s not to like? Jeff was always Mr. Popularity in school. It was definitely easier going to school when Jeff was there, too. I am certain things would have gone better at my last school if Jeff had been there, but when I was a sophomore in high school, he was a freshman in college. It was the first time in my life I ever had to face a new school without him, and I was not prepared. I was used to being known as Jeff’s little sister, and that was OK with me. Jeff made friends and he introduced them to me, and they were nice to me. Without him, I was just the new girl.
     
    *          *          *
     
    After dinner, I go straight to the computer with the pretense of writing my summer reading essay on Beowulf . I do have to write an essay about it, and I have managed to finish reading it, but my real motive is to talk to Jeff. I have my “essay” open in one window, and Instant