Watch Me Disappear

to the concert. I know I’ll have to wait until dinner and get my appeal just right. I learned at a young age that when I want permission to do something, I should ask my parents at dinner when both of them are present. When I do, my father tempers my mother’s habitual objections and I have at least a chance of getting my way. If I approach my mother alone, I can be guaranteed she’ll turn me down no matter what I ask for—even if it is something she might like if she suggested it to me. The fact that I want it changes everything. And if I just go to my dad, he’ll usually half listen, tell me it sounds good, and then add, “Just check with your mother first to be sure.” Right. The only way to ask for anything is to get them both in the same room. Whenever my dad is out of town for work, I know better than to ask for a single thing.
    I put off asking through salad and only when we are all half-way through our dry baked chicken do I finally take a deep breath and make my request. “I think I’d like to go to Music in the Park on Thursday after all,” I say, looking at my mother.
    “I’m glad. I think you’ll have fun,” she says, but I am pretty sure she isn’t going to like the next bit of news. As I consider how to bring up Missy, my mother continues, “I’ll call Patty tonight. Maybe you and Maura could chat to make plans.”
    “Actually, mom,” I start. I don’t look at her this time. I move some chicken around my plate.
    “Eat your food or put your fork down,” she says.
    I obligingly set my fork down. “I’d rather go with this other girl, Missy,” I say, looking at my hands.
    “What are you talking about?” she asks.
    “This girl, Missy, I met her at the library a few weeks ago, and I’d rather go with her.” I look at my father for encouragement.
    “A few weeks ago?” my mother says.
    “That’s nice,” my father chimes in.
    “You met her a few weeks ago and this is the first we’re hearing about her?” my mother asks. “This is why you’ve been walking to the library? To meet some strange girl named Missy?” She spits out the name with disgust. My mother has very strong opinions about names; she feels that children need good, sturdy, old-fashioned names that won’t embarrass them when they get older. Missy is one of the names she hates, right up there with Lacey and Jade.
    “Am I supposed to tell you everything every day?” My father and brother are constantly counseling me to avoid such defensive replies, but I can never remember to hold my tongue.
    “We like to know who you spend your time with. How can you expect us to let you go somewhere with someone we’ve never seen? We haven’t even met her parents. You know we need to trust your friends’ parents.”
    And that is why I never have any friends. “The fact that you’d trust me to go out with Maura shows just how little use it is for you to know my friends’ parents. Maura’s not the sort of girl you want me hanging around. Believe me,” I say, crossing my arms and leaning back in my chair.
    “Maura is a lovely girl,” my mother answers. I cannot fathom how she formed that opinion.
    “Tell us more about your friend Missy,” my father says.
    I look at my mother to see if I should say any more or just drop it.
    “Fine,” she says. “What about this Missy?”
    “Well, like I said, we met at the library, and we’ve met up there a few times since then to work on summer reading and stuff. The first time we met, we were in line next to each other to check out books and she noticed what I was taking out. We got to talking and it seemed like we have a lot in common,” I say, twisting the edge of the tablecloth in front me, not looking at either of my parents.
    “What book?” my mother asks.
    I should have been expecting that question. What books have I taken out recently? “ The Bell Jar ,” I say.
    My mother nods but her eyes are narrowed. She knows I brought that book home—she always looks at what I check out. She takes a few deep breaths through her nose like she does whenever she’s considering something carefully. Then she breaks the silence. “What I still don’t understand is why you haven’t mentioned this girl sooner. It’s not like you to keep things from us.”
    “Now, Beth, it doesn’t sound like she was trying to keep her friend a secret,” my father says in my defense. “This move has been pretty stressful. Maybe we should give Lizzie a break on this one.”
    Yes, a