Watch Me Disappear

schoolwork, pictures that I skim with growing disgust at Maura’s revealing attire and love of posing, and then a file called “poetry.” How can I resist? I click on it. There are probably fifty files in it with titles like “Vengeance” and “Not this time.” I open one called “Illusive Reflections.”
     
     
    Illusive Reflections
    By Maura Campbell
     
    Maura Campbell? I think for a moment, and then I remember once overhearing Maura say something like “he’s not my father.” It occurs to me that her mother is probably remarried. Sometimes it seems like my parents are the only people on the planet who have only been married once. I keep reading:
     
     
    Looking in the mirror
    I see fading reflections of who I used to be
    Slowly dying images
    Of the little girl that’s me.
     
    If I close my eyes and open them
    The reflections just grow older,
    Smiles less often seen,
    Something in my eyes grown colder.
     
    And deep inside my eyes
    You may detect a speck of fear
    For all of the uncertainties drawing oh so near.
     
    And peeling back a façade of smiles
    You’ll find a veil of tears
    Shed for my insignificant sorrows of passing years.
     
    Looking in the mirror
    I see fading reflections of what used to be me.
    I don’t even recognize myself.
     
     
    I read and reread the poem. A little juvenile, but not terrible. Could there be more to Maura? I am tempted to open more, but then I notice the clock—almost 11. The Morgans are supposed to be home by midnight, and the last thing I need is to be caught in Maura’s room. I make sure the screen is just as I found it and quietly step back into the hallway.
    I could have spent another hour and a half at Maura’s computer without being caught. The Morgans are late getting home. Instead I sit in the living room listening to the clock tick and trying to stay awake. I do not succeed.
    I awake to the sound of the garage door and have just a few seconds to rouse myself before the Morgans come in. They are, of course, all apologies, and they pay me generously for keeping me so late.
    But back in my own room, I’m wide awake. I can’t get Maura’s poem out of my head, not because it was so good or anything, but because I haven’t written anything in ages. Ever since I learned how to write, I have wanted to be a writer. Back in grade school I wrote terrible imitations of Shel Silverstein and called myself a poet. In eighth grade, after reading Romeo and Juliet , I tried to be a playwright, writing a modern-day version. But since I started high school, all I ever do is study. I’m probably the only person who actually does all the summer reading. But if Maura, with her crazy social calendar, can find time to write, I can, too.
    Which brings me to what I’m really thinking about right now: I can write a better poem than Maura, right? I mean, she’s prettier than me, and she has more friends, but I’m a better poet. I think. I mean, I have to be. This is the one arena where I can actually compete with her. So why have I been sitting here for two hours without writing a single decent line?
     
     

Chapter 3
     
     
    The afternoon after my big babysitting gig, I came downstairs after hours of trying to make progress on boring summer reading to find Mrs. Morgan in the living room having tea with my mother.
    “Lizzie!” Mrs. Morgan said. “I was just telling your mom how much Billy enjoyed your company. And it was so nice of you to take care of his dinner dishes!”
    “Oh,” I said. Billy enjoyed my company? Billy and I exchanged maybe a dozen words.
    “No surprise there. Right, Liz?” my mother said.
    So I am now Billy’s and Mrs. Morgan’s new favorite babysitter. I watch Billy on Thursday evenings when Mrs. Morgan goes to her book club (which my mother is going to join, too) and Mr. Morgan plays golf. Apparently Maura’s schedule is too unpredictable for her to be a reliable sitter anymore.
    Sure, I enjoy the steady stream of money, but I may as well be honest. My real motive in agreeing to this regular babysitting schedule is to get back onto Maura’s computer. Of course when I said yes, I failed to consider the fact that the hours of the book club meeting are early enough that Billy will not be asleep, and I will not be able to sneak into Maura’s room. So each Thursday I arrive at five forty-five, feed Billy his supper, and watch him play video games until Mr. Morgan comes home, usually around eight o’clock.
    Ever since I looked at