hidden

by Tomas Mournian

  My head races. Thoughts. The safe house might just be ultimately boring. Sugar lasted three years in the closet. I doubt I can handle the next three minutes. Forget turning eighteen. I’ve got, let’s see—730 days until I turn sixteen. Only … two more years! Then, I’m free. Least, that’s what they say. I can’t deal with the roof, so I really am hidden. Or, trapped.

  It hits me. Yes, I’ve “escaped,” but I don’t have a clue what comes next. Seconds, minutes, days. I don’t have a plan. I can’t leave. I am alone. I might as well be in solitary. I’d put all my energy into leaving. I’m doomed, the prisoner who escaped and then didn’t know what. I can’t be unique. I bet most people don’t think past what happens after they jump the wall.

  I run down my options: school (No), home (No), shelter (No). I do the math. My options add up to a grand total of … Zero! 713 days total (or twenty-three months, thirteen days).

  Sleep. Finally, she reaches out and pulls me down. But I’m so awake, I don’t rest, and wake more exhausted than before.

  I wake minutes? hours? days? later, flushed and hot. My head rolls to the side. Muted voices. Light outlines the closet door.

  Outside, in the hallway, human noise: laughter, door slamming, elevator groans. A woman sings, some foreign language. Spanish? Italian? Or Portuguese? Her voice quivers against the backdrop of sweet music, drums and chorus. The song draws to the end. A man speaks over the last bars, his voice close but far.

  I’m being watched. A figure comes into focus. At the end of the bed, a panther. Its onyx eyes glitter, emerald green: Kidd. He yanks off the covers.

  “Get up.”

  “Marci?”

  “She told me, ‘Help Ben with this while I’m out.’”

  I don’t trust him, but I don’t want to disappoint Marci or cause more problems than I already have. Weary, I climb off the bed. Execution style, I follow Kidd down the ladder.

  Chapter 35

  “Gimme your hand.”

  Kidd and me are alone in the kitchen. It’s dark except for the study light. The black-and-white-striped table are prison colors, perfect since that’s exactly how I feel right now with Kidd: jailed.

  “What’re you doing—telling my fortune?”

  He holds an X-Acto knife between his thumb and forefinger like a chopstick. Smart, he doesn’t answer, and takes my hand. I don’t resist. He slides gauze under my hand and balled-up fist.

  “Open your fingers.”

  I pretend I don’t hear him.

  “What happened to the mess?” I nod at the clean, empty sink.

  Focused, his tongue slides out his mouth and rests on the philtrum, the concave space under his nose. Is he nervous? He holds a sharp object.

  “We got to do this.”

  “Said who?”

  “Marci said, that’s who. Now, undo your fingers.”

  I loosen my fingers but just a little bit. He leans forward, raising the X-Acto knife. He’s going to cut my hand. I tighten my fingers.

  “What is this?”

  “Really, loosen ’em up or I can’t do it.”

  “Do what?” I tighten my hand. I really don’t trust him.

  “You wanna stay here, then we’ve gotta do this, or you can’t.”

  Damn, I must be talking in my sleep. Because he knows all about my fear of being thrown out. I convince myself, “You need to do this.” His tongue moves, wets his lips. They keep drying out. He is nervous. But about what?

  “Listen, everybody gets it. The vertigo—” He gives me a look that says the safe house isn’t a sure thing. “I won’t lie. It hurts for, like, a week, but most people’s skin heals fast. They took your fingerprints in the joint?”

  I shrug. “Dunno.”

  “They might have done it and you didn’t know. They do stuff. When they put you there, were you sedated?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “So they took your prints. Prolly swabbed your mouth, too. DNA. Sent the samples to the cops. They’ve got a record. If you’re caught, that’s real bad.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t have a choice. If you don’t do it and you get caught, then, man … they can trace you like that.” He snaps his fingers. “And that would put all of us in danger. Here, look, see?”

  I lean forward. His fingertips are smooth, prints erased. He was the one who warned me about flushing the john. Kidd’s a dick. But this makes sense. I don’t want to, but I lay my hand on the gauze. Up close, his eyes are not green but black. So black, they burn. The table light flickers. His face—those eyes—they’re not black but blue, same as the man in the bus station restroom. I recognize the look. I saw it in a counselor’s eyes at Serenity Ridge. He’s pissed off. Furious I dared challenge his authority. Weird. What part of his power trip am I missing? I yank my hand away, hiding it under the table.

  “Now, why’d you go and do that?”

  “I don’t want to do this.”

  He drops the X-Acto knife on the table, sits back. He cracks his knuckles, palms out. Done, he reaches back, left arm hooked around his neck.

  “Know what?” He sneers, giving me a dirty look. “With that attitude, you’re not gonna last one week. I’ve seen dozens of people come. And go. You’re just like all them.”

  Defiant, I hold his gaze. I hope he can’t read my face. Really, he might be right, the way Sugar admitted he was about her. I might not “have what it takes.”

  “C’mon,” he presses. “Let’s do this. Living here, it’s kinda like being an astronaut. Confined space for a long time. You got lucky with the roof. I don’t know if Sugar told you, but most people, it’s six, nine, sometimes eighteen months before they get to go outside. Some people never get to leave. Live here, you gotta want it. It’s this way: You’ve moved somewhere else. A foreign country. They’re gonna take your prints. Something. It’s procedure, right? But I understand how you feel. If you got caught, you’d wanna go back. Or try your luck on the streets.”

  The streets, he says, pressing a button. My eyes widen, pupils dilated. Damn it, my body always gives me away.

  “Yeah,” he nods. “Prostitution. Trust, this is painful, but it’s not the street, so you won’t get the AIDS and die.”

  I do my magazine trick. Shift my gaze to the side, looking at him but not. I can see a person’s essence: friend, foe, vampire, angel, tease, tormentor. Or … left hand. The one dangling next to his right ear. His middle finger’s cut. Five tiny red ruby droplets ooze out the razor-thin slice.

  “I need a Band-Aid.”

  “For what?”

  “Your finger. Do you have the AIDS?”

  His left arm flies off his head. I flinch. His hand, it moves slow, even though I know it’ll be quick, I shut my eyes. I don’t feel his palm—

  WHAP!

  Slap my face. I’m numb. I see the boy. In the bathroom. The one I couldn’t save. His hand reached up. “Help me,” he rasped, and—

  I expected him to slap my face. His bottom lip pulls back, front teeth digging into the lower lip.

  “Your middle finger’s cut. I think it’s a bad idea for you to do that. You know, cut me. Don’t you think?”

  “What the FUCK?!? The AIDS?”

  What is it about me that makes Kidd so mad?

  “I’m just saying,” I say. “I’d feel better if you put something on your bleeding finger before you cut mine. It’s not just you, it could be me.”

  His face twitches. Guilt? Something. He picks up a Band-Aid, opens it and wraps his finger. Done, he grabs the X-Acto knife.

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  A shadow fills the doorway. Kidd freezes.

  Chapter 36

  “Hi.” Alice / Nadya, the quiet girl with pink hair, stands in the doorway. She looks twelve: She wears jammies with a happy Care Bear print. Yawning, she glides past us, opens the fridge door and leans forward, studying the contents with great interest. “Did you see that pie?”

  “No,” Kidd says. “It’s past your bedtime.”<
br />
  “I have the worst cramps,” she says, her pink head dipping and vanishing into the fridge’s bowels. “Where’s that pie?” She forages, the open fridge door blocks my view. “There!”

  Beep! Beep! Beep! An alarm. Alice / Nadya’s hand reaches around the fridge and presses the tiny magnet clock’s stop button. She shuts the door and walks to the table. She sits, puts down the pie pan and sets a pill bottle next to it.

  “Here,” she says, nudging the bottles toward Kidd and forking the pie. “Mmm! What’re you guys up to?”

  “Nothing,” Kidd says, ignoring the bottle.

  “You need water?” she asks.

  “We—” I say, and look down. The knife and gauze are gone. “He was telling me about that finger thing.”

  “She ran out of that stuff.”

  “Stuff?”

  “IDs, birth certificates, whatever we’re using. Weren’t you”—she hands Kidd the pill bottle—“the last one? To get your fingers done?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “J.D. You were asleep when we did it.”

  I want to read the label. Casual, I reach for it. Kidd snatches it. Under the table, he taps out pills and walks to the sink. He fills a glass with tap water.

  Alice / Nadya shoots me a confused look. “You’re leaving?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’d wait. The acid’s better. It doesn’t hurt so much or make such a mess. See, look at mine.”

  She extends her arms, palms upturned and flat on the table. I examine her fingertips. Under the light, they’re smooth as glass.

  “Why is that?” I ask, looking at Kidd.

  “Oh, you know.” She picks up a fork, stabs the pie and takes another bite. She glances at Kidd. “You told him the risks? Mother’s milk, vaginal fluids, semen. Blood.”

  Kidd pops a fat, white pill, tilts the glass and drinks. No. He wouldn’t. Mix his blood with mine? Infect me? No. No one could be that evil.

  Convenient, I’ve forgotten Serenity Ridge, my father, Mr. Jones, the nurses, orderlies, and quack doctors. The Blue-Eyed man who cut the boy in the bus station bathroom … Every kid who ever teased me. Based on firsthand experience, I know—people can be evil. Kidd’s just another shape of darkness. And death.

  Shocked, I return to bed and lie down. My body’s still, but my mind races—I replay the last five minutes. Alice / Nadya walked in and stopped something bad. Kidd views me as an enemy, for reasons I don’t know. Given the opportunity, he’ll hurt—or kill—me.

  “Defiant.” That’s what they called me in Serenity Ridge. I fought back. I forget that fact. I always think gay equals weak. But it’s not true. I’ve already been through hell. Met and survived demons fiercer than Kidd.

  Can’t. Make. Me. Sugar was right. The safe house has brought me face-to-face with a demon: Kidd. And I’ve turned him away. Thrown water into his fire-breathing mouth. You. Can’t. Make. Me. Unless he tackles me and, even then, I’d scream so loud the whole building would hear.

  I stare at the ceiling, trying to work out all this new information. Is J.D. Kidd’s “man”? If so, then I represent some sort of romantic threat. Which makes absolutely no sense since I haven’t even met J.D.

  I hear strange, beautiful music. It dances, curls up and shimmies in the air. I wonder, are those songs meant for me? I touch my chest. I wish I could jump in a bathtub filled with ice. My heart burns up. What’s this feeling? Love? Death? Sex? The three sit so close together.

  Chapter 37

  I wake, look right and see a list taped on the wall. “Dos & Don’ts.” Safe house rules. Thus far, all these “rules” are meaningless. People leave. People talk loud. People smoke (dope).

  What, exactly, am I supposed to do with this paper after I’ve read it. Eat it? I’m not some ′60s radical with a manifesto. Or, a terrorist, waiting to stir in his sleeper cell and bomb whatever.

  Still, I know I can’t toss the list into the trash. Someone might find it, puzzle it out and notify … who? Who exactly is looking for us? I’ve vanished into the least likely hiding place. If I’m in danger of anything, it’s of being forgotten. Fuck it. I stuff the list under the mattress.

  Beyond the bunk, Peanuts pads across the main room, opens the closet door and disappears. The inside flashes bright rainbow colors. Even in the daylight, I still haven’t figured out if Peanuts is a he or a she.

  For a safe house that’s “closed,” it’s empty. Where have all the Waldos gone? Anita Fixx? Gone. Coconut? Gone. Hammer? Gone. Likewise Marci. Sugar’s turned eighteen, “aged out.”

  Right now, it’s just me, Alice / Nadya and Kidd. He sits in a corner, body folded over on itself, reading a book and wearing a Princess Leia (doughnut-shaped) headset. His face is set, a Buddha scowl and Ninja warrior. The flat, beautiful mask warns off even vague interest.

  I reach for the blue notebook, pen and write—

  we sit at the table

  silver X-Acto knife

  holds steady under the light

  waiting to slice when he

  slips through the window,

  silent

  Mean looking Latino Boy

  with his perfekt black spiky hair

  edges so damn sharp they’ll cut ur fingers

  if u dared reach out & ran ur hand over it

  both his ears being pierced with gold earrings

  tiny round hoops make him look piratey, dangerous, sexy

  my eyes cannot resist, i glance

  there is something shimmery about him

  moving even when he’s sitting still

  i wonder how someone like him lives here, in smallsville

  first of all he just doesn’t seem the type (queer)

  he stands in the dark, in a corner faraway from

  the kitchen & its bright pool of light

  & i squint, peering through that curtain of light

  into the dark & see his eyes

  glittering in the dark & they make me catch my breath

  ’cuz he’s an animal,

  his eyes alive like a foxx’s

  (Done.) I’ve answered a big question. Now comes the small one: What do I do with my day?

  Chapter 38

  The kitchen window’s tarp has been replaced with a white curtain. It’s tattooed with lipstick-red cherries. Nature intrudes. Sunlight seeps into the kitchen and breeze squeezes under the cracked window and ruffles frayed fabric.

  I lift the lid, scoop gloop oatmeal out the pot and slop it into a bowl. Milk? In the fridge. I tilt the carton and wet the beige paste. Add brown sugar, raisins and nuts, and it’ll almost be edible.

  WTF!?! Me? No. My face? Yes, I’m hallucinating. Oh, shit, yes, that’s my face—on the side of the milk carton. BIG BLACK LETTERS read, MISSING … HAVE YOU SEEN THIS CHILD? A milk carton. It’s so ′90s. Overnight I became an Amber Alert. I didn’t know people still cared about missing kids. Or, not enough to publish bad—or Photoshop free—pix. There’s a big zit in the middle of my forehead. It renders me ethnic indeterminate. I’m far from it, but I could be a baby Hindu with a bindi.

  Recovered from my shock, I study the pic. Even without Photoshop, I look hella sexy. I am jailbait. Too bad there’re no digits for cute boys to call me direct. Just 1-800-COPS.

  “I had one of those.” Alice-Nadya-Care-Bear-Jammie-Girl sits on a step stool opposite the fridge. She’s been watching me the whole time. I can’t decide if it’s creepy or a testament to her spy-girl skills.

  “You know what that picture means?” Between last night and this morning, she’s dropped the “I’m shy” act and speaks in a normal girl’s voice.

  “No, what. I won the lotto?”

  “It means there’s bounty hunters out there, looking for you. It’s kind of like American Idol. But with an arrest warrant issued by your parents. There’s probably a reward for your capture.”

  There goes the idea I’ve been forgotten. She steps off the stool and sits in the chair under Che (Guevara), the ′60s, Rolex-watch-wearing revolutionary, Fi
del Castro’s B.F.F., today known for his face half-hidden under a black beret and silk-screened on tee shirts, postcards and posters. She opens a book and ignores me. She wears old-fashioned, cat-eye frames outlined with glittery rhinestones and pretends to read Machiavelli’s The Prince.

  “Bounty hunters? Did I rob a bank in my sleep or something? Will they take me home?”

  “No. Definitely not home. Back to where you came from or somewhere—oh!” She jumps up and runs out of the kitchen. The bathroom door’s open: She barfs. Pregnant or bulimic?

  I stare at the white curtains, morning—or, afternoon?—sun backlit the red dots.

  “Back to where you came from, or somewhere …”

  I sit there, listening to the awful sounds. I’m pretty sure she was about to say, “Worse. Someplace worse. And this time, they’ll make sure you don’t escape.” I shiver. Uh! I need to conquer my fear of heights. There may come a day when I need to leave—

  “Quick.”

  Chapter 39

  “Translate The Diary of Anne Frank?”

  “Correct.”

  I drop the book. She snatches it.

  My head hurts. Alice / Nadya and me sit at the black-and-white-striped table. She stares, her face unreadable. She reminds me of the staff at Serenity Ridge. They’d sit, quiet, waiting until you broke and opened your mouth and tried to fill the silence with words. I broke myself of the impulse. My bad habit’s come back. I want to talk. Say anything. Her gaze is unbearable. I don’t want to answer; I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help myself.

  “You speak anything else?”

  “Farsi.”

  I laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No,” she says, serious. “You are the Muslim one.”

  “Culturally, maybe.”

  “That is so sad.”