hidden

by Tomas Mournian

  “I—” I duck down and slip out of his arms. I don’t care about his soft touch or heat. I feel trapped. I want to run away. I panic. I feel disoriented. Where am I? How’d I end up here? Again.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I want to tell him everything. Explain. But every time I open my mouth, the words won’t come. I can’t even look at him. I look down. I’m ashamed. Tears sting my eyes. I’m gonna cry. This is not how I pictured us hooking up. Me crying, him puzzled.

  “Forget it,” I mumble, turn and reach for the door.

  “Hey,” he says, and grabs my arm. “Don’t you like me?”

  I hear uncertainty in his voice and my heart melts. Headline, Seventeen magazine, “Boys Have Feelings.”

  “Well, there was …” I’m frustrated. I can’t find the words I need. They’re buried, leaves tossed in a heap. I thought, if I left those words alone, those feelings will decay, fade away. But then, something curious and surprising happens.

  Hammer doesn’t move. He says nothing. He just is. He’s given me a space. It’s bigger than the distance between the desk and the door.

  “Was what?” he says. Two words, kind of amazing. This has nothing to do with sexy, turning me on, or taking advantage. No, he’s handing me an opportunity to speak. If I want, I can seize this moment, take a risk and be heard.

  I shake my head. No way can I tell. Even Hammer the Mahn Whore would hear my story and think I’m filthy. Disgusting. That’s what he always said. And it must have been true, too. Because if it wasn’t true, then the people in charge at Serenity Ridge wouldn’t have let it happen. To me. The way it did. Over and over. Everyone knew what he was doing to me, yet they did nothing to stop it. Therefore, I must be a worthless piece of shit.

  “I knew I was gonna run,” I say. “The day I got there, I was already planning my escape.”

  “Uh-huh.” He shrugs. I can tell it’s not that he doesn’t care. He’s interested. He’s just not staring me down. Or, taking notes. And that makes it okay for me to tell. Easy. Not about him. No way. I’m not ready for that. But the other stuff.

  Chapter 56

  “I—” I don’t know where to start. Deep breath. Hammer doesn’t move. He listens. “I-I knew. I knew I was gonna run. The day I got there, I started planning my escape.”

  Colors and sound blur. Now, thinking about the hospital makes my head light. Like it might spin off.

  “Like my mom. She split. I knew, I had to leave. As in, Did. Not. Have. A. Choice. I didn’t. R—that guy, he sealed it. First time he held me down, middle of the night and did that … stuff. I knew, knew I’d do anything to get out. Away.”

  “You tricked ’em.”

  “Yeah, with my tooth. I faked how much it hurt. No, did I? I forget. But I knew I could use the tooth excuse. It was a good one. They didn’t have dentists. My mom taught me it’s about the when. My dad didn’t know it, but he told me how she did it. Said, ‘The bitch waited.’

  “The day they came to pick me up and drove me away, it was like a movie. Speeded up. At first, I didn’t have a plan. Not really. Just that I had to wait. Let them drive me away. Jump out and run. The day before, this kid told me, ‘Look for this one sign.’ I had help. People picked me up. Rescued me.

  “Growing up, I always wondered how did she do it? ‘The bitch waited.’ But how. I never knew. Did she look at a clock and call a cab? What?

  “I found out. You just know. There’s that moment. The door, it opens. Some people stand there and look. My first step, I knew. Ohhhhh, this is how she did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “Left. If someone looks away, even for a second, you can run. Like my mom. I woke up one day and … she was gone. Haifa Number One took her place. My father never explained. There was no reason why. I don’t think he knew. There was no, ‘Your mother left because …’ Just, ‘The bitch waited.’

  “Right away, I knew she was gone. The screams stopped. She was done. With lying to everyone about the black eyes and bruises. We lived in a ranch house. She was always, ‘falling down the front steps.’ Always ‘hitting her head’ on the car door. Nobody believed her—turned out, we shared that, too. I wish she took me, you know, with her. Once I left, I knew why she didn’t.”

  “Why didn’t she?” Hammer asks. I don’t need to ask why he asks. He asks because someone in his life left. Same as me, he wants to know why they didn’t take him. ‘Why’d they leave me? Here? Alone with these horrible people?’

  “I knew,” I say, “because the second I left, I learned. You travel faster if you travel alone.”

  “Right,” he says, nodding his head.

  “But even though she couldn’t take me, just by leaving, she’d carved out this path. For me. Made a way for me. May I—?”

  Hammer steps aside. I need to leave. I’m not trapped. But I don’t move. I can’t. I’m stuck. I look down, focusing my gaze on his big toe. Blond hair sprouts on the knuckle. He’s got hella ugly feet.

  “Stuff. Night. He. I—”

  My words get mixed up. The words are slimed with silence and shame. “The truth will set you free,” I tell myself. I don’t believe it. Another cliché, my reality being far removed from gospel choirs, church and the Bible.

  The monster springs up, out that dark place, a grinning ghoul jack-in-the-box. Mocking me.

  “Motherfucker!” I shout.

  Hammer backs off.

  “Not you. Him. He—”

  “That guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me?”

  I shake my head. I can’t.

  “Look at me?” His big paw reaches out and touches my chin. I flinch. Shut my eyes. Tight. I know what comes next. “Gentle,” they’re always, GENTLE. His fingers tilts my head. I force my eyes to look up, meet his. Our eyes meet and, without one word, I know that he knows what I’m trying to say.

  “Same thing,” he says, “happened to me. Happens to a lot of us. Some people … a room’s filled with kids. They look out and they see you. They chose you coz they know. They can take advantage.”

  He knows.

  My head and heart split in two. Battles—“Shut up!” “Speak!” “Quiet!” “Talk!” I try silencing the voices. I crack. Hot tears bubble up, spill out my eyes. My soul shudders; a silent sob rakes my body.

  “Can I give you a hug?”

  I nod. He takes me in his arms. He holds me, just holds me, with such a simple, pure love, I feel like my entire being might dissolve. I don’t know if I can bear such pure love. I know, I don’t deserve it.

  Hammer’s put away his warm, sexy self. The real him holds me, like that, for how long? I don’t know. I decide, I’ll let him. Just a bit. I’ll trust him. I’ll allow him to. I don’t cry. I don’t dare cry. I keep the tears bottled up inside, pushed down, sealed in. Takes all my power. Violent, I force those feelings down, to stay down. Because I know—if I start crying, I can’t stop.

  He pats my back. That feels nice. But all this—effort to keep it cool, and maintain—leaves me feeling … tired. So, so tired. I might ask him to lift me up, carry me back to bed. He lets me go, reaches for the Webcam, and turns its eye upside down. He presses a button on the computer. “The show” goes dark.

  “Tell me.”

  Nothing. We just stand there. Like that. Silent. I know I can: tell him my story. Or, kiss and touch him. I can do whatever I want. He’ll let me. He’s invited me in. The door’s shut. Nobody can see or hear us. It’s not complex, or “hard.” The way they predicted in Serenity Ridge. This isn’t a sign of “resistance.” It’s me, being me. In the presence of another human being. Who loves me, in some way I’ve never imagined possible.

  There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m not clogged up. They’ve taught me to doubt myself. To watch. I hesitate. Speaking my “truth,” I know, will not set me free, like instant coffee. Or, Jell-O. The past is the past is the past, and nothing I do or say will change it except I’m not sure I should say. It might sound corny. I smile, sphinx with a s
ecret.

  He senses something—in me. Maybe that’s the reason I don’t ask, Why? Yes, I don’t need to tell my story, the one that’s all bottled up, to something—someone—other than my journal. The park, that was the “record.” From this moment forward, Ahmed will describe—or, not—his life to who he chooses. Who I choose.

  I don’t. Don’t tell Hammer. Don’t volunteer my story. The hospital, Ralph, running—nothing “tumbles” out, there’s no revelation. I don’t know long it takes. Five minutes? Or, five hours? Who knows but when I’m done, I feel like I’ve dropped dozens of heavy bags.

  “Better?”

  I nod. Touch my face. It’s wet. I wipe away the tears. I reach for him. I trust Hammer. He takes me in his arms. So uncool, but I need a hug.

  “Hey!” Peanuts stands outside the closet. Hammer drops his arms.

  Peanuts looks hella confused. I know that look. Oh, now I get it: Peanuts and Hammer are a couple. I wonder if Hammer knows.

  I step forward, to walk out. Peanuts grabs my arm.

  “Hey! Where you think—” I wriggle away. Behind me, the door closes. “Don’t! It’s …”

  Their voices rise, but I don’t care. I feel light, clear. For the first time in months, a long time, I feel my age.

  Young.

  Chapter 57

  I step out the closet. Alice / Nadya stands beside the front door. She pulls a black chador on over her head.

  “Since when did you become the undercover Muslim? Or are you planning on bombing Fisherman’s Wharf?”

  “I’m one hundred percent Jew,” she says, draping the veil and hiding her face. “So it’s the perfect disguise. They’re not looking for a Yid in a chador.”

  “It’s Shabbos—should you really go out?” I don’t want her to leave. I have a bad feeling. Maybe it’s the milk carton thing we have in common.

  “Back before sunset.”

  “‘k, I gotta go,” Marci says, closes the cell phone and pushes off the sofa. “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait!” I scramble up the ladder. I hand her my lucky orange tennies. “They got me here. I want you to wear them. Let them bring you back.”

  She lifts the chador’s black-skirted bottom and holds the kick’s rubber sole to the Docs. “Perfect.”

  “We’ll be late,” Marci says.

  For what, I want to ask, but it’s none’ya (my) business. If I can have secrets, so can everyone else.

  “One sec.” Alice / Nadya removes her heavy clunkers, slips on my magic kicks and drops the chador.

  “They’re”—she kisses my cheek—“brilliant. I left something for you on the kitchen table.”

  Then, they’re gone. I feel anxious. Ill. I worry, anxious I won’t see them again.

  In the kitchen, my journal sits on the table. Someone’s moved it. I didn’t leave it out. There’s a bump in the middle—something’s stuck inside. I open it and find a slim device. Alice / Nadya must have put it there.

  I peel off the yellow Post-It stuck to the silver case. “TRACK TWO. LISTEN UPSTAIRS.” A wool sweater’s draped over the chair. She’s thought of everything. I pull it on, tuck the iPod in my front pocket and part the curtains. I’m reach for the window, ready to lift it.

  “UPSTAIRS”

  I’ll never make it up the fire escape.

  “UPSTAIRS.”

  Coz really, there’s no difference between listening to this at the kitchen table and listening to it on the roof. Unless … this is a test?

  Allah, I pray, how do I find my way up there? By touch, he instructs, feel your way. Okay, so I don’t believe in Allah (or, any other invisible father beings) and I’m probably just psyching myself up. Still … eyes shut tight, I feel the windowsill’s wood frame. Right away, I cheat. I crack my eyes and peek. I need to make sure that when my feet step out, they land on something solid. Like, metal. I’m not stepping out, eyes closed, only to drop, coconut to pavement. Hit, crack, split, splat. Brains everywhere, food for stray cats and dogs.

  Step. One. Outside. Hands on metal rails. I. Step. Up. Two. Okay. Step. Up. Three. Repeat. I know it’s only twelve steps to the roof.

  “You,” my inner Allah coaches, “you’re closer than when you left.”

  Bang! Ouch. My head’s hit … the next landing. Great, I’m almost there. I open my eyes. Doing so forces me to surrender the illusion I’m anywhere but hanging off a building. Gulp. Seven flights up.

  “You are,” my inner Allah observes, “that much closer to heaven and seven virgins.” I’m not so sure. I’m pretty sure the virgins are reserved for martyrs. Suicide bomber types. I don’t have a blow-it-sky-high bone in my body. The only person I’m capable of terrorizing is myself.

  “Inner Allah,” I ask, “I need to speak with you about customizing my virgins. The way people do birthday or wedding cakes. Can you make them all look like Hammer?” Allah chuckles, “Ahmed, heaven’s filled with virgins, not ho’s.” Interesting. My Allah’s gay friendly and has a sense of humor. “Yes, my child,” he says, “you are crazy.”

  “LISTEN UPSTAIRS”

  Fuck her. No. Fuck me. Why am I obeying instructions written on a bloody piece of paper? Not even paper—a Post-It. Allah coaches, “Ahmed, it’s only one more flight. You can make it.”

  Or, I can’t. I step back, into the kitchen and walk to the front door. I open the front door. I’ll never make it up the fire escape.

  The forbidden stairs.

  I don’t have much time. If I want to get back, undetected. Eleven—or twelve but who’s counting?—steps and I scale up the stairs like Arnold friggin’ Spider-Man. I pretend I made it to the top. I’m on the slanted path! Killing it! I hop down and—

  There. I land on—

  The door swings open—

  I’ve made it! I’m here! Victory!

  I hold up my arms, Rocky Balboa style. I hope people in the office buildings see me, think, “That kid’s out of our reach.”

  I look up, half expecting to see Saint Peter hovering overhead, clipboard propped against his waist, pink feather pen in one hand, low tar cigarette in the other.

  I walk the roof, passing the solar panels. At one end, I dare myself, “Dude look.” I do. Wow. The street’s way the fuck down there. I’m so far up the traffic—cars, buses, trolleys—look like toys.

  There’s a corner next to the little elevator engine “house.” It’s hidden from sight and offers shelter.

  Overhead, clouds gather, darkening the sky. I’m no wiser about the afterlife, but I’m pretty certain it’s gonna rain. I don’t have much time. If there’s a storm, I can’t use the fire escape.

  I sit, plug in the headphones and listen.

  Track Two:

  Chapter 58

  “When I got here, the whole city was out. Gay Pride. Who knew, not me. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have cared. Me? Gay? I’m not gay. I was still rolling on the whole ‘I’m bi’ thing.

  “All day, I was the wandering Jew Girl. Totally lost. My family had come here for vacation. We drove to tourists spots, looked and left. We stayed in the car, doors locked. My parents were terrified we’d catch something. Like gay was a cold and you could catch it.

  “I remembered looking out the window and seeing tons of gay people. From inside the car, ‘they’ looked so strange, I might have been watching a TV show about this alien species, ‘The Gays.’

  “The day I ran away, I landed on this Queer Planet without a survival kit. I snuck into a bar and was thrown out. Then, Pride was over, people were leaving and it started raining.

  “I didn’t know where I was. I kept walking. Wandering. I ended up on Polk Street. I didn’t know Polk Street was Ground Zero for the city’s punks and runaways and addicts. The teen boi hookers ignored me. Except one, who hissed, ‘Fish!’ The punks scared me: They looked hungry, like they’d eat anything. I stayed away from the trannies. They looked like crazy girls with bad makeup.

  “One car drove by so slow. A station wagon. My family’s car. Stupid, bu
t I thought that meant something good or ‘safe.’ Weird, too, since I was running away from my family.

  “I looked down. My eyes met the driver’s. At first, I thought he was my dad! He’d found me! Before I could run, the passenger window rolls down, he leans over and smiles. ‘Hey, can I ask you something?’

  “I think, ‘He needs help.’ I was a Girl Scout. I walked over to the car. He looks friendly. I have nothing to worry about. I step forward. Close up, I realize, ‘His smile isn’t friendly. He’s a weirdo.’ I look down. His pants were open and he was jerking off. ‘Ten bucks, bitch, suck this.’

  “OhmiG-d I was so grossed out! I ran up the street and hid in a doorway. It was pouring rain. The wind was blowing—hurricane style. The rain wouldn’t have been so bad, but it was freezing. My clothes got soaked. I knew I had to get inside. A red light.

  “‘There,’ I thought. ‘You’ll be safe there.’ I ran across the street. By this point, I’d seen enough sex shops, I knew that it wasn’t a synagogue or church. I thought, ‘Maybe it’s a shelter.’ Closer, the neon letters came into focus. ‘Ming’s.’

  “I stood on the sidewalk outside big, wall-sized windows. I screwed up the courage I needed to open the door and walk inside. I didn’t know it, but my life was about to change.

  “Forever.”

  Chapter 59

  “The smell. I’ll never forget the smell of those greasy hamburgers and fries. My stomach did backflips. Cold and hungry. I realized, I hadn’t eaten for two days.

  “A Chinese guy stood behind the counter. I thought, ‘He must be Ming.’ I smiled; he scowled. Five minutes inside Ming’s would be a lot. Just my standing there cost.

  “I pretended I was thinking about what I was going to order. Really, there was nothing on the menu I’d eat at home. But then, I wasn’t at home.