Page 97 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
Mom put her hand down and didn’t ask anything else.
Karma lifted out the tequila and popped off its lid.
Helene reached for the handle of tequila. “I get dibs on Taz,” she said.
Karma grinned. “Obviously.”
—
I WAS DRUNK. PROPERLY DRUNK.My drunk brain rambled through memories as we ran toward the rocks, as it so often did when drunk.
Did I say drunk four times?
Drunk.
Other than the Fort, the rocks were Henry’s favorite place on the island. As kids, we put on plays there for our family, improvised tales of two secret agents or two mountain trolls or two Wheat Sprites battling evil, all lit by the setting sun.
As a teenager, the rocks became a hiding place. Somewhere Manuel and I could secret beers and bottles of rum and talk about the important things in life.
“Ideal woman,” I said on one such night. It was the summer before our freshman year of high school. “Go.”
“Easy,” he said. “Small and sturdy. Nice ass. Ideally Latina.”
“Nice,” I said. “Glad to know you really value a woman’s intellect.”
“Hey, hey, hey. I’m being selfless here.”
“Are you?”
“Absolutely. I’ve got more than enough brains for two people. No need to overload.”
I shoved him. “King of chivalry over here. You must have slayed the puss back in Colombia. No wonder you were so pissed about leaving.”
He didn’t laugh when I said that.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
“No, seriously. What did I say?”
He sighed. “It’s just…I had a life before you, Eliot. I think you forget that sometimes.”
“Oh.” I pressed the bottle cap into my leg. “No. Of course I don’t forget that.”
Of course I did. Of course I felt that Manuel had always lived in Chicago, had always split bags of Cool Ranch Doritos with me while we watchedFresh Prince of Bel-Airreruns on Saturday night, had always texted me right before he passed my house during cross-country runs just so he could wave hello.
“I lived in Colombia for ten years, Beck. That’s longer than my life in America. I had friends and relatives and track and school. My classmates loved me. I didn’t get it, back then. My parents’ decision. When they said they were taking me to a ‘better life’ in America…you have to understand—I alreadyhadthe best life. A million friends. Promising grades. The world ahead of me. Maybe it’s shallow to say, but if I had stayed, I would probably have been the most popular boy atsecundario. To me, it felt like…what the hell could America offer that Colombia couldn’t?”
He picked at the label of his Labatt Blue.
“I didn’t understand, back then, the strategy behind their decision. I didn’t understand economics or education or politics. I couldn’t see my country’s limitations. Didn’t know that there was aceiling to how far certain systems could go toward supporting a promising young man. Ceilings that didn’t exist in America. Or, at least…weren’t quite so low.”
I didn’t say anything. How could I? We were sitting on my family’sprivate island. What did I know of ceilings?
Manuel paused. After a few moments, the silence stretched long enough for me to know that it was over. Closed. His brief moment of vulnerability. If I tried to push any further, he would shut down.
“So…” I cleared my throat. “My main takeaway from this is, no white chicks?”
