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I write:

My good mood blooms and wilts in nineteen words. I close ’n clip the pen, shut the notebook and fall back. Dead or asleep, I can’t tell the difference. I stare at the ceiling. Listen to the snores. And try not to choke on the nasty-smelling farts. I hate this. It’s almost worse than boot camp. At least Serenity Ridge smelled clean.

The ceiling. I stare at it. I try to will my body to fall asleep or die. How can I? Float away without ever having to jump.

“W
hat!”

There’s a hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t!”

I sit up, finger in electric socket shocked.

“Here,” she says. “Put this on.”

She sits on the bunk, next to my shoulder. A nurse, she’s here to give me a dose. I’m back in Serenity Ridge. My escape—the whole thing was a hallucination.

Cold sweat (who needs air conditioning when you have fear on tap) panic attack. I remember Marci’s words, “Long-term safe house.” I want to know, what part of the house is “safe.” There’s zero privacy, same as Serenity Ridge.

“I—”

She smiles. Yes, I’m dreaming. Nobody looks like this in the hospital. A princess. Or, an angel. I put the pieces together. Face, voice, touch. The girl who brought me the steaming cup of coffee, no cream, one blue is—

“Sugar?”

“Yes,” she says. “There’s a good-bye barbecue up on the roof.”

That smile is definitely
not
an angel. She’s
all
fairy. She reminds me of a life-sized Tink. That must mean I’m a Lost Boy. I’ll follow her anywhere.

“Put this on,” she says, hands me a black hoodie and slides off the bunk. I follow, to the kitchen window. “Sure,” I’ll say. “Let’s hold hands and jump.”

“Wait,” she says. I stop. She moves the tarp and peeks. She lifts the tarp, steps through the window and waves me out. I hesitate.

“C’mon,” she says. “It’s safe.”

I step toward the window, ready to leave. Then, I look down and see—

The ground. The fire escape’s nothing but rusted pipe held together with thin, metal slots and paint. In my imagination, it buckles and falls off the building. My head hits the ground and splits, cantaloupe style.

I freeze.

“
Come on!
” Tink bleats, impatient.

“I—” I withdraw my foot and let the tarp drop. The only way I’m leaving is the way I came in: through the front door.

The tarp moves. Sugar’s head pops through the gap.

“Let’s
go.
”

“I can’t.” I’m a total wuss. Tink looks pissed, about to beat me with her wand. I brace myself, ready to duck.

“We had this other kid, Kevin, he had it, too.”

“It? What?”

“Vertigo.”

“And what happened to Kevin?”

“The last raid, he got caught. He was scared of using the fire escape. You know, ‘
Ben!
’” she says, in a sarcastic c’mon-I-know-that’s-not-really-your-name tone. “This is a safe place.”

“But Marci said,” I stall. Maybe she’ll get discouraged and leave. “Isn’t this a closed safe house? Aren’t we all supposed to stay inside forever? Or, until we turn eighteen?”

“Tonight’s an exception,” she says. “Hey, I’ve got an idea.”

She reaches up, pulls off her Cholita kerchief and wraps it around my head. Great. I live with Gay Gang Bangers. I knew it. Upstairs, I’m gonna be jumped in.

“See? What you can’t see, you can’t be scared of. Look.”

I do, it’s true. My blindness has a red hue. She takes my hand
and leads me up and out the window. The bandana solves my fear of heights. Problem is, I can’t see the ground below. This means I’ll need to trust her. I don’t. I don’t trust anyone. I left my trust behind, bedside, the day I was kidnapped. She knows none of this. She takes my hands and places them down. I feel two, thin metal pipes.

“
Hold and up!
” she barks, an aerobics instructor style. I step up. “Good.
I’m right behind you!
”

Underfoot, the fire escape slants up, same as the bunk bed’s ladder. Blind, I climb up-up-up, hoping we’re close to the roof. Or, if we fall, heaven. I’m Muslim enough; I still deserve the seven virgins promised to martyrs. (But I’ll settle for three if at least one looks like Hammer.)

“Oh!” she freezes. “Stop!”

“What?!?” I almost shit my pants.

“The neighbor’s—they—they just got home.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So they might
see
us. Don’t move. She just set down her groceries. She just set down the bags and … Hurry! Up! Quick!”

“How far”—I say, climbing, fast as one can on a rusty fire es-cape—“is it to the top?”

“Twelve more steps and—” She helps me up the final step. It feels different, flatter than the others. “You good?”

I nod. I lie. Truth is, I feel nauseous. This step feels somehow different because, I realize, it
is
different. I’m on a ladder that goes
straight
up. Vertical. As in, it’s bolted, flat, against the side of the building. Worse, the wind. Cold as a wicca’s tit, it whips me from all sides. In San Francisco, even the weather’s badass. I’m tempted to reach up and rip off the fucking Madonna “Like a Virgin” bandana. I need to look and
confirm
my fears. To see we hang in the air, high above ground. I swallow. What happens if I faint? Will Sugar catch me if I fall?

My tummy growls, hunger trumps fear, and I follow her—Up! Up! Up! I focus on the sound of her combat boots clomp-clomping on metal and rely on my human primate monkey grip to conquer the rungs. One, two, three, I count. Nine to go. “Eleven, twelve.”

We reach the top rung. The bandana blindfold slips off my face. It’s okay, I tell myself, the last step is the roof and we’re done. No. We’re not there yet. We have one more path: a catwalk.

I haul myself up, frozen hands guiding me up the narrow path. I fight two battles. Fear and wind. My palms crush old paint. White flakes curl back and reveal metal, pockmarked with rust the color of dried blood.

Up front, Sugar jumps off the catwalk. Air poufs her white ballerina skirt. For a moment, she hangs in the air. She drops out of sight. To death. There’s a reason I was born without wings.

“Where are you?”

“Down here.”

Jump!

My body won’t move.

It knows.

I can’t fly.

I
peer over the edge. An abyss. I’m gonna die. My eyes adjust. It’s not an abyss, it’s the roof. I hope it’s the roof. All I see is The Void. The Madonna / Cholita bandana has slipped and covers my mouth, bank heist style.

Then, I notice—The City—sparkly light cast off by bridges and buildings brightens as night consumes twilight.

“Fuck it.” I shut my eyes and jump. I drop off the catwalk and land on spongy asphalt. It’s still warm, heated by daylight’s Indian summer sun.

Chest high, the first roof creates a protective barrier and hides us. Not that it matters. Nobody looks—or cares—about us. We’re surrounded by office buildings. I doubt the lawyers and janitors working the swing shift are the least bit interested in our queer crew.

In front of me, there’s an enormous, rectangle-shaped pane of glass. It takes up nearly the whole roof. The surface catches fragments of light. I step toward it and glimpse a boy’s face in the reflection. His cheeks are hollow. Dark circles are carved under haunted eyes.

Who is he?

“Sorry,” I say, and step around him. He copies my movement. Oh, shit, I think, that boy is me. I look like shit. I need a facial.

Sugar looks back. Her ballerina skirt brushes glass, punk rock fairy princess style.

“What’re these things? Skylights?”

“Solar panels.”

“Yo!” Hammer raises a big blond arm, waving a beer bottle. Forget the hops, I could get shit-faced drunk on his bro’ish gor-geousness. My heart skips a beat. Maybe there
is
hope. Maybe we’ll share the bunk and cuddle.

“Careful.” Sugar reaches back and guides me toward the group. A homo homing pigeon, I set my sights on Hammer. I bump into something—someone—else.

“Ah!” I squeal, ’fraid, ’fraid, ’fraid. The hospital’s turned me into a pins and needles kinda queen. Everything scares and / or startles me. My nose twitches, and smells perfume.

“Haifa?”

A smile materializes in the dark. White teeth. Another monster who wants to gobble me up.

“No,
Anita,
” she says, grand. I can’t look away from her face. Anita’s face is perfect with this beautiful yet tragic movie star quality. I bet people stare at her all the time.

“Wanna toke?” she rasps, smoke caught in her throat. She holds out a tiny cigarette. Small, smokey puffs blast my face. A sweet smell, the weed makes me wonder if the roof’s exempt from the zero tolerance rule.

“No, thanks.” The hospital drugs blunted enough of my five senses.

“Dork,” Kidd mutters.

“Sweetheart,” Anita coos. “Please, ignore the hater. All you need to say is, ‘Thank you, hater, that just means there’s more for you.’”

I sit on the picnic blanket. The wool makes my ass itch. Down here, the city lights cast a
preternatural
glow on the hazy sky. (Preternatural being one of those snooty vocabulary words I love.)

Nearby, Sugar kneels and prods the barbecue. Red-orange embers spark, dancing in the dark before flying up and away like fireflies. Low, old skool reggae music tumbles out a battered
boom box. My eyes adjust. There’s Peanuts, Kidd, the deep-voiced boy, and two I don’t know.

“Here.” Sugar hands me a paper plate heaped with food.

Hunger trumps vegan ideals. I haven’t eaten in days. I scarf the barbecue meat, beans and asparagus sticks. Food tastes
so
good. So good, in fact, I choke. Nobody notices.

“W
hen I get out, the first thing I’m gonna do is”—Sugar announces—“go shopping.”

“With what?” Peanuts cracks. “You got a secret trust fund?”

“No. I’ll get a job.”

“
That
is
So. Fucked. Up.
You turn eighteen,” Kidd seethes. Or is it Hammer’s? I tell them apart by their heads. Hammer’s a blond skinhead to Kidd’s tight, terrorist black beanie. “
What
do you have? You’ve spent the last three years hiding in someone’s apartment. You imagine you have some freedom but in
reality,
you have
nothingggggg.
I mean,” he says, spitting out his hard, ugly words, “
who
are you kidding? Only difference between fifteen and eighteen is welfare.”

His nothing-to-lose words hijack our attention. The good feeling flees. Kidd’s hand drops to his crotch and adjusts, moving a large object under the fabric. Kidd’s hella sexy, for sure, but he’s scary sexy (vs. Hammer’s boy-band / soccer-player / Nazi-guard sexy: Hammer excites me
and
makes me want to jump—into his arms).

“Why the
fuck
are we here?!?
Really,
what’s this for? So I can grow up and be ‘gay’? Gimme some crystal, a
sugar
daddy, and a cell phone. Yeah, I’ll set myself up. Pros-ti-tute my young bubble butt. ‘Oh, yeah, Papa, it’s eight inches,
uncut,
for reals.’ Girl, what
else
kind of work you think you’re gonna get? ’Sides bein’
a ho? Selling your ass. All this safe house does is put time between now and the in-ev-it-able.
Fuck. That.
”

And the party is … over.

Hammer drops a big blond arm on Sugar’s small shoulder. Brotherly, he leans down and, with his sweet, pink lips, kisses her cheek. “You’re gonna do
great.
” He reaches over and catches me up in a hug. “You, too!”

My head spins. OMG, Hammer smells as good as he looks. I don’t know if I can handle all this eighteen-and-under (queer) teen sexuality. If Serenity Ridge was about carving out my desire, the safe house is about letting it bloom. Strike “safe” and I’ve moved into a
hot
house filled with Web pages, cellies, sugar daddies and meth. Fun!

“
Fuck. That,
” Kidd says, and stomps off.

“Yeah, cellies,
sugar
daddies and meth,” Sugar says. “That’s so me.”

“Yeah?” Kidd says, and turns. He walks back and pretends to read her palm. “
Your
future’s … mmm, let’s see. Web sites, lap dances, snorting blow off dirty mirrors and …” Sugar tries to take back her hand, but Kidd won’t let go. “Headless in a Dumpster!”

T
he barbecue light flashes red, yellow and white on Sugar’s face. Nothing—and “nothing”—can erase her beauty. I don’t know what else she has to offer.

“That was harsh.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs. “He’s right.” Her heart-shaped mouth turns up at the corners, a Mona Lisa smile. “I’d go home, but there’s not much of a home to go back to. Trailer parks don’t count.”

“Home’s home,” I say, and wince. My words sound like a cheap greeting card. She looks away. For a while, we sit like that, quiet and still. The city lights dance in her blue eyes, on skin white as a movie screen.

“How’d you end up here?”

“My dad.” She gives me a sidelong glance. “He wanted me straight or dead.”

“Hi, sis!”

“Everybody here’s got the same fucked-up parents.”

“Right. Mine? After my stepmother read my journal, I stopped sleeping cuz I was scared they’d pour gasoline on me and light me on fire.”

“Would it bother you,” she says, and holds up a cigarette and lighter, “if I smoke? Sorry. Gallows humor. Knowing I’m going to end up headless in a Dumpster does that.”

Head bent into cupped hand protecting a small flame, she lights up and takes a long, deep drag.

“They tried killing you, too.”

“Yeah, he heard all
I
wanted was to fall in love with a
beautiful
woman. Then …” Her lips tighten on the cigarette, cutting the answer short. Eyes closed, head back, her face in profile against the city lights, Sugar’s the Unknown Movie Star. She opens her blouse. A scar runs down her neck and dips into her chest. “He did this. That’s how …”

Another drag. My imagination fills in the rest. White smoke billows and hides her face.