I spent most nights in my room with the phone receiver to my ear, talking to Liz, although I’d given up on trying to change her mind about me. We were on the phone when she told me that she wanted to “do it” sooner or later and she had decided she wanted it to be with me because she felt comfortable with me. I don’t know if she thought about what her matter-of-fact declaration would mean to me, but I can still remember the way I felt when she told me. I don’t remember feeling any different having “done it,” only a kind of pride that she was the one it was with. Liz was a digital ghost, and this realization led me to assume that one of two things had happened to her: she was either immensely fulfilled or terribly miserable.
Figuring out which was the truth would slowly overtake my life. Elle had kept in touch with Liz two or three years longer than I did. Liz would bring Molly, the tiny black and tan Chihuahua mix that she had since she was twelve.
Elle has a memory of Liz that sticks with her: They were in Philly together, sitting on a curb eating Mc Donalds French fries.
Soon I realized that I was looking for someone in particular.
She was one of the “goths.” At camp this meant two things: she wore black clothes and only ever signed up for Dungeons and Dragons.
I was back in the real world trying to establish my identity in a new high school but camp was always on the periphery. I remember almost everything about the room and the bed Liz and I slept in. * * * hen I searched for her fifteen years after that weekend, I discovered that Liz had no Facebook page. Maybe she’d turned luddite or anarchist, hippie or Christian. There were no articles about her achievements or performances or arrests or DUI’s or business dealings.