hidden (22 page)

“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 secret.

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.

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:

“W
hen 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, but 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.”

“T
he 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.

“‘Hey!’ Ming yells. ‘What you order!’ I assumed he yelled so I could hear him over the disco music. The song was—get this—‘I Will Survive.’

“‘You no order,’ he barks.
‘Go!’
I turned to leave when I remembered the vouchers the shelter lady gave to me.

“Oh, I left out that part. Before I ended up on the street, I went to this shelter. They told me I could sleep there, but after seventy-two hours, they had to call my parents. There was no way I was tipping
them
off. I knew bounty hunters were looking to capture me, and claim the reward. Twenty-five or fifty thousand dollars. For my ‘safe’ return. I’d vowed, ‘I’ll never go back.’

“I had a way to pay. Now, I took my time. I
studied
the
menu. I knew Ming wouldn’t say anything. My suburban girl attitude worked. I knew how to act like a paying customer.

“
Grrrrrr
. My stomach growled—loud. Ming must have heard it. He said, ‘What’s that?’ His pen hovered over the green-and-white order pad. Ming was patient. He’d wait. All he cared about was money. And it didn’t matter if the cash was crumpled up ones, five hundred pennies or vouchers.

“‘Double cheeseburger with fries, hold the onions. Chocolate milkshake. Small.’ If he didn’t want the vouchers, I bet he wouldn’t toss the food. I bet he’d soften up and give it to me.

“Ming gave me a number. Seventy-two. I don’t know why. I was the only one in there. I took it and sat down on a plastic orange swivel chair. There was nothing relaxing about Ming’s. The air conditioner was turned on full blast. Icicles grew on my clothes and hair.

“‘Seventy-two!’ Ming yells. The vouchers were still in my jeans. I walked to the counter, pulled them out and reached for the white bag. Food! Just in time, too. I was about to faint from hunger.

“Ming snatched the white bag. ‘Cash!’ he shouted. ‘Five dolla fitty-two!’

“‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But that’s all I have.’

“‘You no pay, you go!’ he shouted. His hands made shoo-fly-shooh movements. There was no let’s-talk-about-it. I looked up and recognized a Christian calendar. It was tacked to the wall over the grill. This month was covered with grease.

“I turned out my pockets. Showed him, ‘Empty? See?’ I hoped he’d take pity on me. He shook his head. No. Fucking. Way. He said, ‘Out.’ I would have grabbed the bag and ran, but Ming had stowed it under the counter.

“I turned and walked to the door. The phone rang. Ming yelled, ‘Hey, you!’ I looked back. Maybe the call’s for me. He pulled out the white bag and set it on a red tray. I walked back to the counter. I planned to take it and leave. The front door swung open. A smiley dad type walked in. He grabbed the white bag. ‘Hey,’ I go. ‘That’s mine!’ He said, ‘C’mon.’