Tricks

by Ellen Hopkins

  to figure out if Vince is bluffing,

  decides he must be. He calls. I call.

  We show our cards. My full house

  wins the pot! Six-fifty! Oh, yeah.

  Lady and I are doing a full-on mosh

  now. One thing I’ve managed

  to learn, “Thanks so much, gentlemen,

  but it’s time for me to go.” It is time,

  in fact. My date is in twenty minutes.

  Hot Damn

  I am feeling good. I stop at the bank,

  make two deposits. Into my account.

  Into Mom’s account. Not much, but

  enough to help out a little. I’d cancel

  my three-way, but I promised I’d do

  it. Lydia is expecting me to. And so

  is Misty. Who I really want to see

  right now is Ronnie. First time in

  a long time I’m feeling the need

  for a long, healthy roll in the hay.

  I give her a call, half expecting

  her to be out with somebody else.

  But she answers immediately.

  Hello? Oh God! The sound of

  her husky voice lifts me even

  higher. Uh, hello? Is somebody

  there? When I let her know it’s

  me, she is standoffish at first.

  “You can be mad at me. I deserve

  it. But Ronnie, I swear, I’m so sorry

  for pushing you away lately. Things

  have been …. uh, bad. We can talk

  about that later. I get off in an hour

  and a half. I know that’s pretty late….”

  Zero hesitation. No! Come over.

  I’ll stay up, however long it takes

  you to get here. She pauses, and I

  can imagine her voice growing

  thick in her throat. Goddamn you,

  Cody, she sputters. What took so long?

  I haven’t cried in a long while,

  not since I mostly got over Jack.

  I pretty much thought my tear

  machine was broken for good.

  But no. I can barely choke out,

  “I don’t know. But I do know

  I love you. See you in a little while.”

  I can’t get her off my mind as I drive

  to the address Lydia gave me. I feel

  awful. Feel wonderful. And for

  the first time in a long time, I feel

  hopeful. A few more dates, a couple

  of big wins, I’ll get out of this

  business for good. I’ll find a real

  job. Put money away. Help Mom

  somehow. Stay in school, work my

  ass off and get into college. Oh, there’s

  the motel. First things first.

  I’m a Little Late

  Usually Misty waits for me and we

  go in together. Guess she didn’t want

  the guy to think we weren’t coming.

  I check the room number. Twice.

  One time I knocked on the wrong

  door. Was that guy ever surprised!

  This time when I knock, Misty calls,

  Come on in, baby. I do, find her

  already mostly naked. The guy,

  who’s a totally forgettable middle-aged

  nothing, is completely naked.

  Jeez, man. I’m only five minutes late.

  The dude, who isn’t much down

  there either, despite it being at full

  mast, turns his attention away from

  from Misty, focuses on me. What

  are you waiting for? Time is money,

  you know. Like it’s going to take him

  much time at all. But whatever. It is

  his money. And less time is better.

  Misty distracts him with her yummy

  boobs and I start to pull my T-shirt over

  my head. Suddenly the door explodes

  behind me. What the …. ?

  Something—bear or bulldozer—

  knocks me face forward to the floor,

  forcing my breath into the carpet.

  Misty screams and Nothing Man

  yells, What the fuck, as my right

  kidney takes two massive punches.

  My shirt is still over my head and

  I can’t see a damn thing as I fight

  for air. But I hear crack-crack-crack.

  And the room goes silent, except

  for strained breathing, right above

  me. And then I hear …. sobbing.

  You fucking whore. It is Chris’s voice.

  You promised …. no more …. you

  said …. and you …. he means me.

  His boot takes out two ribs. Oh

  my God. Is he going to kill me?

  Jack! Didn’t mean it. Don’t want ….

  Snap!Lightning? White-hot. Electric.

  Shattering. My back. Pieces. Bone.

  Dark. Darker. Cut through the black,

  blinding light. What? Buzzing. What?

  Suck air. Where? Can’t …. No, please.

  Ronnie? Sorry. So sorry. Ron ….

  Light Floats

  Just beyond my eyelids. I want

  to open them, see the light, but

  the darkness is comforting. Not

  much here. Beyond the nothing

  (nothing? Nothing. Nothing Man?),

  something. A hum. A whisper.

  Wake up. Can you wake up for me?

  Motion. All around me, movement.

  Pressure. Wrapping me. Pressure.

  Air. Saccharine air, pumping

  into my lungs, through …. plastic.

  Plastic? My eyelids stutter. Light!

  Sunlight. I am outside. Can’t move.

  Tied? Strapped. Strapped to a gurney.

  Parking lot. Red and blue lights.

  Oh my God. I remember. I roll my head,

  see another gurney. “Misty?” A cloth

  covers her face. “No.” It is a whisper.

  Best I can do. A second gurney

  carries another still figure. Nothing

  Man. Gone. Both of them gone.

  But I am still here. “Thank you, Jack.”

  A paramedic asks what I said. “Phone,”

  I tell him. “Call Mom. And Ronnie.”

  A Poem by Eden Streit

  Still Here

  At least I think so,

  what’s left of who

  I used to be

  a shadow

  on the sidewalk.

  I look up, try to find

  a rainbow, but the only

  thing there is

  a lone cloud,

  stretching thin

  and thinner, clear

  to almost not

  there, across

  an upside-down sea.

  I lower my gaze into

  a puddle, close my

  eyes at what I see.

  Don’t want to believe

  that ghost is me.

  Eden

  I Am Less Than a Ghost

  I am a corpse, sleepwalking the streets

  of Las Vegas. Sometimes I think

  I should just head on out into the desert,

  lay down on a soft mattress of sand,

  close my eyes against the diamond sun

  and circling black wings. And wait.

  It might be preferable to this cement bed

  behind a 7-Eleven Dumpster.

  There are lots of us living on the street.

  They say Vegas is easier than Reno. Warmer.

  There are shelters, I’ve been told, where

  you can eat free. Shower sometimes. Sleep.

  But I’m afraid of the questions. Too many

  questions. So when my stomach offers up

  its acid, when I can’t stand the hollowness

  for another second, I sell one more slice

  of my soul. One slice, twenty dollars. I’ve been
>
  here three weeks. Not much left of my soul.

  As for My Body

  It’s battered, scraped, bruised. The Tears

  of Zion shift looks about a hundred years old.

  I did spend a few bucks at the Salvation Army.

  Bought a used skirt, two tank tops. Underwear.

  I hate to think who used them, or why they gave

  them away. But they only cost a dime apiece.

  I stink, too. I’ve managed four or five showers,

  when the man of the hour wanted to spring for

  a motel room. More often, it’s the seat of his car.

  Quick and easy, five minutes or less. No emotion.

  No pain. And the weirdest thing is, I’m not

  the least bit embarrassed about doing it anymore.

  That’s the worst part. That, and when my brain

  insists on remembering Andrew. Thinking

  about how he held me, rained his love down

  all around me, brings devouring pain.

  So I’ll think instead about the coming night, where

  I might peddle the remaining tatters of my soul.

  Rush Hour

  The freeways are bumper to bumper,

  so surface streets jam with commuters.

  A few of the pushier girls go straight

  up to them at traffic lights, knock on

  their windows. How about a date?

  Most of the guys shake their heads.

  Some of them look close to panic. Afraid

  they might catch something through the glass?

  But every now and again, one of them

  opens the passenger door and the girl slips

  inside. The car takes off, and minutes

  later, comes back around, business done.

  I watch a girl get out of an older Cadillac.

  At least they had plenty of leg room.

  She steps to the curb, stares me down

  with steel eyes. What are you looking at?

  For some crazy reason, I shatter.

  “N-nothing. I m-m-mean I d-don’t know.”

  Her gaze softens. New to the biz, huh?

  Well, sweetheart, this is a real bad place

  for tears. Those guys are freaking sharks.

  If they smell blood, they’ll chew you up.

  “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re

  the first person who’s even talked to me

  since I got here. I mean except to tell

  me to suck harder, or ….”

  She cracks up, and so do I. Yeah, well,

  I know exactly what you mean. Uh, don’t

  get me wrong, okay? Her nose scrunches

  up. But you could really use soap and water.

  “That bad, huh?” My face actually heats.

  Doing disgusting things with gross men

  doesn’t embarrass me, but her observation,

  no doubt deserved, does? “I’m on the street.”

  She reaches into a pocket on her skirt,

  pulls out a thin fold of bills. Here’s fifty

  dollars. Get a room and some food.

  And listen, from the looks of you, this

  isn’t the right business. Get smart. Call

  home. You don’t belong on the street.

  I shake my head. “You worked for that,

  and I know what you had to do for it.”

  Everything about her hardens. I told

  you to get smart. Take the money.

  I don’t know what you ran from,

  but living like this can’t be better.

  Funny, but my girlfriend, Ginger, keeps

  telling me the same thing. I never wanted

  to listen before. Maybe now I’d better.

  Her nose wrinkles again. Call home.

  But shower first. She turns abruptly.

  Later, she snorts over her shoulder.

  Good Samaritan

  The words pop into my head. That

  is the second time someone I didn’t

  know and will likely never see again

  handed me money they couldn’t afford

  to give away. I don’t understand. Why

  me? Other words surface from a place

  of deep indoctrination: Whatever they

  do for the least of my children, they do

  for me…. I wander along the overbaked

  cement, sucked into a cerebral vortex.

  When it finally spits me out again, I am

  on the sidewalk in front of a church. Guardian

  Angel Cathedral. Catholic. I am struck

  by the beauty of the angular architecture,

  and by the amazing artwork above my head—

  Jesus, hands extended in welcome, to one and all.

  I’ve never once walked beyond the doors

  of a Catholic church. But I am drawn inside

  this one. I enter, a stranger to the faith.

  To the God of this faith and every other.

  Friday evening, no worshippers, I find cool

  solace inside. I slide into a seat at the rear,

  fold my hands. Close my eyes. Do I remember

  how to pray? “God, you know I have done

  terrible things. I don’t want to do them anymore,

  and ask for your forgiveness. I am so sorry….”

  My voice catches in my throat. Was I speaking

  out loud? Just a little more. “Thank you

  for good Samaritans. And please, God, please,

  if it’s your will, show me the way out.”

  A sense of peace blankets me, and a gentle

  voice whispers, How can I help you?

  God? No. There is shallow breathing, too.

  I open my eyes. A priest sits beside me.

  He reminds me of Andrew—handsome,

  and fresh, with compassion in his eyes.

  “I don’t know how, Father, but I do need help.”

  Need his help, and God’s help, to be saved.

  A Poem by Seth Parnell

  No Way to Be Saved

  No way to hit reverse,

  turn around,

  go back home.

  No

  chance at forgiveness.

  The shale cliffs of

  redemption

  have crumbled,

  surrendered to the sea.

  How do you look

  for

  miracles when you

  deny belief? How can

  someone

  formed of bone and sin

  trust his weight to wings?

  How does a man

  like me

  find innocence again?

  Seth

  I Don’t Remember Innocence

  Not, I guess, that I need to.

  Nothing innocent about

  how I live now. Nothing

  naive about being a toy.

  That’s what I am now. A toy.

  But, hey, what are my options?

  I thought about trying to go

  home. Once I even swallowed

  every ounce of pride, put

  in a phone call to Dad.

  His raspy voice lifted

  memories, good and not so.

  Hello? Hello? Who the hell

  is this? Then he thought

  a sec. Seth? Is that you, boy?

  Don’t know if it was the “boy,”

  or just remembering his words

  the night he sent me away,

  but I couldn’t say a damn

  thing. I slammed down

  the receiver, retreated into

  a murky cave of depression.

  It’s a place I’ve visited

  more and more lately.

  The only thing that seems

  to yank me away from there

  is working out. Sweating

  poisons of body and soul.

  Having Jared around to help

  me sweat isn’t so bad either.

&n
bsp; In the few weeks since he

  started helping me, I can

  see a vast improvement.

  He agrees. Much better form.

  Both your lifting, and your body.

  He is really close, and the smell

  of his sweat beneath his leathery

  fragrances reminds me of a tack

  room. For some reason, it is

  desperately turning me on.

  Despite my ballooning

  attraction, I have yet to overtly

  put any sort of moves on Jared.

  He might be taken. And I am

  under ongoing ownership.

  But no way can I lie back

  on this weight bench without

  that traitorous part of my body

  totally giving me away.

  I inhale like I can’t find air.

  You okay? he asks. His own

  breath falls hot on my neck,

  and the stable smell becomes

  almost overpowering. Tack.

  Sweat. I remember something.

  I was little. Playing at Grandma

  Laura’s. Hiding in the tack room.

  Hiding with my cousin, Clay.

  He touched me. There. And it

  felt good. So good. So ….“Oh.”

  I turn to Jared. What the hell?

  “I’m okay. Except …” God!

  “I totally want you.” There.

  Said it. He can laugh at me now.

  But he doesn’t. He kisses me.

  We Are Alone

  In here. The workout room

  is always deserted midday.

  Still, I might hesitate, but

  Jared is in total control.

  Come on. He leads me into

  the sauna, but doesn’t turn

  it on. Now our sweat scents

  mingle and the combination

  is heady. There is no need

  for words as our bodies link.

  He is strong. The first strong

  man I’ve ever been with, and

  this time I don’t give. It is new.

  Frightening. Exhilarating.

  But somehow I trust it to be

  all right. And it is more than

  that. A piece of my puzzle

  falls into place, a piece I didn’t

  know was missing. Fifteen

  minutes to Seth, reinvented.

  I’m Still Trying

  To sort it all out in my head

  when Carl gets home. Early

  for once, and with no company.

  “Oh. Didn’t expect you so soon.

  I’ll start dinner right now.”

  Don’t bother. He goes into

  the living room, pours himself

  a drink. Does not pour one

  for me. So tell me. What