Serenity Ridge. Their attitude was, “If you don’t like it,
fuck you,
I’m a bitchy girl. If you don’t like it, hand me that knife. Coz I’m gonna stab yo’ face.” The counselors left them alone. But whatever. I’m not about to use someone’s towel, especially when I see … (light brown) scootch marks?
I return to bed, climb back up top. Back to dreamtime. I’m an honorary Aborigine. Creating reality as I walk it. I step into theroom. The door muffles sound, seals out light, numbs feeling. Numb. Yes, I feel numb. That’s fine. But I can’t shake the nervous feeling. The presence of
one
Mean Girl suggests there will be others. I burrow, deep, into sleep. I want to avoid waking. They’re waiting. Catfights, claws, cuntiness. I’m a hot (tense) mess, even in my sleep.
Chapter 25
“W ass’up?” and “Muthafucker
don’t!
” I lie there, silently listening to the verbal IMs. The safe house doesn’t just smell like junior high school, it sounds like one, too. I bury my head under a pillow. Silence, sleep, where-forartthou? The voices persist.
“You escaped?” A finger jabs my ankle. “Yo! Yo! Yo! I’m Peanuts. And I
know
yous awake.”
Peanuts. Aiight. Yous a hims or a hers? A hes or a shes? A s / hims or a s / hes? Yous name doesn’t give mes any clue as to whos the hells or whats
yous
is. My head rolls to the side. I crack my right eye. Peanuts. Like the social worker, like Marci, Peanuts arrives armed with questions I don’t want to answer. I want shut-eye. I glare, Skippy Peanut Butter, be gone! S / he doesn’t budge.
“Yo! Dolls! Yous just escape?”
Yeah, dolls, yous fishing. I’m not biting.
“I had hella lotsa g.f.s. See, I was in this state hospital, right? They put me in there ’cuz I’m butch. Yous know what that is?” Then, Peanuts makes a weird hand signal that’s either gang related or ASL. Maybe s / he shouts ’cause s / he’s deaf? Peanuts seethes, ghetto as … TV. “My homies
so
scared a me.”
I knew it. I should have jumped out the van and ran. I could have lived on toilet paper. Stayed in the bus station bathroomstall. Bathed with liquid hand soap. Currently, I’ve been abducted and am being held by gang of deaf gay bangers.
“Everybody!” Marci says. “This is Ben.”
Fuck, I’ve been called out. Officially. Can’t hide, can’t sleep. I roll my head and face the room. Sunlight lines jabs the cracks in the tarp-covered windows. The floor is empty, sleeping bags rolled up, mattresses stacked against the wall. I face the firing squad. Six—seven?—faces look up, all at moi. I wave. “Hola, amigos.”
Marci stands next to a Tall Black Girl. T.B.G.
almost
looks like that biatchy TV supermodel. T.B.G. wears a Catholic schoolgirl (pleated) miniskirt, knee-high boots and white dress shirt. Shirt open to the belly button, her twenty-six pack abs pop, black against the starched white material. Her long hair, pulled back into a ponytail, is held back by pink, baby girl bar-rettes. She tilts her head down, blinks and flashes a brilliant movie-star smile. “Hello, I’m Ahh-nee-tah.
Fixx.
”
I’d title her trans-channel-movie-of-the-week special,
High School Honors Student by Day, Castro Street Hooker by Night, I’ma Teenage Trans.
“We met.” Mean Girl-Eurasian boy smirks. “
Kidd.
”
Yeah, Queen, I’ll say we “met.” And you forgot to flush. Next!
There’s a radiant sun beside Kidd’s Death Star. Two pink, perfectly shaped lips have been placed, perfect, on the handsome face. Muscles. Blue eyes. Cue cliché, “Love at first sight.” Pink lips move, and the man beauty speaks, “Hammer.”
Hammer’s an All-American Skinhead. Or, the President of the Aryan Youth Nation. His head glows, a spray of gold fuzz. Hammer takes Anita’s hooker look a step further: He’s shirtless. A thirty-six pack ripples under his tight, smooth skin. All these six packs. Maybe I’ll catch one. The way people do the flu.
I stare. Nobody seems to mind.
fuck you,
I’m a bitchy girl. If you don’t like it, hand me that knife. Coz I’m gonna stab yo’ face.” The counselors left them alone. But whatever. I’m not about to use someone’s towel, especially when I see … (light brown) scootch marks?
I return to bed, climb back up top. Back to dreamtime. I’m an honorary Aborigine. Creating reality as I walk it. I step into theroom. The door muffles sound, seals out light, numbs feeling. Numb. Yes, I feel numb. That’s fine. But I can’t shake the nervous feeling. The presence of
one
Mean Girl suggests there will be others. I burrow, deep, into sleep. I want to avoid waking. They’re waiting. Catfights, claws, cuntiness. I’m a hot (tense) mess, even in my sleep.
Chapter 25
“W ass’up?” and “Muthafucker
don’t!
” I lie there, silently listening to the verbal IMs. The safe house doesn’t just smell like junior high school, it sounds like one, too. I bury my head under a pillow. Silence, sleep, where-forartthou? The voices persist.
“You escaped?” A finger jabs my ankle. “Yo! Yo! Yo! I’m Peanuts. And I
know
yous awake.”
Peanuts. Aiight. Yous a hims or a hers? A hes or a shes? A s / hims or a s / hes? Yous name doesn’t give mes any clue as to whos the hells or whats
yous
is. My head rolls to the side. I crack my right eye. Peanuts. Like the social worker, like Marci, Peanuts arrives armed with questions I don’t want to answer. I want shut-eye. I glare, Skippy Peanut Butter, be gone! S / he doesn’t budge.
“Yo! Dolls! Yous just escape?”
Yeah, dolls, yous fishing. I’m not biting.
“I had hella lotsa g.f.s. See, I was in this state hospital, right? They put me in there ’cuz I’m butch. Yous know what that is?” Then, Peanuts makes a weird hand signal that’s either gang related or ASL. Maybe s / he shouts ’cause s / he’s deaf? Peanuts seethes, ghetto as … TV. “My homies
so
scared a me.”
I knew it. I should have jumped out the van and ran. I could have lived on toilet paper. Stayed in the bus station bathroomstall. Bathed with liquid hand soap. Currently, I’ve been abducted and am being held by gang of deaf gay bangers.
“Everybody!” Marci says. “This is Ben.”
Fuck, I’ve been called out. Officially. Can’t hide, can’t sleep. I roll my head and face the room. Sunlight lines jabs the cracks in the tarp-covered windows. The floor is empty, sleeping bags rolled up, mattresses stacked against the wall. I face the firing squad. Six—seven?—faces look up, all at moi. I wave. “Hola, amigos.”
Marci stands next to a Tall Black Girl. T.B.G.
almost
looks like that biatchy TV supermodel. T.B.G. wears a Catholic schoolgirl (pleated) miniskirt, knee-high boots and white dress shirt. Shirt open to the belly button, her twenty-six pack abs pop, black against the starched white material. Her long hair, pulled back into a ponytail, is held back by pink, baby girl bar-rettes. She tilts her head down, blinks and flashes a brilliant movie-star smile. “Hello, I’m Ahh-nee-tah.
Fixx.
”
I’d title her trans-channel-movie-of-the-week special,
High School Honors Student by Day, Castro Street Hooker by Night, I’ma Teenage Trans.
“We met.” Mean Girl-Eurasian boy smirks. “
Kidd.
”
Yeah, Queen, I’ll say we “met.” And you forgot to flush. Next!
There’s a radiant sun beside Kidd’s Death Star. Two pink, perfectly shaped lips have been placed, perfect, on the handsome face. Muscles. Blue eyes.
Hammer’s an All-American Skinhead. Or, the President of the Aryan Youth Nation. His head glows, a spray of gold fuzz. Hammer takes Anita’s hooker look a step further: He’s shirtless. A thirty-six pack ripples under his tight, smooth skin. All these six packs. Maybe I’ll catch one. The way people do the flu.
I stare. Nobody seems to mind.
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