Page 82 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
No, it feelsbetterthan good. It’s the ultimate distraction.
And, of course, I make a plan for the future.
I spend hours trolling through websites with titles like “So, You Want to Write for a Living” or “12 Word-Minded Careers That Will Take You to the Top.” Through this research, I learn that writing is far from a dying career; in fact, most major companies are in dire need of those talented with words. They’re flush with programmers, spreadsheet makers, and business degree–wielding graduates. What they need—what theyalwaysneed—is someone to put ideas into words.
They need copywriters.
It’s the first time I’ve heard this word outside the context ofMad Men. The first time I ever considered it as a possible life choice. But the more I think about it—playing with the word in my head, whispering it aloud to see how it sounds coming out of my mouth—the more right it feels. It’s a goal. A concrete directive toward which I can work.
The result is remarkable; the more I plan my future, the less time I have to worry. The less time I have to obsess over other things, scarier things, things less grounded in reality. It’s even more effectivethan alcohol—and less problematic. I flip through the pages of my journal, damp and heavy with black pen, and wonder: Is this what it feels like to find a passion?
—
WHEN THE SECOND ROUND OFscores come out, I run to Manuel’s house and open the front door. Che and Juli told me long before that I never needed to knock. I take the stairs to his room two at a time and throw open the door.
Manuel is in the middle of putting on his pants. He jumps and nearly trips over his own waistband. “Jesus, Eliot!”
“How’d you do, how’d you do, how’d you do?” I run around the room in search of the envelope. “Where is it?”
Manuel lifts a stack of papers and holds them to his chest. “I did fine.”
“Fine like…better than last time fine?”
“Just fine.”
I try to snatch the papers. He holds them out of my reach. “Jesus, Manuel, why are you being such a freak?”
“I’m not. It’s weird to talk about your test scores.”
“Not with your best friend. When’s the last time I didn’t tell you something?”
Manuel shrugs.
“I told you about accidentally ramming my nose into Jared Marshall’s face under the gym bleachers. I told you about all my psycho-crazy-OCD shit. You know when I’m on my period, for God’s sake.”
He rolls his eyes. “Do I ever.”
“Yeah, well. That’s not my point. My point is that it doesn’t matter if you botched your score. We both know you’re smarter than me. Hell, we both know how messed up the education system is. That test is probably biased toward native English speakers. But you’re still you. You’re still psychotically brilliant.”
His shoulders slacken. His arms unclench. He’s thinking, I can tell. Going into one of his signature trances. I capitalize on the moment to reach around and grab a fistful of ACT results.
“Hey!”
My eyes fall on the box at the top of the page.
Thirty-six.
—
AT DINNER THAT NIGHT, Ishovel food numbly into my mouth and quickly excuse myself.
“Where are you going?” asks Mom.
“To write,” I say. But no matter how many other lines I put to paper, I cannot shake the one running through my head:You’re going to lose him. You’re going to lose him. You’re going to…
—
THAT FRIDAY, WHEN MANUEL CALLSand asks if I want to steal some Aguilas from his parents’ fridge and go sit by the lake, I tell him I can’t.
