Tricks

by Ellen Hopkins

  let you succumb to temptation. She is

  past Papa, hands moving toward me.

  They fall. I don’t dare try to defend

  myself. I’ve been here before. Tears

  sting my eyes. From the pain of her blows.

  And from the heartbreak tomorrow holds.

  Heartbroken

  Face bruised, eyes swollen almost

  shut from crying, no way can I go

  to church today. Mama would stay,

  to keep an eye on me, but it happens

  to be Mother’s Day. All the ladies will

  turn out in their best dresses, to be celebrated.

  Don’t you dare take one step out

  of this house, Mama warns. If you

  do, I’ll know, I promise you that.

  I’ll take care of Mr. McCarran, too.

  As soon as the car is out of sight,

  I rush to the phone. Thank God

  Andrew is still home. Hey. I was just

  heading out the door. Everything okay?

  The whole ugly tale comes gushing

  out, and I can’t believe I dare to beg,

  “Hurry and come pick me up. Please!”

  It may be a very long time before I get

  to see him again. I need to see him today.

  Right away. Even looking the way I do.

  Twenty Minutes Later

  I am in Andrew’s arms, crying softly

  against his chest. He lets me whimper

  for a few minutes, then pushes me

  gently away and says, Look at me.

  Let me see what she did. His hands

  are kind as they soothe the bruises,

  trace the contours of my face. But

  his eyes smolder, hot with anger.

  How could anyone do something

  like that to their child? he demands.

  “It doesn’t matter. All that matters

  is how we can see each other now.

  Without you, my life is meaningless.

  Without you, I have nothing to live for.”

  Don’t say that! And don’t mean that.

  You have everything to live for. We’ll

  figure something out. I promise. He

  tugs me back into his arms. I promise.

  I Want to Stay

  Knotted to Andrew forever, warm

  and safe, and loved. But he insists

  I am home before my parents get

  back from church. Don’t give her

  a reason to hurt you. Please, Eden.

  It’s my fault she did this to you.

  I start to argue, but he won’t let me,

  and he won’t let me stay any longer.

  One last quick kiss and he urges, Just go.

  If she catches you, who knows how long

  it will be before we can see each other

  again? I love you. Now go on.

  He’s right, of course, and I hurry. But

  when I turn the corner, I can see

  our car in the driveway. My stomach

  lurches, like I’m in an elevator and

  the cable snaps. I fall to my knees

  and vomit until there’s nothing left

  but cramps. I wobble to my feet,

  up the sidewalk, and in the front door.

  Mama Is Waiting

  Sitting on a straight-backed chair,

  facing the door. You were with him

  just now, weren’t you? She already

  knows the answer. Why try to lie?

  The truth is doubtless magnified by

  the tear storm in my eyes. “Yes.”

  I expect the same chaotic anger

  she threw at me yesterday. She stands,

  and my muscles clench. But she stays

  remarkably calm as she approaches.

  I knew it when he didn’t show up

  at church today. I’m not sure why

  it took me so long to realize what

  the two of you were up to sitting

  back there…. Her jaw goes tight,

  and her left hand reaches for me.

  I wince, but she simply slides her

  arm around my shoulder, guides me

  toward the kitchen. We need to talk.

  I’ll make some tea. She pushes me

  into a chair. My stomach churns acid

  as I watch her put two cups of water

  into the microwave, reach for teabags

  and sugar. Silence overwhelms the room

  until she puts the steaming cups onto

  the table. Get the cream, please.

  I go to the refrigerator, take the cream

  from its reserved spot on the top shelf.

  Mama pours a little in each cup, hands

  me the carton, which I return to its place.

  Wordlessly she hands me a cup, takes

  a sip of her own, gestures for me

  to do the same. The tea is sickeningly

  sweet, but I don’t dare not drink it.

  Finally she says, There can only be one

  explanation for such total disobedience.

  Head spinning, I wait for her to finish.

  You are obviously possessed by demons.

  A Poem by Seth Parnell

  Demons

  I never believed

  in demons or monsters

  lurking under my bed.

  But lately I’ve started to

  wonder

  if evil hasn’t in fact

  infiltrated this world,

  slithering streets and

  sidewalks, wearing

  what-

  ever disguise suits its

  immediate purpose.

  When a choirboy

  is molested, is it by

  the devil

  in a priest costume?

  Or does Satan play

  a more clever game

  to get what he

  wants?

  To win the contest,

  accomplish his goals,

  might the prince of hatred

  mask himself as love?

  Seth

  I Never Realized

  What a bogus holiday Mother’s

  Day is until I didn’t have

  a mother anymore. No one

  to send flowers to. No one

  to cook a special breakfast for.

  The ironic thing is, my mom

  used to call Mother’s Day

  a “Hallmark holiday.” You

  know, something invented

  to buy pricey greeting cards for.

  I know how much my men

  love me, she said more

  than once. I sure don’t need

  a three-dollar card or candy

  to prove that there fact to me.

  Regardless, Dad and I

  always sprang for some

  silly card, with glittery

  roses, spring greenery,

  and flowery sentiment.

  Maybe Hallmark should invent

  some new holidays, like Dead

  Mother’s Day. They could tweak

  their old motto: When you still

  care enough to send the very best.

  Only where would you send it to?

  Better yet, how about Breaking

  Up Day? They could invent a new

  motto: A cheerful good-bye when

  you don’t give a damn anymore.

  No Card

  To ease the pain of Loren

  leaving today. Part of me

  doesn’t want to see him.

  I’m not much good at

  good-byes. But the bigger

  part wants to hold him one

  last time. Wants to haul

  him off into the bedroom,

  make love to him, convince

  him he can never go away.

  Dread simmers in my gut.

  Approaching Loren’s door,

  it works itself into a full boil.

&nb
sp; I reach for the bell, change

  my mind, let myself in with

  the spare key Loren gave me.

  “Hello?” Even as the word

  slips past my lips, I know

  he’s not here. He rented

  the apartment furnished.

  Couch. Coffee table. Easy

  chair. Nothing missing.

  Nothing except Loren.

  His absence overwhelms

  the room. “Loren?” I say it,

  knowing it’s useless, follow

  the silence into the bedroom.

  The closet and bureau drawers

  are empty. The only trace

  of Loren is a hint of his cologne.

  That, and a note left on

  the bed, beside rumpled

  memories: Dearest Seth,

  I’m sorry to have left you

  this way, but I couldn’t say

  good-bye face-to-face. Total

  coward, I know. Rent is paid

  through the end of the month.

  Go ahead and use the place

  until then, if you want. I’ll

  write you once I’m settled, okay?

  I wish I could see you graduate.

  It’s such a big day—the start

  of the rest of your life. Enjoy!

  I love you very much. Loren.

  I Haven’t Cried

  Since Mom died. I mean, after

  something like that, what’s

  left to cry about, right?

  But I let myself cry now.

  Loss is loss. Doesn’t take

  death to create it. My legs give

  way. I slide to the floor next

  to the bed, rest my head

  against the bare mattress.

  I can smell him there, smell

  us there. I reread the note.

  Phrases jump out at me:

  … see you graduate … rest

  of your life … love you …

  Suddenly, certainly, it hits me.

  Loren won’t cheer for me

  when I get my diploma.

  He isn’t including himself

  in the rest of my life. He

  isn’t coming back. Ever.

  Why didn’t I get that sooner?

  All the hurt I’ve been holding

  dissipates, like a ghost in sun-

  light. Something dark replaces

  it—a black tidal wave of anger.

  How could Loren dare say

  he loves me? You can’t

  walk away from someone

  you love, leave them

  drowning in your desertion.

  If love has no more meaning

  than that, you can keep it.

  I don’t want it now or ever

  again. Don’t want to hear

  the word or wear its scars.

  I’ll go back to the farm,

  to fields rich with hope.

  Go back to my books, prep

  for finals. I’ll celebrate leaving

  high school. And then what?

  Suddenly I’m Thirsty

  And not for water or soda.

  What’s calling is a stiff

  shot of good ol’ Kentucky

  bourbon. Maybe Loren

  left a little behind. I go to

  the kitchen, half-hopeful.

  But the cupboards, like

  the closet, are not only

  empty but spotless. That’s

  Loren, okay. OCD clean.

  Hell, I need to get out of

  here anyway. I’ll go down-

  town, find a way into Fringe.

  I remember Loren saying,

  All you need is a sponsor.

  So I’ll go find a sponsor.

  Some old Viagra-stiff

  queen, hopeful that buying

  a drink means buying a lay.

  They were thick as flies

  last time Loren and I went

  to Fringe. And hey, if I find

  one, he can think whatever

  he likes. Wanting and getting

  are two different things.

  Sunday, Late Afternoon

  The sidewalks aren’t especially

  crowded. I don’t want to look

  like I’m anxious for a date, so

  I hang out a half block from

  Fringe, trying to find the balls

  to go up to some strange, lone,

  obviously gay older dude

  and ask if he’d like to sponsor

  me past the familiar bouncer

  at Fringe’s front door. And what

  will that guy think? And why

  do I care about that anyway?

  Just as I’m sure I should give

  up on this idea, an attractive

  man, maybe fifty, gives me

  exactly the right kind of smile—

  interested but also hesitant,

  as if he’s not positive why

  I’m checking him out. Yes,

  I think this one might just do.

  The Smile

  I return leaves zero room for

  misinterpretation. Where

  did I learn to be such

  a flirt? This is a whole new

  side of the not-so-static me.

  Wonder if it’s business as

  usual for the guy, who

  on further inspection may

  be a few years beyond fifty.

  Still, he’s not bad-looking,

  very well dressed. Familiar.

  I’ve seen him before. Here?

  I can barely make out his face. …

  Yes, here. Oh, I remember.

  The guy who stormed off,

  leaving the younger guy to

  follow him out the door.

  He’s a regular, then. He’ll

  know what I mean. I smile,

  and he takes that in stride,

  doesn’t flinch or look away.

  I’ll take that as an invitation.

  I walk right up to him,

  hoping he likes the straight-

  forward approach. “Hi. I’m Seth.

  I was hoping to get into Fringe.”

  His eyes, an odd, almost clear

  blue, travel my body, starting

  around thigh level. Finally

  they lock onto my own eyes.

  Pleased to meet you, Seth.

  I’m Carl. And I happen

  to be heading there myself.

  I imagine you’re in need

  of an escort. Care to join me?

  Escort?

  Seems to me I’m the one

  escorting him, at least in

  the classic sense of the word.

  I guess he’s using it in place

  of “sponsor.” Sounds less

  like Alcoholics Anonymous,

  but more like Rent-a-Guy.

  Whatever. I’ve got my

  ticket inside. “Thanks, Carl.

  I appreciate the invitation.”

  I fall in a step or two behind

  him, note how well his pricey

  clothing fits his slender body.

  The security dude waves us

  right through the door, not even

  checking IDs. He recognizes

  both of us, and if he’s surprised

  I’m with someone other than

  Loren, he hides it really well.

  What I want now is whiskey.

  Carl reads my mind, or maybe

  it’s written all over my face.

  The first drink is on me.

  What’s your pleasure?

  Kentucky permeates his accent.

  “I’ll have a mint julep, please.”

  In memory of Loren. Bastard!

  I can’t believe he’d leave

  without saying good-bye.

  One drink will not be enough.

  Carl gives me a funny look

  but goes to the bar and returns

  with two
frosty, mint-trimmed

  glasses. He takes a long swallow.

  Oh my, that is good, but not

  for a novice drinker. Tell me

  who introduced you to this

  li’l libation. If it’s a long

  story, so much the better.

  He settles back into his chair.

  I sip my julep, fight the sudden

  blitz of memory. The second

  swallow is bigger. The minty

  burn clears my throat, trickles

  down the esophagus, into my

  rumbling belly. A little voice

  warns, “Could be trouble.”

  I tell it to shut up, look at

  Carl to see if he might have

  heard it. Or at least intuited it.

  He wears a patient smile. Oh,

  yes. He asked for the story.

  I don’t want to talk about

  Loren. But what the hell?

  I’m drinking in his honor.

  “I actually had my first one

  of these right here, with my …”

  The word sticks in my craw.

  A gulp of bourbon clears

  it, raises a nice, warm buzz.

  Suddenly I want to talk, and

  before I know it, I have

  vomited the whole tale,

  going all the way back

  to Janet and how I lusted

  after her football-player

  brother, forward past

  Mom and Dead Mother’s

  Day, to Loren’s promises.

  Betrayal. Ultimate desertion.

  Carl Listens

  Without comment, except

  a nod every now and again.

  When I finally slow to a stop,

  he raises one finger, gets up

  and goes to the bar. He comes

  back with two more drinks

  and a bowl of snack mix.

  Thought you could use both

  of these. He watches me dive

  into the pair before saying,

  One thing I’ve learned in one

  or two years on this planet

  is to put myself first. Love

  is a fine thing while it lasts,

  but rarely is it permanent.

  We don’t know each other

  at all, but if I might offer

  a word of advice, gleaned

  from many relationships?

  He waits for a response,

  and when I offer a nod, he says,

  In lieu of love, lust will do nicely.

  Now why don’t I buy us dinner?

  I start to say no, and he hurries

  to add, No strings attached.

  Two Hours

  Four courses of French cuisine

  and two bottles of wine later,

  my stomach is churning with rich food,

  my head buzzing with alcohol.

  Carl and I exit the restaurant