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“You from here?” His voice ricochets in the air shaft. I want to jump up and follow the sound up, to the sky.

“Mmm?”

“You’re from here?”

“No, I’m—”

“Don’t tell me. They catch us, we can’t tell them what we don’t know.”

“Right.” I nod. I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about.

“Fool, what
school?
”

“Oh, like, where’d I escape from?”

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t we supposed to keep it a secret?”

“I promise not to tell.”

“Serenity Ridge.”

“No way! Me too!”

We look into one another’s eyes. Deep. You’d think we’d fallen in love on the spot. That spot being a skanky bathroom in a ghetto safe house. But J.D.’s
way
too cool to simply give himself over to the moment. Not that it matters. I don’t like him. I like Hammer. Right?

“Dude,” I say, and point at his hand. Ash trembles, about to
break and fall off the cigarette. “Time to put that out of its misery.”

“You remember that girl?” J.D. takes one last toke and drops the ciggie in the toilet water. I look away. I don’t want to think about the ciggie’s filter tip, glazed with his saliva, soaking in the yellow piss water. He shuts the lid. “I forget her name.”

“Little Miss Permission Slip.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That girl, whatshername, always running around, saying, ‘You are
so
gross and
so
vulgar and you are so going to
pay
,’” I say, mimicking Shelly, the girl who was famous at Serenity Ridge for sucking up off the male staff’s members.

“Damn, you do her good.”

“Hah, hah, hah.” We laugh. I’m amazed I can laugh about
anything
associated with Serenity Ridge.

“I could never figure out. Why was she there for so long?”

“Oh, you never heard?” He takes a quick drag and flicks the cigarette out the window. “She was fucking that orderly. I forget his name. But did you know? That fucker tried doing me!”

My body seizes up. I hope he doesn’t notice. I wonder if there are muscle relaxants in that medicine cabinet. The way he says it makes me think he can tell. See it on me. There’s
no way
anyone can know. “That orderly” didn’t just
try
, he
did
. All the time. I force the memory, down, out, away. Forget, forget, forget.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, peering at me.

“Nothing.”

I look away and study the tub. The green paint on the bottom peels. I want to plug the drain, turn on the faucet, get in and slit my wrists. (“Time to die!” cries the voices in my head.) I won’t answer his question. I’ll make something up. I will not tell him the truth. I’ll tell him what I think he wants to hear. Better, I’ll tell him what I’m feeling. Problem is, I’ve forgotten how to speak. I’ve lost my voice. He gives me this funny look. The “Hey, are you retarded? Say something” look.

“No, it’s just that place. Talking about it. I was trying not to think about it, that’s all. Brings back, you know, stuff.”

“Yeah.” He nods. “More kids she ratted on, more points she got. I bet she wanted to be on staff.”

I’m not buying it. J.D. hasn’t told me anything he couldn’t have heard, guessed, or made up. There were several Shellys at Serenity Ridge. She was a type.

I study his face. I don’t remember seeing him at Serenity Ridge. If he’s lived
here
for eight months, we would have met. Or, we might have just missed one another. He could have been on another unit—there were five. Or, was I so doped up, we
did
meet and I forgot.

“What?”

I open my mouth, about to ask, “Wasn’t Shelly there about eighteen months?” But I don’t ask. I keep my mouth shut. I’m so confused. I was never good at math. Still, I have this nagging feeling. He’s lying. Who’d lie about being in Serenity Ridge? He touches my arm. I jerk. An electric shock.
He never said her name.

“You’re thinking.”

“Nothing.” I lie. Is it still a lie if you just can’t explain the thoughts you have or second thoughts about sharing? I test him. “Did Valerie really leave in a body bag? Dead? Like everybody said?”

“Geez.” He shakes his head, “acting” like he’s “remembering.” Or, trying to. Now it’s so obvious he’s lying. There was no Valerie, and if he’d been there, he’d know. “Valerie, Valerie, Valerie. Dunno. Musta been after my time.”

A knock on the door. Startled, I jump. J.D. slides the window shut, hops off the tank and turns on the faucet. He splashes water on his face. Head up, he reaches for a toothbrush, wets it and swipes away the cigarette breath. Done, he moves the mirror. The reflection catches our faces in the chipped silver surface.

J.D.’s rests his head on my shoulder, face next to mine in the reflection. He gives me a small smile, like he can’t be bothered to
make the effort and part his lips. He’s not being friendly in a friend way. He’s being friendly in another way. I don’t get it. His arms tighten around my body. I like the feeling. And his look, whatever it is, makes me feel … nervous? And excited. He turns away from the mirror and faces me. I’m in his arms. I don’t like this feeling. I want to leave. He blocks my exit.

I look away, then back. His face says everything and nothing. I get it. He’s got game. J.D. thinks he’s some junior high school Casanova. I need to leave, now, or I’ll start laughing.

“Excuse me.” He moves, just enough for me to squeeze by. The closeness wavers between hostility and intimacy. He breathes on me. My skin tingles. I’m sure he sees the goose bumps. I look away, avoid his gaze. Something might happen, and I’m not ready for it. I’ve almost slipped away. He catches my arm and spins me around. Guess he
is
ready. He leans toward me, eyes closed, lips ready to kiss.

“You want to.”

I slip away, step forward and reach for the door. I open it and step out.

“Sorry, but I don’t. Smoke makes me sick. For reals.”

wishful thinking

T
wilight slips to night. I sit on the floor. The radiator kicks in. Steam oozes out the grill. The sound breaks the early evening quiet. The closet door squeaks, opens. My heart still skips every time a door opens. I live prepared to run and dive out the kitchen window.

A figure steps out. Hammer. Naked from the waist up. I stare at his perfect abs. His face and torso are sweaty. He opens his mouth and sinks his perfect white teeth into a Pink Lady apple.

“If you want,” he says, juice dribbling down his square chin, “jump on it.” For a second, I imagine his offer’s to jump on his jock. He looks at my puzzled face and grins. “
Internet
.”

Inside the closet, a lavender scent hangs in the air. Sex? I can’t see Hammer and Peanuts getting it on. Small, the closet has walls painted a pale purple color. Usually, I hate purple. I don’t mind this shade—it’s more eggplant purple (vs. tacky, Teletub-bies purple). Oversized pillows, covered with sparkly Indian fabric, are piled up on the corner bed. It’s Harem decor, Ali Baba, baby, all the way. Something glittery catches my eye. I push apart the clothes hanging off a wood rod. Gianormous, sparkly letters—SUGAR!—are painted on the wall with a flourish, Vegas style.

“There.” Peanuts motions me over. A sleek PC sits atop the
desk. A Webcam’s perched on its razor-thin monitor. The browser’s open to craigslist.

“See, that’s how we found you,” Peanuts says. “Right under their fucking noses.”

The picture on-screen is what gets my attention: a boy’s naked, muscular upper torso. Peanuts clicks the mouse and shuts the window. I don’t understand the craigslist / sex ad / bus station connection.

“Wanna surf it?”

“Hell, yeah!” I sit on the stool and face the monitor.

“Don’t move it—it’s Wi-Fi. Signal’s iffy.”

I move the mouse. Of course, the first thing I do is open bookmarks and history. Click. The window opens.

I study the torso. It’s Hammer. Weird. I’ve never seen Hammer write or read. No matter. I clear the search history and wipe evidence of my snooping.

The closet door opens. J.D. slips inside.

“Hey.”

“My time’s up?”

“No, but would you mind, can I jump on?”

“Sure.” His arms reach around my body.

“Peanuts is a real hard-ass about scheduling.” His fingers dance on the keyboard, quick, rat-a-tat-tat taps. He stands, feet and elbows wide, and blocks me in. “Wait, do you mind—”

I look at the screen, read: “
No screen name available. Your mail has been returned as a mailer daemon: undeliverable
.”

“What do I do if I want to find someone and their screen name’s been deleted?” He’s so close his lips brush my ear. I shiver. “Cold?”

I nod. In reality, my groin tingles. I’m excited. Closer, J.D.’s chest presses, flat against my back. He tightens his arms. I’m supposed to feel warm; I feel trapped.

“What service are you looking on? Yahoo, Gmail, My-Space—”

“Facebook.”

“Try name search.”

J.D. types. Done, he drums his fingers on the desk. The results pop up.

“There!” He clicks the mouse, talking as he types. “
Oskar. Where. The fuck are you?
”

Bling!

“
ey wh u?
”

“It’s him!” J.D. type / talks. “
You still got the Ghia?
”

I can’t move. Unless I shut my eyes and, even then, he reads as he types. I’m eavesdropping. “Maybe I should—”

“No,” he says, “please, don’t. Peanuts.”

Bling!
Oskar’s responds, “
2tlly … im wait ing 4U:) gots to run … xoxox
”

I stay, but look away. J.D.’s excited, type-talking, “
no knot yet…. ! PLS!!!! i need 2 talk 2 U!!!
”

Bling!

“
kant besos ciao
”

“
wait! wait! one sec, bro!
” J.D. types, frantically pressing “SEND.”
Bling!
“SIGNED OFF” pops up.

Oskar’s gone.

I follow and go back to bed.

“N
oooooo!!!!!
”

Screams. The sound wakes me. I sit up, drenched in sweat, tangled up in sheets. My body flashes
hot
,
cold
,
hot
.

His hand reaches out the dream, punches through reality and grabs me by the throat. The hand tightens. I can’t breathe. Him, I know it’s him. The feeling’s real as my father grabbing my arm back in the desert. The moment he reached out and maneuvered me into the bathroom.

“Baby, hey …” he says, stroking my back. “It’s okay. You’re safe. Up for a smoke?”

I open my eyes. I am awake. Not awake-in-a-dream-awake, but awake in life. Eyes, hazel and beautiful, look into mine. J.D.’s. Liquid, those dark orbs are pools. I want to jump in, swim to the bottom.

“Sure.” I’m still not up to speed with “Yes,” stuck in the noncommittal “Sure” mode.

“Here.” He hands me a jacket, skull cap and gloves.

“What about these?” I finger the flimsy pajama bottoms.

“Take ’em off,” he says, and leers at me.

I move back. I was wrong about him. He’s no different from the rest. He’ll have his way and I’ve got no say.

“Psyche!” He laughs and tosses me jeans. I pull them up, over the jammies. He stares. I knew it: He wants to see me naked.
Take advantage. They all do. My guard is up. I slide under the covers, shuck the jammies and pull on the jeans.

“Ready?”

He takes my hand and guides me off the bunk and through the main room. Ever since I ran, people have been taking my hand. They lead me here, there and everywhere. Day or night, everybody treats me like I’m blind.

He opens the kitchen window, parts the curtains and motions, “Go! Go!”

I step up to the window, look out the fire escape and freeze. “We’re not supposed to go out there,” I say, hiding my fear of heights. He doesn’t need to know about that.

I step back. I can’t do it. I won’t.

“F
uck that. You’re with
me
. Safe, y’know?”

“Sorry,” I say, and back away. “I can’t.”

“Can’t-can’t? Or won’t-can’t?”

“Can’t-can’t.”

“Here.” He turns and offers his back. “Climb on.”

“You’re strong enough to carry me?”

“Man, you weigh like, what, eight-eighty pounds soaked? Get on.”

I don’t want to—and have every reason to refuse—but that’s how we climb up. I hang on his back, baby monkey clinging to its daddy. Or, mama. Some bigger, stronger relative. The cold night air helps. Numb, I’m less afraid of what I can’t feel. I realize I could have just as easily ended up dead in an alley, or sleeping in one. I force my eyes to look up. Overhead, the full moon. It’s an enormous, blood-orange orb.

Up, up, up. His legs devour the fire escape. He’s a machine. Under his baggy, El Vato Cholo ropas, J.D’s all fine and young and lean, pure muscle. His back flares out, two solid wings, neck taut as steel. Then there’s his booty. My crotch sits on the ledge that juts out between his back and legs. Those, in turn, are powered by a V-8 engine.