Page 81 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
“Why didn’t you…” I stopped myself. Swallowed. I was really starting to panic now. Breath labored in and out of my lungs. It was as if the distance from my job was giving me a panic attack. Or maybe it was this conversation with Manuel. Or maybe it was this entire wedding week, I didn’t know, I couldn’t know.
“You have no idea, do you?” Manuel said.
No idea about what?I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t. I needed to stand up. I needed to go down to my parents’ cabin and check my email.
I sat up.
“Eliot?”
“It’s my friend’s birthday,” I blurted out. “My friend in New York. I completely forgot. I need to call her.”
Then, before he could protest, I struggled to my feet and slipped away.
26
SENIOR YEAR
SENIOR YEAR, AT MANUEL’S URGING,I apply to be editor in chief of theTrevian. It’s not a position I particularly want, but my best friend has been oddly pushy about extracurriculars throughout high school. Whenever there’s a charity event, we volunteer. Whenever clubs are looking for more members, he urges me to apply. It’s bizarre; he seems to care about my résumé more than my own mother does.
Two years have passed since Leo ended our relationship, but he never showed back up to theTrevian. Manuel surmises that it was, and I quote, “too painful to see me three times a week, every week,” an idea that, to this day, I find preposterous. Our relationship only lasted a few months, and I’m nowhere near beautiful enough to warrant that level of heartbreak. Manuel—who has known no beautybutthe heartbreaking kind, with his own devastating looks—just doesn’t understand what it’s like to be average.
Besides, Leo neveractsheartbroken around me. When we pass in the hallway, he nods stiffly at me, as if he feels nothing at all.
All of that is just to say that by the time I apply to be editor in chief of theTrevian, Leo is long gone, along with most of the other more qualified candidates. Which is how I land the position.
At first, I do my work as editor begrudgingly, spending long nights in the newsroom staring glumly out the window, only half listening to the assistant editors. But when the real work begins—when pieces from writers and editors start to come in—I find myself strangely enchanted by the work. By reading stories written in a dozen different voices, with a dozen different purposes—sports news is not academic news, which is not entertainment news, which is certainly not Op-Ed. As I edit, I ensure my changes don’t interrupt the flow of the piece, which means I need to speak with another person’s voice. It’s fascinating, like slipping into someone else’s shoes for an hour.
It doesn’t take long for fascination to turn to obsession. I started reading about writing with voice online. Checked outOn Writingby Stephen King from the library. Spent every free period editing articles. Kept a running list of things that needed to be done, both in my head and on paper. Became addicted to the feeling of finishing a task, whether that be editing or formatting or leading a successful meeting—to that little burst of endorphins that came from ticking a little box. It feltwonderful, like for the first time in a long time, I was working toward something, even if I wasn’t quite sure what that something was yet.
I thought about my duties as editor in chief so much that, almost without my even noticing, I thought less and less about the other things. The Worries.
“That’s excellent progress!” says Dr.Droopy when I tell him about this new fixation. It’s not what I expect him to say. I wait for him to go on. He blinks lengthily, then continues, “Achievement is a very normal thing to think about at your age. It’s grounded in reality, not fantasy. Do you see the difference?”
I think for a moment. And then I do.
I see it.
—
WHEN THE FIRST ROUND OFACT scores release, I call Manuel right away. “Twenty-seven!” I yell as soon as he picks up. “I knew math and science would be a wash, but I got near-perfect scores on the Reading and English sections. How’d you do?”
“Fine.”
“No, but how’d youdo? What was your score?”
“I’m gonna retake it,” he says.
“Okay, sketchball.” I hang up.
I can’t stop thinking about the test. Wondering which questions I missed, how my English skills could be improved. And man, let me tell you: Dr.Droopy was right. The more I think about what I can achieve, the less I obsess over the other things. The scarier things. So, what do I do?
I lean in.
If I want to be a talented editor, I decide, I need to understand language from every possible angle. To feel adjectives and metaphors in my soul. To take language and mold it like clay, bend it to my will. I reread my favorite books, trying to parse apart what makes them so wonderful. I pick up cereal boxes and frozen peas, analyzing the words that were chosen to entice someone into buying them. I pause to puzzle over the advertisements blown up at the local mall, assigning adjectives to their voices, likeformalorpeppy. I sit next to Speedy every morning, coffee in hand, and open the newspaper, intending to read it front-to-back for the first time in my life; despite being the editor of a high school newspaper, I’ve never been much for the real thing. At first, Speedy looks at me sideways, like he thinks I’m teasing him. When he realizes I’m serious, he tries to hide his smile behind theWall Street Journal.
Reading quickly becomes not enough. I want to write, too.
Stephen King says that the best way to start writing is to juststart; I open a blank Word document on my computer and record the first thing that comes to mind.Mediumtells me that the best way to improve is to put pen to paper every day for at least fifteen minutes; each morning, I set a timer on my phone and sit down at my desk. I dig out my old journal, that behemoth already half-filled with psychotic OCD scribble, and decide that I will give it a new ending. A better ending. I start to detail the things around me. Incidents at theTrevian, conversations with Manuel, lists of homework assignments, stupid fights between Karma and my mom. I stick to reality, the way we would at the paper, and it feels good.
