Page 42 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
When we reach the Fort, we drop our bags at the edge of the clearing and remove books, papers, pens. We take only what we need, nothing more. Manuel lifts the tarp and crawls inside. Before following, I pause to admire our little home. For the last four weeks, we’ve spent almost every waking hour inside this place. I miss it already.
Manuel pokes his head out of the tarp. “Coming?”
And there they are. Those eyes. The ones that pull words from my mouth.
One year.
One year of internal chaos. Of false beliefs and self-loathing andintrusive thoughts, though I don’t yet have the words to name them as such.
In the end, I don’t do it on purpose. It isn’t some sweeping act of courage, some terrifying admission toward which I built all summer long. I don’t wake up and think,Today is the day I reveal my biggest secret.I stare into those eyes, those unblinking almonds that pull words from my mouth I never intend to share, and it just happens.
“I have to tell you something,” I say.
He tilts his head. “Yes?”
“I’m…” Suddenly his eyes are too much. I can’t talk to them. I look down at my feet. “I’m…there’s something wrong with me.”
“What do you mean?”
I kneel down. The juniper buds in the soil are tiny, still soft. Too young for thorns.
“I have these…thoughts. Thoughts I don’t think are true, but I also can’t convince myself are not true.”
“I don’t understand. What kind of thoughts?”
“Um. They’re like…like worries.”
Dry grass crunches as Manuel crawls all the way out of the Fort. “Everyone worries, Eliot. That’s nothing to worry about.” He pauses, realizes the contradiction in his words. “I mean, uh…you know what I mean.”
“These aren’t regular worries.” Still I don’t look up. “These are worse. They’re like…it’s like…” I have no idea how to explain them. “Lemme just give you an example.”
I glance up. Manuel nods.
“So, it’s Mile Day in gym class, and we’re all running around those stupid orange cones, and I’m right behind Caroline Whittler. You know her, right? The one who looks like she’s drowning in her own hair?”
Manuel snorts.
“Yeah. Anyway. So we’re going around the cones, and I’m spacing out, like I always do when I run, you know. Thinking about the math test or what to have for lunch or how much time I can spend onClub Penguinafter school before Mom notices.”
I’m doing it again—stuffing my confession with as many irrelevant details as I can. Padding the cushion I hope will soften the fall when I finally jump.
“So, yeah. I’m spacing out, thinking about whatever, and then I sort of come back to the present, and when I do, I realize that, the whole time, the whole time I was spacing out, I was staring at Caroline Whittler’s butt.”
I pause. Manuel says nothing.
“And I think to myself, ‘Wow, she has a great butt.’ And then, immediately after, I’m like, ‘Oh my God, you’re staring at Caroline Whittler’s butt. You’re a lesbian.’ ”
I glance up again. Manuel grins, then covers his mouth when he sees I’m not laughing.
“And I know it’s crazy, ’cause I tell you about my crushes all the time and they’re all boys and whatever, but like…once I thought the thought, I couldn’t unthink it, you know?” Now I’m really off, really talking. Now that the confession has started, I can’t stop. “It’s out of my control. No matter how many times I tell myself I’m not a lesbian, I always go back to that one instance, to the time I stared at Caroline Whittler’s butt. Because that’s evidence, and you can’t just erase evidence, you know?”
“Eliot.”
I stop. I look up at Manuel.
His face is serious now. “You’re not a lesbian.”
I nod.
