Watch Me Disappear

sex and then he dumped her or something like that.”
    “No, she didn’t. I mean, she said they’d had sex,” I answer, but actually I’m not sure she ever said so.
    “Well, she’s a liar. Paul has never had sex. He’s waiting until he knows he’s found the right girl.”
    That’s news to me.
    “Don’t look so shocked,” Missy says, flipping her hair and crossing her arms. “You know Paul. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t do drugs, he respects his mother. Is it so surprising that he wants to wait?”
    When she puts it like that, it isn’t surprising at all, but I can’t admit it so easily. “Wes said the same kinds of things,” I remind her.
    “This is different,” she says. “With Wes, I don’t know, I guess I was just desperate. I wanted a boyfriend. I wanted a perfect high school sweetheart. With Paul, I just want to see how things go.”
    “Well, if Paul told you he’s never had sex, he’s probably telling the truth,” I say.
    She drops back against the pillows. “I think so.”
    Neither of us speak for a minute, and then she leans up on one elbow and turns to me. “So what about you? Got your eye on anyone?”
    I roll my eyes. What am I supposed to say? Yes, I do, in fact. I really like your boyfriend.
    Eventually Missy falls asleep, but I can’t relax. All I can think about is Paul with his arm around Missy. Paul apologizing if he hurt me. Missy so oblivious to my crushed heart. And she’s supposed to be my friend, my best friend.
    After laying there for a while, I get up with my cell phone and go to the bow window at the far end of Missy’s room. I sit with a blanket around me looking down at the snowy yard. Although most of the houses have turned out their porch lights and Christmas lights, the streetlights reflect on the crisp snow and the moon, nearly full, glows in the clear, black sky, illuminating the yard.
    I flip open my phone. I am not supposed to send text messages. It isn’t part of my plan and every message will be tallied on the bill that my parents will scrutinize when it comes. I don’t care.
    “U were right,” I type and select Maura’s number.
    A few minutes later, my phone vibrates. I read Maura’s response. “What r u talking about? Where r u?”
    “Missy and Paul suck,” I write back.
    A conversation carried on via text can take a ridiculously long time. I spend the entire night sitting by that window, my hands and feet numb from the cold, watching the sky slowly drain from black to white as dawn approaches, texting back and forth with Maura. I can’t call her—that would wake Missy. And Maura doesn’t seem to mind being up all night or texting rather than talking. Every message I send her gets a response. I am going to be in big trouble when the phone bill comes.
     
    *          *          *
     
    I finally crawl back into bed around four o’clock and manage to sleep, but I am already awake when Missy gets up around nine. I smell breakfast cooking downstairs. Waffles and coffee—the aroma makes my stomach turn. Staying up all night doesn’t agree with me.
    “I have something for you,” Missy says, getting up and rummaging around in her dresser. “I meant to give it to you last night.”
    She turns toward me with a small box wrapped up in Christmas paper. I don’t have anything for her. My mother actually suggested that I buy Missy a present as it is rude to attend a Christmas party empty-handed, but I told her she had no clue about being a teenager. Stupid me.
    “You didn’t have to,” I say.
    “I know. But I wanted to get you a little Christmas present,” she says, handing me the box.
    “But I don’t have anything for you,” I say.
    “I’m not giving you a gift because I want something,” she says. “It’s funny, last week at church our minister was talking about just this, how hard it is sometimes to receive a gift, but the truest gifts are given freely, don’t you think?” she asks, pulling her tangled hair back into a messy pony tail and plopping down beside me on the bed.
    I open the package. Inside is a silver charm bracelet with three charms: a book, a music note, and the number 12. “Thank you,” I say, studying the pieces.
    “I tried to pick good ones,” she says. “The book since you love books and the library was our excuse for meeting, the music note since we first really got to hang out at that concert, and the 12, well, that one is obvious. Class of 2012.”
    “It’s great,” I say,