Tricks

by Ellen Hopkins

  Want him to take me higher. Want sex

  as it was meant to be, as only Bryn can

  ever give it to me. “Make love to me.”

  He pushes me to the floor. My head

  spins, dizzy with anticipation. My brain

  screams, kiss me! Kiss all those special

  places, just like you used to. I know

  he will, but … But what? Why

  is he stopping? He reaches into

  a back pocket. What is that?

  A rubber? No. We don’t need that.

  I’m on the pill. It was one of the first

  things we did when we got to Vegas.

  “N-no.” Is there mud in my mouth?

  I can barely cough out, “Why?”

  He stops fiddling with the wrapper,

  but doesn’t answer right away. Finally

  he says, Never know what kind of gift

  one of your customers might have left.

  What? My face flushes, hot from

  the skag, hotter still with an overdose

  of anger. Always, with no exceptions,

  “My customers use condoms.”

  I Try to Push Him Away

  But even if I were perfectly

  straight, my stick-figure body

  would be no match for his toned

  physique. And I’m not straight.

  My vision is blurred, like looking

  through a fishbowl, and my muscles

  feel like steel cables—much too heavy

  to drag around. And the weirdest

  thing about all that is how great

  it feels. I’ll nod soon, and that’s when

  the pain vanishes. So hell, he can screw

  me, if that’s all it means to him.

  He boosts himself up over me.

  Tries to look down into my eyes.

  But I stare at the wall. Will myself

  to go limp. Familiar one-act play.

  That’s it, he soothes. No need

  to waste a perfectly good boner.

  In. Out. In. Out. I close my eyes.

  Float. Pretend I’m with a john.

  When I Surface

  From my lake of dreams, Bryn

  is gone. He left a note: Stashed

  the bag and fixings in the usual

  place. Same price. Tomorrow.

  How have I fallen so low? I knew

  about junk, even told Bryn no way.

  Then I let him talk me into it. Love

  is more than blind. It’s brain-dead.

  My brain screeches, Fix! Fix!

  Quick, before I make you heave.

  Quick, before I give you the runs.

  Quick, before I start remembering.

  Remembering I once had another

  life. Hated it then. Might still hate

  it now. But more than I hate this?

  Hate what I’ve become? No matter.

  This is all I’ve got. I cook up a spoon.

  Oh yes. That’s good. So good.

  Clock. Where are you, clock?

  There you are. Evening already?

  The boys are out, scamming

  for play. Shower. Hurry. Night’s

  tick-tocking away. And I’ve got

  bills. Same price. Tomorrow.

  Skin Tight Men’s Club

  Is hopping tonight. Boys go in.

  Stay a while, watching pole dancers

  and cocktail waitresses, shaking

  their boobs for tips. Boys come out,

  horny as hell. Some go home

  to beat off or bug their wives.

  Some look for girls like me,

  loitering in the shadows where,

  hopefully, cops cruising beats

  won’t notice them. Bryn taught

  me the ropes. Act interested,

  but don’t push. The girls who

  get busted are in-your-face.

  Dress sexy, but leave some up

  to the imagination. Sexy schoolgirl

  That’s the look you want.

  Ask what they want up front,

  and collect before you take

  ’em home. Wouldn’t want to

  do all that work for nothing,

  and believe me, plenty of guys

  got nothing, especially if they

  overspent inside. And if some

  dude seems hinky, say no.

  I’ve said no a couple of times.

  It wasn’t because they were fat

  or bald, but because of what I saw

  in their eyes. More accurately,

  what I didn’t see in their eyes:

  life. Sharks, that’s what they were.

  Dead cold scary. No way was I

  chancing a swim with them.

  Most johns are more mackerel

  than great white. Cold slimy bait

  fish, quick to jump into the net,

  especially when what they’re

  jumping in after still looks fresh.

  Don’t know how long that can

  last. Hooking uses you up fast.

  Figure in hyping, I’ll look thirty

  before I turn seventeen. I turn

  sixteen day after tomorrow,

  not that one single person in

  the world gives half a damn.

  Why Did I Have to Go

  And think about that? Damn!

  If I were still in Santa Cruz, I’d be

  planning my Sweet Sixteen party.

  Daddy would insist. We’d have it

  at the club, and we’d have a band,

  and Paige would be there and maybe

  even Kyra.… Oh my God. What

  have I done? Daddy must think. …

  What? I’m dead? Mom hopes I am.

  But not. … Daddy. I’m sorry. Shit!

  I sit down hard. Sidewalk cement bites

  into my butt, which is naked beneath

  a short denim skirt. My head tilts

  against my knees, and my eyes trickle

  tears. Heavy. My head is so heavy.

  The H wants to take me away

  and I want to go. Away. Far. Where

  nothing hurts. Nothing … Eyes on

  me. Are there eyes? Don’t look. Have to.

  To know … Who? Can’t lift my head.

  Roll it sideways. Are you all right?

  The eyes are talking. No. Not eyes.

  Lips. Stupid. Eyes can’t talk.

  Do you want me to call 911?

  “N-no thanks. I’m o-o-k-kay.”

  So okay I can’t even say okay.

  For some messed-up reason,

  I start to hiccup. “Ju—” Hick.

  “Just think—” Hick. “Thinking

  about my b—” Hick. “Buh-birthday.”

  Hick. Hick. Hick. Somehow

  I manage to focus my eyes.

  The guy isn’t pretty, but his

  expression is kind enough. Maybe

  even concerned. Are you sure

  you’re okay? You been drinking?

  Can you get this screwed up

  from alcohol? Looney Tunes laughter—

  hick-hick— spits from my mouth.

  “Sorry. No, don’t drink much.”

  Now I can see the wolf in his eyes.

  No surprise. Even nice enough

  guys go on the prowl. Okay. What

  do you do that’s fun, then?

  I Swear Until This Moment

  I never even noticed his hand

  creeping up my leg, ever closer

  to my semi-exposed crotch.

  Eyes can be deceptive when

  they talk. I crack up again.

  This time, at least, the hiccups

  seem to have disappeared. But

  I’m starting to ache for a rig.

  Bryn’s words settle through

  the fog. Leave something to

  the imagination. I give the guy

  a quick feel before pushing

&n
bsp; his hand away. “Oh, I for sure

  know how to have fun.” Game on.

  Wait. Bryn again. Ask if he works

  vice. “You a cop or what?”

  He grins. Or what. I’m not even

  from around here. He stands, pulls

  me to my feet, steadies my wobble.

  Live close? I’ll walk you home.

  It Isn’t Far

  Just eight blocks. The guy chit-

  chats the whole time. Something

  about Omaha. Cornhuskers? He

  played for them? Bets on them?

  Oh yeah. Sportsbook. Won five

  big ones. (How big? Hundreds?

  Bigger?) I can’t concentrate on

  what he’s saying. All I can think

  about is a syringe full of magic.

  How fast can I do this guy?

  We swing into the parking lot,

  cut across to Building Two.

  Key. I need the key. It’s in my

  purse somewhere. Too much crap

  in here. Like, why do I carry it,

  anyway? Just to irritate myself?

  We reach the apartment and I hear

  Bryn again. Look around before

  you open the door. I do. A car

  is parking a few spaces down.

  And going up the stairs of the other

  building is that girl I see sometimes,

  mostly in the laundry room. Copacetic.

  Cool word. Where did it come from?

  I unlock the door, start to turn the knob,

  when more words fall into my brain.

  Business before pleasure. I turn.

  The guy is so close, we’re almost

  attached. I give him a little shove

  backward. “Before we go in, we

  should talk about what you want

  and how much that will cost you.”

  Cost? You want me to pay for it?

  He pushes me inside. I don’t pay

  for sex. Even if I did, I wouldn’t

  pay for you, you junkie bitch.

  He is all predator now, and on me.

  Scream! But his hand is already over

  my mouth. I shake my head, look

  into his eyes. This wolf has mayhem

  on his mind. He takes me down.

  So okay. Give it to him. I go limp.

  No! he screams. Fight, you goddamn

  whore! Fight, or I’ll kill you.

  No fight left in me. Fuck me. Kill

  me. Don’t care. He wants both.

  His penis stabs me, his hands lock

  around my throat. Air. No air. Black …

  Air!

  My lungs grab it suddenly. I float

  up into gray light, roll onto my side,

  vomit. Only nothing comes out.

  Noise. Someone’s screaming.

  Get the fuck out of here, you son

  of a bitch. I’m calling the cops

  right now, so you’d better run.

  Come back, I’ll kick your ass.

  My throat throbs. The wolf! I sit up.

  Too fast. My head is a merry-go-round.

  Down. The carpet stinks. Saved.

  I’m saved. Bryn! He does loves me.

  Watches over me. “Bryn? Where

  are you?” Footsteps across the stinky

  carpet. Not Bryn’s. Too soft.

  Someone leans over me. The girl

  from the laundry room. Just lie still.

  I think you’ll be okay. He’s hurting,

  though. I hit him with a book.

  Good thing you read big ones.

  She smiles. Sad. She’s sad. Should

  I call the cops? Didn’t think so.

  I’ll stay with you for a while if you

  want. I’m Ginger, by the way.

  A Poem by Ginger Cordell

  I’ll Stay

  Right or wrong,

  I’ll stay until

  you tell me I have to

  leave.

  Until you can look

  into my eyes, swear

  you no longer love

  me.

  It would be a bitter

  cup of broken-

  promise tea, but

  I’ll

  swallow it if you say

  I must. If I go, sad

  sweet dreams will

  follow

  me, weighting my days,

  strangling my nights.

  Sad, sweet dreams of

  you.

  Ginger

  Sadness

  Encircles me, a black halo.

  It’s this city, this dried-up

  desert well, sucking hope

  like sand. People come here,

  hoping. Hoping to get rich.

  Hoping to get laid. Not many

  go home richer than when

  they arrived. Easier to get

  laid, as long as they have

  a few bucks in their pockets.

  Then there are the people

  who move here with big

  dreams. They dream of stand-up

  comedy, of playing rock and

  roll. They dream of dancing lead

  in some steamy casino show.

  If they’re talented and lucky,

  they might end up in a chorus

  line or drumming with a bar

  band. But lots of them wind

  up just like me, selling pieces

  of themselves. Pieces they can

  never have back. There’s this

  girl who works for Lydia.

  Her name is Misty. I won’t do

  this forever, she swears. Just

  until I get my degree. Then

  the world is my apple pie.…

  Okay, metaphor isn’t her best

  thing. And neither is school.

  If she gets her degree, it will

  be because she slept with

  the right teacher. Or three.

  Every time I run into Misty,

  a little more of her is gone.

  I can see it in her eyes.

  When you sell your body, you

  also sell what’s inside. Piece

  by piece, you sell your soul.

  Now Here’s This Girl

  Who almost lost everything.

  She let her guard down. Plain

  and simple. If I hadn’t been

  doing my usual nosy thing,

  checking out the neighbors,

  she’d probably be lying here

  waiting for her pimp to call

  the coroner. Yes, I know who

  her pimp is. He’s the only guy

  who comes around almost

  every day. Collecting money

  and delivering sustenance—

  food, trinkets, and substances.

  Heroin. I was right about that.

  I watch her now, plunging

  a syringe full of hot amber

  liquid. Her head rolls side-

  ways and she fixes me with

  sleepy golden eyes. Want

  some? I don’t have a whole

  lot, but I kind of owe you one.

  “No thanks. Not my thing.”

  Her body visibly relaxes as

  relief pumps through her veins.

  Suddenly she clutches her

  stomach, runs into the bathroom.

  “You all right?” I yell at the door.

  She exits seconds later, pale

  but smiling. A very bad smell

  of voided body waste trails her.

  Doesn’t embarrass her at all.

  Sometimes the Lady makes

  you sick. But it’s good sick.

  There’s room on the couch,

  and a vacant chair, but she sits

  on the floor, as if afraid of falling.

  Now she rocks herself. Forward.

  Back. Forward. Back. Thank you

  for …. wait. How did you know?

  “I dunno
. Guess he just looked

  like bad news. Then he started

  yelling crazy shit. I usually

  mind my own business….”

  Yeah, right. “But my ‘little

  voice’ was screaming. Good

  thing you never shut your door.

  Even better, he was too busy

  trying to choke you to notice.”

  Her hands rise protectively

  toward her neck. I thought

  I was on my way to hell for

  sure. She strokes the raised

  scarlet finger marks gently.

  Hurts like a mother. Is it ugly?

  I have to say, “Pretty ugly.

  You might have to take a few

  days off. Most guys won’t want ….”

  Too familiar. Then again,

  I just watched her shoot up.

  I repeat, “Take a few days off.”

  I Expect Surprise

  That I know how she makes

  her money. Or anger at me,

  because I’ve been such a snoop,

  or at herself, because she’s

  made it so obvious. I get neither.

  Nothing but silent acceptance.

  Is it the heroin? Or is it just

  her? Probably both. I want to

  ask where she came from. What

  kind of parents she has, if she

  has any at all. How she hooked

  up with her so-called boyfriend.

  That’s, no doubt, what he calls

  himself. Want to ask, though

  I know the answer, if he’s the one

  who started her on the junk.

  Her head sways forward

  as the drug carries her toward

  Dreamville. She’ll be totally out

  of it soon. I’ll ask something

  easy. “What’s your name?”

  At the sound of my voice,

  her head jerks up. Oh. It’s you.

  You tell me your name first.

  Wow. She’s pretty out of it

  already. “I told you before.

  It’s Ginger, remember?”

  She giggles like a little kid.

  A stoned little kid. Oh, yeah.

  Hey, Ginger. I’m Whitney.

  Somewhere in her sudden

  animation, I catch a glimpse

  of Whitney, the way I imagine

  she used to be before …. him.

  She nods again and I hurry,

  “Are you still in love with him?”

  Yo-yoing in and out of now,

  she is coherent enough to know

  who I mean. Bryn is everything.

  It’s the Last Thing She Says

  Before dropping all the way

  into whatever dark narcotic

  place the junk pushes her toward.

  I swear I’ll never venture there.

  Lately I don’t even feel like