Watch Me Disappear

Thanksgiving for English class. We sit there for about an hour before the flight comes in. Then the baggage claim is flooded with cranky people. We scan the crowd and finally I spot him, coming down the escalator, his hands on the shoulders of a cute, preppy-looking, blonde girl on the step in front of him.
    We meet him at the bottom of the escalator and exchange hugs. Everything feels chaotic with all the people around us and announcements over the PA system. Jeff hurries to introduce us to Jen and to tell us that they hadn’t checked any bags so we can head right to the car. We lead them to the car and Jeff tells me to sit up front. He has never done that before. He sits in the back with Jen. I barely had a chance to look at Jen and the curiosity is killing me. I have to force myself not to keep turning around in my seat.
    When we finally get home, I get a better look. She’s short, like me, or maybe a smidge taller, and thin, but athletic looking and not waifish. Her hair, which is definitely professionally dyed (although she may have been born blonde), is cut into a chin-length bob that is perfectly styled. She’s wearing slim-fitting khaki pants and a green cardigan over a green camisole. She has on cute flat shoes. She looks like a walking J. Crew ad.
    We stand in the kitchen while my mom gets dinner ready. Jen has her manicured hands folded over the back of one of the stools at the kitchen island. Her fingernails are a perfect medium length, carefully shaped, and painted in a French manicure. I know she must be wearing makeup—no one with hair that perfect and nails so carefully kept would go out without makeup—but her face looks very natural, no heavy eyeliner or garish lipstick. In fact she is so put together, I can’t help but think she looks more like a soccer mom than a college student. She seems too old for Jeff. Jeff rambles on about school, answering all my mother’s questions, and Jen just stands there quietly, looking nice.
    I have never been one to wish I had an older sister. I think some kids who grow up in households like mine, always on the move, never staying in one place for long, wish for big families because then they’ll always have friends. No matter where they might move, there’s always someone to keep them company from the moment they arrive. Not me. I’m content with one big brother. And besides, it was hard enough to live in Jeff’s shadow, to follow Mr. Popular through life. At least no one expected me to have his interests or athleticism; after all, I’m just a girl. Sometimes when I was much younger I thought it might be fun to have a younger sister, but once I started babysitting I got over that idea.
    Standing in the kitchen with Jeff and Jen, though, I realize that at some point Jeff will get married and I will have a sister-in-law. I know I am just being childish and insecure, but I keep thinking that I don’t want anyone comparing me to Jen. How can I possibly measure up? Why did Jeff bring her here when this was supposed to be a fun family weekend?
    At the end of dinner, I excuse myself from the table in the middle of some story about Jeff’s soccer coach. If Jeff isn’t going to have time for me this weekend because he is too busy entertaining his girlfriend, at least I don’t have to hang around them more than necessary.
     
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    I spend the beginning of Thanksgiving break hiding out in my room on the phone with Paul or Missy instead of hanging out with my brother, but he is relentless in his insistence that he get to meet some of my new friends. The more I try to avoid him, the more he annoys me. He says that if these new friends are so important that I’d rather talk on the phone with them than be with the rest of the family, he should at least get to meet them. His protective big brother routine is sweet—after all, before he went to college, any social life I had was thanks to him. So Friday night, we meet Paul, Missy, and Wes at Mel’s Diner. Two pairs of love birds and me and Paul. At least the numbers will balance out all right.
    Of course as soon as we arrive there’s a problem: the hostess wants to seat us at a big booth, three on a side. Logically, Paul and I should sit on separate sides so the couples can sit shoulder to shoulder, but that arrangement makes me feel alone and vulnerable. I practically glue myself to Paul’s side so I can slide into the booth alongside him. Wes, as always, has his arms