Page 56 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
“Absolutely not,” I groan. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t remind me.”
“Andyou have an entire shelf full of journals in your room.”
“Fine,” I say. “Fine, fine, fine.”
It starts innocently enough, as all dangerous relationships do. On my first day at theTrevian, I choose a section. I already know I can’t do News. Every comment on my English and history papers reads the same—Good argument, voice too informal.I don’t get it. To me, writing is just transferring the words in my head onto paper. I don’t write with a certain “voice”—I just write.
A history paper written like an anxious fifteen-year-old girl?
Yeah. Doesn’t play well.
So I join Op-Ed, instead. Which is how I meet Leo.
Leo is popular. Not the normal kind, the kind that comes from good looks and a mean spirit. He’s different. Weird. Loud and unselfconscious. He has opinions about everything. He interviews teachers and spies on the AV Club and gives presentations on the time his little brother put the cat in the freezer. He tries, reallytries, in a way no cool kid is ever supposed to. But it works. For him, it works. He figured out, long before anyone else, that laughter is theway to get someone to like you. Give it freely. Reek with irony. Apologize for nothing. Live your life as one long inside joke.
And he’s cool.Coolcool, a block of ice in a warm room, dripping at the corners, and everyone else is thirsty. They gather around him and lap at the puddles, and their tongues sound like laughter, and for some reason, for whatever reason, out of all those people, he chooses me.
—
HE KISSES ME AT Aparty. To be more specific, he pulls me onto his lap on a couch in the middle of a party and sticks his tongue down my throat. A dog marking his territory. Manuel sees it from across the room. The next day, everyone knows, which I suppose makes me his girlfriend.
—
TO SAY MANUEL IS SKEPTICALwould be an outrageous understatement.
“What’s this guy’s deal?” he asks grouchily. “Doesn’t he sit at the jock table?”
“You’re a jock,” I say.
“I’m arunner. It’s not the same.”
“Isn’t it? Because I’m pretty sure rowing and cross-country are actually the same sport. Both are just dudes with long legs wearing tiny shorts.”
“Good one. I’m just saying. What do we even know about him?”
“What doyoueven know about the eighty-seven girls you’ve dated since setting foot in America?”
“That’s different.”
“Sure it is.”
He sticks out his tongue. So do I.
—
DESPITE MANUEL’S SKEPTICISM, LEO TURNSout to be the perfect boyfriend. He writes me love notes on wrinkled paper and shoves them through the slits of my locker. He brings flowers to theTrevianon our one-month anniversary. He waits for me after second-period math just to walk me to my next class. Just the way you’re supposed to.
Despite all of that, being in a relationship doesn’t feel the way I thought it would. Looking at Leo doesn’t create that cloud at the base of my gut, the one you hear about in romance novels, that feels at once both tight and loose, both heavy and light as a feather. But maybe none of that matters. Maybe love has many narratives, and that’s one, and this is another.
—
THE FIRST FEW WEEKS OFmy relationship with Leo are, for the most part, sunshine and rainbows. And then—surprise, surprise!—who walks in? The Worries.
It’s another day at theTrevian.I’m in my usual position—back corner, fingers laced with Leo’s—when I hear my name called from out in the hallway. I crane my head around and find, out in the hallway, Manuel.
“Hey!” I spring out of my chair, bounding out into the hall and throwing my arms around Manny’s neck—my typical greeting. I feel Leo’s eyes drilling into my back, so I pull quickly away, smiling up at my best friend. “What’s up?”
He smiles back. “Nothing urgent. Just wanted to see if you’re down for a Tarantino night after you’re done at the paper.”
