Watch Me Disappear

just broke up with her, so Maura needed to go be a good friend and cheer Tina up. Maura then helpfully suggested they ask their nice new neighbor to watch Billy.
    As Mrs. Morgan stands at the door explaining the pitiful situation, I am tempted to say no just to make Maura’s life more difficult. But then again, my curiosity is high; I want to get inside the house and see what Queen Maura’s life is like. Anyway, my mother doesn’t give me a chance to say no.
    “Lizzie loves kids!” she says, coming up behind me at the door. “She’s a great babysitter!”
    This is an embellishment. Children too young to speak in utterances that at least resemble sentences make me nervous, but I do have a fair amount of practice as a babysitter thanks to my dad, who is always encouraging his colleagues to call me whenever they need a sitter. He sees this as a win-win-win proposition: It saves me the embarrassment of another Friday or Saturday night at home; it keeps me in spending money so he doesn’t have to; and his colleagues have someone to babysit when they want a night out. The money is good. Most people come home and round up whatever hourly figure they promised me before they left.
    “Wonderful!” Mrs. Morgan says, clasping her hands in front of her chest. She has a way of addressing me that makes me feel like some sort of munchkin in the presence of Glenda the Good Witch. “And what’s your usual rate?”
    I pause. I hate it when they expect me to name the price.
    “Don’t be silly,” my mother jumps in. “This is a favor between neighbors.” She gives me a knowing nod and smile.
    “No, no, no—we’ll insist on paying Lizzie for her time,” Mrs. Morgan says. “I’ll talk to Maura and see what the going rate is these days among her friends. We rely on her so much that we never have to call a sitter anymore.” She smiles at me again. “OK, then! Tomorrow at six thirty.”
     
    *          *          *
     
    When I arrive, Mrs. Morgan explains that Billy was at soccer camp all day, so he will probably fall asleep early. I look across the breakfast bar that separates the kitchen and living room. Billy sits on an ottoman in the center of the floor in front of a huge TV. He doesn’t take his eyes off the video game he’s playing. I wonder if he even knows I’m here.
    “You can make him this macaroni and cheese for supper,” Mrs. Morgan says, setting out a box and a saucepan. “Aside from using the stove and remembering to brush his teeth, he’s pretty self-sufficient. He’s old enough to entertain himself.”
    I nod, half listening. I’m thinking about what I saw an hour ago. I was in the living room when I heard a car screech to a halt outside. When I looked out the window, I saw a red Volkswagen bug in front of the Morgans’ house. The driver beeped a couple times, and then Maura trotted down the driveway and gestured to the girl in the passenger seat who got out and moved to the backseat so Maura could ride shotgun. Then the little car peeled out, music blaring.
    “Well, if you’re all set, I’ll be heading out,” Mrs. Morgan says.
    “Sure. All set,” I answer.
    Mrs. Morgan’s prediction that Billy will conk out early is accurate. He practically falls asleep in his dinner. By eight o’clock I have the house to myself. I sit in a recliner in the family room and try to read but I can’t concentrate. Looking around the room, I can’t help but think the décor is odd. The house, like my own, is a newer home built in the colonial style, but the Morgans have stylish, modern furniture and decorations inside. The couch, love seat, and recliner in the living room are all black leather, the smell of which is starting to get to me. The coffee table has a metal base and glass top, and the lamps in the room are all sleek and modern with shiny stainless steel bases. Everything is black, gray, or beige, colors that carry through the whole first floor and the hallway upstairs. When Mrs. Morgan gave me the tour, I noticed a few odd abstract sculptures on end tables or in corners. Not at all what you’d expect to find inside a plain green colonial with tidy tan shutters. The rooms look like a page from the IKEA catalog, but not as logically coordinated.
    The one room Mrs. Morgan didn’t include on the tour was Maura’s room. “It’s a mess,” she said, gesturing toward the closed door. “We just keep the door shut. You know how it is,” she added, and then she looked at me and