“You talking to me? Or Oprah?”
“You! Ben! You! D’Oprah in d’crack house!”
“My stepmother’s hair would melt.”
“First time I smoked, oh, honey, it was on. I found it. The answer. Whatever wasn’t there before, suddenly it was! How you do, Miss Tina. See you brought your BFF, too, Miss Addicktion. Yes, Ben, I was hooked. Love. I did it once and, baby, I never looked back!”
“That’s what Kidd said,” I say, absentminded. “About running. Never looking back.”
“Honey, that’s what we all say. You too, you—”
She turns her attention back to the pipe. Blue flame, torch to end. She suck-inhales like a baby on a mama’s breast. Her physical need is intense. Desperate. No shame. I don’t look away. I want to see what she’s doing. I mean, really see it. I want to see what it is so I’ll never need to look at it again.
“Why do you like drugs? Why don’t you?” She waves the blue flame. I step back. The flame looks like it could melt skin. Anita’s so caught up she doesn’t notice.
“I still don’t get it. Why you do that when you’ve got so much going for you?”
“Can you sit there,” she says, “and honestly tell me you love yourself?”
“Well—”
“Sweetheart, it’s either a Yes or a No,” she says, leveling those dead-crazy-alive eyes at me. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“If you love you. Forget”—her hand flies up, waving away invisible insects—“him. Do you? Love you?”
I don’t. I don’t know if I do.
“Sometimes I don’t ’cause …” Maybe Kidd was right about me. That I hide behind questions. “Sometimes—sometimes, I wish. No, more like … I keep wondering what would my life be like if I was straight. Nobody would have noticed me. I’d have started dating girls. Everyone, they would have encouraged me. But ’cause I’m different, I’m forced to live through this?”
“Girl.” She puts down the pipe and drops the attitude. “Now, before we say good-bye, it’s time for us to get real.”
Chapter 109
“One day I remember,” Anita says. The G-L-A-M-O-U-R-O-U-S voice is gone. “I came home from the waffle shop. Someone seen me, you know, dressed. They told my grandparents. Who sat me down and said, ‘Chil’, long as you live here, you will dress like a boy.’ And I told ’em, ‘I just spent the last five months learning how to act like a girl!’”
“That’s how they found out?”
Maybe her story holds a clue. Maybe I’ll learn that I’m not really as alone—or, damned to shame and loneliness—as I feel.
“Chil’, they didn’t find out once!” she says. “No, more like they kept finding out. Till they couldn’t pretend no more.”
She lights up, sucks, smokes. I’m mesmerized by her ritual. How she holds the blue flame to the end of the pipe. How she sucks it. How she holds it in, how she exhales. How her mood tick-tocks with each puff.
I’m tempted. I’ll try it! Take the edge off. Nothing wrong with that, right?
The blue flame lights up Anita’s face. She sweats and her hands shake. N.P. (Not Pretty.) No, thank you, there’s more for you. And, oh, yeah, ’Nita, don’t meth rhyme with death?
“I was little. Five? My dad walked into my parents’ bedroom,” she says. “Dancing! And, girl, I was all dressed up. In my mom’s clothes. I even had on one of her wigs. He scared me. I saw him and jumped under the covers. Like I could hide from him. He stood over the bed and said, ‘What’s that you have on?’ I said, ‘Nothing!’ Then, you know what he does?”
“No, what?”
“He drags me off the bed, marches me out the house and drives me to school.”
“Damn! That’s hard.”
“I loved it. I thought, ‘Now all the people can see how pretty I look!’” The blue flame cuts out. She puts down the torch. We sit in the dark. She rummages around in her purse and pulls out lipstick. “So, sweetheart, what’s your story? I know you’re dying to tell it.”
“I don’t have one. I’m the victim of extraordinary circumstances.”
“I know exactly how you feel. Fact, I feel you so deep, I thought you might like—”
Crack-pop, the blue flame comes back to life, illuminating our cave. Ladylike, she holds up a homemade cigarette. She lights its white tip on the blue flame.
“What’s that?”
“Somebody didn’t graduate D.A.R.E.”
“Yeah, I did. You’re holding a gateway drug.”
“Maybe?” She takes quick, short puffs on the joint. “Don’t believe everything the government sells. One puff and—boom!—you’re an addict. You’re not like me.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“You didn’t grab this out of my hands, for one. You didn’t open my purse, for two. You didn’t open my purse and run off with my purse to some alley and get high by yourself.” She exhales, a fine line of sweet-smelling smoke. “Remember the first time we dyed your hair? I asked you if you wanted a nip, you said, ‘No.’ You didn’t think about it. No, ‘Hey, ’Nita, gimme a toke.’ It’d have been like, ‘Yeah, gimme the bottle. And what else you got?’”
“Okay, I see.”
She offers me the joint.
“Listen, your head’s not gonna explode if you take one toke.”
Cautious, I take the joint. I pinch it in-between my thumb and index finger. I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about, but I don’t want to sound like a total dweeb.
“Speed? I mean, if you want to stay up, why would you smoke this? Doesn’t it make you sleepy?”
I raise the joint, take a little puff and hand it back.
She shakes her head. “No, no, sweetheart, take a toke. Suck in real deep, hold it long as you can and let it go.”
I follow her instructions. Inhale. Hold. Cough on the funny bunny smoke.
“Good.” She laughs. “Coughing’ll get it down there real good.”
Unlike the ecstasy, I feel the pot right away. But it’s a different feeling from the pill. Pleasant, but not euphoric. More foresty than exploding heart chakras and galaxies. Calm. A spacey feeling settles in. Like I’m sitting on the moon and my ass is about to slide off the surface. I stare at the red tip, mesmerized.
“Wow, check it out.”
“Huh.”
“How the embers chew up the tobacco and white paper.”
Anita polishes off the joint. Turns out, she was “sharing,” but only out of politeness. More for her …
“You think it’s a gateway drug?”
“One time? No. Here,” she says, puts out a hand. I help her stand. Her palm is rough with big fingers and long, curved nails. My hand disappears in hers.
“What’re we doing?”
“You’re leaving.”
Chapter 110
Blind, without light or lighter, Anita leads me out the basement labyrinth.
“’Nita, are you part bat?”
“Shhh,” she whispers, and pulls me close. “Be real quiet!” She inches us forward. Stops.
Click. Click.
Dress shoes on concrete. I know that sound. Twenty? Thirty? Steps. We stand at the bottom of the stairs. The dress shoes halt. I look up. A sliver of light’s forced its way through the basement door’s crack. I stop and pull her to me.
“He’s here!”
“Been there the whole time. He followed you.”
My mouth flies open. I’m about to scream. Her hand clamps down and covers my mouth.
“They’re waiting for you upstairs by the side of the building,” she says, voice urgent and low. “And this is what you’re gonna do. Walk up those stairs, walk past the pigs and walk out the side door marked EXIT.”
“But—”
“Sweetheart, if you act like it’s the most normal thing in the world, they won’t even see you.”
“What about you? Won’t he—”
“Go on, I’ll take care of myself.”
I step up. I look
back. There’s just enough light to see her hand reach and dip into the purse.
Click.
The gun.
I scramble up the steps, escape the basement for the final time. At the top of the stairs, I reach for the doorknob. I turn, and look down.
Anita looks up, her beautiful face framed by the dim light.
“Santa Anita,” I whisper, giving her a small wave and choking on my tears.
“Not everybody has the same key!” she shouts, loud enough for Blue-Eyed Bob to hear. “Cuz they don’t have the same lock. My motto’s always been—”
I hesitate, reluctant to turn the doorknob and step out, into the hallway. I may be the last person who sees Anita before the Angel of Death comes to take her away.
I turn the knob.
“Honey, I always said, if you can’t find the key, bust down the fucking door!”
She steps back into the dark and her fate as I step out into the light and mine.
Chapter 111
The basement door closes. No click. Right in front of me, the exit.
Noise. Cops or immigration officers, it doesn’t matter, they smell blood. Their voices filter down from upstairs. Maybe the side door’s a magic portal. I sure as hell don’t remember seeing that green, glowing EXIT sign.
I push the bar, open the door and peek outside. Two cops sit in a patrol car. I can’t tell if they’re chatting, jerking off or looking at Internet porn. Down the alley, the Impala’s trunk. It’s parked on Market Street. The back door’s open. I run down the street.
“Get in!” Marci grabs my arm and pulls me inside. The door slams. The car peels around the corner.
“They almost got you.” The driver’s the same boy who drove the VW beater van. He holds up headphones. “The audience is listening.”
We’re moving. I look out the window, at the city. Day for night. I see everything I missed the first night, and on Halloween.
I consider his words. Fact is, I almost let myself get caught. I almost gave in to my fear. I turn forward. I won’t look back.
Chapter 112
The new safe house is temporary. Kidd calls it “a fucking flophouse!” He’s right. I’d describe it as a roach-infested nightmare. The walls are peeling, the carpet’s tattered with torn-up bald patches and the front door hangs off the frame. It makes the old safe house look like a five-star hotel.
Everyone—except J.D. and Anita (and Pony, but he doesn’t count; he left on his own)—escaped.
I’m overwhelmed with guilt. I don’t dare tell anyone or write it down. J.D. saved me.
He really loved me … and I doubted him.
Chapter 113
Night.
Marci and I lie on a bare mattress. The fabric’s shiny from overuse. The surface feels exhausted from fucking and sleeping. She offers a cigarette. I wave it off.
“Why’d you come back for me?”
“I didn’t realize,” she says, taking a drag, “I had a choice.”
“Weren’t you afraid of being caught?”
“If I get caught and put in jail,” she says, blasting white puffs, “I can use the phone to call someone and post bail. But if you get caught, they’d send you back. No phone, no bail.”
“What about J.D.?”
She looks away. I don’t ask why. Not that it matters. I don’t have a rescue plan.
I close my eyes and “sleep.” I can’t really call it sleep. Every morning, I’m the first one up. I live in a panicked state. I’m a roiling cauldron of feelings. Nervousness, excitement, dread. My heart races. Even though the room is freezing, I’m always hot. My body burns.
The next morning, I sit on the window ledge, peering out the filthy pane. After months of hiding, I thought I’d be curious about the world. But I can’t see anything through the glass. The grime is too thick. I’m not even hungry, and it’s been ages since I ate. A shape appears in glass.
“J.D.?”
“No,” Marci says. She sits on the mattress and lights a cigarette.
I turn back. Fist to glass, I wipe away the grime and look through the spot. There’s a girl down on the street. She’s young, maybe fourteen, and stands on the curb.
“You miss him?”
“Hell, yeah.”
A station wagon pulls up. The door swings open. The girl slips in and the car pulls away. My body shudders. Is the driver Blue-Eyed Bob? Or, some other creep? What will happen to her? I’ll never know. She’s gone.
“I found a new place. I’m going back to the old one and pick up some stuff. What’s the one thing you want?”
“My journal. I left it under the futon. It’s blue.”
She drops the cigarette, grinds it under her heel and leaves. I fall back on the mattress and look up, at the ceiling. It’s endured thousands of eyes: awake, shut, surrendered.
Mine grow heavy and I slip into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 114
“Get up!”
A hand shakes my shoulder.
“What?” I sit up. Outside, it’s dark and so cold my teeth chatter. I look around. The room’s empty. The door’s open.
“Where is everybody?”
“Hurry up!” Marci tosses me a jacket. “We’re leaving. Here, put this on.” She hands me a red wig and green fabric.
“A dress?”
“Your picture’s all over the news. You’re an Amber Alert.”
“No way.”
“Way. Put it on.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s your disguise.”
I claw at my clothes. I know all about disguises. I’m a quick-change artist.
“No, pull it on over what’re wearing. Girls do that now. Wear dresses over jeans. And don’t forget the wig.”
I follow her out, looking less like a girl than a nutty boy who didn’t know the difference between a skirt and pants. We run down a dimly lit hallway, passing a series of open doorways. People fucking or shooting up. Angry people. Crazy, high, dead people. The air reeks—rotten food, vomit, speed.
We’re halfway down a narrow flight of stairs.
“Wait by the door,” Marci says. “I need to get the car.”
“Alone?” I shake my head and look up. Her eyes follow. A figure stands at the top of the stairs. His pants are crumpled at his knees. His hand moves, jerking off.
“C’mon, girls, cum up here an’ suck Daddy’s cock—”
Marci grabs my arm, pulls me out the door and onto the street. She threads her arm through mine. “Look down and pretend we’re girlfriends.”
“Hey! Hey! Bitchs I’s talkin’ to you!”
A hand clamps down on my shoulder. I turn, look. It’s E-Gore, the masturbating ogre from the top of the stairs. Marci spins around, holds up a canister and shoots pepper spray in his face.
“Get the fuck off us!”
“You fucking bitches! I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”
We run. A siren wails.
“Stop!” A cop’s voice.
Marci ignores the command. We dash down the street. I look to the left and see—No! Yes! Blue-Eyed Bob? Am I imagining things? Magical thinking. If I look to the right, he’ll disappear. I see the Impala. It’s parked by the curb.
“Wait!”
“No, we can’t!”
We run past it and down a stairwell.
“Run!”
I lose the wig and rip off the dress. We run down steps.
“JUMP!”
We hop a turnstile and tumble down more steps. The train waits, parked at the platform. She pulls me inside, the doors close and the car lurches. We’re moving forward.
“‘Scuse, ’scuse us.” Marci pulls me through the crowded car to another exit. The car gathers speed. “Hang on!”
Bam! She slams her fist against the emergency button.
Shreeaaaaakkkkkk
The trolley’s wheel screech and stops. The lights cut out. Marci forces the door. It opens. She leaps into the dark.
“Jump!”
I leap, landi
ng on the platform connecting the cars. The tunnel air’s stale. Below, I see a blur. Ground, track.
“Get off! Down! Down!”
I jump off the platform, shoes crunching on gravel. We run down a tunnel. Toward flashing lights and through echoes. Train wheels squeal, screech and groan. Headlights, bright and white, barrel toward us. I knew it. We’re going to die, crushed between metal wheels and railroad tracks.
“UP! UP! CLIMB UP!”
I climb up a ladder and crawl onto the floor. My face meets a million questioning eyes. I look back. Marci struggles to pull herself up, onto the platform. I put out a hand.
“Hey—”
WHOOSH
“Marci?”
She’s gone.
I stagger away from the scene. Dazed, I trudge up the stairs, elbowing my way through the crush of bodies moving, gushing, down like a river.
I reach the street. Think back. The violent screech. The loud thunk. The flash of arms. Body snatched. And the screams. The screams are nothing like a horror movie.
My knees weaken.
“Hey!”
I look over. My gaze keeps me upright. The Impala, its open door. The boy. He motions. “Get in! C’mon!”
“But—”
He reaches across the seat and hauls me inside. The door slams shut, the car speeds away, my head hits the seat and—
I don’t want to see. I need to. I crawl up, turn, look back.
Lights flash. Ambulance sirens wail. I did, I did see it. The accident. The men in white carrying a gurney, head downstairs to—
“She’s dead,” I say. “Dead.”
I don’t think he understands what I’m saying.
Am I saying it?
“Dead.” But he doesn’t stop the car. He keeps driving. He glances at me. His hands tighten on the wheel. He looks away. He doesn’t stop the car.
I turn back, face forward and remind myself.
Don’t look back.
Chapter 115
I look up. Alice / Nadya. She strokes my head. It rests against her tummy. I feel a kick. She’s pregnant?
“It’s Thanks-fucking-giving and all I want to do is …”
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