“No, I’m not ‘spying’ on you,” Marci says. “Nadya and me were coming back from her clinic—”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“You found her in the alley, bleeding, hiding under a Dump-ster, figure it out.”
“Oh, girlie girl got the AIDS?”
“Abortion. She saw you and—”
“Nadya’s the damn spy?”
“She was excited to see you. She wanted to say, ‘Hi.’ I asked her to wait. I followed you. She didn’t have a clue where you were going so don’t get defen—”
“Defensive? Bitch! You saw shit! All I did was—” Click, click. Anita’s Bic. Ciggie smoke drifts up. “All I did was go in that bar, sit down and let some guy buy me a drink.”
“Fine, it’s your life. But if you get picked up for, oh, whatever, you’re on your own.”
Too bad I’m not down there, on the roof. “Watch out!” I’d warn them. “His name’s Bob. He’s five feet away from you and listening to your argument while cleaning his fingernails with a switchblade.”
“Living here means coming home after school. Straight home.”
“When am I s’posed to get my fun on?” Anita whines. “Sounds like some damn shelter. Or house arrest.”
“‘Nita, in case you didn’t notice, living here’s not about getting your fun on. You know what happens to those other kids?”
“What happens is,” I think, “Blue-Eyed Bob follows you downstairs, steals a wig and goes Lizzie Borden on your asses.”
“If they get caught because you had to ‘get your fun on’?”
“Tell me, girl, what is this ‘about’?”
“Please don’t blow smoke in my face. It’s about you getting your cosmetology license and getting a job. Then you can support yourself and get all the fun on you want. Party twenty-four seven.”
“I get it.”
“No,” Marci says, “since you remember our first conversation, then you also remember what I said about using in the safe house. Obviously, you didn’t bring any booze into the house but, c’mon, Anita. Some of those kids. Ben? They’re nowhere near as, uh—”
“Lil’ Benny’s bought his hooker training wheels.”
My back stiffens. Excuse me? Hooker? Training wheels? Forget Blue-Eyed Bob, I’m gon’ cut Lil’ Miss Two-Faced Tranny Bi-atch!
“—acting all innocent! L. O. L. Tricks are for kids!”
“Ben and Nadya study all day. They—”
“Sit, take up the kitchen table like they own it.”
“‘Nita, you can be such a bitch.”
“Don’t get me started! You missed the night little Mr. Prep School fucked J.D. right here, baby, up on the roof—”
“What?”
What is right.
“That’s right. One night, I saw them stand on the escape, kiss and crawl back inside. Kiss the way people do after they been. Fuck. Ing.”
“For some reason,” Marci says. “I doubt that.”
“What else would they be doing on the roof?”
“Talking?”
“Oh, there’s a lot you miss.”
“Please, tell me, what else has Ben been up to?”
My question exactly! What else have I been up to?
“Well!” Anita says, huffing and puffing, ready to blow that ciggie down. “He followed Hammer into the closet, and those two pulled a show! Peanuts told me. Kidd and Peanuts heard everything. Finally, Peanuts couldn’t take it no more, got up and caught them! Peanuts told me, they looked guilty as hell.”
“Hammer’s doing shows again?” Marci sighs.
“Didn’t hear it from me.”
“Ben’s not the type.”
“Honey,” Anita says, “they never do. Those types are the ones who always the type. You didn’t know me then. I started out that way. Hammer’s a whore to the core. Got some fresh meat. I bet he made bank.”
None of this is true, but still I feel ill. I lie there, plotting revenge.
“Don’t look down on Hammer. He’s the reason we’ll have heat this month. Promise you’ll come straight home after school?”
“Nevah straight, Gaily Forward, girl, I’m rhythm in motion.”
“The other reason you really need to stay away from those fern bars.”
“Really, what reason?”
“’Cause, girl, you sound like an old queen.”
“Fine,” Anita says, a pout in her voice. The conversation moves away.
Bob steps away from the elevator house and a corner. A door creaks, opens, groans and shuts. Click.
I crawl to the other side and peek over the edge. Blue-Eyed Bob’s gone. A cigarette’s been left on a dry spot. Red embers consume the white paper.
Plop.
Water hits my arm.
Rain. I look over the elevator roof. They walk around the solar panel. If they look up, they’ll see me. But they don’t. I guess they’re not curious about the rain.
“Gross, everybody smokes up here.” I see Marci kneel and daintily pick up Bob’s cigarette. She flicks it away, onto the roof.
The door squeaks, opens and slams. They’re gone. I start to follow and stop. I don’t want to run into Blue-Eyed Bob. He’s the type who hides in stairwell shadows.
My right leg’s fallen asleep. Crazy, pinprick sensations shoot down my legs. I forget about being scared. I won’t need to psyche myself on the fire escape—I’ll be lucky if my legs work.
One step at a time, I obsess on Blue-Eyed Bob turning up on the roof. I debate whether or not to warn Marci. If I do, I rat myself out. I bet Bob does all his dirty deeds in public. That’s probably part of the thrill for him. Besides, twenty-five locks keep us safe. Right? I convince myself, Yes, we’re safe, and step into the kitchen. The front door opens. Marci follows Anita—she sees me and flashes a big, fake smile.
“Oh, you’re wet, baby,” she coos. “Hiding out on the escape? Come in and take that off. Don’t want you sick.”
She doesn’t ask why my jacket’s wet. And I don’t tell her how close she stood to death.
I decide to keep my mouth shut about what I saw on the roof. Because, really, what can Marci do about Mr. Switchblade, Blue-Eyed Bob. Call the cops?
Chapter 64
Dawn. The kitchen curtains are suddenly sheer. I peer over the bed. Below, Kidd and J.D. sleep. At night, they curl up together, two spoons. By morning, they sleep apart, separated by a wall built from sheet and pillows, “… like brothers on a hotel bed.”
I reach under the futon, fingers feeling for the hard rectangle shape. The journal’s blue lines are in the faint morning light, nearly invisible. Doesn’t matter. I put pen tip to white paper and let the black ink spill.
white ankle, black plastic
next stop is—
blank, a pastry face with black handlebar mustache
his job’s “security”
tho i have yet to meet anyone who feels safer
he pulls me out, into the empty hallway & a small cell
i keep my mouth shut, i know better than ask, why me
see all my experiences at Serenity Ridge
were baffling or violent or both
“up” he says pointing to my right pant leg
no reason why never is
he fascinates us—we think he’s a tard
who talks r-e-a-l sloooooo ’cuz hes so fuckin stoooopid
makes u want to yank down on his black ’stache
yeah we all know 2 that hes a pedophile
that dont make him gay
just another perv like all the rest
he kneels & hikes up my cuffed jeans
baring my bare ankle his crusty hands reach stroking
the white in-between
orange kick & deep blue denim
his hands are busy doing his creepy perv thing on me
& i look down eyes shocked to see the white skin strip
’cuz last year when they brought me here my ankle was
a golden tan brown licked only by the sun
&
nbsp; Ralph stops with his desperate sad touching strokes
wraps a band on my ankle & snaps it shut
rolling the hard blue denim down over the white skin
& black plastic
“case u try leavin’” he says standing excited hard
prick pokes out his pants ‘we know where to find ya’
great
I got my own LoJac
he swipes the white card key with a black magick stripe
stroking my back my skin crawls walking out the cell
In back i hear the door shut & click
alone
i realize i have just been left alone for the first time
since i got here
i sit on a lemon sofa & touch a green plant feeling
the leaf a dead plastic frond thick with gray ghost dust
i lean forward reach down & touch
the black plastic thing on my white ankle
i look up a mirrored insect eye’s stuck between ceiling
& wall like an alien probe
They watch.
I slide move my hand up down pretending
to scratch my calf
i do this b.c I know the gesture
will trick them
till im gone ill be
scrutinized searching for any sign of rebellion
Chapter 65
“Hey,” I ask. “What about my tooth?”
Marci ignores my question.
“Gas and electric?”
“Twenty-two forty-one,” Kidd says.
Alice / Nadya notes the amount on scrap paper. Marci counts out the bills, hands them to Kidd who slides the money into an envelope and hands it off to Alice / Nadya who affixes a stamp. We live off the grid, but we pay bills like everyone else.
Eleven letter-sized envelopes are lined up on the kitchen table. I stare at them. I don’t care about the heat. Lately, my tooth aches. The wisdom tooth that got me out of Serenity Ridge now gives me constant pain. I floss, and brush, but the pain’s only gotten worse.
“Phone?”
“Fifty-six thirty-three,” Kidd says. Count, money, envelope, stamp.
“What does that leave us?” Marci asks.
“After rent? We’ve got …” Alice / Nadya taps the amount in a calculator. “Two hundred and one dollars and seventy cents.”
“Let’s see,” Marci says, motioning me over. I open my mouth. She peers inside. “I’m sorry. We don’t have money for a dentist.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Tie a string around the tooth, hook it over the knob and slam the door. Wait,” Marci says, stacking the completed envelopes. “I’m forgetting something. We still need to spend two hundred on Pony’s bus ticket.”
“Fuck him.” Peanuts scowls. Pony’s moving in. I forgot. I already hate him. I live here. Two hundred would pay to fix my tooth. Pony, he gets a bus ticket; I get more Tylenol.
“Huh,” Peanuts says. “I thought we was full up.”
“We’re saving lives.” Marci shrugs. “Desperate time, desperate measures.”
“Who’s leaving?” I ask. Maybe it’s one in, one out.
“Nobody,” she says, sliding the envelopes into the backpack and walking to the front door.
“Where’s this one gonna sleep?” Hammer asks, looking at Peanuts. “Coz there’s no room in the closet.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Marci says. The door shuts. She’s gone. With my dental two hundred.
“Hey, you forgot … !”
Marci left an envelope on the kitchen table. It’s addressed to “Karen Smith.” The postmarked’s Nashville, TENN. I open the envelope and slip the letter out. Before I read it, I pause. I’m the same as Haifa snooping in my journal. The print is blocky, childlike. I read.
Dear Karen,
Just got your letter today! I was so glad to hear from you! Karen, I need help and I need it fast. I’m still in the Central County’s Youth Center. No one in my family wants me until I get “cured.” Please, can you do anything? Oh, and are you allowed to tell me your last name?
Love and thanks,
PONY
A memo (typed) is paper-clipped to the first envelope.
Please destroy this memo after reading it. PL will be driven down and arrive in the early evening of October 25. He’ll be at your place for approximately one month, and then another safe house in the area for another undetermined length of time directly after he stays with you. You asked about food. He can’t stand (and refuses to eat): mayo, yogurt, milk, tuna, bananas, apples, cottage cheese and sandwiches.
I guess Pony plans to live on Ming’s burgers, fries, chocolate milkshakes and oatmeal.
Chapter 66
Mouth. Ache. I’ve had it. The throbbing tooth must go. I sit on the edge of the tub and massage my gums with ice cubes and oral anesthetic. I poke the soft tissue. Numb. Nothing. I feel—
Quick, before the numbness goes away, I wrap floss around the tooth, hook the end around the knob and kick the door. I hear something rip and scream—
“AAAHHHHH!”
The pain’s incredible. Blood, real blood, pours out my mouth and runs down my shirt. I should ask Hammer to set up the camera. Surely, someone would pay to see, “The Boy with the Bloody Mouth.”
The rotten tooth hangs off the floss. It dangles from the knob, horror movie style. A dark, red droplet hangs and shudders, one last sigh, and drops. Lands on the white tile and explodes and I—
I wake up. I’m in bed. Someone tucked me in. It’s night.
I remember—I passed out.
I grab the plastic bottle, take a swig and taste. Cold, bubbly liquid. Good.
The mind-numbing pain’s gone. The 7UP feels good in my mouth. I feel woozy. I bet someone gave me a pill. That’s why I can’t remember my dreams.
I collapse, back, and pass out. I need to dream a dream, or two.
Chapter 67
“People!” Marci shouts.
I sit up and look around, ostrich style. Fist to eyes, I rub and try to get the sleep out. My mouth’s packed with stuffing. I reach in and pull at it. The giant tampon’s soaked with blood.
“Girrrl.” Kidd cackles. “You a woman. Don’t flush it!”
“Fabric!” Marci dumps a pile of bright scraps on the floor. Everyone swarms. Arts & Crafts Day must be big in the safe house. “And this is Pony.”
I’m the only one who looks. A scrawny kid stands behind Marci.
“Hi,” I say. He ignores me. I climb down and hover, watching the fabric feeding frenzy. “What’s that about?”
“Halloween costumes,” Marci says. “Our High Holy Holiday.”
“Holy? Hardly.” Alice / Nadya rolls her eyes, holding a piece of blue chiffon up to her face, Mata Hari style. “All we do is go out and walk around.”
“Hey,” I say to Pony. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Close up, Pony’s beautiful. I guess anyone named Pony would be pretty. His little body is perfectly shaped. His face is cut like a statue’s. Pony’s a white marble angel covered in black soot. A hard journey’s etched on his sweet face and aqua eyes.
I lean into his left ear and whisper, “Isn’t Halloween for little girls in princess outfits?”
He ignores me. Traumatized, I guess. He reminds me of me. But I’m pretty sure I’ve lost that glazed-eyed, freaked-out look. His nervous energy shows me how much anxiety I’ve shed.
“Do you feel like taking a shower?” Marci asks.
“Hell, yeah.” Pony’s voice is deep, with a twang. He looks like an angel, but he sounds like a pit bull. He feels my stare. “What the fuck you lookin’ at?”
I shrug; he grunts and follows Marci to the bathroom. I want to pull her aside and warn her, “He’s a mistake. Send him away. This won’t work out. He’s crazy. All he wants is attention. And he doesn’t sound gay.”
In Serenity Ridge, I met lots of Ponys. Their eyes burned bright furnace bright. The Pony type has just-don’t-know-what-to-do-with energy. Between the Halloween fabric crisis and Pony
’s arrival, I feel ignored. I slip out the front door and run upstairs, to the roof.
I walk toward the solar panels. The panels’ catch light—from the street, cone-shaped aircraft red warning lights perched atop of skyscrapers and a moon the color of tea-stained teeth.
I stand on the roof’s edge and stare. The city. I want to see—really see—what lays beyond the safe house. Far away (or nearby, I can’t tell), there’s an odd-shaped building covered with a blue-green glass skin. The shape and cartoon colors make me think of a stranded whale. Or, a dyslexic’s idea of the Great Pyramids. On the green side, colored lights travel up a column, morphing red to purple to green to blue.
“C’est romantique, c’est magnifique,” a deep voice says. The song kicks in, “This is what it sounds like when doves cry.” The D.J.’s hidden but close. Over my shoulder? Or, in my head? Maybe this is my “he-crazy” moment, the first sign being, hearing ′80s music 24 / 7.
The elevator motor groans. I peer through a small window covered with metal mesh. Inside, it’s dark except for one reading light hung over turntables. The D.J. sits in the shadows on a milk crate. Hunched over the gear, he wears a thick parka, hoodie and wool cap. I can’t see his face. He leans forward. Light catches his eyes, nose, mouth.
I step back. Of course. All those nights I lay in bed and listened to the deep, marble voice and house music, J.D. was the D.J., podcasting to the world, the galaxy, the universe and beyond.
The song crests. I turn and face the city. The column’s lights fade to black. The sequence ends and starts over, colors brightening and fading. Add music. Mix. Drink Hypnotic.
Time to go.
I slip inside. The “safe” house is scandalously easy to enter. So easy, in fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to find Blue-Eyed Bob in the closet getting a lap dance from Hammer. I lock up and climb up the ladder, eager to rest.
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