hidden

by Tomas Mournian

  “Oh.” We? Really. We. I give her my spaced-out / those crazy kids smile. Truth, I’m not willing to disclose anything, circumstances or circumcision, to this self-coronated queen. Her principality being The White People’s Wannabe Banjo Republic of Hemp and Linty Press-On Dreads.

  “You can tell me what happened,” she says.

  Yeah, I think, holding my spacey smile. I’ve heard that before. “Trust me. It’s okay. Tell me your secret. I won’t tell. I promise.” I shake my head. “Go fuck yourself, Rasta poseur.”

  “Take these.” She plants her hands on the desk, gives it a hard shove and rolls her chair back. She reaches into the desk and removes a stack of rectangle-shaped packets. She places them down on the desk. Her gesture’s care reminds me of a flight attendant’s long fingers closing an overhead luggage compartment. I hear a voice. Dude! Rouse thyself! Ye not on thy ladies plane!

  I look at her. Her mouth moves. For a moment, I think—She’s talking?—but all I hear is a wah-wah-wah. A Charlie Brown Christmas special teacher voice. I tune in and hear, “Wah-wah-wah you can get food with these vouchers, but honestly, Jeremy, I think your best bet’s calling your parents. Go home. The streets aren’t for you.”

  Done, she sits back. That’s her pitch: Go home. The streets aren’t for you. Who, I want to ask, are the streets for? I love that she called me “Jeremy.” Was he the kid in the bus station? The one who got murdered? Did she suggest he go home, too? I look at her. All attitude. Yeah, I have it in me: I can be a shady biatch. I feel like I should tell her that this job isn’t “for her.” She sucks. There hasn’t been one “sweetheart” or “honey” in all of her canned “advice.” Which sounds like something you’d hear on a community access show. When this little interview’s over, I plan to fill out the comment card with a simple “YOU SUCK.”

  I look at the vouchers. She looks at me. I’m supposed to answer. Now.

  “Can I make a phone call?”

  “Local?”

  No, I want to say, you stupid fuck, I’m calling Saudi Arabia to order a prop plane jihad on this lame-ass shelter.

  I nod. She gestures at the phone but doesn’t move from her seat. I tilt my head down, and look up. Not to be confused with my helpless look, this is my shy face.

  “I kinda need to be alone, so could you …”

  I glance at the door.

  She must be desperate to leave and pick up her organic dry cleaning, because she stands and leaves, no questions asked.

  I pick up the phone and dial. Listen. One ring.

  “‘lo?”

  “Hi,” I say. I try to sound as normal (relaxed, not desperate or panicked) and gay (done) as possible while asking for help from a stranger. “I’m, uh—” What’s my fake name again? “Ben! I called before. Left a message. But I had to leave the bus station.”

  “Where are you?”

  I search for something that will tell me where I am. There. Blue letters stamped on white pen.

  “Larkin Shelter.”

  “Tell them you need to use the restroom. There’s a set of stairs at the end of the hall. On the third floor, there’s a women’s room. Hide in the last stall. Don’t move.”

  “But, should—”

  The line goes dead, the door opens and Ms. Headda Dreadful steps into the room.

  “Are we good?”

  “Can I use the bathroom?”

  “Down the hall and to the right.”

  Chapter 11

  I reach into my pants and pull out the blue notebook I “borrowed” from the Shop ’N Go. Plus, the pen I stole from the social worker’s desk. Go ahead. Say it. Natural Born Klepto.

  I plant my kicks on the toilet seat, open the notebook and prepare to write. Sitting this way is awkward. I close the notebook and sit, ass flat on the seat. This is G-R-O-S-S since there’s no t.p. or any of those wispy coverlet things. I force myself to ignore the fact there’s nothing between me and billions of E. coli. I open the notebook and lay it flat on my knees. White paper with light blue lines. It’s been almost a whole year since I could write what I want to in a notebook. Pen to paper.

  i

  The gesture fills me with dread. At any moment, cops or bounty hunters might break down the door, take the notebook and use what I wrote inside as evidence.

  FUCKING HELL!!!!!!!!!

  I’m mad. I want to throw the notebook against the stall. Hard. Kill it. I worry this is how Mr. Blue Eyes got his start. Calm down. This notebook’s cousin is the whole reason I was locked up and tortured in Serenity Ridge. Fool, I trusted my thoughts to the notebook when I wrote

  i might be queer

  Not

  i am queer

  Just

  i MIGHT be queer

  One. Two. Three. Four words. “Evidence.” Of what, I never got an answer, but my stepmother, father and a whole bunch of adults were convinced those words meant everything. The worse part, I was so careful. Porn and gay chat rooms? Before I logged off, I’d erase the browser history and clear the cache. Every time. And I didn’t do anything ridiculously stupid like create a blog (The Secret Diary of All-American Gay Arabian Teen). I left no clues. I got caught only because I wrote with pen on paper. Dummy. Moustapha and Haifa were so obsessed with my computer, I never dreamed they’d even think to open a notebook. Diaries and journals being just so last (20th) century. Cool and kinda retro! I assumed they thought, no one as smart as our son would be dumb enough to write down his thoughts. Deep breath.

  four FUCKING words

  There. My hand feels looser now. I could never have written those words in the hospital. I could never have spoken those words. Deceitful notebook. I could rip this one to shreds and flush it, but I don’t because then I’d really be alone. I’ll vomit my thoughts and use this dumb-ass notebook—then I’ll flush it. Attn. notebook: You’re safe. But when I’m done with you, you’re D-E-A-D. Dumb-Ass Word Turd, I’ll LMAO and flush—

  forget it

  i have to forget the hospital for right now because i do not know—the silver door. i can see me. well, not really me. more, a dark shape in the surface. the blot is more like a ghost. i am the ghost looking at its reflection. startled to see how he looks. real but not.

  I reread the words. They make perfect sense.

  i feel—

  The pen stops. Feelings? Mine are global and quickly expanding. Chaos, soon to equal those of creation. Deep breath. My alma mater, Serenity Ridge, remember. There, feelings were like yesterday’s trash, a chore. Your job was to stuff them in a plastic bag, tie the top and take them out to the curb. Problem was, the psychic trash collector never showed. Budget cuts.

  I can’t write about my feelings, because there’s one feeling that makes sense. At Serenity Ridge, I was “taught.” Who am I kidding? I wasn’t taught; I was brainwashed. For months, someone told me what to feel. But here, alone in the women’s room, with a kazillion chaotic feelings (and germs), the real problem is feeling what I feel. Or … Everything. For a moment, I consider hopping off the seat, diving into the toilet and flushing myself.

  Get A Grip

  what do you feel?

  IDK. IDK. IDK. I. Don’t. Know. Answer Fail. I’m the one asking the question.

  FEAR. i am afraid. what will happen to me? this is so damn scary. i am hungry. “wait.” but for who? “someone”

  Now I remember why I chose to use journals in the first place. Class assignment, one. But more, I needed to tell me. My Story. I was both audience and actor. If I could make sense of my life, then … If I could—can—tell myself a story, I could—will—survive.

  BE GONE FEAR

  LOVE AND HAPPINESS

  i will write about serenity ridge. but I will write about middle school. i remember, I walked down the hallway. there were so many people. a blur. faces. all i had to do was get through the day and i would be okay. i am fourteen. i am in ninth grade at _______

  I pause. Write.

  i might be queer

  Tap tap, knock knock. Oh, shit! I’ve b
een found! “Hey, you in there?” A girl’s voice. “Ben?” Ben? Who’s Ben? Oh, yeah. Takes me a second, then I remember.

  I. Am. Ben. Ben is me. The new me. The Ben Me. The Ben-E-me of Ahmed. Parry, thrust, Ben stands over Ahmed. Triumph! Long live Ben! Etc. I lift my shirt and slide the notebook underneath.

  “Yeah? Who’s that?”

  “C’mon, move it,” she says, “open up. We don’t have much time.”

  I lift the latch and open the door. Short and fat, Miss “C’mon Move It” wears Chunky, Nerd Girl glasses and rumpled clothes. She smiles. “Ben?”

  “Ah—” I catch myself, reminding myself to say my new name. “Yes. I am Ben.” I sound so FOB (fresh off the boat) but then, I guess I am. Except in my case, it’s fresh off the bus.

  “Hi, I’m Marci.”

  She turns and I follow her out the exit, down another hallway and into a stairwell.

  WAH! WAH! WAH!

  An alarm goes off. Except, I know it’s not a fire but me they’re looking for. I am the emergency. I was so close. I want to go back, have a moment with john. I really needed a private moment, to take a dump.

  “C’mon,” she says, calm, like she rescues runaways on a daily basis. Like a movie, everything shifts to—

  Slo-mo—

  Death—

  He’s farther back, as I—

  Pull out in front. I might just win this race. We scramble down three flights, our footsteps echoing in the empty well. On the ground floor, we burst out the building, onto an alleyway. A blue beater van is parked by the curb.

  We climb inside; the van drives away. Past the patrol car that pulls up and the cops who jump out, guns drawn. You’d think it was a bank robbery. I can’t figure out what was stolen.

  Except, maybe—

  Me?

  Chapter 12

  The VW beater van pulls up to a curb. The engine sputters, dies. We’re in a forest. Or, a park. Overhead, the street lamp’s dim light filters through a canopy of leaves. I sit in the backseat, next to Marci. The boy driver sits up front. He ignores me.

  There’s something fishy about this setup. Panic! Adrenaline surge. Get out! Before I become a sex slave. Marci runs a brothel stocked with runaway teenage queer boys. We’re locked inside and forced to service men. Yes, I need to jump out and—

  “Did anyone see you?”

  Sure, I almost say, lots of people saw me. A knife-wielding serial killer, for instance.

  “No.”

  “How’d you get my number?”

  “Serenity Ridge.” I hand over the wrinkled paper. “A boy gave it to me the night before I left. He told me, ‘Call this.’”

  She examines the paper under the dim light. Everybody’s paranoid. Full moon? I never thought she might be nervous about meeting me. I could be a baby-faced cop posing as a runaway queer teen who’s been sent to bust the teen boi brothel. She holds up a lighter, flame to paper and drops it out the window.

  “That’s out of service. How’d you find me?”

  “I called the phone company, cross-checked the correct name and address against the bill and—”

  A car drives toward us. Lights strobe across our startled faces. A warning? A trap? Marci grabs my head and pulls me down to the floor. We don’t move.

  “We’re good,” the boy says.

  My face is close to Marci’s. She exhales. Pizza breath.

  We sit up. I glimpse the boy’s face in the side mirror. He’s really cute.

  “We need your statement,” Marci says, facing forward. “It will be transcribed and sent to an attorney via certified mail.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” she says. She sounds surprised I (dare) question her.

  “I don’t want a record of my dirty deeds.”

  “It’s so, in case we—you—need to go to court.”

  “Or, what, coz you really don’t believe me?”

  “No.” The Cute Driver Boy speaks. His deep voice doesn’t match his baby face. “Kids change their story. Maybe they tried to kill themselves. Or, they ran away from home. Or, whatever.”

  On whatever, his dark eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. I thought all I had to do was run away from Serenity Ridge, get myself to San Francisco and the van people would take care of the rest. I want to request, “Some disinterest, please. Some of Ms. Wanna-be Rasta’s don’t-bug-me-I’m-looking-for-a-new-apartment attitude.”

  Marci holds up a tiny tape recorder. The red light’s on. Cue tape, people, we’re live in five, four, three, two, one—Ahmed / Ben’s life story. Problem is, I need a nap.

  Luckily, I wrote down what happened in the notebook. That’s it. I’ll read my story. I reach under my shirt. An alarmed look crosses Marci’s face. She definitely thinks I’m undercover—the cop who hides his handcuffs under a tee shirt. She sees the blue notebook and exhales a big gust of Domino’s. Extra large relief, hold the anchovies.

  “Can I read what I wrote?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s kind of dark.” I open the notebook. Light. Driver Boy holds a flashlight overhead. The pages are covered with scrawl. Doesn’t matter, my handwriting or somebody else’s, I can barely keep my eyes open. I stare at the page and try to focus. On the words. But I can’t. My eyes can’t—

  “What!” My body jerks. “Epileptic. I caught it in the hospital.”

  “No,” she says. “You dozed off. You were about to read?”

  “My story?” Again, I wonder, which one? Supermodel dykes? Large Marge? Downtown Vegas? Blue-Eyed Bathroom Rapist?

  “Why’d they put you in Serenity Ridge?”

  Oh, that’s easy.

  “I wrote, ‘I might be queer,’ for a class assignment.”

  Marci nods. I can’t see her face now. She sits with her back turned, away from the window.

  “And how’d they find that out?”

  “My stepmother read it.” If this is how the interview goes, we’ll be done in five minutes. “And she really overreacted.”

  “Right. What happened to you in Serenity Ridge?”

  “They gave me a shot. Thorazine or something.” I yawn. “I w-w-ant to—”

  “Coffee.” She holds out a styrofoam cup. “It’ll help you stay awake. We can’t take you back with us unless we know your story.”

  I tilt the cup and taste cold, bitter coffee. Neat. Caffeinated cough syrup. Marci’s thought of everything. How to keep me up, how to suck out my story. I look at the blank page, where the words—my words—should be. If I’d had more time in the bathroom to write, I would have the luxury of reading it aloud.

  I do the next best thing: close my eyes, open my mouth, and let the words tumble out. Out my weary head, down my dry throat and through my heavy, heavy lips.

  Chapter 13

  “Mrs. McIngle walked through English class, dropping those blue test notebooks on our desks. ‘These are your new journals. What you write is between you, your notebook and me. If you don’t want me to read something, staple the pages.’

  “The class groaned. Not me. I was excited. I had a lot to say and no one to say it to. ‘Perfect,’ I thought. ‘I can write anything in there and … they’ll never know. Because the parental unit’s obsessed with my computer. They’ll never look in a notebook. Everyone ‘knows’ the Internet is the ‘danger’ spot.’ Online porn, woo-hoo! Hah. Not for me. I was careful. I always emptied the cache and cleared the history.

  “I left class and walked to my locker. I opened it. A dildo fell out. People laughed in the background. Stuff like dildos, all that crap, started in fifth grade. I looked at the dildo. I nudged it with my big toe. It was shaped like a sausage and rolled away.

  “Next. The walk of shame. My face felt hot. I knew it was red. ‘Later, haters,’ I said. I wrote off the dildo. It meant nothing except … it was a worse-than-usual ‘one of those days.’

  “School was a daily dose: same sex harassment run riot. Same as yesterday, same as the day before, same as tomorrow, school sucked. I knew this, so I never fantas
ized it would ever get better. I just never thought it would get worse, but it did when people got older. Dildos, Brie-filled condoms—”

  “Brie?”

  “It melts and looks—kinda smells like, too—sperm. Stuff like this happened—”

  “You never complained?”

  “To who? A counselor? Sure, I tried. Once. He rolled his eyes and told me to go back to class. What happened was, during the day, my body was there but my head was elsewhere.

  “So I get to the end of the hall. I’m thinking. Why a dildo? Why today? Then I think—no, I know—'Oh, it’s my outfit!’ I wore a pink polo shirt with turned-up collar and snug, stovepipe jeans. The kicks didn’t fool anyone. Basketball players—they could wear pink. Their pants could hang half off their asses. Not me. I was The Fag. Least, that’s what people said. Others were The Slut. Or, The Gigolo. The Methhead, The Pot-head, The Loser, The Dropout, The Brain. I’d cornered the market on The Gay.

  “I’d worked it out. Maybe that’s why it didn’t bug me so much. Kids want to look different for adults but the same with each other. You want to fit in there but stand out here. I was the frommage who stood alone.”

  “You mean,” she interrupts, “you had no friends? No one? What about the gay–straight club?”

  “Right, there was a gay–straight club. But the only people who went were future fag hags and computer geeks padding their activities for college apps. I wouldn’t be caught dead there.”

  “There weren’t any other gay kids?” Marci asks.

  I’m starting to wonder how many gay teenagers she’s met. Have I not spelled out the State of the Teenage Gay?

  “There was another one—a gay—and people just ‘knew’ about him, same as me. We stayed away from one another. I always thought, maybe he’s jealous. I got all the attention. Dildos, condoms—oh, and one day, shit smeared on my locker. The janitor pointed out the alfalfa sprouts in the feces. Maybe it was coz I dressed the part. If I was gonna be The Fag, I’d own it. Fuck ’em, y’know?”