Watch Me Disappear

followed them to see the car. “Now, I think the DJ has one more song for us, if everyone wants to head back to the dance floor.”
    Most people do as Mr. Morgan suggests, but a few of Maura’s friends move closer to the car to get a better look. I linger behind them.
    “All right, birthday girl! We need you on the dance floor,” the DJ announces after a moment. Reluctantly, her friends start back to the dance floor and Maura gets out of the car.
    I fall in beside her as she heads back onto the patio. I try to get her attention—I have to make sure she isn’t going to drive. If she’s planning to get in that car, I will have no choice but to tell my parents what’s going on. All those lectures about drinking and driving apparently got through to me. But of course it isn’t a good time to talk. Everyone is waiting for her.
    “Come on,” she says, reaching out for my hand. And despite myself, I grasp her hand and hurry along with her to the dance floor. I feel special, walking up to the expectant circle with the birthday girl. I know everyone is looking at me, probably wondering what the hell I am doing, but it feels OK, too. If I’m with Maura, I have to be cool, right?
    When we arrive at the edge of the circle, Maura lets go of my hand and sashays into the middle of the group as the DJ starts the music. At first, “It’s my party, I’ll cry if I want to,” comes on, and when he is sure everyone recognizes the song, the DJ scratches it out and a Katy Perry song replaces it. “It’s my song!” Maura says, wiggling her hips. For the entire song, Maura stays in the center of the circle, luring different people in with her for a few seconds at a time. I had enough of the spotlight a few moments earlier, so I withdraw away from the dancers to wait it out. I plan to grab Maura for a minute before she leaves.
    The song ends and everyone gives Maura a big round of applause. A few people drift toward her to talk and I follow them.
    “Ready, Lizzie?” Missy asks, appearing at my side.
    “In a minute.”
    “Your parents—”
    “Yeah,” I interrupt. “I just need to talk to Maura for a minute. My mom won’t mind.”
    “Oh, ok,” Missy says. “Do you want—”
    “Just tell my mom to give me a minute,” I answer. I know I sound snippy but I don’t care.
    Finally Maura starts walking toward her parents, but I rush up and catch her arm.
    “Hey,” she says, turning toward me. “Have fun?”
    “Yeah, uh, Maura,” I say, not sure how to ask her what I’ve been trying to ask her for ten minutes.
    “Did you want a ride to the after-party?” she asks.
    “Your birthday party has an after-party?”
    “A girl’s gotta have some fun,” she says.
    “Right, but are you driving?”
    “Duh! Didn’t you see my new car?” she asks.
    “But you’ve been drinking,” I say.
    “Oh, Lizzie. Sweet little Lizzie. I haven’t been drinking.”
    “I thought you were all drinking by the tennis courts.”
    “Everyone else was, but I knew I was getting a car. I couldn’t spoil that, could I?”
    “Your parents said it was a surprise,” I say.
    “Right. Like they could keep it a secret from me. You are innocent, aren’t you?” she says. “So you want to come or what?”
    “I can’t,” I say. “Have fun, though.”
    “Will do,” she says. She starts to walk away, but then she stops and says, “Thanks, though, for checking on me. It’s sweet.”
    I am relieved that Maura has enough sense not to drink and drive, although the entire ride home all I can think about is who is driving the rest of the kids to the after-party. How many drunk teenagers are on the road at that very moment? Thankfully Missy chatters away with my dad for the entire ride home so I don’t have to talk to anyone.
     
    *          *          *
     
    “I wouldn’t get too cozy with Paul if I were you,” I say to Missy later when we are settled on the couch with a bag of chips and a tub of ice cream. Missy is starving from all that dancing.
    “Which one was Paul again?” she asks.
    I describe him.
    “Oh, he was a good dancer.”
    “I think he’s like Maura’s ex or something,” I say, explaining how I had seen formal pictures of them in her room. I don’t mention the poetry. I haven’t quite explained to Missy how I snooped on Maura’s computer. I can’t imagine what Missy would think if she knew that.
    “Whatever,” she says. “We were just dancing. Besides I’m sort of seeing Wes.”
    I