hidden by Tomas Mournian Read Free Book Online Page A

you.”
    Done, she sits back. That’s her pitch: Go home. The streetsaren’t for you. Who, I want to ask, are the streets for? I love that she called me “Jeremy.” Was he the kid in the bus station? The one who got murdered? Did she suggest he go home, too? I look at her.
All
attitude. Yeah, I have it in me: I can be a shady biatch. I feel like I should tell her that this
job
isn’t “for her.” She sucks. There hasn’t been one “sweetheart” or “honey” in all of her canned “advice.” Which sounds like something you’d hear on a community access show. When this little interview’s over, I plan to fill out the comment card with a simple “YOU SUCK.”
    I look at the vouchers. She looks at me. I’m supposed to answer.
Now
.
    “Can I make a phone call?”
    “Local?”
    No, I want to say, you stupid fuck, I’m calling Saudi Arabia to order a prop plane jihad on this lame-ass shelter.
    I nod. She gestures at the phone but doesn’t move from her seat. I tilt my head down, and look up. Not to be confused with my helpless look, this is my shy face.
    “I kinda need to be alone, so could you …”
    I glance at the door.
    She must be desperate to leave and pick up her organic dry cleaning, because she stands and leaves, no questions asked.
    I pick up the phone and dial. Listen. One ring.
    “‘lo?”
    “Hi,” I say. I try to sound as normal (relaxed, not desperate or panicked) and gay (done) as possible while asking for help from a stranger. “I’m, uh—” What’s my fake name again? “Ben! I called before. Left a message. But I had to leave the bus station.”
    “Where are you?”
    I search for something that will tell me where I am. There. Blue letters stamped on white pen.
    “Larkin Shelter.”
    “Tell them you need to use the restroom. There’s a set of stairs at the end of the hall. On the third floor, there’s a women’s room. Hide in the last stall. Don’t move.”
    “But, should—”
    The line goes dead, the door opens and Ms. Headda Dreadful steps into the room.
    “Are we good?”
    “Can I use the bathroom?”
    “Down the hall and to the right.”

Chapter 11
    I reach into my pants and pull out the blue notebook I “borrowed” from the Shop ’N Go. Plus, the pen I stole from the social worker’s desk. Go ahead. Say it. Natural Born Klepto.
    I plant my kicks on the toilet seat, open the notebook and prepare to write. Sitting this way is awkward. I close the notebook and sit, ass flat on the seat. This is G-R-O-S-S since there’s no t.p. or any of those wispy coverlet things. I force myself to ignore the fact there’s nothing between me and billions of E. coli. I open the notebook and lay it flat on my knees. White paper with light blue lines. It’s been almost a whole year since I could write what I want to in a notebook. Pen to paper.
    i
    The gesture fills me with dread. At any moment, cops or bounty hunters might break down the door, take the notebook and use what I wrote inside as evidence.
    FUCKING HELL!!!!!!!!!
    I’m mad. I want to throw the notebook against the stall. Hard. Kill it. I worry this is how Mr. Blue Eyes got his start. Calm down. This notebook’s cousin is the whole reason I waslocked up and tortured in Serenity Ridge. Fool, I
trusted
my thoughts to the notebook when I wrote
    i might be queer
    Not
    i am queer
    Just
    i MIGHT be queer
    One. Two. Three. Four words. “Evidence.” Of what, I never got an answer, but my stepmother, father and a whole bunch of adults were convinced those words meant everything. The worse part, I was
so
careful. Porn and gay chat rooms? Before I logged off, I’d erase the browser history and clear the cache.
Every time.
And I didn’t do anything ridiculously stupid like create a blog (The Secret Diary of All-American Gay Arabian Teen). I left no clues. I got caught only because I wrote with pen on paper. Dummy. Moustapha and Haifa were so obsessed with my computer, I never dreamed they’d even think to open a notebook.