Watch Me Disappear

asking for extra assignments from my teachers. To get accepted to Middlebury, I have to do more than just get good grades, especially considering the lousy system my old school was in. But Wilson is a really good school, so now if I want to stand out, I am going to have to make an effort to do so. I can’t just rely on A’s to win my teachers’ good graces. I have to raise my hand and participate, I have to jockey for position with all the other smart kids, which is something I’m not used to at all.
    On the first day of school, we were sorted into alphabetically-assigned seats in every class except art. Generally, being an “R,” I sit somewhere near the middle of the second-to-last row. Hunter usually sits near the front of the middle row. In Physics and History, Missy is seated directly behind him. She tells me the same is true in Anatomy and Physiology. I wish my last name started with F or G or H. I also wonder if alphabetical luck has contributed to Hunter’s and Missy’s academic success, always sitting right in the center of the room where they have so much of the teacher’s attention and very little chance to let their own attention drift.
    In the art studio, however, there are no assigned seats. The room is full of tables with four students to a table and we sit wherever we want. Whenever I have a choice, I sit in the back corner as close to the windows as possible. I have art second-to-last period. By that point on the first day, I was exhausted from the strain of remembering the names and “essential rules” of my teachers. I dropped my bag and scooted onto the stool before me, rubbing my eyes before remembering that I had put on makeup that morning (to make a good first impression). I wondered if I now had mascara everywhere, but quickly decided that there probably wasn’t any left on my lashes at that point in the day anyway. At that resigned thought, I rummaged in my bag and produced a hair elastic, hastily tucking my hair back into a ponytail, knowing that the front would fall down and not even caring. Besides, no one had noticed me all day, or if they did, they didn’t care about my hair or makeup. I rested my head in my hands and waited for class to start.
    “If it isn’t my new best friend, the beautiful and talented Lizzie Richards,” a voice said. A backpack thudded to the floor beside me. I looked up. It was Paul. “This seat taken?”
    I rolled my eyes and shook my head. I wasn’t in the mood for Paul.
    “Perfecto,” he replied, sitting beside me. “Didn’t know you were an artist.”
    “I’m not.”
    “Me either. Mr. Simmons is hilarious. That’s pretty much why I took this class. He was my favorite teacher freshman year.”
    “Oh,” I said. “My guidance counselor signed me up because you have to take an art elective to graduate. It was this or theater arts.”
    “You chose well.”
    “I’d rather be in study hall,” I said, thinking of all the homework I had that night, the first night of school. It wasn’t a good sign of things to come.
    “You don’t have a study? I knew you were an overachiever, but seriously, you have to learn when to quit,” he said.
    I just shrugged.
    “You can probably do your homework in this class. Mr. Simmons doesn’t care.”
    The bell rang and Mr. Simmons came in and introduced himself. He is one of those teachers whose method of presentation is something akin to a stand-up comedy routine. Usually teachers who go that route aren’t very funny and I generally wish they’d just get on with things, but in the wake of the seriousness of all my other teachers, it was a welcome change. I just sat there, not feeling any need to pay much attention to his rules and policies. After all, it was just art class.
    “I look forward to seeing your talents blossom this year, Miss Richards,” Paul said dramatically when the bell rang.
    “Already tried to put in a good word with Missy,” I said.
    He laughed. “I knew you would.”
     
    *          *          *
     
    The next day at lunch, Missy and I are doing homework rather than eating—a habit I suspect will only get worse as the semester wears on—when Paul comes over and plops himself down into the seat beside me. He’s eating an ice cream cone and looking as if he hasn’t a care in the world.
    “Say, Lizzie,” he begins. “Did you finish that homework for art class?”
    We both stop working and look at him.
    “Just kidding. But this does look like some