Tricks

by Ellen Hopkins

  Ginger

  School Totally Blew Today

  First I got back my history final,

  with a big, fat D on top, despite

  all the studying I did. I completely

  effed up in that class, and to cop

  the credit, which is a requirement

  for graduation, I’ll have to do

  summer school. Then our Nazi

  PE teacher started yelling at

  the back of the pack running laps

  to Move your lazy buns. Damn,

  it’s like over ninety out there in

  the sun. Still, I probably shouldn’t

  have yelled back, “Why don’t you

  get your fat ass out here and run

  with us? See how fast you can go.”

  The bitch wrote me up. Detention

  at least. Maybe suspension. To

  top it all off, this guy I thought

  I kind of liked called me an emo

  freak because I put blue streaks in

  my hair. Yep. School definitely blew.

  I Take My Time

  Walking home, puffing on

  a bummed Kool. Don’t

  care much for menthols, but

  I need nicotine to calm my

  nerves. Iris won’t really

  care if I get suspended. But

  Gram will be so disappointed

  in me. She’ll be spending

  a lot more time at home once

  they finally release Sandy,

  today or tomorrow. Guess

  they have to do a couple more

  tests to find out just how bad

  his brain damage is. Right now,

  he’s learning to talk all over again.

  The house is quiet when I open

  the door, quiet except for the TV.

  Where are the kids? Something’s off.

  I can feel it in my bones. “Iris?”

  No answer. But something—

  someone?—moves, and suddenly

  the TV goes silent. The hair on

  the back of my neck rises.

  Little waves of panic churn in

  my gut. Ridiculous, right? No

  murderer would be sitting

  there watching TV. “Harry?”

  But the face that appears in

  the doorway doesn’t belong

  to Harry. You must be Ginger.

  Iris has told me so much about

  you. Hey, I like your hair. Rad.

  The last word sounds weird,

  spoken by the guy, who is maybe

  forty-five and built like a bull.

  Did Iris dump Harry for this guy?

  Not like it would be anything

  new. “Uh, right. Where is Iris,

  anyway?” I need another cigarette.

  She and Harry took the kids

  for ice cream. Say, would

  you mind getting me a beer?

  Déjà Vu Strikes

  Lightning. Without a doubt

  I know I need to play my

  cards just right. I want to yell,

  “Get the fuck away from me.”

  But every instinct screeches

  for me to answer carefully.

  “Uh, sure.” I go to the fridge,

  reach in for a Keystone.

  The guy is right behind me,

  beer breath hot on my neck.

  Iris didn’t lie. You really

  are a knockout. His arms wrap

  around me, and his rough hands

  go straight to my boobs. I try

  to knock them away but am no

  match for his strength. You like

  it rough? ’Cause I’m just the guy

  to give it that way. No extra charge.

  The words burn into my ear. “What?

  What the fuck did you say?” A sudden

  burst of will pushes him back, away.

  I turn to face him. He advances,

  a thin line of spit leaking from

  his mouth to his chin. I stare at

  evil. I said, no extra charge.

  Already paid two hundred

  dollars for a good time with you.

  Might as well make it very good.

  He’s on me, yanking my hair,

  pushing me to my knees. He flips

  me over. You’re even prettier

  from behind, know that? I hear

  his zipper lower. It is the loudest

  sound ever. “Don’t,” I try, but it

  sticks, pasted to disgust, lodged in

  my throat. Useless to plead. Useless

  to fight. He yanks down my shorts

  in a single swift motion. He is on

  me. In me. Humiliating me in every

  possible way, right here on

  the kitchen floor. As promised,

  he is rough. Biting. Pounding.

  Shredding. Ripping. “Please?”

  The word bounces off him, ping-pongs

  weakly in my ears. Trying

  to fight him only fuels him.

  For a fleeting second, I think

  maybe someone will come

  through the door to save me.

  And then, despite everything

  that’s happening to me, I laugh

  out loud. Save me? What did

  he say? I already paid for

  a good time with you. I’ve been

  sold. And just who would

  sell me? The answer is all

  too obvious: Iris. My mother.

  And as he finishes, all sticky

  and stinking and revolting,

  something else suddenly

  becomes crystal clear. This day

  was exactly like that other day.

  If this guy paid Iris, so did Walt.

  When He’s Gone

  I use wet paper towels to clean

  the mess on the linoleum. Under

  the sink, I find the Pine-Sol,

  carry it to the shower. It stings,

  which means it’s working.

  I scrub my body over and over,

  washing away all evidence of this

  afternoon. On TV, they want you

  to call the cops. Tell. But what do

  I say? “Hey. My mom took money

  to let some guy rape me.” Who’d

  believe that? I go to my room,

  stuff clothes into my backpack.

  I’m gone. Where? No clue, but

  this will never happen again. I feel

  bad, leaving Gram to deal with Iris.

  But she’s strong. And with Sandy

  home, she’ll be here, too. The others

  will be safe. I’ll write her a letter,

  tell her what she has to know so

  she’ll never let her guard down.

  The Door Slams Behind Me

  I stand on the step for a few

  seconds, confused about what

  to do next. Can’t pause long.

  They’ll be home soon. Not like

  ice cream takes forever. Only

  longer than rape. Fuck! My eyes

  burn, and not from the sun, sitting

  smack on the western hills. I stare

  into it, and for one mega-brilliant

  instant, all I can see is a stab

  of light. My feet start walking

  toward it. Where else is there to go?

  Throbbing with pain, inside

  and out, I find myself on Alex’s

  street. Should say good-bye.

  She opens the door. Damn,

  man. You smell like toilet

  cleaner. What happened?

  Alex lets me in and I sink

  into cool dark solace, repeat

  the tale of Ginger, paid for.

  I Love Alex

  Love the way she lets me spew,

  contributing zero commentary,

  until I’m obviously finished.

  When I am, what she says is,r />
  And I thought my mother was

  queen of the fucking wack jobs.

  So what are you going to do?

  She listens as I outline my

  non-plan for running away:

  Take off and see where I end up.

  Finally she shakes her head.

  Stupid idea. You can’t just run

  off without some idea of where

  you’re going and how you’ll

  get there. The thing is, after we

  talked about it last time, I started

  thinking about the best way to

  leave this stinking shit hole.

  Does that mean she wants to go

  too? “Really?” I hope she came

  up with something good. “And … ?”

  Remember I told you about my

  dad’s old girlfriend, Lydia?

  Well, she lives in Henderson.

  She told me to come visit any time.

  We’ll stay with her until we can

  find a way to get a place of our own.

  She has thought this through!

  A place of our own? Still … “Are

  you sure you want to go too?”

  Hell yeah, girl. You can’t go

  alone. Besides, there’s nothing

  for me here. Adventure calls!

  I checked it out and the bus

  to Vegas costs thirty-five bucks.

  No big deal, right? Any way

  you could come up with maybe

  fifty? I’ve got a little stashed.

  Enough for smokes and Cokes.

  Where could I get fifty bucks?

  The answer smacks me in the face.

  She owes me a lot more than that.

  I Leave My Stuff

  Go on home. No cops, no alarms.

  No one missed me at all. Not

  even Gram, who’s fixing dinner.

  In fact, everything seems so normal

  it almost makes me wonder if I

  imagined what happened earlier.

  I go over to Gram, give her

  a hug. “Something smells

  good. We’ve sure missed your

  cooking around here! Where

  is everybody? Is Sandy home?”

  If he is, how can I possibly go?

  Gram keeps stirring her chili.

  No. The tests they ran tired

  the little guy out. They’re keeping

  him one more day, to be sure

  he’ll be okay. Worry weights her

  sigh. He’ll be just fine, though.

  Guilt chews at me until a sudden

  whiff of Pine-Sol reminds me

  why I’m here. “Where’s Iris?”

  Gram shakes her head. She and

  her … her friend went out.

  I doubt we’ll see her tonight.

  Perfect. She won’t miss it until

  morning, earliest. By then I’ll be

  all the way to Vegas. Now I need

  a way back out of here. “Hey,

  Gram. I was invited to spend

  the night with my friend, Al—”

  Probably should make up

  a name. “Alicia. We’re going to

  study for finals. Is that okay?”

  Sure thing, hon. I’m glad

  you’re finally making

  some friends. Her smile

  initiates a new round of guilt.

  Especially considering that not

  long after I’m gone, she’ll find

  out I already messed up on my

  finals. Oh, well. By then she’ll

  have given up on me anyway.

  The Kids

  Are in the living room, watching

  the boob tube. They don’t see

  me slip down the hall, and that’s best.

  I go into Iris’s room. Top dresser

  drawer, beneath her underwear—

  yech!—there’s a navy blue sock,

  where she stashes her cash.

  I watched her do it once when

  she was too drunk to realize

  I was standing right there. Sure

  enough, it’s here, stuffed with sex

  money. I count out two hundred,

  which doesn’t include whatever

  Walt paid her. Screw it. I take

  the whole wad—four hundred

  sixty-nine dollars. In its place,

  I leave a note: Not even close

  to what you owe me. I hate you.

  “Bye, Gram,” I call, eyes stinging.

  I ease out the door, into velvet

  night, chasing a glimpse of freedom.

  When I Come Through the Door

  Alex is packed and waiting,

  rocking softly side to side

  in a nerve-fueled rhythm.

  Wow. I’ve never seen her

  look so worried. “Are you

  sure you want to do this?”

  Her odd movement stills

  and she looks at me with

  shimmering eyes. I’ve wanted

  to run forever, but I was

  scared to run alone. I never

  told you the truth about Paul.

  he’s not my stepdad. Mom

  and him never got married.

  When they sent her away,

  he let me stay with him,

  but only if I … you know.

  I have nothing here, or

  anywhere, except for what

  I have with you. Let’s go

  before he gets home, okay?

  The Half-Empty Bus

  Idles, preparing for departure.

  The diesel fumes are strong,

  but the seats are comfy. No one

  cares about Alex and me

  in back, sipping rum from

  a water bottle. Before long,

  I feel zero fear. Zero pain.

  I flip up the armrest between

  us, slip my hand into hers.

  Heedless of any prying eyes,

  she kisses me, and I kiss back,

  inhaling her intoxicating scent.

  My heart dances. My body,

  abused so viciously just

  hours ago, at last knows joy.

  As the bus begins to roll,

  my lips spill words unspoken

  until now. “I love you, Alex.”

  I love you too. Now let’s get

  the flying fuck out of here.

  Together we break free.

  A Poem by Cody Bennett

  Flying

  Is that what it’s like

  when you die? Do you

  slip out of your skin, go

  soaring

  up into a butterscotch

  sky? Do you surf waves

  of light? How far?

  How high?

  I hope that’s what it’s

  like, but I’m afraid

  it’s a lot more like

  falling

  with no net to catch

  you, and no way

  of knowing

  how hard

  you will hit or where

  you’ll stop. Will you touch

  down back on Earth, or

  will you land

  in the nightmare

  you always feared

  you’d never wake up from?

  Cody

  Funerals Suck

  This isn’t the first one I’ve had

  to go to. There were a couple in

  Wichita. But this is the first one

  that mattered. Old people are

  supposed to die. Jack wasn’t old,

  and he sure wasn’t ready to die.

  It’s a blistering day, and we’re

  standing here graveside, dressed

  all in black. Fuck you, Jack. How

  could you leave us? You swore

  you’d take care of us. And now

  you’re nothing but pickled flesh,

  broken promises. Mom is a mess,
<
br />   although she pretends she’s okay

  and looks steadier than Cory, who

  is completely tattered. The two brace

  each other, trying to stop shaking

  as the minister drones on about

  Going home to his heavenly father.

  Funny, but none of us really thought

  much about heaven until the last

  few weeks. Is there such a place,

  and is Jack already there? Is there

  a chance in hell someday I’ll join him?

  If Funerals Suck

  Wakes are worse. I don’t even

  know who half these people

  are, laughing and drinking and

  scarfing the food they brought

  so Mom wouldn’t have to worry

  about cooking for a day or two.

  They should just go and leave

  the food. Better yet, run to

  the grocery store and fill up

  the fridge. It’s almost empty.

  The only thing emptier is my

  chest—where my heart used to be.

  The doorbell rings. I open it

  to find Ronnie, a total knockout

  despite how ashen her face looks.

  Is all that pale meant for me?

  Hey, you. Her voice is soft. So

  is the hand that touches my cheek.

  How are you doing? Sorry

  I missed the service. I meant

  to come, but I overslept and …

  She shakes her head. The truth

  is, cemeteries scare me to death.

  The last word makes her flinch.

  “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not big on

  them either.” I take her hand,

  pull her through the door. No

  one else has even noticed her

  presence. Good. “Let’s go

  to my room, okay?” I want

  to hold her, want to make love

  to her. Need to feel something

  warm and alive. Need to fill

  that empty space inside. I lead

  her to my disheveled bedroom.

  “Sorry it’s so messy,” I whisper,

  pulling her into me. “God, you

  smell good.” Like baked apples.

  Not like flowers. Don’t want to

  smell those. They remind me

  of death. Ronnie rises on her tiptoes,

  lifts her slick, honey-sweet lips

  to meet mine. It’s the sweetest

  kiss ever, but it soon becomes

  more. I lock the door, guide her

  to my bed, and for maybe the very

  first time, sex is more than getting

  off. This time, sex feels like love.

  For the First Time

  I stop myself before Big Bang,

  look down into Ronnie’s violet blue

  eyes. “I love you.” And at this