hidden

by Tomas Mournian

  “Beautiful,” she says, and slips out. “I’ll let you two get to know one another.”

  Makeover madness! I don’t recognize my reflection. I’m so beautiful I’m … someone else. For sure, I’m not the snot-nosed seventh grader whose picture is plastered on a milk carton. I lean toward “him.” I’m the boy who I’ve always wanted to kiss. Too bad the closest I’ll ever get to him is my reflection in a dirty bathroom mirror. Anita has a point. I am good enough to sell.

  A second face emerges in the dirty mirror. I know that face, but I can’t recall from where.

  I rub my eyes. I open them. The other face is gone. Good thing, too, since seeing other people’s faces in the mirror—when you’re supposed to see your own—means you’re crazy, for reals.

  I touch my head. I’ve seen this color before. But on another boy’s head. His eyes look back at me in the mirror. Face in the brushed, silver metal door—

  It opens—

  He—

  Opens his mouth—

  Creak—

  He’s here—

  Opens more—

  And—

  Screams—

  I feel faint—

  Open my eyes—

  Same as—

  The Dead Boy in the Bus Station Bathroom.

  Chapter 42

  “Hey, hey—”

  I lie on the cold tile floor. I either was in a fight (and lost) or fainted. Left hand to tub, I push and try to stand.

  “Here,” he says, grabs my hand and pulls me up.

  “Embarrassing.” I laugh weakly and sit on the toilet seat.

  “I walk in. You were up. And then, you weren’t.”

  Instant replay. I was so caught up with admiring my trés sexy reflection in the mirror I don’t hear footsteps on the tile floor.

  “‘Scuse me, I need to use the john.” I stand and walk toward the door. “Hey, I’m not kicking you out.”

  He sits on the tank, reaches back and opens the tiny window.

  “You gonna rinse off?” His voice sounds like bubble gum. Or that old, famous actor. What’s his name? Brando?

  “Rinse?”

  “Hands.” I look at my hands. “Unless you’re ready for surgery?”

  “Yeah,” I say, desperate to avoid his gaze. He leans toward the open window. Thumb to match, he pops a flame, holds up the ciggie and inhales. The ciggie’s tip sizzles, red. I stare, mesmerized by how he works the cancer stick.

  I give him a *subtle* boutique once-over. He’s got The Look: black skull cap (overlapping, white letters, “N—Y” on the front), oversized white tee and baggy jeans cinched tight on a wasp waist. Hot, J.D.’s a Real Live Gay Gang Banger.

  “Wass’up?” he says, reaches down and, looking me in the eye, adjusts his package. Yeah, Holmes, I know, your cajones are That Big. “You strictly dickly?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Do. You. Suck. Cock? Or swing both ways? I’d ask, are you trans, but you’re not giving that.”

  Giving? Trans? IDK, I flash my Ferrari, a closed-mouthed smile. In my head, I summon a fashion police lineup. J.D., Kidd and Hammer. They’re all sexy but hella different. I rate them, one, two, three. Fire, Ice, Airhead.

  He picks the paper (the one that fell out Kidd’s backpack) and holds it up.

  “Thanks,” I say, and reach to take it. “Marci’s Rules.”

  He rolls his eyes and holds on to the paper. “Yeah, her ‘rules,’” he says, leans back and takes a drag. “That’s her trying to be ‘straight edge.’ She ‘claims’ she’s all stepping it.”

  “Stepping?” I use the neutral shrink voice. J.D. holds the paper. How do I get it back? “Like stairs?”

  “Sober,” he says. “No drugs or Anita’s Jesus juice.”

  “Like Evergreen.” He shoots me the WTF look. “You know—Twelve Steps to Overcoming Homosexuality.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He bluffs. I don’t care. I vibe him: “Give me the list … Give me the list … Give me the list …”

  “They never tried that shit on you?”

  He leans back and rests his skull on the ledge. A thin stream of white smoke escapes his lips. It curls up and out the tiny window. If a stranger sees the smoke, will they think, S.O.S.?

  “For reals.” He nods. I don’t believe him. “Last time we got raided—”

  “Raided? Like, Raid, a roach bomb or—”

  “No, raided cops and dogs. But cops and roaches, hah hah, there’s not much difference. This one kid, Kevin, he was so stoopid from smoking a blunt, he ran out the front door.”

  “Damn.” I whistle. I act like I’m caught up. In his story and faux—F-A-K-E—ghetto speak, that’s straight outta Compton. No, wait, MTV! Well, we do live in a roach-infested walk-up. Some would count that as “ghetto.”

  His hand—the one holding the cigarette—hangs out the window, in the air shaft. He takes a drag. His Adam’s apple bobs. Maybe I can distract him. Lick his neck and steal the paper. His head snaps up. Our eyes meet. Somewhere, in the electrified air between us, if I’m feeling this, then he must be, too?

  “Damn ain’t the half of it. Last I heard, Kevin got sent down to solitary. I heard he’s all droolin’ ’n shit from the ’tropes ’n the EST. So. You do not want to get your ass caught. Not now. Cuz, they’d feel obliged to learn you, like some ax murderer. Or pedophile.”

  Arms overhead, he stretches. The deep yoga breath forces the nicotine in real deep. His body’s limber, like taffy. Or, a cat’s. He folds himself over, head on knees, arms alongside his legs. Show off.

  I turn to the mirror and stare at my new look. I don’t care if he sees.

  “Why didn’t you use the fire escape?”

  “Occupado and, besides, it’s hella cold out there.”

  He offers the pack.

  “No.” I shake my head. “But that just means there’s more for you!”

  “You and Anita been hanging out.”

  “She says that to everyone.”

  “Basically but—” He takes another deep yoga drag. “That’ll change.”

  “I made up my own No Smoking policy.”

  He hops off the toilet, stands behind me and rests his head on my shoulder.

  “Why does that color look so lame on me and so damn good on you?”

  Flattered, I admire my reflection. No shame!

  “There should be laws against people like me looking this young and this cute. It’s sick, though, huh.”

  “What?”

  “What what?”

  “Sick?” He lifts the toilet seat. “You need to?”

  “No, fool.” I laugh. “Kewl. You been in here that long?”

  “Guess.” He tilts his head and shrugs, Don’t Know / Don’t Care. “I’ve lived here almost eight months.”

  He reaches out and runs his hand through my new hair. Spine chills. He may not know today’s teen lingo, but he’s got the touch.

  “Feels like mink,” he says, steps back, sits on the tank and takes a drag. Slow and sexy. He gives me a look, fucking me with his eyes. His head drops back, Marie Antoinette style. Say the window drops, there goes his neck, chop!, guillotine style.

  “You from here?” His voice ricochets in the air shaft. I want to jump up and follow the sound up, to the sky.

  “Mmm?”

  “You’re from here?”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Don’t tell me. They catch us, we can’t tell them what we don’t know.”

  “Right.” I nod. I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about.

  “Fool, what school?”

  “Oh, like, where’d I escape from?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Aren’t we supposed to keep it a secret?”

  “I promise not to tell.”

  “Serenity Ridge.”

  “No way! Me too!”

  We look into one another’s eyes. Deep. You’d think we’d fallen in love on the spot. That spot being a skanky bathroom in a ghetto safe house. But J.D.’s way too cool to simply g
ive himself over to the moment. Not that it matters. I don’t like him. I like Hammer. Right?

  “Dude,” I say, and point at his hand. Ash trembles, about to break and fall off the cigarette. “Time to put that out of its misery.”

  “You remember that girl?” J.D. takes one last toke and drops the ciggie in the toilet water. I look away. I don’t want to think about the ciggie’s filter tip, glazed with his saliva, soaking in the yellow piss water. He shuts the lid. “I forget her name.”

  “Little Miss Permission Slip.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That girl, whatshername, always running around, saying, ‘You are so gross and so vulgar and you are so going to pay,’” I say, mimicking Shelly, the girl who was famous at Serenity Ridge for sucking up off the male staff’s members.

  “Damn, you do her good.”

  “Hah, hah, hah.” We laugh. I’m amazed I can laugh about anything associated with Serenity Ridge.

  “I could never figure out. Why was she there for so long?”

  “Oh, you never heard?” He takes a quick drag and flicks the cigarette out the window. “She was fucking that orderly. I forget his name. But did you know? That fucker tried doing me!”

  My body seizes up. I hope he doesn’t notice. I wonder if there are muscle relaxants in that medicine cabinet. The way he says it makes me think he can tell. See it on me. There’s no way anyone can know. “That orderly” didn’t just try, he did. All the time. I force the memory, down, out, away. Forget, forget, forget.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, peering at me.

  “Nothing.”

  I look away and study the tub. The green paint on the bottom peels. I want to plug the drain, turn on the faucet, get in and slit my wrists. (“Time to die!” cries the voices in my head.) I won’t answer his question. I’ll make something up. I will not tell him the truth. I’ll tell him what I think he wants to hear. Better, I’ll tell him what I’m feeling. Problem is, I’ve forgotten how to speak. I’ve lost my voice. He gives me this funny look. The “Hey, are you retarded? Say something” look.

  “No, it’s just that place. Talking about it. I was trying not to think about it, that’s all. Brings back, you know, stuff.”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “More kids she ratted on, more points she got. I bet she wanted to be on staff.”

  I’m not buying it. J.D. hasn’t told me anything he couldn’t have heard, guessed, or made up. There were several Shellys at Serenity Ridge. She was a type.

  I study his face. I don’t remember seeing him at Serenity Ridge. If he’s lived here for eight months, we would have met. Or, we might have just missed one another. He could have been on another unit—there were five. Or, was I so doped up, we did meet and I forgot.

  “What?”

  I open my mouth, about to ask, “Wasn’t Shelly there about eighteen months?” But I don’t ask. I keep my mouth shut. I’m so confused. I was never good at math. Still, I have this nagging feeling. He’s lying. Who’d lie about being in Serenity Ridge? He touches my arm. I jerk. An electric shock. He never said her name.

  “You’re thinking.”

  “Nothing.” I lie. Is it still a lie if you just can’t explain the thoughts you have or second thoughts about sharing? I test him. “Did Valerie really leave in a body bag? Dead? Like everybody said?”

  “Geez.” He shakes his head, “acting” like he’s “remembering.” Or, trying to. Now it’s so obvious he’s lying. There was no Valerie, and if he’d been there, he’d know. “Valerie, Valerie, Valerie. Dunno. Musta been after my time.”

  A knock on the door. Startled, I jump. J.D. slides the window shut, hops off the tank and turns on the faucet. He splashes water on his face. Head up, he reaches for a toothbrush, wets it and swipes away the cigarette breath. Done, he moves the mirror. The reflection catches our faces in the chipped silver surface.

  J.D.’s rests his head on my shoulder, face next to mine in the reflection. He gives me a small smile, like he can’t be bothered to make the effort and part his lips. He’s not being friendly in a friend way. He’s being friendly in another way. I don’t get it. His arms tighten around my body. I like the feeling. And his look, whatever it is, makes me feel … nervous? And excited. He turns away from the mirror and faces me. I’m in his arms. I don’t like this feeling. I want to leave. He blocks my exit.

  I look away, then back. His face says everything and nothing. I get it. He’s got game. J.D. thinks he’s some junior high school Casanova. I need to leave, now, or I’ll start laughing.

  “Excuse me.” He moves, just enough for me to squeeze by. The closeness wavers between hostility and intimacy. He breathes on me. My skin tingles. I’m sure he sees the goose bumps. I look away, avoid his gaze. Something might happen, and I’m not ready for it. I’ve almost slipped away. He catches my arm and spins me around. Guess he is ready. He leans toward me, eyes closed, lips ready to kiss.

  “You want to.”

  I slip away, step forward and reach for the door. I open it and step out.

  “Sorry, but I don’t. Smoke makes me sick. For reals.”

  wishful thinking

  on the love or lust front

  nothing’s developed

  yet

  as for me

  I am still love free

  more of my virginity returns

  everyday

  J.D.

  Hammer

  sky brightening

  reminds me of

  that singer’s

  hard voice

  aching with desire,

  “hopeful embraces

  & wishful thinking”

  Chapter 43

  Twilight slips to night. I sit on the floor. The radiator kicks in. Steam oozes out the grill. The sound breaks the early evening quiet. The closet door squeaks, opens. My heart still skips every time a door opens. I live prepared to run and dive out the kitchen window.

  A figure steps out. Hammer. Naked from the waist up. I stare at his perfect abs. His face and torso are sweaty. He opens his mouth and sinks his perfect white teeth into a Pink Lady apple.

  “If you want,” he says, juice dribbling down his square chin, “jump on it.” For a second, I imagine his offer’s to jump on his jock. He looks at my puzzled face and grins. “Internet.”

  Inside the closet, a lavender scent hangs in the air. Sex? I can’t see Hammer and Peanuts getting it on. Small, the closet has walls painted a pale purple color. Usually, I hate purple. I don’t mind this shade—it’s more eggplant purple (vs. tacky, Teletub-bies purple). Oversized pillows, covered with sparkly Indian fabric, are piled up on the corner bed. It’s Harem decor, Ali Baba, baby, all the way. Something glittery catches my eye. I push apart the clothes hanging off a wood rod. Gianormous, sparkly letters—SUGAR!—are painted on the wall with a flourish, Vegas style.

  “There.” Peanuts motions me over. A sleek PC sits atop the desk. A Webcam’s perched on its razor-thin monitor. The browser’s open to craigslist.

  “See, that’s how we found you,” Peanuts says. “Right under their fucking noses.”

  The picture on-screen is what gets my attention: a boy’s naked, muscular upper torso. Peanuts clicks the mouse and shuts the window. I don’t understand the craigslist / sex ad / bus station connection.

  “Wanna surf it?”

  “Hell, yeah!” I sit on the stool and face the monitor.

  “Don’t move it—it’s Wi-Fi. Signal’s iffy.”

  I move the mouse. Of course, the first thing I do is open bookmarks and history. Click. The window opens.

  san francisco craigslist > men seeking men > Hot

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  Ive been having some financial problems lately and so I decided to start charging for webcam shows to help me pay some of my bills. I am a str8 high school kid but I do things such as jerk off, play with my ass and even suck my own cock. These shows are through either yahoo or msn messengers and range anywhere from 30-100 depending on the show. I am good looking and in shape and have never had a complaint for my shows, if you feel like helping out a cool high skool kid for a little online excitement, get in touch with me at sucking_self on yahoo or hotmail message services.

  I study the torso. It’s Hammer. Weird. I’ve never seen Hammer write or read. No matter. I clear the search history and wipe evidence of my snooping.

  The closet door opens. J.D. slips inside.

  “Hey.”

  “My time’s up?”

  “No, but would you mind, can I jump on?”

  “Sure.” His arms reach around my body.

  “Peanuts is a real hard-ass about scheduling.” His fingers dance on the keyboard, quick, rat-a-tat-tat taps. He stands, feet and elbows wide, and blocks me in. “Wait, do you mind—”

  I look at the screen, read: “No screen name available. Your mail has been returned as a mailer daemon: undeliverable.”

  “What do I do if I want to find someone and their screen name’s been deleted?” He’s so close his lips brush my ear. I shiver. “Cold?”

  I nod. In reality, my groin tingles. I’m excited. Closer, J.D.’s chest presses, flat against my back. He tightens his arms. I’m supposed to feel warm; I feel trapped.

  “What service are you looking on? Yahoo, Gmail, My-Space—”

  “Facebook.”

  “Try name search.”

  J.D. types. Done, he drums his fingers on the desk. The results pop up.

  “There!” He clicks the mouse, talking as he types. “Oskar. Where. The fuck are you?”

  Bling!

  “ey wh u?”

  “It’s him!” J.D. type / talks. “You still got the Ghia?”

  I can’t move. Unless I shut my eyes and, even then, he reads as he types. I’m eavesdropping. “Maybe I should—”