hidden

by Tomas Mournian

  “Baby”—I shrug—“kittens die all the time. Boo-hoo.”

  She gives me a look. I guess she likes cats.

  “Here’s the thing. I’ve been through this stuff and I need to … write it down. The way she did,” I say, and take a deep breath. She’ll crucify me for saying this. “I need to know my own story before I can make room in my head for other people’s stories.”

  “Okay,” she says, and I can tell what I’ve said is anything but okay. “Ben. You better get started on your story.”

  “I dunno, maybe I’m superstitious. But I’ve been through things—I don’t—I can’t.”

  “Sure, whatever,” she says, freezing me out.

  “Wait—I—the Holocaust. It’s—”

  “What. What is the Holocaust.”

  “There aren’t any words for it. I mean …” I stutter, trying to explain. But she just glares at me. “I’ve been through.”

  “Yeah, what exactly have you ‘been through’ that would even come close to this?”

  “I’m not sure I’d want to.”

  “Why? You’ve got something against Jews?”

  My head really hurts. I see where this is going. The political-religious tar pits.

  “You’re”—I laugh, trying to take the edge off—“kidding?”

  “No. You’re Arab-Muslim?”

  “Whatever. Technically. Culturally, I’m American. But I’m—”

  “Then why not. Why wouldn’t you.”

  “Translate this?” I hold up the paperback. She nods, super-serious. “Well, this girl got caught and was … gassed?”

  “Typhus.” She tosses another paperback on the table.

  “The Bell Jar? No, thanks. I’ve read it.”

  She removes a third paperback, places it on the table and pushes it forward.

  “Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams. Maybe.”

  “In Spanish.”

  “Fluent.”

  “French.”

  “You mean,” I say, hesitant. “Learn a language from scratch?”

  “You need to figure out what you’re doing with your time.”

  I pick up Johnny Panic and flip through it, reading but not really reading the blur of words. I stop. Read a random page. “Dream about these long enough and your feet and hands shrivel away when you look at them too closely—”

  “Trust me,” she says. For a moment, I do. “You need something to fill the days.”

  The white curtains part. One black, scuffed Doc Marten steps inside. I panic—Ben, not Johnny, stands and trips, running to escape, out the front door. They’ve come to get me. I don’t know where I’m going, but I need to get out.

  “Hey,” he says in a voice so deep, it reaches down, into my ear, and moves through my body. A hand tightens on my arm, and helps me stand. “I’m J.D.”

  Chapter 40

  By daylight, love at first sight looks like “Jay-Dee,” a gloriously cocoa-skinned boy who works the Latin Rebel look. Eyebrows plucked to points. Ears hung with tiny, gold pirate hoops. Jet black hair shaved to the skin on the sides, spiked into glass shards on top. Our eyes lock, my brown-yellow with his yellow-greenies. I lose all sense of time, space and identity.

  “What’s your name?”

  It takes me a second.

  “Ben!” I hear my voice and cringe. It’s a baby chicken cheep. “Are you, uh, by any chance Persian? Or, Armenian?” I wince. I’m such a dork! My question’s so lame, he could easily snap back with some arch, gaybonic put-down or rap, “Like it matters / I’m not FOB / I’m in the here ’n the n-o-w / Face-to-face. Bee-atch.”

  “In fact, I’m—”

  Instead, a huge grin splits his face.

  Peanuts steps in and snaps, “Wishes!”

  “Peanuts,” J.D. says, his voice the sound of a switchblade popping. “You better shut the fuck up.”

  Peanuts plucks a spoon out the sink, sashays to the fridge and opens the door.

  “That one tells everybody he’s Persian, but he’s real”—s / he grabs a yogurt, opens it and dips the spoon. S / he licks it, giving us a nastee Britney / Lindsay / Paris look—“lee, Gua-te-ma-lan.”

  “And,” J.D. seethes, “s-hit, Little Miss Gender We Don’t Know goes around telling everybody that it’s Miss Misunder—”

  “Sh-What?!?” Peanuts sputters, spitting yogurt.

  “Yeah, s-hit. Short for she-he-it. All brown an’ nasty, sumpin’ ya can’t wait to wipe ’n flush, like yo’s dirty, fuckin’ culo!”

  I look away. There are knives near Peanuts.

  “S-hit sez,” J.D. continues, “shit’s a Missy-Mis-Understood foster care lesbo love chil’ when, in fact, s / he’s really a cracked-on, ghetto bitch, speed freak ’ho who simply don’t got no place else to go.”

  “Fuck. You,” Peanuts says. “Coconut. All brown on the outside an’ white on the inside.”

  “Split me, snitch witch, only thing’s white inside’s my milk, sweet ’n tastee,” J.D. trills. “What cum outta you when you spill? Skanky coochie juice? Ain’t the FDA recalled that toxic shit?”

  “You remind me,” Peanuts says, tiny pink tongue threatening to execute a slow, vicious lick across s / his lips. “When Mexicans first started coming to El-Lay and doing their top buttons up with those weird pants the lil’ hats and all the white peoples were like, ‘oooooweehhh ke-he’? And then there was like hundreds of them kicking people’s asses and ruling shit and they were like, ‘OK, OK, OK.’ And now they’re such a part of the landscape that, when you put a quarter in one of those machines at the supermarket, out pops one of those Chicano toys.” The spoon slides in-between Peanuts plump lips and s / he swallows. “And that’d be you, brutha, just another fuckin’ Toy.”

  Chapter 41

  I leave the kitchen and lie down, pillow over my head. The ghetto poetry-insult slam makes my head throb. I roll to the side, head stuck out from beneath the pillow. I fall into another dreamless sleep. No picture, just sound: conga drums, cymbals, flutes, bells and whistles. Or—maybe—I’m not dreaming. Maybe, I hear music. Spanish lyrics. Over them, a deep, male voice rumbles, “And this one goes out to Mirabelle in Potrero Hill.”

  A shadow falls on the bed.

  “Dollie, it’s time to get up,” Anita says, playfully tugging my big toe.

  “Time to get up for what?” I mumble, half asleep.

  “Time for us to die.” She puts out a hand. Silly me. I didn’t read the memo. I forgot about signing the suicide pact with a crazy trans girl. Her eyes are hella dilated. She’s not moving, and I’m in no mood to argue. I crawl off the bunk. Chunky platform heels turned to the side, Anita takes dainty, downward steps. She bunny hops off, and her hootchie mama miniskirt puffs and goes, Oh! I follow her to the bathroom. She flips the sign over (OCCUPIED), closes the door and gestures to the toilet seat. “Sit.”

  Then, she runs a bath. I don’t see us doing any rub-a-dub-dub. In the small space, I’m able to nail her scents: Chanel No 19, Breath by Smirnoff, 50 Proof.

  She turns away from the tub. Busy, she chooses bottles clustered on the plywood slat laid down on the sink.

  I study her. High, arched brows give her a wide-eyed, fuck-me-like-I’m-Bambi look. Biology 101, those eyebrows are plucked high for a reason: Wide eyes signal sexual availability. Eyelashes are weighed down by layers of black mascara. The black gunk fools her eyes, and dilates her pupils. She’s excited (!) to see you, me and everybody we know.

  Anita draws herself up to her full height and cracks her back. Done, she sways on platform heels. She steps back, away from the tub, and trips. I catch her hand.

  “Thank you!” she says. “Mama had a nip. Now, put your head under there and wet your hair.”

  “Yeah,” I think, “Mama’s had more than a cocktail: She’s drunk.” I lean into the tub. Warm water washes over and soaks my scalp and hair. It takes a minute: I’ve got super thick (Fuller Brush) hair. I sit up. Anita’s gone. I’m dripping wet. There’s not a towel in sight and the bathroom door’s open.
Right then, the front door opens. A figure steps inside. My heartbeat races, zero to two fifty. A bust! They’re here! To get me!

  Mystery person shuts the door and turns: Kidd. Er, Kidd dressed in some Booty Bandit getup: wool cap pulled down over his forehead, scarf wrapped around his mouth. I’m puzzled; what look is he working: Foiled Fatwa? Or, the Unhappy Terrorist?

  Right then, I remember Marci’s words, “Nobody leaves the house. Ever.” Yeah, right, I think. Nobody stays in the safe house, except milk carton boy, Alice / Nadya, and Peanuts. Everyone else is M.I.A.

  Kidd’s just broken a “nonnegotiable” rule. He pauses, and unwraps the scarf. His face is ashen. Or, is it green? He’s either sick or scared as shit, maybe both. He drops his bag, locks the door with not just one lock but all five. The keyed chain door lock, brass flip lock, slide bolt, door guard and dead bolt. He walks away, bag left on the floor. I’m so curious what’s inside and am about to run over when he returns and snatches it. Something falls out onto the floor. I’m already up and snatch the paper. It’s folded, a paper square. I slide it into my back pocket. Maybe it’s the clue I need to figure out what’s behind his hate.

  Anita steps into the bathroom, towel draped over her left arm, steaming cup of tea in her big she-man right hand. She hands me the towel. “Here.”

  I take it and drape it around my neck. On her towel-tea expedition, she’s pulled her hair back and up into a ponytail. The hootchie mama outfit’s gone, replaced with a knee-length apron and white surgical gloves. She looks shorter, too. She picks up a bowl filled with beige-colored pudding, sets it on the bathtub’s edge and picks up a small paintbrush.

  “Sit,” she says, gesturing to the porcelain throne. Anita’s not the type I’d argue with. I bet she’s packing. She’s one … Fierce. Deadly. Tranny.

  Then, I look down and Anita’s profile goes South: She wears fluffy bunny-shaped slippers! Behind closed doors, Anita’s way more housewife than prison matron.

  “You never met anyone like me, huh?”

  “Yeah, in the hospital.”

  “Uh-huh, who?”

  “There were kids who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—play the role of their Natural Born Gender.”

  “Hah, hah.” She smirks, mixing a bowl of beige goop. “I’m gonna mop and modify that. ‘Oh, I’m not feeling like my Natural Born Gender today.’”

  “Yeah, right? But at Sere—” I catch myself. “The boot camp. There were the tough girls who refused to wear dresses and makeup. Or, the femme boys who wanted to wear dresses and makeup. Their dress code boycott was another fake problem. I mean, who cares what you wear? But at Ser—the boot camp, it was a big problem. Because it was so in your face. There were always boys who wrapped a towel around their heads after we showered. It drove the staff nuts.”

  “I bet none came close to Anita Fixx.”

  I nod. She’s got a point. Anita’s living as a woman in an underground safe house. Girl. Works. It. Out.

  “Most queens, they’ll read your outfit. Me? I’m Gen Next. Coming to a salon near you, Anita Fixx, the Psychic Hairstylist.”

  “In the hospital, I forget. What do they call it?”

  “G.I.D. Gender Identity Disorder. Some bullshit trip they lay on you if you’re a woman, but you were born a man. Of course, the counselor’s always got it wrong. There’s Joey who wanted to dress like a girl, and Josephine who wanted a mastectomy and a penis. Blue jeans, flannel shirt and combat boots being beside the point. Personally, I’m looking forward to getting mine cut off. Sweetheart, did they use that on you? For your diagnosis?”

  “I don’t know.” I feel really dumb. GID sounds way more scientific than, “I like boys.” “My parents said it was coz I had a concussion. Said I was, ‘Noticeably different.’”

  “Different being how you stopped pretending you wasn’t staring at boys?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Darling.” She laughs. “Could you scootch ya’self forward? The tinfoil …”

  Tinfoil makes me think, baked potato with sour cream and chives. Anita’s hands get busy all over my head. She picks up the paintbrush, dips it in the beige goop and glops it over my scalp.

  “What’s that color?”

  “Black. Gonna make you darker than shoe leather.” She steps back and studies the back of my head. “Serious. You got any preferences? Besides the obvious?”

  “Blond. A really good blond.”

  “Like Hammer? If he let his stubble grow out? Then you can cam ho’ and sell it, two fer one. Don’t lie! Mama got your number.”

  I doubt it since I don’t even have a cellie but whatev. More silent paintbrush / gloop activity follows. Even if she gets the sex change, what will she ever do about those hands? They’re huge. Breasts, makeup, long hair and hormones will fool a dude (at night), but there’s nothing she can do about those hands. Then again, maybe she’ll meet a dude who doesn’t care. Or, she’s a pre-op lesbian trans girl. She’s gentle. Maybe, with a gift like hers, nobody will notice.

  Meanwhile, I fantasize about how I’ll look: blond, angel-fairy-boy.

  “Strawberry blond is not just a color,” she says, folding tinfoil and bobby pinning them onto my head. I worry she’s building a satellite dish.

  “It’s not?”

  “No. Strawberry’s a street ho who’ll do it for a hit of crack.”

  Anita brushes on more beige glop and folds more aluminum foil triangles. The bathroom functions much like a regular beauty salon. Spurts of conversation. Silence. Physical transformation in-between the two. I wonder, is “the unexamined life” just another version of “ignorance is bliss” but without the blond hair color?

  “I must say, you don’t really look like the type.” She steps back and examines her work.

  “Type of what?”

  She fusses with the tinfoil. “That hurt?”

  “Stings. My scalp.”

  “Good. Means the glop’s doing its thing.”

  “I better not end up looking like my stepmother.”

  “No, Cinderella, your black Arab coif’s gonna look Uni-porny.”

  “‘Cause my stepmother’s never fooled anyone. She thinks gypsy bitch orange is blond. You should hear her friends’ ‘compliments.’ ‘Oh, Haifa! Your hair looks really, so, different!’”

  “If someone named Anita Fixx don’t know the secrets of beauty, then who the fuck does?”

  “True.” I nod. “What type am I?”

  “Well …” She washes out the paintbrush in the sink and glances at me over her shoulder. “You look like the type with a hard-on for Hammer who will break J.D.’s heart.”

  I thought my face was unreadable. A mask. Anita saw right through me. Same as I noticed her boozy breath. Habits or glances, we all give ourselves away.

  “Knew. It.” She slips a plastic cap over my head and sets an egg timer. She removes the plastic gloves. Snap! “Now we wait for the miracle of color to do its magic.”

  In the world of hair color, I guess miracles and magic are like tricks are for kids. She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights up.

  “How’s it we’re all drug free but everyone here smokes? Last time I checked, nicotine’s a habit.”

  “Yes, it is,” she exhales, smoke drifting out her nostrils. “Smoking’s a way to pass the time. Sad cliché, but you’ll learn, it’s true. In here, minutes can turn into days.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  Without a word, she leans over, her right leg reaches out and a big fluffy toe shuts the door. Click. Oops. My bad. Edit. My real bad. If the safe house is anything like Serenity Ridge, there are The Rules. And then there are The Unspoken Rules.

  “Yes, I’ve had a nip, or two,” she says, cool as a serial killer femme fetale. “Which is my business.”

  “Yes, it is.” She’s been nothing but nice, and I act like a dick-head. A judgmental one. Kidd and me share a character defect. My head fries—in total silence. I count the minutes ticking off the timer. Nineteen and a half minutes. I must sound like
a snotty little bitch.

  Blond? I can just hear Anita say. No, Ben, I see you closer to your ethnic roots. How about gypsy bitch orange?

  “My parents are obsessed with grain content.”

  “Here.” She offers me the sports “water” bottle.

  “No, thanks,” I say, and shake my head. Tinfoil rustles.

  “You don’t drink?” She poses her question in a neutral, shrink voice. The neutral voice is supposed to make troubled teens spill the beans. I learned quick to say as little as possible. They wrote everything down and used it all against me.

  “I’m still trying to flush all that junk they slammed in me.”

  “I thought it was coz you’re Muslim.”

  “No,” I say, feeling my face flush. My honorary bin Laden-ness is that obvious? “More O.J.’s distant relation.”

  “Huh.” Her fingertips test my hair. She’s too much of a pro to fuck up my color. People would see my gypsy bitch orange hair and blame her. “Would that be like Liz Taylor playing Cleopatra? Or that blond baby Jesus? The originals, you know they were all black.”

  Anita parks the cigarette between her lips, leans forward and carefully lifts my cafeteria lady cap. Her big hands touch my head. I jump-flinch. Maybe her trans’ness makes me feel more uncomfortable than I care to admit. No matter, the tub water’s running. She must have sensed my discomfort (or seen it: How could she have missed it? I almost jumped off the toilet). She puts her fingers under the flow, testing the temperature. She yanks off the plastic cap and steps aside. “Rinse. Keep your eyes shut tight.”

  I lean forward, head under the faucet. Whoosh! I love the feeling of the warm water flooding my head with Anita’s big fingers giving me a scalp massage.

  “K, upsie!” She tilts me up, towel dries my head. She finishes me off, styling my new ’do with a blow dryer and shiny goop scooped out a metal tin. The attention makes me feel like the Prince of the Safe House.

  “There,” she says, giving me one last dab. She steps back, admiring her work. “Take a look.”

  I turn and face the mirror. See. Me. And …

  “Well?”

  “I … love him!”