Page 103 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
Fat, it says.
Lazy.
Get up, you sad piece of shit. You’ve been lying in bed for days. Go for a run.
I nod to no one. Exercise. Yes. Exercise is good. Running is good. Running helps sweep the Worries away.
I get up. I tie my shoes, numbly. I look up, right into the full-length mirror on my closet. Right into an eyeful of the rolls and wrinkles folding my stomach. I see those rolls, and I think about the pelvis they protect, the same pelvis that pulsed when it saw a child.
And then, from some ugly pit of my mind—that same place that cracks open in the seconds just before you slip into the safety of sleep, that brief glimpse of the black unconscious shielded from you by your waking mind—a thought creeps to the surface.I hate this body, the thought says.I hate it. I would burn this body alive.
—
I RUN EVERY DAY FORthe rest of the week. And as I run, I make a plan. Just a shell of an idea, really. One that will infuriate my parents and push away my best friend and drive me far into the jungle, far from any of the “acceptable” paths my siblings have already worn down for me. But it would do something else, too. It would protect. It would allow me total control over my diet, my exercise, my routine, and by proxy, the inside of my head.
On Friday, my phone buzzes. The device vibrates loudly atop the glass surface of my bedside table. I lift it up. There, on the screen, is a name and face I know all too well.
This time, I pick up.
“Jesus,finally,” comes Manuel’s voice through the speaker. “Are you okay?Jesus.I’ve been worried sick. I just finished Freshman Week. I didn’t know if you’d pick up since you didn’t answer any of my other—”
“Manuel,” I say. “Stop calling.”
“Stop…” His voice goes dead. He whispers, “What?”
“I’m sorry.” I wait for tears, but they don’t come. Already, my body knows that this is the correct decision. That it doesn’t deserve to hear his voice. Not even over the phone. He was my Person allthese years. My primary connection to a life spent in Worry. If anyone would bring about a relapse, it would be him.
“Eliot, what the hell?”
“Don’t call me.”
I hang up.
I log in to the University of Michigan’s online platform for accepted students. I clickrescind. Then I bend over the carpet and dry-heave until it feels like my throat might pop from my mouth like a paper snake from a can of peanuts.
—
I CHOOSE NEW YORK. IT’Sa city to which my family has no known ties, and I vow to make it my own. I’m going to start fresh—trulyfresh, for the first time in my life. No Beck family privileges. No siblings who came before me. No contact with anything that could trigger the return of my OCD.
Mom and Speedy are, naturally, furious. “You’re making a huge mistake,” Mom says in one of our frequent, low-intensity arguments. “College degrees do nothing but help you. By not getting one, you’re closing hundreds of doors and opening none.”
“You’re wrong, Mom,” I say. “I’m opening the only door that matters.”
“You realize that we won’t give you a penny if you do this?” Speedy asks.
“Yes.”
“And you realize that if you went to college, we would pay for your entire life for four years straight?”
“Yes.”
“And you still want to do this?”
“Yes.”
Mom’s eyes roll up to the ceiling, as if she’s searching for God.
“Guys. Relax. I’ll get a job. I’ll get a roommate. I’ll supportmyself. I’m a hard worker. You know this. And it’s always been my dream to live in New York.”
