Tricks

by Ellen Hopkins

  Because I like you. He puts a berry

  to my lips. And because you’re beautiful.

  Instinctively I suck the fruit onto my tongue,

  crush it against the roof of my mouth, go weak

  at the intense rush of pleasure. “Thank you.” It

  comes out a whisper. “I promise not to tell.”

  Jerome Isn’t Quite Finished

  He takes my hand, caresses it gently before

  placing the other two berries on my palm.

  If you’re really good at keeping secrets …

  His eyes bore into mine. Something feral

  pacing there. We could have a little fun.

  If you be good to me, I’ll be really good

  to you. Strawberries are just the beginning.

  Cheese. Meat. Chocolate. Maybe even some

  shampoo to use instead of that vile soap.

  He touches my hair. I bet it’s pretty

  when it’s clean. I bet it smells like rain.

  Here now. What did I say? Don’t cry.

  A recollection clutches my throat,

  chokes. It’s Andrew’s voice, surfacing

  like a creature, dead and bloated,

  from deep sea. Smells like rain.

  Pain throbs. No, not pain, not even

  agony. Something there is no word for.

  Something I can’t fight. Can’t fight. Can’t.

  All I can think to do is say, “S-sorry.”

  My head spins. My legs go numb.

  Jerome catches me as I collapse, and my tears

  soak into his bleached white shirt. Okay,

  baby, he soothes. Go ahead and cry.

  I should jerk away, out of his arms, but

  his gentle rock cradles my loneliness.

  There is nurturing here, and it comes to me,

  with a whoosh like sudden wind, that there just

  might be a way out after all. And that way

  could very well begin and end with Jerome.

  So When He Kisses

  The top of my head, I stay perfectly

  still against him. And when his hands

  begin a slow journey over the landscape

  of my body, I grit my teeth. Do not

  protest. Will not complain. Forgive

  me, Andrew. Please understand.

  It’s my only way back to you. But

  I won’t give him everything.

  I go as far as to let him open my blouse,

  touch beneath my bra. Now he kisses

  down my neck, to the skin he has just

  exposed. Drawn tight up against him,

  I feel him grown hard against my thigh.

  Now it’s he who shakes. Shivers

  with hunger, and just like that, I am

  in control. I push him away, but tenderly,

  like a mother convincing the infant

  at her breast that he’s had enough.

  I make my voice light. “That’s all

  you get for three strawberries.”

  He is pliable. Clay. He smiles, clearly into

  the game this has unmistakably become.

  Fair enough. Father would probably miss

  me now anyway. Just one question …

  He helps himself to a final taste.

  What will you give me for ice cream?

  I back away, closing buttons. Reach

  down deep for the “inner whore”

  Father claims all women harbor inside.

  I smile. “Häagen-Dazs or store brand?”

  The Door Locks

  Behind Jerome, who promised

  to see what I can do about Cherry

  Garcia. Dirtied, I drop to the floor, tuck

  my back into a corner, as if walls could

  protect me. Lord, please forgive this

  sin. What I’ve done. What I may do,

  though I’m not exactly sure what that

  might be. All I know is I have to escape

  this place, run far, far away. From here.

  From home. Toward what, I don’t know,

  except somehow, some way, that “what”

  must bring me closer to Andrew. I’m tired.

  Hungry. I glance at the bowl on the table,

  oatmeal grown granite cold inside it.

  I want pancakes. An omelet with sausage.

  I want the key to this unbarred cell.

  Jerome has perhaps offered it, if I will

  only reach for it. I close my eyes. Think

  of Mary Magdalene. What was her prison?

  And how far did she go to get the key?

  Some Biblical Scholars

  Believe Magdalene wasn’t really

  a prostitute at all, but the woman

  most loved by Jesus. A few even

  think they might have been married.

  Papa preaches that she was a whore,

  reformed by the love of Christ. No sex

  involved in the reformation. Mama echoes

  this tale. But Mama thinks I’m a whore

  too. A laugh bubbles up, bounces off

  the barren walls. What incredible irony.

  Sorry, Mama. Making love with Andrew

  didn’t make me a whore. But sending me

  here might very well do exactly that.

  I have nothing to lose. You’ve already

  stolen everything important. Made me

  an outcast. Tossed me into this wilderness

  prison. And now the question becomes:

  How far will I go to get the key?

  To Know That

  I need to find out what Father has in store

  for me. We meet every afternoon except

  on Sunday (no work on the Sabbath),

  for “prayerful counseling.” So far,

  it’s the only time I’m allowed out of my

  room, into the sunlight, the sage-tainted air.

  There are two long, low buildings, with

  rows of doors just like mine. I’m not

  the only one here. Once in a while, I see

  other kids, working alone in the garden

  or shoveling manure from the chicken

  coops. Punishment? My guess is reward.

  There are smaller cottages, too—staff

  residences, I’m sure. A large house looms

  in the distance. Father’s, no doubt. Wonder

  if there’s a Mrs. Father. Probably not.

  The chapel is large, with rows of chairs,

  so I imagine there are Sunday services

  that I’m still not holy enough to attend.

  Don’t know if there are classrooms

  somewhere, or if any of us juvenile

  delinquents are allowed schooling

  other than what’s taught in the Bible.

  It’s the only book I have in my room,

  and I have to admit with no TV or other

  distractions, I’ve read more Old Testament

  here than ever before. Today as I walk,

  escorted, to the chapel, the compound

  looks deserted. How many of us are there,

  biding our time in solitary, entertaining

  ourselves with Leviticus? Do those further

  on their way toward rehabilitation interact?

  How many will actually be rehabilitated?

  What exactly does that mean, and how is it

  accomplished? How does someone leave

  this place? No harm in asking, is there?

  A Dozen Questions

  Fill my head as I enter the chapel.

  Father’s office is tucked in back

  of the altar. He is working at his

  computer but turns and stands

  as we enter. Welcome, Eden. Brother

  Stephen, you may leave us. He motions

  for me to sit before launching into

  a long-winded entreaty to the Lord

  to deliver wisdom. To me, obviously.

  Fa
ther already knows everything.

  I keep that to myself, of course.

  In fact, I say nothing as he “counsels”

  me on how I might return to the Path

  Toward Salvation. Finally he finishes

  and actually gives me the opening I need.

  Do you have any questions for me?

  I pretend thoughtfulness for a second.

  “I’ve had lots and lots of time to think,

  and I really believe you’ve opened

  my eyes to my sinful ways. I was just

  wondering what I have to do to prove

  that to you so I can go back home.”

  He smiles. But it is a cheetah’s smile.

  Do you really believe I’m so foolish?

  I find no hint of contrition in you.

  What I see before me is a liar. Still,

  you’re not stupid. So you must understand

  that your behavior reflects on your parents.

  They don’t want you to come home, do

  not want your tarnish on their sterling

  community standing, or for you to influence

  your sister to repeat your mistakes.

  You will be here for the foreseeable future.

  Shall we decide to make the best of it?

  Of course. I should have known. “Thank you,”

  I say, meaning it. Because he just gave me

  permission to do what it is I need to do. I am

  completely resolute to leave this place. Soon.

  A Poem by Seth Parnell

  What I Need

  Is something intangible,

  and so, unattainable

  because it is ever

  changing.

  Neither can what I want

  be defined. To someone

  standing on the

  outside

  perimeters of my life,

  I might look one

  hundred percent

  the same.

  But if they had

  the ability to split

  me open, look deep

  inside,

  they would know

  the mask that

  appears to be

  my face

  is painted over

  the real me, smoke

  and mirrors,

  an illusion.

  Seth

  Graduation Came and Went

  Whoopee. Finally free

  of educational necessity.

  No more pencils, no more

  books. No more Janet

  Winkler’s dirty looks.

  I’ve got to stop drinking.

  But not right now. What

  else is there to do around

  here? Funny, but not so long

  ago, I swore I’d be off to college.

  Now I really don’t care

  about moving on. What

  was I thinking? I’ll never

  go on to school. What for?

  My destiny was decided

  for me by the circumstances

  of my birth. Hick boy from

  Indiana. What am I going to

  do? Turn into a rock star?

  Or maybe run for president?

  Yeah, I Know

  The state of Indiana has

  produced one of each. But

  neither was gay. So hurray.

  It’s farming for me. Oh well.

  At least this little piece of

  enlightenment has brought

  me closer to Dad. No more

  long afternoons in Kentucky,

  though I do sneak off and

  meet Carl every now and again.

  Not for love, but for lust.

  As older guys go, he’s not

  so bad in the sack. And

  besides, he’s incredibly

  generous with the same

  sort of perks I got from

  Loren. Gourmet dinners.

  Theater and concerts.

  Art house movies. Only

  with Carl, the maître d’s

  know him by name, and sit

  us at view tables. He’s got

  off-Broadway season tickets,

  not to mention box seats

  at Churchill Downs. I’m not

  a big gambler, and know

  squat about horse racing.

  But Carl knows enough

  for both of us. And it is

  his money we wager.

  Beyond any rush at the rare

  win, I love the atmosphere.

  Rich people, outfitted in

  elegance, sipping mint juleps

  and inhaling the extravagant

  potpourri of leather, grass

  hay, and Thoroughbred

  manure. It’s a sensual

  experience, highlighted by

  Carl’s commanding presence.

  He hasn’t made me forget

  Loren, or soothed the sting

  of desertion, but he has made

  me realize that I don’t have

  to live my life in isolation.

  Thinking of Loren

  Makes me want liquor.

  Dad isn’t much of a drinker,

  but there’s usually beer

  in the fridge, and the afternoon

  is hot for June. A cold brew

  sounds pretty damn fine.

  I’m done tending garden

  for the day. Carrying gray

  water by the bucketful.

  Looking up into the sharp

  blue sky, no sign of rain.

  We can grow vegetables

  this way, but the corn looks

  mighty thirsty. We could lose

  the whole crop, if God

  doesn’t cooperate. Weird,

  but not a hundred miles

  from here in Illinois, they’re

  drowning under monstrous

  thundershowers. Just goes

  to show the randomness

  of the Almighty’s hand.

  Hey, Ma, if you’re up there,

  could you put in a good word

  for the farm you left behind?

  I Go into the Cool

  Of the house. “Dad?” He has

  drawn the shades, flipped

  the small window air con on.

  The faux breeze it has raised

  blows gently over the sweat

  on my face. Aaaaah! Soap

  and water attack the grime

  on my hands, and now it’s

  Miller time! I reach into

  the fridge, find a frosty can,

  pop the top, take a long

  swallow. A voice falls

  over my shoulder like

  a shadow. Who the hell

  are you? Iron hands—

  Dad’s hands—grab hold

  of my shoulders, spin

  me around to face him.

  The look in his eyes

  is a blend of disbelief and

  revulsion. He knows.

  But, “How?” He points

  to the kitchen table, to

  the envelope and pages

  lying spread across it.

  I gather Loren’s letter, glance

  at the words, talking

  about his church, his new

  home, his congregation.

  Talking about missing me,

  wishing there was a way

  we could be together. It’s not

  pornographic, but there is

  enough detail so Dad can

  have no doubt what it means.

  I saw a New York postmark.

  Thought maybe it was from

  a college or something.

  My God, Seth. How could

  you? How long have you … ?

  A vortex of emotions—anger,

  relief, fear—roil together,

  geyser from my mouth,

  “I’ve been gay—can you

  even say the word gay?—

  since I was born, Dad.
/>
  This”—I wave the letter

  in front of his face—“is

  who I am. Who I’ve always

  been. I can’t change that.”

  I’d Give Anything

  Not to cry. To prove, no

  matter my sexual lean,

  that I am every inch a man.

  But tears overflow my eyes,

  stream down my face.

  The only good thing is,

  Dad’s crying too. And

  he’s definitely straight.

  But he says, No, no, no.

  You can’t be … He can’t

  say the word, after all.

  Thank God your mother

  didn’t find out about this

  before she … It would

  have killed her. Sooner …

  “No, Dad! How can you

  say that? Mom would

  have been all right with

  it. She loved me. Just like

  I am. Even if I am gay.”

  He goes silent. Shrinks

  somehow, like a corpse

  too long in the sun. She

  would not have accepted this.

  And neither can I. Not ever.

  “Please, Dad.” I reach out

  for him but he recoils, as if

  “gay” was something you

  could catch. Time. It will take

  time. That’s all. “Please?”

  He shakes his head. Hard.

  Homosexuality is a sin, an

  abomination in the eyes of

  God. Just the thought of you …

  His eyes go flat, drained

  of love for me. Temporary,

  right? I kept hoping you’d

  find the right girl, bring her

  home. Get married. Have kids.

  But not some—some man!

  Not in my house. Not in my

  face. Oh my God. What if

  you have AIDS? Or some

  other sick homo disease?

  He slows. Catches his breath.

  Considers some moments

  before he says, You have

  to go. Pack your stuff and get

  the hell out of here. He turns

  his back to me. And I know

  there is nothing I can say

  to make him change his

  mind. Still, I have to try.

  I swallow the mounting

  hysteria. Keep my voice

  low. “I’d say I was sorry,

  but I can’t apologize for

  being who I am. I didn’t ask

  to be gay. I was born this way,

  and if you think it’s been easy,

  living a lie and knowing

  this day might come,

  you’d be wrong. I’m still

  the same person I was before

  you found out. Still your s—”

  His head starts moving back