hidden (33 page)

“Then you walked in—” He turns on me and swings the flashlight to smash my head. “You
fucked it up
.”

My stomach drops. I duck down. He smiles. The happy face turns him into a killer. I stumble, trip and fall back. I land on my ass.

He jumps, sits on my chest, knees pressing my arms to the ground. He’s gonna kill me, I know he is.

“M
e?” I don’t fool him. But I give it a shot. Maybe I can buy time. Wiggle away. “Fucked up what?”

“You don’t even give him the time of day and he’s all over you!”

He waves the flashlight, a miniature light saber. My hands fly up. I try to block the beam. Too late. My pupils close, tight as a virgin boy’s butthole.

“That’s not true, I—” The flashlight gave me a headache. Fuck it. If it’s the “truth” he wants, I’ll give it to him. Go ahead, kill me. You’ll be sorry. I’m giving you something to think about for the rest of your life. “You’re right. The second we laid eyes on one another, we knew.”

“Knew what?” His voice shrinks, suddenly small and scared. I stand.

“I wanted
him
and he wanted
me
.”

I laugh. I make myself. It sounds false and brittle, but I want to hurt him. I back away.

“
Fucking liar!
”

“Yeah,” I say, lowering my voice. I know how to drive him insane. Unleash jealousy, the green-eyed monster, to attack him. Bite him. Infect him. “We
smelled
it. I knew I was gonna fuck him the second I saw him.”

There. I’ve said it. But once I’ve said it, I regret it. The words don’t make me feel better. Or like I’ve won. No, I stand in a mold-infested basement, playing a supporting role in some dumb homo-romo triangle. I’ll pay for my cruelty—pay for it with my life. Well, I think, maybe in the next life, I’ll be a nicer person. Live longer.

Kidd rushes toward me. But instead of running away, I reach out and grab him. Hold him in my arms. Hug him.

“Fuck! Get off!”

He tries to shake me. I hold on tight. Strange as it sounds, I draw my strength from our shared love: J.D.

“
Bitch!
You
heard
me! What’d I say
first
time I sent you to hell?”

“What?”

“He’s pos-i-tive,” Kidd says, sounding out the word. Hooked on phonics, this is how we say, H-I-V.

“Positive?” I play dumb. Even though I knew. J.D. told me, but—

“
Positive
. He’s positively positive. Fun, huh?”

“You’re a really sad dude.” My heart sinks. He laughs. The sound’s outside my head. His words echo, “You couldn’t handle it if I told you.”

True, I
know
the virus has no morals. But the truth is
the truth
. Facts are facts. I’m negative; J.D.’s positive. Never shall the two meet. But wait. J.D. and me did—we had sex. As of last night, we are (okay, were) still having sex. I’ve been infected and I’m positive and I don’t know it? That’s not possible. We used condoms. Well,
most
of the time. My head spirals.

Meanwhile, J.D. is elsewhere, off-stage from our homo-romo triangle. A chasm’s opened up, and it’s bigger than the one between me and my parents. Kidd did me one better and saw something in
me—
that my sense of survival trumps everything, even love. He knew. Knew that I’d give up, turn and go back. I could choose to refuse to “believe” Kidd. I could act like I don’t
understand what he’s said. I might feel like shit, but he was right. I give up.

“He’s positive about
what?
”

“He’s got the bug, baby, do I need to spell it out? The pre-AIDS, the H.I.V.,” he says, rhyming “HIV” with “give.”

“The
what?
” I ask, playing dumb coz I’m in denial.

“Stick around. Loverboy’s gonna get
real
sick. That map you stole?”

“What map?”

“The one that fell out of my bag. I leave the house for doctors’ appointments. He won’t do it. He thinks he’s special. Immune. He thinks he’ll never get sick. Me? I plan to live. So it’s pills and checkups and medicine for the rest of my life.
All
courtesy of loverboy.”

He points the flashlight at a pool of water. The beam hits the surface. The tunnel lights up, wavy shadows dancing on the ceiling and walls.

“It makes sense for
us
. My advice?
Give him up
. Trust, you can’t handle it. You’re not immune. You’re not special. You’ll die if you catch it.”

Finished, Kidd studies my face, checking to see. “Did I make my point?” And, “Will he walk away?”

“What you’re saying is—” I’ve got cotton mouth. “J.D. infected you?”

“One night, he fucked me, didn’t use a rubber, and this would be—” The flashlight clicks off. Darkness falls over us like a shroud. “The end of your ride.”

“Ride? What ride?” I ask, even though I get it. I’ve got to keep him here. I can’t be alone. The mole people, the rats—I won’t survive. I need him to show me the way back. My “ride” was an emotional roller coaster. Next stop, hell!

“Part of the game,” he says and, just like that, he’s gone.

“You don’t scare me!” I yell. My voice bounces off walls, echoing, endlessly. You. Don’t. Scare. Me. There’s fear in every word.

“I was a nice person before I met him!” he shouts, words ping-ponging
ding! ding! ding!
and lighting up the inside of my head.

Then, nothing. Reality check. Kidd’s gone.

“Ah—” A tiny sob threatens to slip out. I press my hand against my mouth and muffle the sound and stand there, left not just alone but terrified.

I
stay like that for a long time. Alone, in the dark. I don’t know what else to do or where to go. I wait for someone to turn up and “save me.” I could try to retrace our path. Or, I could just start walking. Five steps later and I turn a corner. There’s a shape in front of me. Giant rat? Mole person? I reach out. My hand brushes wool. A coat.

“RUN!!!” my brain screams. “RUN!!!”

My legs are weak with fear, but they obey. Or, try to. Running, I feel like that Greek character. Lot. A Lot. As in, A Lot to Lose. Lot escaped hell. But right before Lot left, he was told, “Don’t look back. If you do, your wife turns into a pillar of salt.” Of course, Lot did look back and saw his wife morph into salt. Forget the wife, I know Lot’s story. It’s human nature dressed up as myth.

So, I turn and look back. Eyes glow. Lot’s wife? No, these eyes are blue. Blue-Eyed Bob.

I turn, run and bump into—

“Ah!!!”

I recognize the shriek.

“Anita?”

“Girl!”

Laughing, we fall into one another’s arms. I know she’s a lying bitch (who goes around telling people, “Ben’s a dirty
ho.”). That’s ancient history. We join hands. We’re going to find our way out. I have faith. Anita knows.

We’re about to turn the corner and—I can’t help myself—I look back.

Bob’s blue eyes are gone.

“I
’ma Gla-
More
Girl.” Anita giggles. “Capital
G-I-R-L.
”

Despite being several feet taller than me, she hangs off my arm. We’ve become BFFs who could be heading home after a late night out (party, club, party, club).

“I am
not
taking those stairs.” We take the elevator. On the fifth floor, I knock on the safe house door. No one answers.

“Honey,” Anita says, placing a big hand on my tiny shoulder. “It’s locked.”

We cross the roof and climb down the fire escape. Last step, we stand outside the kitchen window.

“I mean,” she says, unspooling a nonstop monologue studded with lines stolen from last month’s
Vogue
, “I would sell
anything
for a new haircut, ya know?”

“In here!” Marci shouts, motioning us inside. It’s a wake. Everyone wears the same bored, miserable face.

“Girl.” Anita’s curled up, laughing. “Who died?”

P
eanuts and I kick it on the sofa. We’re in the middle of our daily dose of afternoon reality TV and talk shows. After noon, I abandon the
Johnny Panic
translation. I need something else to relieve my boredom. Nothing’s better than listening to someone else’s problems.

“Gimme!” Pony lunges for the remote. “I wanna watch cartoons.”

“‘sides Pony,” Peanuts says, holding the remote up, beyond Pony’s reach. “Who votes cartoons? ’cept the seven-year-olds.
Shiiiittttttt.
”

We crack up, falling onto one another. It feels good to laugh.

“Aw.” Pony makes a try for the remote. “They relax me.”

“Hey, Pony, knock it off,” I say, “We got a date with Oprah.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’re gon’ watch my girl,” Peanuts says.

Cue, theme song. We shift our gaze to the show’s spectacular sci-fi graphics opening. Oprah steps out, curls bouncing and working her razzle-dazzle smile.

“
Heyyyyy!
” we chant, and wave. Oprah waves back. “Love you!”

Pony stands and walks to the kitchen, kicking our ankles.

“Hey, Bigfoot!” I shout. “
Watch out!
”

“I am
so
fuckin’ sicka your shit, Pony,” Peanuts says. “
Y
ou go ’round all bumping into people, demanding they be
nice
.”

“Yeah, bro’,” Kidd says. “What the fuck’s your problem?”

“
You
try hidin’ under a buncha trash in the back of a pickup all the way from Texas!” Pony screams. He stands in the kitchen doorway and waves his arms.

“You were in the hospital like,
what?
Two weeks? That’s
nothing
,” Kidd says. Lately, he’s been an equal opportunity asshole.

Thump! Thump!
A neighbor pounds on a wall. “Keep it down!”

“Do they think we’re having a party?” I ask.

“You know what?” Pony looks around, crazy-eyed, “searching” for something. His sanity? Good luck with that. You’ll never find it. Pony runs across the floor, scrambles up the ladder and leans over. I know what he’s planning. I panic. But before I can stop him, he’s pulled out my blue notebook. Crazicle’s psychic. He reads:

I jump off the sofa and run to the bunk. A hand grabs my ankle. I trip and fall.

“Oh, no,
honeeeeee!
” Kidd banshee screeches. “This too damn
good!
”

Click, click, click.
The dead bolts turn, front door opens. Anita walks into the safe house. She shuts the door.

“
Let him go
.” Her voice is stone-cold sober. She’s home early. This is another Anita. She’s drunk. Pony and Kidd stupidly stands in her crosshairs.

“Or what?” Kidd says.

“Or—” Anita slides a switchblade out her purse. “I cut your face, you dumb fucking wannabe militant.”

Kidd open his mouth—

Click!

The switchblade pops, shiny, silver and sharp.

“Case you don’t notice,” Anita says, “I’m
not
fucking around with the likes of you.”

Note to self, re: safe house rules. Switchblades?

“And
you
, retard, up there, hiding.” Anita waves the switchblade. Sunlight glints on the blade. “Give the man back his journal.”

Pony leans over the bunk. Polite, he hands me the journal.

“Get off that bunk,” she orders. “That was
Ben’s
bed before you got here.”

I love Anita. She’d make a fantastic bank robber.

“Motherfucker!”
Pony screams, back to white trash psycho. He leaps off the bunk,
George of the Jungle
style. He slips past Anita and stands in the hallway. “I fuckin’
hate
livin’ here! I
hate
all these stupid rules! I
hate—
”

“Then maybe, homeboy—” Anita says, steps forward, switchblade up, near his face. Pony stares at the tip. He’s got one foot out the door. “You
should
leave. Like, right now.”

“You’re all a bunch of losers with AIDS!” he shouts, and bolts. “
Fuckin’ Commies!
”

Anita calmly folds the switchblade, walks to the door and closes it. Casual, she flips the dead bolts, and locks up. Done, she turns to us and gives us a tired smile.

“I’m always so glad when the trash takes itself out.”

“A
nita?”

I knock on the bathroom door. Behind me, the closet door opens. Hammer sticks his head out.

“Dude, you gotta check this out.”

He wears a cam whore outfit: tank top and loose shorts.

“Is this one of your Webcam things?”

“No.” He motion me inside. Peanuts sits in front of the laptop. On-screen, a reporter, microphone in hand.

“The shooting occurred outside the Polk Street restaurant. Witnesses said the argument was over ‘Who’s prettier?’”

Cut to, a grainy surveillance image.

“Isn’t that—?”

“Yeah!” Hammer says. “And look! She’s got a gun!”

“The suspect is a black, teenage female. The gunshot was not fatal.”

The “suspect” wears oversized sunglasses, a silk wrap dress. She holds a black clutch and a small gun.

“Wow,” I say. “She even managed to work a look.”

“Which one?” Hammer asks.

“High-fashion model slash Black Panther circa nineteen seventy-five.”

“Can you
believe
this shit?” Peanuts says, clicking the mouse,
channel surfing. The shooting is headline news. “Over who’s prettier!”

The bathroom door opens. We all turn and look. Anita emerges out of a cloud of white smoke. At first, I almost don’t recognize her. Her long hair’s gone, shorn to the skull. Without makeup, she looks like a boy.

“Hey, ’Nita.” Peanuts laughs. “What’d you do with the piece?”