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I lift the lid, scoop gloop oatmeal out the pot and slop it into a bowl. Milk? In the fridge. I tilt the carton and wet the beige paste. Add brown sugar, raisins and nuts, and it’ll almost be edible.

WTF!?!
Me? No.
My face?
Yes, I’m hallucinating. Oh, shit,
yes,
that’s
my face
—on the side of the milk carton. BIG BLACK LETTERS read, MISSING … HAVE YOU SEEN THIS CHILD? A milk carton. It’s so ′90s. Overnight I became an Amber Alert. I didn’t know people still cared about missing kids. Or, not enough to publish bad—or Photoshop free—pix. There’s a big zit in the middle of my forehead. It renders me ethnic indeterminate. I’m far from it, but I could be a baby Hindu with a bindi.

Recovered from my shock, I study the pic. Even without Photoshop, I look hella sexy. I am jail
bait.
Too bad there’re no digits for cute boys to call me direct. Just 1-800-COPS.

“I had one of those.” Alice-Nadya-Care-Bear-Jammie-Girl sits on a step stool opposite the fridge. She’s been watching me the whole time. I can’t decide if it’s creepy or a testament to her spy-girl skills.

“You know what that picture means?” Between last night and this morning, she’s dropped the “I’m shy” act and speaks in a normal girl’s voice.

“No, what. I won the lotto?”

“It means there’s bounty hunters out there, looking for
you.
It’s kind of like
American Idol
. But with an arrest warrant issued by your parents. There’s probably a reward for your capture.”

There goes the idea I’ve been forgotten. She steps off the stool and sits in the chair under Che (Guevara), the ′60s, Rolex-watch-wearing revolutionary, Fidel Castro’s B.F.F., today known for his face half-hidden under a black beret and silk-screened on tee shirts, postcards and posters. She opens a book and ignores me. She wears old-fashioned, cat-eye frames outlined with glittery rhinestones and pretends to read Machiavelli’s
The Prince.

“Bounty hunters? Did I rob a bank in my sleep or something? Will they take me home?”

“No. Definitely
not
home. Back to where you came from or somewhere—oh!” She jumps up and runs out of the kitchen. The bathroom door’s open: She barfs. Pregnant or bulimic?

I stare at the white curtains, morning—or, afternoon?—sun backlit the red dots.

“Back to where you came from, or somewhere …”

I sit there, listening to the awful sounds. I’m pretty sure she was about to say, “Worse. Someplace worse. And this time, they’ll make sure you don’t escape.” I shiver. Uh! I need to conquer my fear of heights. There may come a day when I need to leave—

“Quick.”

“T
ranslate The Diary of Anne Frank?”

“Correct.”

I drop the book. She snatches it.

My head hurts. Alice / Nadya and me sit at the black-and-white-striped table. She stares, her face unreadable. She reminds me of the staff at Serenity Ridge. They’d sit, quiet, waiting until you broke and opened your mouth and tried to fill the silence with words. I broke myself of the impulse. My bad habit’s come back. I want to talk. Say anything. Her gaze is unbearable. I don’t want to answer; I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help myself.

“You speak anything else?”

“Farsi.”

I laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” she says, serious. “You
are
the Muslim one.”

“Culturally, maybe.”

“That is so sad.”

“Baby”—I shrug—“kittens die all the time. Boo-hoo.”

She gives me a look. I guess she likes cats.

“Here’s the thing. I’ve been through this stuff and I need to … write it down. The way she did,” I say, and take a deep breath. She’ll crucify me for saying this. “I need to know my
own
story before I can make room in my head for other people’s stories.”

“Okay,” she says, and I can tell what I’ve said is anything
but
okay. “Ben. You better get started on your story.”

“I dunno, maybe I’m superstitious. But I’ve been through things—I don’t—I can’t.”

“Sure, whatever,” she says, freezing me out.

“Wait—I—the Holocaust. It’s—”

“What. What is the Holocaust.”

“There aren’t any words for it. I mean …” I stutter, trying to explain. But she just glares at me. “I’ve been through.”

“Yeah, what
exactly
have you ‘been through’ that would even come close to
this?
”

“I’m not sure I’d want to.”

“Why? You’ve got something against Jews?”

My head really hurts. I see where this is going. The political-religious tar pits.

“You’re”—I laugh, trying to take the edge off—“kidding?”

“No. You’re Arab-Muslim?”

“Whatever. Technically. Culturally, I’m American. But I’m—”

“Then why not. Why wouldn’t you.”

“Translate this?” I hold up the paperback. She nods, super-serious. “Well, this girl got caught and was … gassed?”

“Typhus.” She tosses another paperback on the table.

“
The Bell Jar?
No, thanks. I’ve read it.”

She removes a third paperback, places it on the table and pushes it forward.

“
Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams.
Maybe.”

“In Spanish.”

“Fluent.”

“French.”

“You mean,” I say, hesitant. “Learn a language from scratch?”

“You need to figure out what you’re doing with your time.”

I pick up
Johnny Panic
and flip through it, reading but not really reading the blur of words. I stop. Read a random page. “Dream about these long enough and your feet and hands shrivel away when you look at them too closely—”

“Trust me,” she says. For a moment, I do. “You need
something
to fill the days.”

The white curtains part. One black, scuffed Doc Marten steps inside. I panic—Ben, not Johnny, stands and trips, running to escape, out the front door. They’ve come to get me. I don’t know where I’m going, but I need to get out.

“Hey,” he says in a voice so deep, it reaches down, into my ear, and moves through my body. A hand tightens on my arm, and helps me stand. “I’m J.D.”

B
y daylight, love at first sight looks like “Jay-Dee,” a gloriously cocoa-skinned boy who works the Latin Rebel look. Eyebrows plucked to points. Ears hung with tiny, gold pirate hoops. Jet black hair shaved to the skin on the sides, spiked into glass shards on top. Our eyes lock, my brown-yellow with his yellow-greenies. I lose all sense of time, space and identity.

“What’s your name?”

It takes me a second.

“Ben!” I hear my voice and cringe. It’s a baby chicken cheep. “Are you, uh, by any chance Persian? Or, Armenian?” I wince. I’m
such
a dork! My question’s so lame, he could easily snap back with some arch, gaybonic put-down or rap, “Like it
matters
/ I’m not FOB / I’m in the here ’n the n-o-w / Face-to-face.
Bee-atch
.”

“In fact, I’m—”

Instead, a huge grin splits his face.

Peanuts steps in and snaps, “Wishes!”

“Peanuts,” J.D. says, his voice the sound of a switchblade popping. “You better
shut the fuck up.
”

Peanuts plucks a spoon out the sink, sashays to the fridge and opens the door.

“
That one
tells everybody he’s Persian, but he’s real”—s / he grabs a yogurt, opens it and dips the spoon. S / he licks it, giving
us a
nastee
Britney / Lindsay / Paris look—“lee, Gua-te-ma-lan.”

“And,” J.D. seethes, “
s-hit,
Little Miss Gender We Don’t Know goes around telling everybody that it’s Miss Misunder—”

“Sh-What?!?” Peanuts sputters, spitting yogurt.

“Yeah,
s-hit.
Short for
she-he-it.
All brown an’
nasty,
sumpin’ ya can’t
wait
to wipe ’n
flush,
like yo’s dirty, fuckin’ culo!”

I look away. There are knives near Peanuts.

“S-hit sez,” J.D. continues, “shit’s a Missy-Mis-Understood foster care lesbo love chil’ when,
in fact,
s / he’s really a cracked-on, ghetto bitch, speed freak ’ho who simply don’t got no place else to go.”

“
Fuck. You,
” Peanuts says. “Coconut. All
brown
on the outside an’
white
on the inside.”

“Split me, snitch witch, only thing’s white inside’s my milk, sweet ’n tastee,” J.D. trills. “What cum outta
you
when you spill? Skanky coochie juice? Ain’t the FDA recalled that toxic shit?”

“You remind me,” Peanuts says, tiny pink tongue threatening to execute a slow, vicious lick across s / his lips. “When Mexicans first started coming to El-Lay and doing their top buttons up with those weird pants the lil’ hats and all the white peoples were like, ‘oooooweehhh ke-he’? And then there was like hundreds of them kicking people’s asses and ruling shit and they were like, ‘OK, OK, OK.’ And
now
they’re such a part of the landscape that, when you put a quarter in one of those machines at the supermarket, out pops one of those Chicano toys.” The spoon slides in-between Peanuts plump lips and s / he swallows. “And that’d be
you,
brutha, just another fuckin’
Toy.
”

I
leave the kitchen and lie down, pillow over my head. The ghetto poetry-insult slam makes my head throb. I roll to the side, head stuck out from beneath the pillow. I fall into another dreamless sleep. No picture, just sound: conga drums, cymbals, flutes, bells and whistles. Or—maybe—I’m not dreaming. Maybe, I hear music. Spanish lyrics. Over them, a deep, male voice rumbles, “And this one goes out to Mirabelle in Potrero Hill.”

A shadow falls on the bed.

“Dollie, it’s time to
get up,
” Anita says, playfully tugging my big toe.

“Time to get up for what?” I mumble, half asleep.

“Time for us to
die.
” She puts out a hand. Silly me. I didn’t read the memo. I forgot about signing the suicide pact with a crazy trans girl. Her eyes are hella dilated. She’s not moving, and I’m in no mood to argue. I crawl off the bunk. Chunky platform heels turned to the side, Anita takes dainty, downward steps. She bunny hops off, and her hootchie mama miniskirt puffs and goes, Oh! I follow her to the bathroom. She flips the sign over (OCCUPIED), closes the door and gestures to the toilet seat. “Sit.”

Then, she runs a bath. I don’t see us doing any rub-a-dub-
dub. In the small space, I’m able to nail her scents: Chanel No 19, Breath by Smirnoff, 50 Proof.

She turns away from the tub. Busy, she chooses bottles clustered on the plywood slat laid down on the sink.

I study her. High, arched brows give her a wide-eyed, fuck-me-like-I’m-Bambi look. Biology 101, those eyebrows are plucked high for a reason: Wide eyes signal sexual availability. Eyelashes are weighed down by layers of black mascara. The black gunk fools her eyes, and dilates her pupils. She’s excited (!) to see you, me and everybody we know.

Anita draws herself up to her full height and cracks her back. Done, she sways on platform heels. She steps back, away from the tub, and trips. I catch her hand.

“Thank you!” she says. “Mama had a nip. Now, put your head
under
there and wet your hair.”

“Yeah,” I think, “Mama’s had more than a cocktail: She’s drunk.” I lean into the tub. Warm water washes over and soaks my scalp and hair. It takes a minute: I’ve got super thick (Fuller Brush) hair. I sit up. Anita’s gone. I’m dripping wet. There’s not a towel in sight and the bathroom door’s open. Right then, the front door opens. A figure steps inside. My heartbeat races, zero to two fifty. A bust! They’re here! To get me!

Mystery person shuts the door and turns: Kidd. Er, Kidd dressed in some Booty Bandit getup: wool cap pulled down over his forehead, scarf wrapped around his mouth. I’m puzzled; what look is he working: Foiled Fatwa? Or, the Unhappy Terrorist?

Right then, I remember Marci’s words, “Nobody leaves the house. Ever.”
Yeah, right,
I think. Nobody
stays
in the safe house, except milk carton boy, Alice / Nadya, and Peanuts. Everyone else is M.I.A.

Kidd’s just broken a “nonnegotiable” rule. He pauses, and unwraps the scarf. His face is ashen. Or, is it green? He’s either sick or scared as shit, maybe both. He drops his bag, locks the door with not just one lock but
all five.
The keyed chain door lock, brass flip lock, slide bolt, door guard and dead bolt. He
walks away, bag left on the floor. I’m
so
curious what’s inside and am about to run over when he returns and snatches it. Something falls out onto the floor. I’m already up and snatch the paper. It’s folded, a paper square. I slide it into my back pocket. Maybe it’s the clue I need to figure out what’s behind his hate.

Anita steps into the bathroom, towel draped over her left arm, steaming cup of tea in her big she-man right hand. She hands me the towel. “Here.”

I take it and drape it around my neck. On her towel-tea expedition, she’s pulled her hair back and up into a ponytail. The hootchie mama outfit’s gone, replaced with a knee-length apron and white surgical gloves. She looks shorter, too. She picks up a bowl filled with beige-colored pudding, sets it on the bathtub’s edge and picks up a small paintbrush.

“Sit,” she says, gesturing to the porcelain throne. Anita’s not the type I’d argue with. I bet she’s packing. She’s one …
Fierce. Deadly. Tranny.

Then, I look down and Anita’s profile goes South: She wears fluffy bunny-shaped slippers! Behind closed doors, Anita’s way more housewife than prison matron.

“You never met anyone like me, huh?”

“Yeah, in the hospital.”

“Uh-huh, who?”

“There were kids who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—play the role of their Natural Born Gender.”

“Hah, hah.” She smirks, mixing a bowl of beige goop. “I’m gonna mop and modify that. ‘Oh, I’m not feeling like my Natural Born Gender today.’”

“Yeah, right? But at Sere—” I catch myself. “The boot camp. There were the tough girls who refused to wear dresses and makeup. Or, the femme boys who wanted to
wear
dresses and makeup. Their dress code boycott was another fake problem. I mean, who cares
what
you wear? But at Ser—the boot camp, it was a big problem. Because it was so in your face. There were always boys who wrapped a towel around their heads after we showered. It drove the staff nuts.”