Watch Me Disappear

Maura’s poetry, I can’t seem to write any of my own. I need another look at Maura’s work. Why? I know it’s ridiculous, and I want to convince myself it is just innocent curiosity, but I know that really I want to read more to prove to myself that Maura’s poetry isn’t very good—not as good as mine, anyway. Finally this Saturday I’ll get my chance. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan are attending a wedding. Maura is going with them, but Billy is too young, so he’s staying home with me. You won’t hear me complaining about giving up my Saturday to babysit. Not this time, anyway.
     
    *          *          *
     
    As soon as I am sure Billy is asleep, I go to Maura’s room and sit at the computer. I open the poetry folder and scan the titles. I read a few and, almost against my will, start to feel a sort of sympathy for Maura. Maybe she isn’t so bad. Certainly her life isn’t perfect. Then I read one that convinces me that if Maura and I can ever have an honest conversation, we might discover we have a lot in common.
     
    Thoughts on a Page
    By Maura Campbell
     
    I hate the way my life works.
    I hate the confusion,
    I hate the loneliness,
    and I hate the pain. I hate sad love songs
    and fairy tales. I can’t even watch
    Disney movies. I miss the days when life
    was Sesame Street and friends
    were friends. Where have all the Muppets gone?
     
    I hate the way
    everyone must wear a label
    at all times,
    a brand on their foreheads.
    You say everyone loves me.
    They only hurt me anyway.
    You never admit
    that you’re wrong.
    Why can’t you just be wrong for once?
     
    Why can’t you let down your guard?
    Why can’t you look into my eyes
    and see me beyond the brand?
    Why must you lead me down the road
    to this dead end,
    This hole in the ground, this hole
    in my soul can’t recover.
     
     
     
    After I read it, I reach over and grab a sheet of paper from Maura’s printer and search the desk for a pen. I feel like I absolutely need to write something right this minute, something about how people aren’t as different from one another as they seem. I want to write something and give it to Maura. A crazy thought, I know as soon as it enters my mind.
    I close the poem and look at Maura’s picture again, the smiling face, the bikini, the hair perfectly styled, even at the beach. How can I ever have a real conversation with that girl? How can that girl have written that poem?
    I am about to stand up, but then my hand reaches for the mouse without the full consent of my brain and opens the Internet browser. Surely I can cheer myself up with mindless browsing. The homepage is set to Facebook, and Maura is still logged in.
    I feel a familiar tug of annoyance at my parents for their stupid rules. They don’t even allow me to have my own Email address. If I have a reason to use Email, I have to use the family account, and they always read my messages. They are convinced that the only thing that can come of letting a teenager use the Internet for fun is that she will become plotting and secretive and will fall into the grasp of some sexual predator. They monitor the home computer constantly and have strict parental controls set to keep me “safe” and “out of trouble.” And they wonder why I’m not more popular.
    Sitting at the computer in Maura’s room and scrolling through her Facebook account, I see my chance to finally find a group of friends and maybe even fit in for my senior year of high school. I can create a profile and become virtual “friends” with Maura and the other girls I met at the cookout a few weeks ago, and I can be “friends” with their “friends,” too. At least I’ll be in the loop, if not genuinely part of the clique.
    As I read through Maura’s friends’ status updates and event invitations and open some of her friends’ profiles, I become more convinced that this is the perfect way to get to know people at my new school—and maybe even get them to like me—before ever setting foot on campus.
    Spotting the words “log out” at the top of the screen, I click the mouse and, with my stomach fluttering, begin to set up my own profile. The first problem I encounter is that I need to have an Email address to sign up for the site. Certainly my family account won’t do, so I have to get one of my own. I remember the silly voice of the “Go Mail” commercials and type the address into the browser. Within minutes, I have an address: [email protected]. I can