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his face. I thought, finally, he’s lost his mind. Totally.
    “‘Ahmed, get on!’ he shouted. We climbed on the bike and rode off, into the warm summer air. He was a bad father. His temper was horrible, he couldn’t keep a wife or a job to save his life. But he knew something about surprise, adventure, the ‘You’re-
NOT
-going-to-believe-this!’
    “We rode to a new freeway. There were other people. In secret, this group rode down these white, virgin concrete lanes. It was incredible. Here we were, riding
bikes
on a freeway at three a.m. Maybe that’s why some part of me thought … my father, he’ll accept me? I thought our dreamy, midnight bike ride was a signal. His way of saying, ‘You and I, Ahmed, we are different.’
    “I slammed the garage door down. On love, that night or anything good. My legs were heavy. My insides sagged. It took me forever to get to school. Riding, I realized I’d been safe so long as I stayed inside a black outline. The picture of me. My father had drawn it. The minute I’d stepped outside, I’d betrayed him. After that, I was, homo-cidal. I—”
    “You mean,” Marci interrupts, “
suicidal?
”
    “No,
homo
-cidal. Drama! I was more into the idea of death. Doing it, not so much. In English class, we were reading
The Bell Jar.
And I listened to
The Virgin Suicides
all the time. It’s a good soundtrack for—”
    “When was this?” She jumps on the pop cultural references. Insight! She’s an amateur psychologist. Whatever.
    “A few weeks later,” I say. “Two? I’d lost count. I’d stopped sleeping. I was wired. I was afraid something would happen if—”
    “Happen? Like what?”
    “Um, die.”
    “From natural causes or—”
    “Coz they poured gasoline on me and tossed a burning match.”
    Behind the coke-bottle glasses, her eyes get “Oh, Wow” wide.
    “You thought your family would burn you alive?”
    “Yes.” This girl has no idea what they’d do—for much less.Or, what I’m really running from. “I avoided my parents in the house. I knew they wished I was gone. That I
would
run away. I felt shame. I knew. They didn’t need to tell me. In their world, I’d done the worst possible thing. To them. To their
idea
of me. By writing those words—”
    “You said you knew,” Marci says.
    “Yeah, I knew, I was the one who was responsible. I destroyed our family. Worse, I’d done it on purpose. My stepmother was nosey. I knew she’d find it. I could have asked her to read it. Or sat them down and told them. Same difference. But I like the drama: shock! discovery!
    “One day I passed my stepmother in the dining room. She grabbed my arm and hissed, ‘
What a waste!
’ With her, at least I knew her hate lived in her voice and face. My father? He wouldn’t even look at me, much less speak to me.”
    “Be honest,” Marci asks, “did you try to kill yourself?”
    “I’d stand in the shower. Close my eyes and let the hot water pour down on my head. I’d pretend the water was blood. Or, tears. I’d crunch up my face. Fake cry. Really, I didn’t feel anything. Just numb.”
    Those feelings come back. A wave. They wash over me. This time, I don’t pretend. I’m not numb. I’m overwhelmed.
    “What?” she says. Touches my arm. I’m getting tired of her talk show gesture. I know she means to comfort me. But I want to knock her hand. Slap her face. “Let’s stop there.”
    “Okay.”
    I want to stop. Then again, maybe it will help—telling someone. My story. The big What Happened. Even though I know, after eleven months, talk therapy is total bullshit. I recall the words, “Transcribed and sent by certified mail to an attorney.” This story is my evidence—testimony. Someday, it might come in handy.
    “I might as well finish.”

Chapter 17
    “I woke up depressed. Couldn’t get out of bed depressed. I tried. But I felt
heavy.
Like my body was filled with lead. I lay there and stared at the ceiling. It was white and I was black. Art class.