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I pick up my pace. The plastic bracelet slams my ankle bone. If I manage to escape, I need to figure out how to quickly remove the tracking device.

I enter the store. My orange kicks skid on the waxed white floor. The electric doors close, and the silent
Whoosh!
seals off the hot outside air. The store’s a giant fridge.

I stop. Overload. Rows of vivid red soda cans, dazzling orange
lotto tickets and potato chip bags puffed up with salt and cancer.

The tranks make me stare—a lot. Plus, I’ve been off consumer culture for a year and that’s a whole other detox. Hello, Ahmed, and welcome back to the house of addiction!

Next to the register, there’s a cornucopia of jazzy-colored lighters, cigarettes, gum, mints, fudge and Slim Jims. Next to
that,
a magazine rack stocked with more temptation. Pornos, fashion and celeb porn.

A large TV hangs from the ceiling. On-screen, a singer writhes around on a soapy car. She wears a tiny loin cloth, and her long, blond wig is glued to her plastic tits.

Oh,
now
I get it. My people aren’t offended by American infidels so much as their bottomless appetite for junk and skanks who crave dick. (Or, me.)

“Ahmed, what do you want?” Haifa asks.

“The hot boy in aisle ten.” I could say it, but I don’t. Haifa doesn’t care what I want—only that I say I want something. Anything. Exercise my native-born right to consume. The family that shops together numbs out together. Sugar comas. Alcohol poisoning.

I walk the aisles, looking at the boys (all blond and perfect; a Mormon boy convention?) who wander amidst shelves crowded with stuff. Bright orange Sno-Cones? I’ve been gone so long from the world, I didn’t know Halloween’s in two months.

Near the end of aisle one, thick rubber slats divide the store. Midshelf, next to my left hand, a notebook. Blue. College ruled, 150 sheets, three subjects. 9
¹
/2 x 6 inches. It fits perfectly under my shirt.

The rubber parts. A girl steps out. She reeks of cheap perfume and cigarettes. Her long hair brushes my arm. Past her, I see the back. The room’s crowded with boxes—a lifetime supply of corn nuts, Slim Jims and boxed Kool-Aid. Bright light—white, of course—pours through the exit, makes my eye snap. If I can master my pounding heart (“Dude! Get a grip!”), my escape plan (RUN >>>> FAST) might work.

I case the store. My eye strips the junk. Now I just see the basics. People, layout, exits.

Up where the wall meets the ceiling, there are bugs. Well, not bugs, but bug eyes. Round, mirrored insect eyes hiding cameras. Reflected in one, I see my parents. They huddle in the liquor section, heads pressed close together, comparing vodkas. For such observant Muslims, they’re singularly obsessed with grain content.

I step to the glass beverage door, hand out, like I’m going to open it. But instead of reaching for the handle, I part the rubber curtains. I slip out of the light, into the dim storage room.

“Ahmed?” Haifa’s voice pierces the dark. “Ahmed!” (Like I said, instincts of a homing pigeon.) I run. Already, her voice chases me. “Ahmed!!!”

I trip on empty boxes, slide, trip. My knee slams a metal prong. Fuck!

My eyes aren’t adjusting to the dark. Blind, I trip through this painful obstacle course. Too fast, too slow? I don’t know, I’ve lost track of my body. I am all forward movement. Terror is my fuel, smell is my guide. I follow the scent of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. That girl with the long hair was outside, smoking on her break.

Arms out, my palms touch flimsy aluminum. The doors swing open. I stumble out, into light and heat.

I look over the loading dock. It’s a five foot drop to the ground.
I cannot do this.
I’m terrified of heights. I look around, where are the steps?

“
AAAAHHHHMMMMEEEEEDDDDDD!
”

Oh, Haifa. Give it up. Allah, kindly tap her shoulder and let her know, “Ahmed’s left the building.”

I close my eyes and jump. My body lands, flat and heavy, on the hard dirt. I don’t even stand. I scramble, run for the semi alley, low to the ground. I have no idea where I’m going. I’m lost in the engines’ roar and air thick with exhaust.

Out of nowhere, a hand grabs my shirt and lifts me up. The claw-hook-hand holds me over the dirt. I land on a passenger’s
seat, face-to-face with an enormous man. Or woman. Her / his gender is an elevator that’s stuck in-between two floors. There’s a beard but it looks glued on. Well, Halloween
is
soon. Stomach fat spills over the steering wheel. S / he smiles, a wolfish grin that glints gold and nicotine stains. The meat hook / hand reaches up and jerks a cord.

HONK! HONK! HONK!

The truck lurches and rolls forward. Large Marge reaches around the seat and opens a small, second door.

“Git,” s / he orders, picking me up again by my neck and tossing me out as quickly as s / he took me in. “Run straight that’er’re way. Three trucks, thar’s ya ride, waitin’ fer yew.”

I leap out the back door, run that’er’re way, the length of three semis, and turn right.

My ride: a cherry red convertible. Xena and her warrior gal pal, the supermodel dyke duo, sit in the muscle car’s front seat. The motor’s running. They wave me over.

I jump in the backseat and pull the door shut. The car peels out. My body slams against the hot, black leather.

The world becomes a blur of alloy wheels and metal.

I feel like James Bond’s bitch.

T
he brunette—the one who looks like Xena’s twin—turns and reaches over the seat. She holds out wire clippers.

“What the fuck?!” Xena ignores me, lifts the bottom of my jeans and clicks the clippers. Snip, the white plastic ankle bracelet drops. She tosses it out the car. I love the dykes, they’re so fucking can-do.

“Here.” She dumps clothes on my lap. We’re still in a James Bond movie. The car’s moving at the speed of sound or near to it.

“Whoa!!!” Xena screams. “Sandy, grrrrl, you gon’ win the derby!” Pirates, the women thrust bare arms up, into the air. Sun gleams on their tan skin and black, barbed wire tattoos.

I look back. My parents, those two clueless fucks, stand on the Shop ’N Go’s loading dock. Moustapha’s mouth is pulled down into his “I’m pissed off” face. Beside him, Haifa’s slipped into her helpless act. I can practically hear her whine, “Honey,
what
should we
do?
” as she reaches into her clutch for the cel-lie. I bet she’s got Serenity Ridge on speed dial and has already plotted her refund request: “He’s still gay! He escaped!”

I turn back and face the front. I can’t be bothered.

Sandy drives so fast the car sucks wind, and hot air thrashes my face. I claw, desperate to peel off the stiff blue denim jeans
and shapeless, polyester shirt. I want nothing more than to shed these lame-ass Mormon boy clothes.

My spontaneous nudist behavior shocks me. My whole life I’ve been shy about undressing in front of strangers. But now I can’t wait to take off my clothes. I want nothing more than to feel the hot wind lick my body. A pukey lime green, my olive skin’s starved for sun. In seconds, I’m nearly naked and
really
confused. For the second time in as many minutes, I lose track of the moment.

Meaning, I don’t know where I am. I don’t know who I am. I know I’m “free” … and still high, on hospital drugs. Or, I’m losing my mind. I go with it.

“Here,” the brunette says. I get a better look at her face. She’s gorgeous. A cross between Salma Hayek and Penélope Cruz.
Ola, chica, donde Latina?
She holds out an Evian. I take it and tilt the bottle, guzzling la agua.

“Hey, pilgrim!” Sandy shouts. “Take a fucking look! America!”

Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror. I know her. She’s the crazy white girl who grew up in a trailer park with an alcoholic father who molested her while Mom waitressed in a casino.

“See, they’ll
never
get’cha!” Sandy yells.

I know what
that
means. Sandy won’t be satisfied until she’s certain that
I
see what
she
sees. Dutiful, I turn and look back. Five semis split off into opposite directions, creating an enormous dust ball.
Whoosh!
The opening sequence of James Bond #39, “Dust Ball.”

“See, we tricked ’em! Hi, I’m Elena!”

Up front, the girls chatter, laughing. Sandy cranks the music. The speaker blares, bad rock (screechy guitar solos). Heat waves glimmer on the road and empty desert. The speedometer’s eighty-five M.P.H. Every mile the car travels puts more distance between me and my parents. And, I know my parents. They won’t stop until I turn eighteen. Or catch me. Or I’m dead.

I should be grateful I’ve been rescued by these female pirates but … where the fuck am I going?

The leather seat sticks to my naked back and hamstrings. I close my eyes and spread my arms. I savor the feeling of hot air mixed with the thrill of escape. Silent D.J., I work the reluctant junkie feeling into the mix. Delicious. I feel like I’m in a mobile spa.

Blink: The back of my eyelids go white and take me back to the private screening room. On it, a sea of men in butt-hugger swimsuits. I was twelve when I started riding my bike to the park. I rode around the fruit loop and stared at men sunbathing on the grass slope. They all wore tiny bits of stretchy fabric that were designed to show off their muscular bodies and big dicks.

In my mind’s eye, beneath its bright, midafternoon sun, the men’s bodies glisten, their tan skin slick with oil. I set myself down in the middle of them. I’m no longer a skinny kid wearing saggy granny briefs but a hot, young muscle boy surrounded by tons of studly admirers.

“Doll!” Elena’s voice breaks the bikini brief spell. “Ya betta get dressed,
now.
”

I open my eyes and reach for the light brown chinos. I slide my orange kicks through the legs and hike them up over my slim hips. The pants are ten sizes too large. I need a belt.

“Here.” Elena holds out a heavy leather belt with a brass buckle. On it, the cowboy rides a broncing stallion. “That was my bro’s, Luis’s, so you better take good care of it.”

Our hands touch. Something besides the belt passes between us. Her sad, beautiful eyes say everything. She doesn’t need to explain Luis is the reason she’s helping me.

“I don’t wanna be gettin’ this back from
you.
” Her stern voice trails off. The hard prison matron shell cracks. Tears well up and threaten to spill out her almond-shaped eyes.

I look away, embarrassed. I can’t bear to look at her face. It’s an open wound. I mumble, “Sure,” turn my body away from the front seat and thread the belt through the back loops.

Elena takes my chin and gently tilts it up with her elegant fingers. Tiny golden sunsets and palm trees are painted on the nails. She looks me in the eye. “You better.”

The engine growls, a deep, steady hum. The speedometer inches toward a hundred M.P.H. The ladies grasp my need to travel, fast.

“Here.” Sandy holds out a trucker’s cap. “Put this on.”

The wind shatters Sandy’s stiff hair, churning the blond ice picks into a white froth. In the rearview mirror, my brown eyes meet hers. They’re emerald green, mischievous as a cat’s. “You can tip me later,” she says, arching her back, pushing out her boobs and licking her lips.

OMG! I’ve been rescued by lesbian strippers!

Elena leans over and takes Sandy’s face between two deadly claws. She pulls the other girl’s glossy, pink lips toward her dark red ones.
Finally,
the lezzie moment. The women kiss, passionately and without shame. Fortunately, the road
is
straight so we don’t get into an accident. They part. Elena turns to me. “See, you could have that, too. But with a guy, if that’s what you want.” Oh, you think?

She reaches back, yanks the trucker cap down and hides my face. Now that I’m fully dressed, I’m ready for my racial profiling. People constantly mistake me for Mexican. These loose, baggy clothes make me look like a wannabe cholo. I feel … how
does
E’sai feel? He doesn’t know. His feelings are loose change that drop out dime-sized pocket holes.

“After we let you out on the street,” Elena says, “go down the side of the house, jump the back fence and
run
—”

“
Book,
” Sandy adds. Her voice—sharp, momentarily sane—makes me look up into her nutty emerald eyes. “You listening?”

Like most crazy people, Sandy’s keenly aware of other people’s behavior, especially the attention they are or aren’t paying her.

“Yes, of course, I’m listening. Go down the side of the house, jump the back fence—”

“Right, and after you jump the fence—this is
real
important—it’s a hundred seventy steps to the top. Got that? You just go,
up.
Climb. There’re steps carved in the hill. All you gotta do is focus on counting. One to one hundred seventy. Don’t look back, don’t think, jus’ keep movin’—forward.
If
ya get caught,
it’ll be ’cause ya stopped. I’ll be straight with you. The guy who owns Serenity Ridge, his house is near the one with the side path. Takes you right to the top. And I got the feelin’ you know
exactly
what I’m talkin’ ’bout, right?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

“Right. But then when you go down the hill, slow down, ’cause it’ll be dark and you’re not gonna be able to see your way so good.”

Elena reaches back. She holds out a wallet. “In there, that’s your fake ID.” I take the leather square and slide it in my back pocket.

“Hurry up, baby, we’re almost there.”

I’ve listened to Sandy so closely I missed seeing how the landscape mutated: from desert to suburb.

The car slows, veers to the right and exits the freeway.

We drive down an off-ramp.

Redwhiteblue lights flash.

A cop.

My heart seizes.

The car slows, pauses at a stop sign.

I knew it. I’m gonna get caught.

1
776 Liberation Drive.

I stand on the sidewalk outside a tacky tract house. The red muscle car drives down the street, turns and vanishes. Maybe they’re following the cop car that pulled up and sped by the Mustang.