Page 54 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
THREE YEARS HAVE PASSED SINCEI first went to see Dr.Droopy. Since then, we’ve kept a regular appointment schedule—every week, twice a week. I don’t know if I’m getting better or worse. I still worry about being a lesbian almost every day, even though I know I’m not. Or, at least, I’m pretty sure I’m not. Or, at least…
Ack.
Some days, the thoughts are bad. Torturous. Some days, I can turn them into background noise, a steady hum of worry. Every day is different. Every hour, really. Every minute.
They’re quietest when I’m with my best friend.
—
ON THE DAY I TURNfifteen, Manuel and I carry a backpack full of Busch Light down to the beach. It’s October, and the air is still warm, but we dig a small hole in the sand, just deep enough to reach the layer that holds the lake’s freeze. We press a few beers into the hole and wiggle them down. We push until only the tops stick out, tabs and locked lids gasping for air. Manuel covers the hole with his backpack.
He sighs, and I glance over to see him staring at his phone.
“What?” I ask.
“Is this what all American relationships are like?”
I peer over his shoulder. He’s texting Sara, the latest in his line of women. I see little grey bubbles popping up in quick, angry succession. Some contain entire paragraphs.
I shrug. “You’re asking the wrong girl.”
“Man, dating was so much simpler in Colombia.”
“You mean…back when you were nine?”
“Yeah.”
“Ah, yes. I forgot you wereSeñor Popular.” I drain the last sip of beer and toss the can over a rotting driftwood log. “Manuel Garcia Valdecasas: first-grade lady-killer.”
He sighs. “You have no idea.”
Honestly, I probably shouldn’t be drinking. Alcohol lowers your inhibitions, right? If I had to guess, that also means that it loosens the locks that we keep on the boxes within ourselves. Veryimportantboxes, in my case, such as the one that I chained up on the day my best friend returned from Colombia. And as I sit here, snuggled deep in the sand, I can feel that box rattling. I can feel it as my eyes slide sideways, drinking in Manuel’s profile as he squints down at his phone screen. His smooth skin. The sharp pitch of his jaw. The—
Stop.I tear my eyes away, forcing myself to look out at Lake Michigan instead.You can’t let yourself go down that road.
But I can’t let ridiculous, unattainable fantasies keep me from enjoying myself and being young, either. I only turn fifteen once. I’m going to enjoy it.
I grab another Busch Light and crack it open.
“Something weird is happening at school,” I say as I lift the can to my lips and take a sip. The beer is watery and too warm.
“Oh?” Manuel doesn’t look up from his phone. “What’s that?”
“I don’t even know how to describe it.” I scratch the back of my head with my free hand. “It almost feels like I’m wearing a Do Not Disturb sign on my back and don’t even know it.”
He snorts. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that…well, there have been a couple of times in the last few months where I genuinely thought that a guy might be interested in me…”
Manny’s head jerks back suddenly, eyes snapping up from his phone to my face. He looks shocked. Alarmed even.
“But every time,” I continue, ignoring his expression, “just whenI think they might ask me out, they suddenly lose interest. Likethat.” I snap my fingers. “They stop texting me, stop talking to me in class…” I shake my head. “It’s bizarre.”
His face relaxes. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Beck. They’re probably just cowards.”
“But what could they possibly have to be afraid of?”
His lips twitch, as if he finds my question funny.
