Tricks

by Ellen Hopkins

  breastbone. Goose bumps rise in

  unusual places, and my body tingles

  in a completely foreign way. Because

  of Andrew. But he’s not here. I pretend

  he is and let “his” hands explore the rounds

  of my breasts, move in tighter and tighter

  orbits, and now fingers circle the hard

  center nubs, raised like it’s cold in here.

  It’s not. I’m burning up. Delirious with

  raw need. My hand wants to slide lower,

  to a place I know nothing about except

  what they call it in books. And suddenly

  it comes to me how completely inept

  I’ll be when Andrew and I finally

  share that warm feather bed, with comfy

  quilts and pillows we can fall into.

  I Turn on the Light

  Go to the computer, try to avoid

  looking at the Calvary screen saver.

  Jesus, hanging on the cross, staring

  down at his poor crying mother.

  Mama downloaded that, no doubt

  specifically to deter the kind of

  Internet exploration I have in mind.

  I just have to be very careful not to surf

  to the wrong kind of website. A touch

  of the mouse, Golgotha dissolves

  into the ether and voilà, up pops

  Windows. Double-click on Explorer.

  Here it comes, ready to take me where

  I need to go. But where is that, exactly?

  Might as well get straight to the point.

  I type in, “losing your virginity.”

  When I Hear

  The door open, the sounds of return,

  I hurry to turn off the computer

  before Eve catches me, breathlessly

  reading stories about other girls’ first

  times. Some wonderful, some awful.

  Some taken by force, some given

  away. Some total disappointments.

  Some more than they expected.

  What none of them had, at least I’m

  pretty sure they didn’t, was Andrew.

  I rush into bed, pick up a book on

  the nightstand, pretend I’m reading.

  Eve breezes into the room, sighing.

  I love weddings. You should have come.

  Her goofy grin says a lot. “So …

  Zach asked you to dance or what?”

  Mama wouldn’t let me. But he asked.

  She looks at me. How did you know?

  “I’m a good guesser.” And I’m guessing

  she never once thought about losing it.

  A Poem by Seth Parnell

  Losing It

  Some days I think

  I’m losing my mind.

  What seems so

  clear

  most of the time

  becomes a big question

  mark. Am I really

  the way

  I perceive myself, or

  is the person others see

  the truth of me? I wait

  for

  answers, but inside

  I know I have to go out

  and find them. And

  answers,

  like knowledge, are

  not always where we

  look first for them.

  Seth

  Worked My Farmer Butt Off

  All day. Can’t believe

  my dad wants to give

  me grief over going out.

  What’s a Saturday

  night for, anyway?

  I think you should stay

  home tonight, he says.

  Hard to get up Sunday

  morning when you’re

  out late the night before.

  We’re at the dinner table,

  finishing off big ol’ plates

  of venison sausage, biscuits,

  and mushroom gravy. A mediocre

  rendition of Mom’s recipe.

  Dad seconds my opinion.

  Not as good as your

  mother’s, I know. I don’t

  have her magic touch.

  But I do the best I can.

  He does. If he left it to

  me, we’d eat nothing

  but bologna and cheese,

  with the odd pizza thrown

  in for a little variety.

  I save my more gourmet

  palate for when I go out

  with Loren. Not that Dad

  would understand the draw

  anyway. Caviar? Fish bait,

  right? And pâté? Glorified

  liverwurst. Still, in some

  circles, venison sausage

  is probably considered

  quite the taste sensation.

  “Dinner’s great, Dad. I bet

  some of those hoity-toity

  big-city chefs would kill

  for this recipe.” Probably

  not. But Dad’s face lights.

  Think so? Well, I wouldn’t

  want ’em to kill anyone,

  but I wouldn’t mind

  selling the secret formula

  for big bucks, you know?

  Other Than Large Male Deer

  Big bucks are something

  I’m pretty sure Dad

  gave up on having a long

  time ago, if he ever really

  cared about such a thing.

  I glance toward a photo

  of Mom and Dad, taken

  on their twentieth anniversary,

  before we knew she was sick.

  They look content. In love,

  despite years of worry,

  debt, and loss. Through

  years of struggling to make

  ends meet, they had each

  other. And that was plenty.

  Dad wears his age less

  gracefully now. Factory

  work and farming, a one-

  two punch. Add loneliness …

  Guilt swells. But I have plans.

  Plans

  For an evening with Loren.

  Plans that require getting

  out of the house. Plans

  I would rather not outline

  in detail. I hate lying to Dad,

  but I can’t see a way around

  it. “Tell you what. I’ll do

  a little research. See if I can

  find a five-star chef with a

  hankering for deer meat.

  Meanwhile, I’m gonna run

  into town. Billy Clayborn’s

  band is playing at Bristow

  Tavern. Thought I’d take

  a listen. Maybe I’ll get lucky.…”

  I leave it hanging. Dad

  has never asked, but

  surely he’s wondered

  if, at almost eighteen,

  I’ve ever once gotten lucky.

  The comment sinks in

  like a hog in mud—

  slow but sure. Finally

  he says, Okay then. Just

  don’t stay out real late.

  I Know

  He wants me to go to Mass

  with him in the morning.

  How can he go through

  the motions? I’ve heard

  him talking to himself.

  He blames God for taking

  Mom early, taking her

  first. Yet come Sunday

  morning, he’s on his knees,

  genuflecting. Bowing down.

  Maybe he’s searching.

  For Mom. For proof

  that there’s something

  beyond this soil. This

  earth. Maybe it’s a way

  to keep on belonging.

  Whatever it is, I sweeten

  the deal, mostly because

  I plan to stay out pretty late.

  Scratch that. Real late.

  “How about if I go

  to Mass on my way

  to Brist
ow? That way,

  if I do get lucky, I’ll

  already be absolved.”

  Dad Laughs Softly

  Shakes his head, but says,

  Okay. I guess you’re old

  enough to make your

  own decisions about

  stuff like religion and …

  He can’t bring himself

  to finish. But Catholic

  or not, I’m sure he wants

  his son to have “normal”

  sexual desires. Wonder

  if he suspects otherwise.

  I’m relatively sure he knows

  I have no plans to fulfill my

  Mass obligation tonight

  or any night. I’ve pretty

  much given up on the idea

  of salvation. Catholicism

  and homosexuality only

  go hand in hand in the

  highest church circles.

  Not Much Doubt

  I’m damned anyway,

  so I swing the old Chevy

  toward the freeway, Louisville,

  and Loren. My heart pumps

  wildly in anticipation.

  I turn up the radio, change

  the station from country to

  alternative. My Chemical

  Romance fades and the DJ

  segues into a Muse rocker.

  Before I met Loren, I’d never

  heard of either group. Now

  the Dixie Chicks and Rascal

  Flatts have taken a backseat

  to music more relevant to me.

  Muse, in fact, was playing

  the first day I let Loren

  show me what love can

  be when two people give

  themselves completely

  to each other. It was our

  fourth date. Up until then,

  we’d only talked. Kissed

  a little. Touched even less,

  and only with our clothes on.

  Loren was patient about

  the rest. I’m not looking

  for an easy lay, he said.

  If I wanted that, I’d

  pick someone up in a bar.

  He could without even

  trying. He’s beautiful.

  I’m happy he doesn’t do

  gay bars. “So what are

  you looking for, then?”

  A friend. A partner who

  I can trust. Sex that

  is more than mutual

  masturbation. Sex that

  is an outpouring of love.

  Up Until

  Our fourth time together,

  individual masturbation

  was the bulk of my sexual

  experience. There were

  a few short chapters of “touch

  me here, I’ll touch you there”

  in my very slim book of

  adolescent sexual escapades,

  but nothing more. I had no

  idea what to do beyond that.

  When I slipped into my

  fantasies, I always had

  sex with men. But that

  day, overwhelmed as I

  was with desire for Loren,

  I was scared. Nothing

  had ever scared me so

  much, not even knowing

  my mom was going to die.

  Does every person feel

  like that their first time?

  Like what if they do it

  wrong? Or worse, what

  if they do it poorly—so

  horribly their partner laughs?

  Loren Didn’t Laugh

  There proved to be nothing

  to laugh about. Unexpectedly,

  it all came very easily.

  Like, yes, that was exactly

  how it was meant to be—

  me, taking control. Before we

  started, I had no clear idea

  about our roles. Who’s on

  top and who’s not means

  nothing when you aren’t

  completely positive

  that you belong in either

  position. But that night,

  one kiss and need struck

  with enough force to erase

  all doubt, all hesitation.

  I didn’t wait for Loren to

  say it was okay, didn’t ask

  him to show me what to do.

  Pure animal instinct led me

  just where I wanted to go.

  It wasn’t tender. Wasn’t

  pretty. It was a raw, naked

  joining, energized from years

  of dreaming about what it

  could be like, or should be

  like. I gave, he took, and

  when it was over, like Adam,

  I shook at the forbidden

  taste of new awareness.

  Afterward, with his head

  nested gently against my

  chest, Loren whispered,

  Are you sure you’ve

  never done that before?

  “Never.” My voice floated

  up from a deep haze of

  contentment. “But I want

  to do it again.” It was a long

  few minutes before I could.

  Since That Day

  I’ve grown more and

  more confident in

  the part I’m supposed

  to play. Loren is older.

  More experienced. Wiser,

  in many ways. He is also

  softer. Passive. Anxious

  to please me, let me have

  my way. He has become

  my favorite teacher ever.

  I can barely make it through

  each week, pretending to

  be the same old Seth at home,

  when a short drive will

  allow the new, improved Seth

  to come out and play. I am

  torn, wanting to keep

  my dad satisfied, when

  I know Loren is waiting

  to satisfy me. One day soon

  I’ll have to decide which

  Seth I can live without.

  Until then, Improved Seth will

  have to escape when he can.

  And he’s escaped tonight.

  By the Time

  I knock on Loren’s door,

  treading a maelstrom

  of love and lust, I have

  almost made up my mind

  to leave Dad and home in

  my wake and move to

  Louisville before

  I graduate in June.

  I know it’s not long,

  but I’m sick of pretending.

  Loren opens the door.

  I don’t wait for his greeting

  before pushing inside and

  yanking him tight up against

  me. “God, I’ve missed you!”

  He stiffens, and I finally

  take a good look at

  the worry sculpted in

  his face. I missed you,

  too. Come on. Sit down.

  Something is definitely

  wrong. I follow him

  to the couch, afraid

  to ask what it is. What

  kind of bad news do I have

  to hear now? He couldn’t be

  sick, could he? No. Too young.

  Too healthy. Unless … No!

  Stop it. Just ask. I search

  his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  Nothing. He takes my hand.

  I mean, nothing major.

  Relax, Seth. It’s just … He

  reaches toward the coffee

  table, picks up a letter.

  I got this today. He cradles

  the paper protectively, like

  he doesn’t want me to know

  what’s there. You know I go to

  school at Louisville Seminary. …

  Uh-huh. Louisville Presbyterian

  Theological Seminary. Studying

  marriage and
family therapy.

  I nod my head, but I’m

  totally confused. “Yes. So?”

  A requirement for my BA

  is three months of “field

  study.” They’re sending

  me to a congregation in

  New York for the summer.

  Something Thick

  But tasteless rises up my

  throat, into my mouth.

  I break out in a panicky

  sweat. “Congregation?

  You mean, like a priest?”

  He manages a thin smile.

  More like a minister, but

  yes. That is my calling.

  But you knew that.

  He rests a hand on my knee.

  “I don’t know. I guess …”

  Guess? What else would

  a seminarian have planned?

  But what about me? Us?

  “What does that mean for us?”

  Time apart. You can’t

  come with me. I’ll be

  living at the church. He lets

  that sink in. Don’t worry

  now. I don’t leave until May.

  Don’t worry? He hacked

  me off at the knees.

  But it’s only temporary.

  “You’re coming back, right?”

  The silence screams.

  A Poem by Whitney Lang

  Scream

  I whisper and you close

  your eyes. I speak and

  you turn away. If I

  scream, will you finally

  hear

  me beg you to hold me

  close to you, promise

  you’ll never let go? Do

  my tears

  upset you? Can you

  see them fall on fallow

  ground—the soil

  of your heart?

  Fear

  is a better friend than

  you, who feels nothing,

  beneath the weight of

  my pain.

  Whitney

  I Despise Shopping

  But it’s Paige’s idea of heaven,

  so we’re going to Capitola Mall.

  Mom hangs out with Paige’s mom

  and encourages our friendship.

  She wouldn’t, if she knew anything

  at all about Paige other than that her mom

  plays a mean game of tennis. But she

  doesn’t, so we’re on our way to the mall.

  Did you go out with Lucas last

  night? Paige broke up with her last

  boyfriend a few months ago and dates

  vicariously through me. Voyeuristic ho!

  I don’t mind entertaining her—or

  making her jealous, either. “Actually,

  we spent most of the day together.

  We hung out down at the Boardwalk.”

  Uh-huh. And what else? Voyeuristic

  enough to want details beyond