Tricks

by Ellen Hopkins

  moment, I do. And at the words,

  surprise (or maybe disbelief)

  contorts her pretty face. “What?”

  Nothing. She smiles. It’s just …

  wow. She undulates seductively,

  the rise and fall of her body like

  salty waves beneath my own.

  Another first, this time no faking

  climbing higher and higher, until

  she finishes with an amazing

  gush and tears of satisfaction.

  I love you, too, she exhales softly.

  We lie, tangled together, unmoving,

  unspeaking. And we both know

  this is what sex should be.

  All Awesome Things

  Must come to an end, damn it

  to hell. Ronnie and I are slipping

  toward sleep, still intertwined,

  when the doorknob rattles. Cody?

  It’s Cory. Good thing I locked it.

  Are you in there? Can I come in?

  Ronnie starts to scramble.

  I hold her tight, put a finger

  to my lips. “Shh.” Then I say

  toward the door, “Just a minute,

  okay?” I’ve never had a girl

  in here. He probably thinks

  I’m taking care of business,

  solo. I really don’t want to let

  Ronnie go. All the hurt will

  come flooding back. But Cory

  is waiting. I kiss Ronnie’s face,

  her neck, lick the shimmer

  of sweat from the deep fold

  between her breasts. She sighs,

  and that makes me want more.

  But Cory again bumps the door.

  I rest my chin on her belly,

  look into her eyes. “Thank you.”

  We Throw on Clothes

  But dressed or undressed,

  it’s obvious what we’ve been

  doing in here. When I open

  the door, Cory is pretty much

  amazed. Oh. Uh … sorry. I, uh,

  didn’t know you …

  His face is the approximate

  shade of an unripe plum.

  Ronnie and I both have to

  grin. “No problem, bro. Oh,

  this is Ronnie. We’ve been

  going out for a while now.”

  Cory has no patience for my

  method of dealing with grief.

  His voice, curt, slices the air.

  Yeah, well, people are starting

  to leave. Mom’s looking for you.

  He pivots sharply, leaves the room.

  I start to apologize, but Ronnie

  stops me, stroking my lips with

  soft fingertips. It’s okay. He’s

  hurting. And your mom needs

  you right now. I should go. Her

  kiss is a bittersweet good-bye.

  One by One

  Everyone leaves. Mom stands

  at the door, looking worn. Torn.

  Emptied. She has managed the day

  so far without breaking down.

  But now she dissolves. I go to her,

  put my arm around her shoulder,

  steer her to the sofa. “Sit down.

  I’ll get you a drink.” Something

  strong, to help her sleep. She hasn’t

  slept much since the day Jack up

  and left us. Mom isn’t much of

  a drinker. I pour her three fingers.

  She accepts the brandy without

  protest. Sips it slowly, stares out

  the window. Finally she says,

  I never believed this day would

  come. Some stupid part of me kept

  insisting the doctors were wrong.

  Oh God, I miss him so much already.

  What am I going to do without him?

  She swallows the last of her drink

  in a giant gulp, throws her face

  into her hands and sobs. I want to

  help. But I have no answers.

  I take her glass, go to refill it.

  She deserves a good drunk, and

  so do I. As I pour, Cory comes

  in, checks out the brandy bottle

  with covetous eyes. Oh, why not?

  Mom won’t care today. We sit

  on opposite sides of our mother,

  downing alcohol that cannot warm

  the death chill infiltrating us, inside

  and out. Soon the silence becomes

  overwhelming, and Cory turns on

  the TV. Doesn’t matter what’s on.

  The three of us get drunk together,

  semi-listening to the announcer

  on Sports Central, droning on about

  Jet Fuel, the unlikely winner of both

  the Kentucky Derby and Preakness,

  his even unlikelier odds of winning

  the Belmont Stakes, and so the Triple

  Crown. When Mom starts to nod

  off, I help her to her feet, down

  the hall to her room, gentle her onto

  her bed. “I love you, Mom. Don’t

  worry. Everything will be all right.”

  Why Do I Keep Saying That?

  Will everything be all right? How

  the hell would I know? Fuck this!

  Jack, if you weren’t already dead,

  I swear I’d … I’d … My legs

  give and I don’t fight, sinking

  to the floor beside the bed Mom

  and Jack shared for so many years.

  She snores softly, and I hope she

  isn’t trapped in some disturbing

  dream. I look around the room,

  still so full of Jack. His clothes

  drape the chair beside the window.

  His shoes form a straight line just

  inside the closet. The scent of Brut

  deodorant lingers, as does a vague

  hint of medicines, sweated despite

  antiperspirant. Pictures of him and

  Mom hang on the walls, and one of

  my favorite family photos—camping

  at Lake Mead—sits front and center

  on the dresser, beside his belt and

  wallet. Where are you now, Jack,

  having left all this behind? Are you

  whole? Is any of you left here?

  Also on the Dresser

  Is a stack of mail. From here,

  I can see much of it is unopened.

  I get up, go sort through it. Bills.

  Power. Water. Trash. Mortgage.

  Hospital. Doctor. American Express.

  And there will be more coming.

  Funeral home. Cemetery. Jesus!

  Insurance won’t take care of it all.

  Neither will Jack’s pension. I’ve got

  a paycheck coming, but that barely

  covers my own expenses. Stop!

  Can’t think about this now. Not today.

  One day, at least, to mourn. One

  day to try and forget about death.

  Mom’s totally gone. I need to get

  high. Wacked. Out-of-my-brain

  fried. No need for Mom to see

  bills first thing when she wakes up.

  I scoop everything off the dresser,

  into an empty shoe box lying on

  the floor. Jack wore new shoes

  to his funeral. A big, fat joint is

  calling my name. And after that,

  I need to hear Ronnie’s voice.

  Bud and Booze

  May not exactly cure what ails

  ya, but partner ’em up and they’ll

  definitely make you forget it for

  a while. I turn on my computer,

  and the first thing that pops up

  on my Yahoo page is news headlines.

  And there, again, is Jet Fuel.

  They’re laying odds against him.

  Which makes me wonder … Yeah, />
  oh yeah, there it is—an online Sportsbook

  and yes, they are most definitely

  taking bets on the Belmont, as well

  as just about every professional

  sporting event out there, from soccer

  matches to major league baseball.

  Why didn’t I think of it before?

  If there’s one thing I know about,

  it’s baseball. Been a Kansas City

  fan since I could spit, and the Royals

  are looking good this year. I want

  in on this action. First I need to set

  up an account. Let’s see. All I need

  is a credit card and something to

  prove I’m eighteen, which I won’t be

  for over a year. But where there’s

  a will—and I’ve definitely got

  that—there’s a way. It comes to me

  suddenly that the way just walked

  into my room in a shoe box, along

  with a pile of bills. Jack’s wallet

  has three credit cards in it, along

  with his driver’s license. This may

  be a gamble, but I’m betting they

  won’t be checking to see whether

  or not Jack Bennett is dead or alive.

  Not as long as the cards are good.

  I sort through the stack, locate

  the AmEx and two Visa bills,

  check available credit. Damn right,

  more than I thought. Cool. In less

  than five minutes, I’ve got an

  account set up and a hundred

  smackeroos riding on tonight’s

  Royals game. When they win,

  I’ll pay the electric bill and buy

  some groceries. Meanwhile,

  I’ll polish off this roach.

  And I’ll give Ronnie a call.

  The Pot Buzz

  Should make me feel better,

  but all it does is combine

  with the alcohol to make

  loneliness hit like a freight

  train. Mom’s asleep, Cory’s

  out somewhere, doing who

  knows what god-awful things.

  Jack’s dead. Dead. The word

  repeats itself over and over.

  Dead. Damn, man. Dead.

  I need to hear Ronnie’s

  voice. She answers her phone

  on the first ring. I thought

  you might call. Are you okay?

  She knows I’m not, but waits

  for me to tell her so. Do you

  want me to come over? Vinnie’s

  here. He’ll give me a ride.

  “Oh God, Ronnie, yes. I need

  you.” I do, and it feels awful

  and wonderful, all smooshed

  together. We’ll make love, and

  I’ll forget about the Royals.

  Forget about Jack. Forget … Dead.

  Stinking Royals

  Can’t believe they lost last night,

  and to the stupid Mariners to boot.

  Oh, well. That means they have to

  win today, so I’ll lay down two

  hundred. And while I’m at it, I’ll

  put fifty on St. Louis. Why shove

  all my eggs into one flimsy carton?

  Mom never even missed Jack’s

  wallet or the bills. She woke up,

  fighting a hangover headache.

  Me, being a hangover expert,

  I convinced her to try a little hair

  o’ the dog. Cory didn’t feel much

  better. You’d think his tolerance

  would be taller built by now.

  The two of them are napping.

  Good. I can’t stand seeing so

  much pain in two pairs of eyes.

  Speaking of two pairs, just won

  sixty bucks at poker. Almost made

  up for the hundred I dropped

  yesterday. My luck is coming

  around. Just in time. Because

  beyond major league baseball,

  I’m planning on laying a major league

  bundle on Jet Fuel. The odds on him

  just keep growing longer and longer.

  I’ll wait a couple of days, see how

  long they’ll go. But right now,

  a thousand-dollar bet on the win

  could net almost twenty big ones.

  Twenty thou would pay an awful

  lot of bills. And now I need money

  for my insurance. Between Jack

  and Ronnie and spending a lot

  of time in front of my computer,

  I lost my job. Not that I care. Jobs

  like GameStop are a dime a dozen.

  And anyway, I’ve got bigger plans

  than spending my days directing snot-

  nosed kids to Pokémon Purple. High

  finance is in my immediate future.

  A Poem by Eden Streit

  My Future

  Is meaningless now,

  flavorless as an icicle

  melting, drip by

  drip

  to puddle and freeze

  again upon shadowed

  ground. They say to

  drop

  the pretense, as if

  confessing my heart

  was a game of charades.

  Tears

  such as these could

  only be born of soul-

  ripping sorrow. They

  fall,

  in relentless procession,

  summer rain upon

  parched playa,

  relentless.

  Eden

  Demon Possessed

  Apparently, that’s the real definition of falling

  in love—Satan implanted some evil angel

  inside me to steer me away from God’s family.

  And it isn’t only Mama and Papa who think

  so. Or claim to, in the name of the Almighty.

  Almighty dollar, that is. Samuel Ruenhaven—

  who strongly prefers being called Father—

  graduated seminary the same time as Papa.

  But Father’s path led him to the stark sand

  of northeastern Nevada, where he settled

  a sizeable chunk of desert he dubbed Tears

  of Zion. Oh, it’s a very special place,

  where Father and his “disciples” rehabilitate

  incorrigible youth. Exorcise demons.

  I’ve been here almost a month. Mama delivered

  me personally, after slipping enough Lunesta

  into my tea to knock me out for eleven hours.

  When I finally woke up, we were bumping along

  hundreds of miles from home. It will never

  be “home” again for me. I hate it. Hate Mama

  worse. When she saw me conscious that day,

  head thumping from a narcotic hangover, almost

  immediately she started in quoting Old Testament

  scripture. That was the extent of our one-sided

  “conversation.” She never said another word

  to me. I tuned her out, concentrated on trying

  to connect psychically with Andrew, who

  could have had no idea what happened to me.

  I didn’t know the details then myself. Couldn’t

  have guessed where we were headed. Even

  when we pulled through the Tears of Zion gates,

  I had no clue what was coming. I began to suspect

  it wasn’t good when Father waddled out to greet

  Mama. She offered a hand, free of emotion,

  and her plea was simple: Do whatever

  it takes to bring my daughter to her senses.

  Father’s Methods

  Are likewise uncomplicated. You can sum

  them up in a single word: Deprivation.

  No food for the first three days. Water only.

  Flushing poisons, he claimed. Clean
sing

  body before examining soul. Since then,

  an unvaried daily thousand-calorie diet—

  oatmeal, thin soups, flat bread. Minimal sleep,

  even now. The subconscious is Satan’s

  classroom. The worst thing is the isolation.

  I rarely see anyone but Father and his disciples—

  creepy guys who always dress in bleached white

  jeans, matching T-shirts. And the sad, sick thing

  is I’m almost glad to see them. I know that’s

  the point. But I don’t know how to fight it.

  I spend every day alone, silence squeezing

  me until I think I’ll go totally crazy. Insanity

  might, in fact, be better. I’m supposed to be

  reconsidering my choices. But all I do is pace

  the perimeters of this featureless room, thinking

  about Andrew. And how completely I love him.

  Is He Thinking

  About me? Wondering where I am?

  Where is he? Home? Looking for me?

  Or has Mama decided to have him arrested?

  I have no answers. Can’t process clearly.

  My brain feels like day-old mush. Unstirred.

  Undisturbed. Left for scavengers. And speaking

  of bone pickers, the cloying scent of rabbit

  brush precedes Jerome through the door.

  As Father’s believers go, Jerome is the least

  offensive. Not that he’s good-looking.

  He’s short, partly because he carries himself

  as if his shoulders are weighted with iron.

  What hair he has left is thin, reddish. It reminds

  me of an alcoholic’s morning eyes. His nose

  is shaped like a toucan’s bill, and the watery orbs

  just above it look at me with a mixture

  of sympathy and … lust? He places a tray

  on the splintered table. Eat hearty.

  “Right. Lukewarm oatmeal. Mmm.” Unlike

  some of the other disciples, Jerome allows

  me a fair amount of sarcasm. Lukewarm

  is better than cold. And … He glances around

  the room, as if some voyeur stands in the corner,

  watching. Then he takes something from the tray.

  Look what I brought you. Promise you

  won’t tell? He holds out a napkin, unfolds

  it slowly, revealing three beautiful strawberries.

  First crop. Delicious. And just for you.

  Their sweet red perfume permeates

  the room’s stale air. My mouth waters.

  I start to reach for them, reconsider,

  snatch my hand quickly away. “Why me?”

  He creeps toward me, baiting, pallid

  tongue circling his mouth suggestively.