Page 57 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
“Obviously.”
“Qué chimba.” He nudges my shoulder with his fist. “See you at seven.”
On the s inseven, a spit droplet soars out of Manuel’s mouth and lands on my chin. Just below my bottom lip. We both see it happen, but in the name of sparing his embarrassment, I pretend like it didn’t.
Wipe the spit off your face, say my Worries.
I can’t, I say back.
You have to. That spit came from his mouth. If it goes into yours, that’s as good as kissing him.
No, it’s not. That’s ridiculous.
It’s not ridiculous. Do you want to feel guilty about cheating on Leo?
I plaster a smile onto my face and bump Manny with my hip. “See you at seven.”
When I get back to my usual corner, Leo takes my hand. “What did Handsome Manny want?” There’s a strange bite to his voice when he says Manuel’s name, but I don’t have the mental capacity to analyze it. All I can think about is that spit droplet.
Wipe the spit off your face.
Normally, Iwouldjust wipe it, right? Use the back of my arm. Not think twice about it. But I can tell that this droplet has taken on increased significance. If I wipe it away, I’ll be giving in to the Worries.
So I do the opposite. I lick it. I lick the spit right into my mouth.
Take that, I think proudly.
—
THE PRIDE LASTS ROUGHLY TWELVEseconds. That’s how long it takes for doubt to creep in.You just licked the spit of another boy. On purpose. Do you think Leo would like that?
No, I realize. I don’t.
After class, I dig out my phone and googleis it cheating to lick someone else’s spit while you have a boyfriend. I click through each of the top links, scrolling through listicles andblog posts that, one day, I will understand have been written by a copywriter or a PR firm or a bored sixteen-year-old with no college degree but, at the time, are the closest I can come to moral guidance.
I keep searching. I press on a page called “Does This Count as Infidelity?” That’s how I first learn the termsprecheatingandemotional affair—which, as the experts agree, is in some cases even worse than sleeping with someone. I scroll frantically through headlines and subheads and four-line blocks of text. The more I read, the less certain I become.
19
NOW
THERE WERE ONLY TWO EVENTSscheduled for the afternoon: Orienteering and the Fishing Contest.
Orienteering is a navigational sport that, at its core, amounts to an hour of walking through the woods in various straight lines. Each team starts at a given point on the edge of the island armed with nothing more than a compass and a number. The number—ranging from 1º to 360º—indicates the direction in which the team should walk. Earlier that day, Wendy and the in-laws trekked through the middle of the island and set up navigational “checkpoints”—ribbons tied to trees or rocks or jumbled-up cairns that marked the end of each leg of our journey.
Manuel and I started out the contest in silence. Personally, my mind was on the conversation we’d had at lunch around OCD. Had I really admitted—in front of myentirefamily—that I used to worry about being a lesbian? Three years ago, I wouldn’t have dared. Wouldn’t have admitted to a single fucked-up thought in my woefully fucked-up brain, fearful of the reaction that the words would receive. But now that it was all in the past, I thought it would be okay to talk about. That maybe we could even laugh.
But what had that expression on Karma’s face been?
After a few minutes, I came out of my mind enough to notice the silence blooming thick between Manuel and me. As usual, it made me almost instantly nervous. Normally, I would grasp about for the first possible subject, launching into some embarrassing monologue. But Manuel’s words from the night before echoed in my head:self-centered, he had called me. And look—he was right! Look how I’d spent the entire walk so far living inside my own mind, my own body, not even wondering what might be going through his.
“So,” I said, the word startling us both, like the burst of an unexpected balloon, “what’s your major?”
Manuel glanced at me, as if amused by my humiliatingly obvious attempt at selflessness. “We don’t have majors, actually.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope. Apparently,majoris a term far too pedestrian for the great institution that is Harvard University. We haveconcentrations.”
