Page 18 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
“I care,” said a low voice to my left. A voice that rumbled straight through my body, sending sparks all the way down to my toes.
Drat. Of course I said that out loud. OfcourseManuel heard.
My eyes darted over to his before looking quickly away. “Never mind,” I said, voice breathy, fake. “Just joking.”
Disappointment seeped off Manuel. He turned slowly back to his French fries.
For a moment, as I watched the eagerness leak from his face, I wanted to break. To tell him everything. To tell him that, in preparation for my job, I had studied hundreds of products—at supermarkets, online, in the spam filter of my email inbox—and in almost every case, I found the same thing: truly talented copywriters are literary chameleons. You have no idea they’re there. They separate themselves from their words. Think as their medium would. They don’t ask,What would Eliot say about this packet of almond flour?They ask,What would this packet of almond flour say about this packet of almond flour?
Yet again, I didn’t. Yet again, I was too afraid.
It’s only four days, I thought.Keep things polite. Keep things on the surface. Don’t listen to that dangerous little thrumming inside your chest. Don’t give in. It’s for his own good. Foreveryone’sown good. Four days, and then you’ll never have to see him again.
You can do this.
Be a copywriter. Separate yourself from your words. Think as your medium would. Take on the voice assigned, leave no trace of your own. Because once the bones are assembled, once they’re wrapped in shiny plastic skin and sent off into the abyss to become plastic wrappers or tin cans or email marketing or blog posts or whatever the fuck, that’s it. They’re gone. Your words no longer belong to you. In fact, they never did.
All the research I did added up to one conclusion: to become a copywriter, I didn’t need to learn a new voice; I needed to get rid of my own.
And that?
That I could do.
—
AT THE END OF THEmeal, after the sun sank behind the lake’s horizon and the plates had been scraped clean (Karma) or picked atuntil only the spit-stained half of the burger remained (me), the conversation settled. At the head of the table, Mom had surpassed the number of champagne flutes required to believe you absolutelymustgive a toast—right now, right this very second. She tapped the edge of her fork against the glass, filling the air with three loud, clearpings.
Ping, ping, ping.
“Everyone!” called Caleb. “Listen up. Wendy wants to talk.”
“Teacher’s pet,” Clarence muttered.
Mom stood. “Everyone stop and look around.”
Everyone stopped. Everyone looked around. I studiously avoided looking to my left, though I could feel his eyes on me. At the opposite head of the table, Speedy nodded off over his dinner.
“When is the last time we were all together?”
“If memory serves,” said Karma. “It was just after the annual sacrifice.” She turned to Clarence and asked, “Who’d we go for that year? Aunt Kiki?”
“These moments,” Mom continued loudly, as if no one had interrupted, “don’t come often. Take it in.” She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes again, her features had settled into serene contentment. She raised her flute and said, “To having the whole family together.”
No, I thought as we raised glasses and began the complicated dance of connecting with every flute around the table. Henry’s smiling face flashed through my mind.Not the whole family. Not quite.
When we finished toasting, I took a long drain from my champagne glass. I was going to need it to get through the rest of this dinner.
“Frankly,” Clarence said, putting his empty flute down, “I think it’s quite dangerous when we all get together.”
“Damn right.” Karma nodded. “Too much collateral damage toward unsuspecting outsiders.”
“Hotel managers, flight attendants, schoolteachers”—he winked at Helene’s parents—“in-laws.”
They looked at him with obvious alarm.
“Speaking of hotel managers”—a grin spread across Karma’s face—“remember the Petri Dish?”
“Holyhell.” Clarence slapped the table. “You mean the place we stayed at in Moscow during our biennial Trek of Chaos? How could I ever forget?”
