Tricks

by Ellen Hopkins

  Her House

  Is fairly close to mine. Good

  thing. Hanging out in my room,

  I didn’t notice how buzzed I was.

  I’m definitely feeling it now,

  though. It’s hard to drive a straight

  line. Thank God I can take side

  streets. If I actually had to talk to

  a cop, he’d haul my ass in, no

  doubt. Gonna be hard enough trying

  to say a few coherent words to

  Ronnie. Even this late at night,

  it’s really warm—probably pushing

  eighty. I drive with the windows

  down, letting air movement fight

  brain blur. Every street in Vegas

  is well lit, and everywhere you

  look at night, bursts of neon

  color the obnoxious skyline.

  I cruise slowly, tripping on a tall

  turquoise tower, how it seems

  to weave in and out of the breeze-ruffled

  palm trees lining the street.

  Suddenly, something—someone?—

  dashes into the road right in front

  of me. I punch the brakes, honk

  the horn, barely manage to miss

  the dimwad, who skids to a halt

  on the far side of the street.

  Then he turns back toward

  my car. What? Who? Cory!

  He rips around to the passenger

  door, jerks it open, jumps inside.

  Go! I shake my head, try to make

  some sense of what just went down.

  Did I almost run over my brother?

  Fucking hurry up, okay?

  The Tone of His Voice

  Is enough to make me comply.

  I punch the gas pedal, no tangible

  clue why, almost overwhelmed

  by the smell of cheap booze clinging

  to my little brother. “What the hell

  is going on, Cory?” As the question

  sputters from my mouth, I get

  a sickly feeling I don’t want to hear

  the answer. But hey, he’s not exactly

  dying to give me an answer. Nothing.

  Not a goddamn thing. So why

  are his hands shaking? And how

  is it obvious, in the murky half-light

  inside the car, that his face is

  approximately the color of dirty cotton?

  Whatever. He’ll tell me when he feels

  like it—or maybe he won’t. I’m not

  the type to pry. As I turn the corner,

  I hear his small, tortured exhale as

  he scrunches down in the seat. A patrol

  car comes cruising up the block toward

  us, spotlight sweeping sidewalks,

  yards. Looking for Cory, no doubt.

  What has the dumb shit done?

  I Try Not to Think

  About that as I fight a sudden

  explosion of fear. I’m driving in

  a straight line, under the limit, at

  least the speed limit. As for blood

  alcohol, there is a very good

  possibility that I’m well over

  the .08. And should this cop decide

  to pull me over, just in case he

  really ought to take a look (and hey,

  apparently he should!), exactly

  what charges might I have to face,

  for no more reason than having

  a certain passenger in my car?

  Whatever Cory has done, I want

  to wring the little prick’s neck.

  “What the hell did you do, Cory?”

  My hands are slick with sweat

  against the sticky steering wheel.

  I keep glancing in my rearview

  mirror, sure I’m minutes away

  from a trip to juvie. But the cop

  keeps driving up the block, likely

  positive in his little pea brain that

  whoever he’s looking for is on foot.

  Or maybe he’s just too lazy

  to worry about possibilities

  (and viable possibilities at that),

  driving by in the other direction.

  Speaking of driving by, I just

  motored on past Ronnie’s.

  The house was dark, except

  for a light in a single window.

  A bedroom window, where

  I have no doubt a gorgeous,

  well-built girl sits waiting to

  do me, after she’s finished

  bitching me out completely.

  Major butt kissing in order,

  if I happen to actually make it

  home without becoming a suspect

  in a … what? What the fuck?

  Suddenly my head is clear.

  I turn another corner. Drive away

  from home. Stay under the limit.

  Find a deserted street, pull right up

  against the sidewalk. “If you don’t

  tell me exactly what’s going on, I’ll

  knock your bony ass to the curb.”

  His Answer

  Is a couple minutes coming, like

  he’s considering making up a lie.

  Finally his shoulders sag. It will

  be the truth. I kinda broke into

  a house. They had an alarm.

  He doesn’t look at me, just stares

  out the window, into the night,

  the same night I’m staring into.

  “What do you mean, ‘kinda’?

  You can’t ‘kinda’ break into

  a house. You did or you didn’t.”

  Jeez, I sound just like Jack, at

  least just like Jack before …

  Now I get to play dad to Cory,

  not that it’s a role I want, or

  do very well. Still, I can’t just

  sit here and say okay to burglary.

  Anyway, “Kinda or not … why?”

  Zero hesitation. Why the fuck

  not? Jesus, Cody, do you live

  on a different planet? We need

  the stinking money! Jack’s never

  going back to work. You know that.

  Don’t you hear Mom jabbering

  about too many bills, not enough

  insurance and such? What do you

  think’s gonna happen to her

  when he kicks the freaking bucket?

  What’s gonna happen to … us?

  He stutters. Breaks. Tries to buck

  up. But suddenly, like fragile glass

  stressed beyond redemption,

  he simply shatters. Fuck it!

  Cory’s giant sobs fill the front

  seat with booze-infused exhales.

  He probably wants to cry like a man—

  alone within his pain. This may

  be the wrong thing to do. But as

  I watch him, my own fear hiccups

  to the surface. I pull my tough,

  break-and-enter little brother

  into my arms, and we cry together.

  Headlights Turn the Corner

  Flooding us with halogen blue

  light. Cop? No, but it comes to

  me that we probably look like

  gay dudes making out or something.

  Cory must think so too, because

  he jerks like he’s been shocked.

  Sorry. That was totally lame.

  Let’s go before we get arrested.

  He withdraws across the seat, gaze

  again drawn to the neon-spiked

  night. Too bad Jack isn’t here,

  ready with some witty remark

  to make everything okay. Too

  bad Jack isn’t here, period. “No

  worries. But don’t ever do anything

  like that again. Shit, Cory, if you

  get busted, you’ll just make things

  worse. We’ll be okay. I promise.�
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  I start toward home, chewing on

  how I could have promised such

  an unlikely thing. Now I’ve got to

  find a way to keep my word.

  One way comes to mind. All

  I need is a little investment capital.

  A Poem by Eden Streit

  Need

  Need is a curious thing.

  Until you plant the seed,

  nurture it, encourage its

  awakening,

  you’re not even sure

  it’s there. But once it

  germinates, nudges up,

  breaking ground,

  you can no longer deny

  it has always lain dormant

  inside you. And now,

  blossoming

  with every kiss, every

  touch of his hand, this

  new kind of need is

  growing,

  sprouting shoots,

  tendrils of desire

  threading you,

  consuming you.

  Eden

  Six Months

  Since Andrew and I first started seeing

  each other. Almost a month since

  we took our relationship all the way,

  clear over the top, dropping me eye-deep

  into a bottomless pit of obsession.

  That’s pretty much how it feels.

  Like I’m in so deep I’ll never climb out,

  not that I want to. So okay. I’m obsessed.

  Whether or not God will forgive me remains

  to be seen. But I have absolutely no clue

  how I could un-obsess myself if Andrew

  ever decided he didn’t want me in his life.

  So far, though, Andrew seems every

  bit as obsessed with me as I am with him.

  We have learned a lot about each other.

  How to touch. Where to kiss. When to let go.

  Before this month, I didn’t really believe

  I was his first. But I was. Am. I have taught

  him as much as he has taught me, all

  through mutual experimentation. Mad

  sex scientists, that’s us. There have been

  clumsy moments, yes. But they are rare. Few.

  The worst was when it suddenly came to us

  that, swept downstream by a flood of desire,

  we hadn’t used protection the first time.

  But either I’m sterile or the timing was right,

  because three days later I started my period.

  We’ve been careful ever since. I wish

  I could go on the pill, but I know for certain

  if I showed my face at Planned Parenthood,

  word would get back to my parents. A trip

  to the pharmacy would yield the same result.

  Meaning birth control—condoms, not the best,

  but better than nothing—is up to Andrew.

  With or Without Condoms

  (Because after all, we don’t have to have

  sex every time we see each other, do we?)

  I’m hoping to see Andrew today. Saturday,

  so no school, and I’m done with my chores.

  I’ve just got to come up with the right little

  white lie. Or big black lie. Whatever.

  Mama seems kind of suspicious lately.

  I think what they say about being in love

  is true—some inner glow becomes obvious

  to everyone around you, even those

  you most want to keep solidly in the dark.

  “So, Mama. Shania and I are doing

  an English project on The Lord of

  the Rings. She invited me over to work

  on it. Would that be okay?” Shania

  is, like, my only friend. I’ve known

  her since she moved here in second grade

  and her family joined Papa’s church.

  Once in a while we do stuff together,

  and the English project is for real.

  If I really go over there before meeting

  Andrew, it will be a big white lie.

  Mom is busy paying bills. She barely

  glances my way. That’s good, because

  when she says, Um. Guess so, I can

  actually feel the love flicker ignite.

  I hurry out the door before she changes

  her mind. The day is warm and scented

  with spring blooms. Shania is watering

  the yard when I get there. “Hey, girl.”

  A fair amount of surprise fills her eyes.

  Eden. What are you doing here?

  “Mama let me escape for a while. Just

  thought I’d drop by and say hi. Why?”

  She shakes her head. It’s just that …

  well, lately … I haven’t seen you much.

  Guilt nibbles. “I know. I’m sorry. I guess

  I’ve been kind of distracted.” By Andrew.

  Can’t Tell Her That Part

  Or can I? Should I? It would feel good

  to confess something this special.

  Shania saves me the trouble. By your

  boyfriend? Does she know? Or is she

  guessing? “I suppose you could call

  him that.” I’m not telling everything.

  Really? A big grin crinkles her eyes.

  So okay, she’s guessing. Good thing.

  But now that the cat has halfway escaped

  from the bag, she wants to know all.

  Come inside and tell me more.

  Who is he? Is he cute? How old

  is he? Does he go to our school?

  She grills me all the way through

  the front door. “Hang on a sec.

  I’ll tell you all about him. …”

  Well, not all. “But first, I need to

  make a call. Can I use your phone?”

  An Hour Later

  I say good-bye to Shania, who

  is slightly wiser about Andrew.

  I didn’t tell her he happens to be the very

  cute guy who sits in the back at church

  most Sundays, or that he is picking me

  up just down the block in a few minutes.

  As I start walking, I can, in fact, see

  the Tundra, patiently lurking curbside.

  The obsession thing quickens my pace,

  but behind me I hear Shania’s Bye.

  I turn to wave, and see curiosity has

  drawn her all the way to the sidewalk.

  But Andrew is parked facing away from

  her. I hurry on past the Tundra, motion

  discreetly for him to follow me around

  the corner. Out of Shania’s sight, I fling

  open the door, slide across the seat, and kiss

  Andrew like I haven’t seen him in days.

  Mostly because I haven’t. Every filament

  of me shimmers. “We have got to stop

  meeting like this, you know.” Then

  I add, “Almost forgot. I love you.”

  He rewards me with that beautiful

  smile. And I love you. Where to?

  I shrug. “Anywhere. But not too far.

  I should probably be home by four.”

  Gotcha. He starts the Tundra, and

  as he pulls away from the curb,

  a little white car slows its approach.

  I can’t help but notice the driver—

  Shania’s sister, Caitlyn. And she most

  definitely notices me. Her expression

  is an interesting mixture—one part

  curiosity, one part disbelief, one

  part … jealousy? Is this trouble? I know

  I should probably have Andrew turn

  straight around, drop me off near the house.

  But he’s so close. And he smells so good.

  I need to be with him more than anything.

  And if this is trouble, it already is.

  A
Quarter to Four

  Andrew drops me off around the corner

  from home. It has been an amazing

  afternoon, filled with love and making love.

  He kisses me. See you soon. Very soon.

  Ten to four, I walk in the door. Mama

  and Papa are sitting there, waiting for me.

  Nine to four, I know I’m most definitely

  in trouble. Likely the major kind. “Hi?”

  Mama pounces first. Where have you

  been? And who have you been with?

  Then she assesses my semi-disheveled

  state. And what have you been doing?

  Guilt flushes my face, burns my ears.

  But I’m going to play stupid anyway.

  “I told you before I left I was going to

  Shania’s.” Stop there. See what happens.

  Papa shadows Mama as she stands, takes

  a step in my direction, fists clenching.

  You know very well what I’m talking

  about. You were with that McCarran boy.

  Five to Four

  My life is over. At least the slender

  wedge of it that holds happiness.

  Denial is ridiculous. Still, the words

  pop out of my mouth, “Says who?”

  I already know the answer. It is Papa

  who gives it. Caitlyn Curry. Your mother

  called to ask you to pick up some butter

  on your way home. Caitlyn said you had

  already left. And that she saw you in

  a truck with the young man. Now I want

  to know why you were with him. And why

  you lied. His face is redder than mine.

  Deception impossible, defiance

  flares. “I was with Andrew because

  I’m in love with him. And why

  I lied should be pretty damn obvious.”

  At the very intentional curse word,

  Mama gasps. Papa pushes her behind

  him, advances. You apologize to your

  mother this instant, you little trollop.

  Trollop? Who uses that word for real?

  Laughter dribbles from my mouth.

  And I stand my ground. “But I’m not

  sorry, Papa. I’m tired of you and Mama

  treating me like a little girl. I’m old enough

  to fall in love. Why won’t you let me?”

  Mama’s turn. Her voice drips

  icicles. I believe you’re confusing

  love and desire. Do you really think

  that man is in love with you? What

  he wants … Once again, her eyes travel

  over me, trying to look under my clothes

  to the sin she intuits beneath them.

  He wants your innocence. I will not