Authors: Tomas Mournian
We reach the roof. Graceful, J.D. lifts me up and sets me
down on the roof. He hops over the ledge and lands, quiet as a cat, beside me.
“Here’s good,” he says. Immune to full moons and heights, he wastes no time, pulls out cigarettes and lighter.
Click-click,
a tiny flame pops up.
Chin down, his hand cups the orange flicker and lights up. Puff puff, white ciggie smoke swirls up and away. He’s focused on smoking. He busts one out and lights up another. I’ve gone from riding a race car to sitting next to its exhaust pipe.
“What’s J.D. short for?”
“James Dean.”
Lips clamped down on cigarette, he takes a drag, eyes studying the solar panel. The moon’s blood-orange light hits the mirror surface, giving our faces a sunset glow. My teeth chatter.
“Cold?” He reaches around my body and pulls me close. I want to resist, but he feels warm. Good and familiar.
“But serious,” he says, sucking on the tail pipe. He looks like a Latino James Dean. He’s a Stone Cold Fox. Already, I feel like I’m cheating on my One True Love, Hammer. “When you woke me up—”
“I’m sorry.”
“I heard you screaming, and you reminded me. When I first got here. I had nightmares, too.”
“But serious—” He takes another drag, true to his matinee idol namesake.
“About what?”
A thin line of smoke oozes out his full lips, white devoured by black. The scent lingers. Strange, I hate the smell, but I like how he smokes. Sexy, low-key, matter-of-fact. Just like James Dean, J.D. smokes without a smile or sell.
“Dunno.” He shrugs. “I forgot. I just stopped having them.”
“How long did that take.”
“Months—three? Then, I dreamed … what’d I dream?” He looks away. His eyes search the night. I imagine, he’s looking for those dreams. He takes a drag. The ciggie’s tip sizzles. Ash splits, falls off the tip and drifts down, gone in the black. “So, what’s haunting you?”
“Not what, who,” I lie without hesitation. “Dave and Seth.”
“What’d they do to you.”
“In real life, or in my dream?”
“Either.”
“Broke down my door with an ax,” I lie, again. Really, it was the cops, and I never knew their names. I don’t question why I rewrite my story as I tell it. The first sign of trust is telling the truth. Instinct guides me. I don’t trust J.D. I don’t trust anyone. Plus, unlike Serenity Ridge, I can say anything, and no one can interrogate me, check my story or punish me.
“Dang, bro’,” he says, and stubs out the cigarette. The gesture’s trés straight,
so
dude. “That’s some harsh shit. An
ax?
”
“Yeah.” I nod. “How’d they find out about you?”
“They?” He sounds surprised by the question. Impossible. I doubt there’s any exception to Marci’s “taped and transcribed” interrogations. They’re the price of admission.
“Your parents?”
“Oh,
riiiggghttt.
Moms found me in my bedroom having sex with another boy.”
“Boy boy boyfriend or hookup?”
“He was fourteen.”
“In your
house?!?
”
“Sure,” he says, resting his head on my shoulder. Heavy lids with long, dreamy lashes are half-closed on beautiful eyes. Close-up, he’s too pretty to pass for straight. His head moves, lips ready to kiss.
“Sorry,” I say, pulling away. “I can’t. I have a boyfriend.”
“What!?” He laughs, “searching” the roof. “‘less he’s hiding up here, what’s the problem?”
“Problem is,” I lie, on a roll, # 4 or 5, I’ve lost count. “I’m faithful. Coz I
love
him. Even if he’s not here.”
“Oh,” he says, firing up another ciggie. He lights up. Inhale. Spew. Eww. Compared to J.D., Sugar’s habit was amateur hour. “What’s so special about this person that you won’t mess around with me?”
“Geez!” I grab the ciggie. “Gimme a drag.”
“Oh! Oh! I love it, Mister Nicotine Anonymous knows the smokers’ lingo.”
He hands it over. I take a drag. I cough. Instant nausea.
He pats my back. “You okay?”
“No, I’m gonna—”
“Y
-y-yeah,” I chatter. I shiver. Barfing felt good. I hope it purged more toxins. I want to ask, “Was it cold the night you got caught?” and “Who the hell is Oskar?” I want to know, but I can’t bring myself to ask. Not direct. My Arab side retreats.
J.D.’s slung his arm over my shoulder. He pulls me close, but this time, the gesture’s totally bro’. He wants me to know, this gesture’s “nothing special.”
“Man, that night? Yeah, now that you ask, it was freezing. I was s’pposed to meet my boy at the club. The same night, his parents kicked him out. Which was fine coz we planned to run away.”
“Who were you in this little homo-romo? Romeo or Julieto?”
“You
didn’t
,” he says, mock-surprised. “Oskar,
he
asked me the same thing. So t’was kinda, you know, ‘déjà vu!’”
“So who were you: Romeo or Julieto?”
“Duh, what do you think?
Romeo
.” He looks at me head-on. “And
you?
”
“Me?” I look up and “study” the sky, thinking about that phrase, “People only know what you tell them.” The only “fact” is, I can be whoever I want to be with J.D. I’m a blank slate.
“Yeah,
you
.” He’s mopped my strategy—hiding behind questions,
asking questions being the best defense against answering them. That’s my strategy. If I gather enough stories, maybe I can make sense of my own. He presses, “What about you? How’d they find out?”
“Teacher called my parents, ratted me out. ‘I am concerned about your son.’ Blah blah blah.”
He nods, “Uh-huh,” eating up every word. This lie doesn’t feel as good as I’d imagined. I toss out a half truth. See how it feels. To reveal myself.
“Teacher read my journal. I wrote some poems, and she figured it out. The way they are, they assume, if you’re not running around shouting, ‘I’m gay! I’m gay!’ or, talking about it twenty-four seven you’re ‘at risk.’”
“Yup, yup. When really, it’s your parents who are the risk.” I relax—a little. He gets it. “You still do that?”
“What?”
“Write love poems.”
“No,” I say. I never said they were love poems. Silent, I recite the one I wrote about him, yesterday. White puffs escape his lips. What’s it about those lips? Plump, they look ripe as summer fruit. I struggle, trying to resist the temptation to lean over and kiss them. I slide my hands under my legs, pressing down hard on my hamstrings. I need to keep myself away from him, on
this
side of the roof.
“What went wrong?”
“When?”
“That night. It was cold, you and Oskar …”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “so I go home to get clothes. My boy had the car keys. He was waiting outside my house in the car. I had told him, ‘Kick it if I’m not back in five minutes.’ But I didn’t really think anything would happen. I mean, we had wheels. Dude, we’d
MapQuested
our route. My bags was
packed
. But then we got caught. His parents called mine. Dad was not having me even
thinking
about leaving. Two days later, my ass was triple packed with Thorazine and my dick was getting those electric zip-zap shocks.” He stops, pauses and takes a drag. I
feel him wait for my reaction. When I don’t give it, he asks, “So. Whattaya think about my escape plan?”
I want to know what happened in the
first
story (him getting caught hooking up with a fourteen-year-old).
“You thought you could run away?”
“Sure, why not? He had a driver’s license. Me, I had learner’s permit but, you know, still. We even had enough money to get somewhere.”
He takes a drag. I think, “You’ve gone over this story, relived your foiled escape a thousand times. Or, you’re like me, lying, making it up as you go?” Fuck it, I decide I don’t care. I’m talking to a
real, live boy
. You can’t fake that. Reality check, I don’t have a boyfriend. I’ll practice on him. I scootch closer.
“You two were in love.”
“Yeah. But then—” He looks at me with those beautiful eyes. “I saw you.”
Yeah, those beautiful eyes are wide and open, filled with … bullshit. I cough. I hope the sound hides my laughter. He bats his eyelashes and says, all innocent, “What?”
Just for a second, I take him seriously. “No,” I tell myself. “This is just another pose, fake as his dead Movie Star smoker’s cool.”
“You’re
such
a Latin lover.” I giggle. “A
real
Casanova.”
“And your heart,” he says, laying his palm on my chest, “is racing. Anyway, Casanova was French, not Mexican. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re kind of uptight. There’s nothing’s wrong with a lil’ romo. Straight or gay, young love makes the world go ’round.”
“Love”—I roll my eyes—“is not a roof top booty call.”
“Don’t
lie
,” he says, giving me a look that suggests he knows everything I’ve said has been a lie. “You’re lonely in that top bunk. All by your lonesome?”
“No,” I lie, again, effortlessly. Any trust I might have offered, evaporates. Sure, he’s “romantic.” In a Reality TV, I’m-f-of-shit, here’s-your-plastic-roses-choose-me sort of way. Sad but true, I am lonely, so lonely I ache. Every night, I sleep curled up
with my pillow. I hold it, pretending it’s the love of my life. But J.D. will never know that. I can front with the best of them.
“I’m too young to be lonely.” I yawn, looking over my shoulder at nothing. I stand. “Listen, I need to sleep.”
Without a word, we walk down the narrow steps to the fire escape. I try not to think, it’s ninety degrees
down
. I swallow the fear, bile in my throat. I mount his back.
“Hold on tight,” he says, like I’d do anything else. Say,
wave
to people? Eyes shut, I let him carry me down the building’s ladder. The moment a “shade” drops over my inner eye, I know we’re halfway there. We’ve dropped below the city lights. I peek. Yes, we’re on the dark side of the building. He moves down the fire escape, fast as an extreme athlete—or, someone escaping a fire.
“It’s like you and Kidd,” I say. “I mean, once you find someone, you don’t want to fuck it up, right?”
“There is no ‘me and Kidd,’” he says. I feel his body stiffen. “That boy will
always
want more than I can give him.”
“Then—”
“Shhh! People are sleeping!”
“That sounds all mature, but what does it mean?” I release his body from my death grip. I’m ready to end this nighttime game and step through the window. The curtains move, whiffing in the breeze.
“No,” he says, and grabs my wrist. “Don’t go.
Wait
.”
He turns me around and pulls me close. Close enough to kiss and close enough to smell his breath. It reeks of cigarettes. Tragic much, the combination of elephant breath and bad dialogue must be what soap opera actors deal with on a daily basis.
“Will you sleep with me?” he whines.
Instinct, now
my
body stiffens. I might like J.D. (a lot) but I’m not ready to give him that.
“Just cuddling,” he presses.
I look down, shake my head, afraid to say, “No.”
“But you would with Hammer. I see how you look at
him
.”
“Yeah, well, Hammer, he’s
hot
,” I admit. He can’t argue that point. Hammer
is
hot. J.D.’s arms drop. I’m radioactive.
“Hot,” he scowls, “if you’re into
white
boys.”
“Hotter,” I hiss, ducking away from him, through the window and into the kitchen, “than people with boyfriends who don’t tell them they need breath mints.”
N
ight. The room is bright. My pants are down. “Bend over,” Nurse commands. I lean forward. The steel table is cold under my stomach. I feel a finger. It slides inside.
“Ah!”
“Now,” Nurse says. “Cough.”
I do. I’m done. I reach down, pull up my pants. A hand stops me.
“You think I’m hiding a roach up my butt?”
“Orderly,” Nurse says.
I look over my shoulder. A gap tooth grin and meat hook hand. It holds a syringe with a big needle.
I back away, into the corner. To them, I am not human. I’m an animal. They know I’ll do anything to avoid the needle. And that knowledge gives them pleasure: their noses twitch, excited by the smell of my fear.
Nurse leaves the room and shuts the door.
Sharp, it punctures my skin. Mute, I struggle, fight, try to get away. The orderlies pin me down. The needle pricks—it’s a nee-dle?—slides into my ass. Then, each one takes a turn.
“Wait,” I wail, “what’d I do?”
“W
hat did they do to you? In there?” Alice / Nadya’s looking at me, tapping a pen between her front teeth. They’re perfect, straight and white. Braces ’n bleaching. Rich girl.
“Do what to me where?” Maybe she’ll get the hint. I’m not eager to talk about what happened at Serenity Ridge with her or anyone.
“Your treatment plan,” she says, rephrasing the question, the way an attorney cross-examines a witness. “What was it?”
I ignore the question and doodle. A flower.
“I’m only asking because your nightmares wake up everyone in the middle of the night.”
“I don’t have nightmares.”
“What do you call screaming and crying?”
Her words sting. I feel hot tears spring up and blur my eyes. I know exactly what she’s talking about.
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
She says nothing—of course—and stares. I feel rude. I need to say
something
.
“I—” I start, then stop. I can’t tell her. Not her, not this girl. She “knows” something about me. But instead of saying it, she wants me to. I can’t lie to her. She’ll see right through me. I press
hard, dig my fingernails into my wrist, and I force my hand down. I really want to slap her smug face.
I’m onto her game, and I hate her for playing it. In Serenity Ridge, I learned silence is a weapon. And I have more practice staying silent than she has with questions. Another part of me aches to speak and tell someone the painful, unvarnished truth (or, like the song goes,
“will set you free.”
Yeah, right … just look at what happened to me because I wrote the truth in my journal). Problem is, I don’t know where to start.
Nightmares?
I know. And, yet, I don’t want to know.