Tricks

by Ellen Hopkins

  it’s not just about the delicious electricity

  coursing through my veins. It’s all about love.

  And you are the source of that, right? Amen.

  A Poem by Seth Parnell

  Possibilities

  As a child, I was wary,

  often felt cornered.

  To escape, I regularly

  stashed myself

  in the closet,

  comforted by curtains

  of cotton. Silk. Velour.

  Avoided wool, which

  encouraged my

  itching

  the ever-present rashes

  on my arms, legs. My skin

  reacted to secrets, lies,

  and taunts by wanting

  to break out.

  Now I hide behind

  a wall of silence, bricked

  in by the crushing

  desire to confess,

  but afraid of

  my family’s reaction.

  Fearful I don’t have

  the strength to survive

  the fallout.

  Seth

  As Far Back

  As I can remember,

  I have known that

  I was different. I think

  I was maybe five

  when I decided that.

  I was the little boy

  who liked art projects

  and ant farm tending

  better than riding bikes

  or playing army rangers.

  Not easy, coming from

  a long line of farmers and

  factory workers. Dad’s big

  dream for his only son has

  always been tool and die.

  My dream is liberal arts,

  a New Agey university.

  Berkeley, maybe. Or,

  even better, San Francisco.

  But that won’t happen.

  Not with Mom Gone

  She was the one who

  supported my escape

  plan. You reach for your

  dreams, she said. Factory

  work is killing us all.

  Factory work may

  have jump-started it,

  but it was cancer that

  took my mom, one year

  and three months ago.

  At least she didn’t

  have to find out about

  me. She loved me, sure,

  with all her heart. Wanted

  me to be happy, with all her

  heart. But when it came to

  sex, she was all Catholic

  in her thinking. Sex was

  for making babies, and only

  after marriage. I’ll never forget

  what she said when my cousin

  Liz got pregnant. She was just

  sixteen and her boyfriend hauled

  his butt out of town, all the way

  to an army base in Georgia.

  Mom got off the phone with

  Aunt Josie, clucking like a hen.

  Who would have believed

  our pretty little Liz would

  grow up to be such a whore?

  I thought that was harsh,

  and told her so. She said,

  flat out, Getting pregnant

  without getting married first

  makes her a whore in God’s eyes.

  I knew better than to argue

  with Mom, but if she felt

  that strongly about unmarried

  sex, no way could I ever let

  her know about me, suffer

  the disgrace that would have

  followed. Beyond Mom,

  Indiana’s holier-than-thou

  conservatives hate “fags” almost

  as much as those freaks in Kansas

  do—the ones who picket dead

  soldiers’ funerals, claiming

  their fate was God’s way of

  getting back at gays. How in

  the hell are the two things related?

  And Anyway

  If God were inclined

  to punish someone

  just for being the way

  he created them, it would

  be punishment enough

  to insert that innocent

  soul inside the womb

  of a native Indianan.

  These cornfields and

  gravel roads are no place

  for someone like me.

  Considering almost every

  guy I ever knew growing up

  is a total jock, with no plans

  for the future but farming

  or assembly-line work,

  it sure isn’t easy to fit in

  at school, even without

  overtly jumping out of

  that frigging closet.

  I can’t even tell Dad,

  though I’ve come very

  close a couple of times,

  in response to his totally

  cliché homophobic views:

  Bible says God made

  Adam and Eve, not Adam

  and Steve, and no damn

  bleeding-heart liberal

  gonna tell me different.

  Most definitely not this

  bleeding-heart liberal.

  Of course, Dad has no clue

  that’s what I am. Or have

  become. Because of who

  I am, all the way inside,

  the biggest part of me,

  the part I need to hide.

  Wonder what he’d say

  if I told him the first person

  to recognize what I am

  was a priest. Father Howard

  knew. Took advantage, too.

  Maybe I’ll confess it all

  to Dad someday. But not

  while he’s still grieving

  over Mom. I am too.

  And if I lost my dad

  because of any of this, I really

  don’t know what I’d do.

  So I Keep the Real Seth

  Mostly hidden away.

  It is spring, a time of hope,

  locked in the rich loam

  we till and plant. Corn.

  Maize. The main ingredient

  in American ethanol,

  the fuel of the future, and

  so it fuels our dreams. It’s

  a cold March day, but the sun

  threatens to thaw me,

  like it has started to thaw

  the ground. The big John

  Deere has little trouble

  tugging the tiller, turning

  the soil, readying it for seed.

  I don’t mind this work.

  There’s something satisfying

  about the submission, dirt

  to churning blades. Submission,

  yes, and almost as ancient

  as the submission of one

  beast, throat up to another.

  One human, facedown

  to another. And always,

  always another, hungering.

  Hunger

  Drives the beast, human

  or otherwise, and it is

  the essence of humanity.

  Hunger for food. Power.

  Sex. All tangled together.

  It was hunger that made

  me post a personal ad

  on the Internet. Hunger

  for something I knew

  I could never taste here.

  Hunger that put me on

  the freeway to Louisville,

  far away enough to promise

  secrecy unattainable at home.

  Hunger that gave me

  the courage to knock on

  a stranger’s door. Looking

  back, I realize the danger.

  But then I felt invincible.

  Or maybe just starved.

  I’d Dated Girls, of Course

  Trying to convince

  myself the attraction

  toward guys I’d always felt

  was just a passing thing.<
br />
  Satan, luring me with

  the promise of a penis.

  I’d even fallen for a female.

  Janet Winkler was dream-girl

  pretty and sweeter than

  just-turned apple cider.

  But love and sexual desire

  don’t always go hand in hand.

  Luckily, Janet wasn’t looking

  to get laid, which worked out

  just fine. After a while,

  though, I figured I should

  be looking to get laid, like

  every other guy my age. So

  why did the thought of sex

  with Janet—who I believed

  I loved, even—not turn

  me on one bit? Worse, why

  did the idea of sex with her

  Neanderthal jock big brother

  turn me on so completely?

  Not that Leon Winkler

  is particularly special.

  Not good-looking. Definitely

  not the brightest bulb in the

  socket. What he does have

  going on is a fullback’s

  physique. Pure muscle.

  (That includes inside his

  two-inch-thick skull.) I’d catch

  myself watching his butt,

  thinking it was perfect.

  Something not exactly

  hetero about that. Weird

  thing was, that didn’t

  bother me. Well, except for

  the idea someone might

  notice how my eyes often

  fell toward the rhythm

  of his exit. I never once

  lusted for Janet like that.

  I tried to let her down

  easy. Gave her the ol’

  “It’s not you, it’s me”

  routine. But breaking up

  is never an easy thing.

  Not Easy for Janet

  Who never saw it coming.

  When I told her, she looked

  as if she’d been run over

  by a bulldozer. But you

  told me you love me.

  “I do love you,” I said.

  “But things are, well …

  confusing right now. You

  know my mom is sick… .”

  Can’t believe I used

  her cancer as an excuse

  to try and smooth things

  over. And it worked, to

  a point, anyway. At least

  it gave Janet something

  to hold on to. I know, Seth.

  But don’t you think you

  need someone to …?

  The denial in my eyes

  spoke clearly. She tried

  another tactic, sliding

  her arms around my neck,

  seeking to comfort me. Then

  she kissed me, and it was

  a different kind of kiss

  than any we’d shared

  before. Swollen with desire.

  Demanding. Lips still locked

  to mine, she murmured, What

  if I give you this …?

  Her hand found my own,

  urged it along her body’s

  contours, all the way to

  the place between her legs,

  the one I had never asked for.

  To be honest, I thought

  about doing it. What if it

  cured my confusion after all?

  In the heat of the moment,

  I even got hard, especially

  when Janet touched me,

  dropped onto her knees,

  lowered my zipper, started

  to do what I never suspected

  she knew how to do. Yes …

  No! Shouldn’t … How …?

  The haze in my brain

  cleared instantly, and I pushed

  her away. “No. I can’t,”

  was all I could say.

  All Janet Could Say

  Before she stalked off

  was, Up yours! What are

  you, anyway? Gay? Not

  really expecting a response,

  she pivoted sharply, went

  in search of moral support.

  So she never heard me say,

  way under my breath, “Maybe

  I am gay.” It was time, maybe

  past, to find out for sure.

  But not in Perry County,

  Indiana, where if you’re

  not related to someone,

  you know someone who

  is. All fact here is rooted

  in gossip, and gossip can

  prove deadly. Like last year,

  little Billy Caldwell told Nate

  Fisher that he saw Nate’s mom

  kissing some guy out back

  of a tavern. Total lie, but

  that didn’t help Nate’s mom

  when Nate’s dad went looking

  for her, with a loaded shotgun.

  Caught up to her after Mass

  Sunday morning, and when

  he was done, that church

  parking lot looked like a street

  in Baghdad. After, Billy felt

  kind of bad. But he blamed

  Nate’s dad one hundred percent.

  Not Nate, who took out

  his grief on Billy’s hunting

  dog. That hound isn’t much

  good for hunting now, not

  with an eye missing. Since

  I’d really like to hang on

  to both of my eyes and all

  of my limbs, I figured I’d

  better find my true self

  somewhere other than Perry

  County. Best way I could

  think of was through the

  “be anyone you choose to be”

  possibilities of online dating.

  Granted, One Possibility

  Was hooking up with a creep—

  a pervert, looking to spread

  some incurable disease to some

  poor, horny idiot. I met more

  than one pervert, but I never

  let them do me. Nope, horny

  or not, I wasn’t an idiot. No

  homosexual yokel, anxious

  enough to get laid to let any

  guy who swung the correct

  direction into my jeans.

  I wanted my first real sex

  to be with the right guy. Someone

  experienced enough to teach

  me, but not humiliate me.

  Someone good-looking.

  Young. Educated. A good

  talker, yes, but a good listener,

  too. Someone maybe even

  hoping to fall in love.

  Incredibly

  Unimaginably, Loren turned

  out to be all those things,

  and I found him in Louisville!

  He opened my eyes to a wider

  world, introduced me to the

  avant-garde—performance art,

  nude theater, alternative

  lit. He gave me a taste

  for caviar, pâté, excellent

  California cabernet. After

  years of fried chicken and

  Pabst Blue Ribbon, such

  adjustments could only be

  born of love. Truthfully,

  love was unexpected. I’ve

  said it before, and I’ll repeat,

  I didn’t fall out of the tree

  yesterday. But that first day,

  when Loren opened his door,

  I took one look and fell

  flat on my face. Figuratively,

  of course. I barely stumbled

  as I crossed the threshold—

  into his apartment, and into

  the certainty of who I am.

  A Poem by Whitney Lang

  Stumbling

  I only have one question,

  scraping the inside of me.

  Answer it, and I will

  stumble

  back into her sh
adow.

  Shut my mouth, never

  ask again. I’ve tried to

  ignore it, but it won’t go

  away.

  It haunts my dreams,

  chases me through

  every single day, and I

  don’t

  have the strength to

  turn around. Face it

  down. So please tell me

  and I swear I’ll never

  ask

  again. It’s in your

  power to make it go

  away. And all you have

  to do is tell me

  why

  you love her more.

  Whitney

  Living in Someone’s Shadow

  Totally blows. Don’t get

  me wrong. I love my sister.

  Just not as much as my mother

  loves her. Doesn’t matter how

  hard I try, I can never quite

  measure up to Kyra. I’m pretty.

  She’s beautiful. I’m smart.

  She’s a genius. I can sing

  a tolerable alto. She’ll solo,

  lead soprano, at the Met.

  Mom’s own failed dreams

  resurrected in Kyra.

  And speaking of dreams,

  mine are small. Shortsighted,

  Mom calls them. Interior

  design, maybe. Or fashion.

  Kyra, however, is majoring

  in International Relations.

  I don’t get it. What does

  she want to be? A spy?

  I thought things would get

  better when she went off

  to Vassar. Two thousand,

  three hundred and fifty-six

  miles away from Santa Cruz,

  the pretentious California beach

  town where we live. But no

  amount of miles can make

  her shadow disappear. It’s

  only longer, stretched across

  the continent. Her on one side.

  Me stuck fast on the other.

  It’s Not So Bad

  When my dad’s home. He’s an

  investment banker in the fine

  old city of San Francisco.

  Too far to commute every day,

  so he keeps an apartment there

  four nights a week, comes home

  for regular three-day weekends.

  Used to be regular, anyway.

  My dad’s my hero, and when

  he’s home he makes Mom stay

  off my ass. I don’t say words

  like “ass” when he’s around.

  Don’t want him to think I’m

  a “foul-mouthed bitch,” as my

  mom enjoys calling me. Wonder

  where I got the mouth from.

  Anyway, Daddy loves me,

  and if he happens to play

  favorites, the dice usually roll

  my way. Probably just making

  up for Mom. But hey, that’s

  okay. One out of two ain’t bad.