Watch Me Disappear

arm. I turn to see that he’s offering me a joint.
    “No thanks,” I say.
    “Pass it on,” he says, nodding to the kid next to me.
    Another first for me. I hand it carefully to the kid on my left.
    I sit there for a while, and then someone is draping her arms around me from the back. It’s Katherine, being absurdly affectionate. She must have changed her mind about drinking tonight. “Somebody’s looking for you, pretty Lizzie,” she says, practically purring. Missy and Wes have arrived. Thank God.
    “What’s she on?” Missy says, when Katherine wanders away.
    “Probably E,” Wes answers. We both look at him, wondering how he knows this. He just shrugs. “Her reputation precedes her. Either E or valium.”
    I notice the two of them are holding hands, and Missy is beaming. “Sorry we took so long,” she says. “We got lost.”
    I look at my watch. Almost ten o’clock. “But you can still get me home for curfew, right?” I ask.
    “Oh yeah, no problem. We don’t have to stay here long,” Missy says. “I just wanted to check it out.” Then she notices the beer I’m holding. “Are you drinking?” she asks.
    “Not really. Somebody gave this to me.”
    “I want one,” Missy says. Wes wanders off to find her one. “We totally made out,” Missy says as soon as Wes leaves.
    “Wow. And you didn’t even have to get him drunk,” I say.
    “I know, right? I just told him I really want to kiss him.”
    I’m impressed that Missy found the guts to declare her interest and make things happen. I still have no clue what she sees in Wes, but she’s happy. Once again I find myself feeling a little jealous. I wish I had someone to like who liked me back. “Did you do anything else?” I ask.
    “I let him feel me up a little,” Missy confides. “And how about you? How’s the party? Any sightings of Hunter?”
    “I haven’t seen him,” I say. “The party’s OK, though.”
    “Good,” she smiles and hooks an arm in mine. “Let’s go by the fire. I think I smell toasted marshmallows.”
    Wes finds us and hands Missy a beer. We discover that not only do they have marshmallows to toast, but also all the ingredients of s’mores, and somehow I quickly become the official s’mores maker of the evening, which is ok with me. It gives me something to do.
    “We’ll be right back,” Missy says, setting down her empty beer can beside me. So I sit there with some strangers making s’mores until no one else requests one, and then I just sit there. John notices and sits beside me.
    “So. Does the new girl play with boys?” he asks, sliding his hand behind me on the log where we are sitting.
    “What?” I say. I should be flattered, I guess. Isn’t this what I want—a reasonably attractive guy (not my type at all, which is to say not tall, dark, and handsome, but he’s okay) asking me to make out with him? But he smells like beer and hot dogs, and he is staring at my chest instead of looking me in the eye.
    He leans in toward me and puts his other hand on my leg. “You’re very cute,” he says.
    And you’re very drunk, I think and stand up. “I have to go,” I say. And when I look at my watch I discover that I have not lied. I need to find Missy immediately or I am going to be late, and that might be the end of my freedom, regardless of my mother’s adoration for Maura.
    I scurry from group to group looking for Missy but not finding her.
    “Everything okay?” Paul asks, noticing me standing alone near the path back to the cars.
    “I have to go home,” I say, nearing hysteria.
    “Okay, chill out,” he says. “Bad trip or something?”
    “What? No. Curfew.”
    “I think I know where your friend is,” he says. “I saw her walking over there with her little boyfriend.” He points up the hill further. “If you really want to interrupt that,” he says.
    “My parents are going to kill me,” I say.
    “I can take you home if you want,” he says. “This party is pretty lame anyway. Too many stoners.”
    “You’re drunk,” I say.
    “Maybe.”
    What options do I have? Wander into the woods in search of Missy who is making out with Wes, sit around waiting for Missy and get home late, or get in a car with someone who probably shouldn’t be driving. “You’d seriously take me home?” I ask.
    “Sure. What the hell,” he says.
    “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.” I am so angry at Missy for her typical inability to keep track of time that I don’t even care. She’ll figure