Watch Me Disappear

dreams is both hot and smart, and he’s genuine enough to fall for me despite my mere average appearance. I know it’s a double standard to want a guy with looks and brains and maybe even athletic talent, and simultaneously to want people not to judge me by my looks and lack of athletic talent, but there it is. I guess I’m not a good person. And anyway, whatever dream guy I have in my mind, real boys intimidate me completely, and I steer clear of them. The good-looking jocks use their arrogance to compensate for their dull minds, and the really smart guys usually have the people skills of lab rats. There I go again, proving myself to be superficial and judgmental, but I’m just calling it like I see it. The point is, if Hunter Groves is the smart, athletic, nice guy Wes says he is, maybe dreams do come true.
    “Lizzie!” Missy says, plopping down beside me on the picnic table bench. “Brian lives just down the street from you!”
    I can’t remember who Brian is, which is terrible because there are only four of them to keep track of, but I guess I haven’t paid much attention. I swivel to look at the guys on the bench behind me. A kid with wavy, dirty blond hair and glasses gives a little wave.
    “Cool, right?” Missy says. “You should go talk to him.”
    It occurs to me that I have been monopolizing Wes. As this is a sort of date for Missy and Wes, she might want me to buzz off. I can’t believe she’s still interested in him in more than a purely curious way. Think about it: Missy is drop-dead gorgeous, and Wes is short, with silly hair (chin length, but all slicked back behind his ears and sort of flipped up at the ends), and a habit of irritatingly wiping the back of his hand underneath his running nose.
    “I think I’ll go grab a soda,” I say, standing up. I have no intention of going to chat with Brian, but I have to get a closer look at Hunter.
    He is standing with a couple of other guys facing the stage. From the Boy Scouts’ snack table, I can clearly see his profile. I desperately want to hear him talk—I want some confirmation that what Wes said is true. I imagine he has the tell-tale Massachusetts accent—that would make sense with his appearance. I am curious about his friends, too. I mean, smart kids don’t hang around with really stupid ones, so they must be smart, too, right? There’s nothing like coming face to face with someone who challenges half a dozen stereotypes that you hold dear. I wish I were the sort of girl who could walk over to three strange guys and say hello, but I’m not. I consider moving closer to get a better look, and then I see something that deters me: Maura.
    She is teetering down the center aisle between the picnic tables and there is no place for me to hide. I probably should have expected to see her—I knew she was planning to attend—but once I made plans with Missy I dismissed any thought of Maura from my mind. And now here she is, slightly wavering as she walks in my direction. I watch as one of Hunter’s pals motions with his head toward Maura, says something to Hunter, and then laughs. Maura gives them a little wave, stumbling as she does. It takes me that long to realize she must be roaring drunk.
    For a moment I think I am safe. I think that perhaps in her drunken haze she will not recognize me. I am wrong.
    “Lizzie! Is that Lizzie?” she shouts, vaguely pointing in my direction.
    Hunter and his friends turn to see who she’s pointing at. I am frozen on the spot.
    “Little Lizzie two shoes,” Maura slurs, walking up to me. “Too good to come to the concert with Maura, but not too good to come all alone.”
    I guess Maura is not a happy drunk.
    “Lizzie,” she says again, poking my shoulder with a pointy fingernail. “A lot of nerve you’ve got.” She sways and hiccups.
    Maura is attracting attention, and I can feel my face turning red. I cannot think of a single thing to say that will defuse the situation because I cannot imagine what she is thinking or what she might do next.
    “I warned you. Remember?” she says. Then she burps in a most unladylike way, and I can see her face turn green.
    “Maura,” I say, taking a step back.
    “No, you listen to me!” she shouts, her voice shrill. She stumbles toward me and suddenly she is doubled over puking at my feet.
    The sight, the sound, the smell—it’s everything I can do not to puke in response. There is vomit on the tips of my toes and I feel sweat trickling down my back. A