Bluff

by Julie Dill

  I smile.

  I laugh.

  I’m euphorically dizzy.

  I’m embarrassed by the mound of chips that are about to be pushed my way. The mound is HUGE.

  The dealer asks, “Do you want to color up?”

  I make eye contact with him. He interprets my blank stare as “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about,” so he automatically starts trading my low denomination chips for larger ones. He scoops up the reds and whites and throws out some blacks.

  Blacks are $100.

  I have ten of them.

  Ten blacks.

  Ten.

  Blacks.

  I check them.

  I recount them.

  I protect them with my hand.

  It’s when I start to feel pain that I realize I’m chewing the inside of my bottom lip in a cannibal-like manner.

  Can this be real?!

  I am in no way present in the galaxy in which we live when the dealer asks me to check or fold the next hand. I can’t speak. I throw my cards back in without even looking at them.

  Calm down, Chelsea. Deep breaths. Neck rolls. Sit on your hands.

  After four hands and still no composure, I excuse myself to the restroom. The norm is to leave your chips on the table to hold your seat. I take my blacks, drop them in my purse, and leave the rest. I string my purse crossways over my chest, and guard it as if it contains Donald Trump’s checkbook.

  When I walk through the crowd I feel like I have some big secret.

  They don’t know what I know.

  I have over $1000 in my purse.

  They don’t know this about me.

  Should I go home? Order a beer? Find a karaoke bar? Shop for clothes? Or maybe it’s time to call Cassidy and tell her everything.

  I don’t know what to do with myself and this secret of $1000. I regroup in a bathroom stall where I take out my chips, hold them in my hands, and examine each of them, one at a time.

  Cherokee Casino. Smooth, black, and worn.

  Stacked neatly, I cup them in the palm of my hand, and use my other index finger to move them from one slanted direction to the other. 100, 200, 300, 400, 500, 600, 700, 800, 900, 1000.

  Yes, indeed, they are all here.

  I have $1000. I have a thousand dollars.

  I place them back in my purse. Along with my cash and the chips back on the table, I’m at about $1300, something I’ve never had in my life.

  Ten minutes later and I still can’t restore my composure. An entire bottle of Valium couldn’t contain my nerves right now and I decide to, as Kenny Rogers would suggest, “know when to run.” When I return to the table I sit politely through three hands and throw my cards back in each time without any betting at all. I look around for the spectator group that Nate was a part of. They’re gone.

  I stand and start to gather my chips. The players freak.

  Even Sunday school teacher Grandma chimes in, and she wasn’t even part of the big hand. Her wrinkled hand with protruding veins points right at me as she scolds.

  “You can’t leave with all their money. This game just got started! Sit down little miss!” She points back down at my chair.

  I laugh nervously.

  “I can’t. I’ve got to get to work. Sorry.”

  “Work?! Who needs to go to work after a win like that?!” A grizzly mountain guy holding his beer at the neck says to everyone at the table but me.

  My response is not with words, it’s with action. I get the HELL out of there. These people hate me. My purse holds their wages.

  Coincidentally (or not?), Nate is there as I exit the poker room. I jump when he comes from nowhere and places his arm on my shoulder.

  “So, you taking it home?”

  I just look at him.

  “The money, your big win, are you getting outta here with it? They didn’t get it back, did they?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m out of here. It’s all right here comin’ home with mama.” I pat my purse and think how stupid that sounded. Mama?! I hope he doesn’t think I have kids.

  “Do you need someone to walk you out?”

  Is he hitting on me? Come to mama.

  “All that money you got. I’d hate someone to follow you out. I can grab a guard to get you out to your car if you want.”

  Darn. Not hitting on me.

  “Oh, I’ll be fine. I’m a fast runner.” I get stupider with each sentence.

  He laughs.

  I laugh back.

  Awk-ward.

  “Alrighty then, we’ll see ya again, Chandra.”

  I look at my watch to speed things along.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you soon.”

  “Alright, Ms. Chandra. Don’t be hoppin’ on a plane to Vegas for a poker tournament anytime soon. Well, without me, that is.”

  I laugh, yet again, “I won’t.”

  I walk out of the poker room and head for the exit. Everything’s fuzzy in my head. Nate. Win. Nate. Win. WIN. I won. Nate.

  I’m into the parking lot in my cloud of Nate and winning when a car pulls up right next to me. A tinted window lowers, and someone in the vehicle turns down the loud bass sound of the hip-hop music.

  “Heeyyy little lady, you want to be a winner tonight?” A scruffy guy in a cocked Yankees cap hangs his elbow out the window. I don’t make eye contact. My pace quickens to a trot because my car is still far away.

  I hear a can of something pop open, and some laughing. I glance out of the corner of my eye; it’s a car full of guys.

  “Hellll yeah, she wants to be a winner tonight!” A voice from the backseat says, and they all start high fiving.

  I walk even faster. The car moves at my speed.

  I move my purse strap over my head across my chest and start a jog.

  “Dammmmmn, girl, we ain’t gonna steal your money. We just wanna chat.”

  Another one hollers out.

  “Girl, we don’t want your money.” They all high five again. I cut through the aisle of cars to get on the other row, even though my car’s the opposite direction. I slow to a jog. The silver, beat-up, four-door speeds up and whips around, and they’re beside me, once again.

  I get my phone out and act like I’m calling someone, knowing I can’t call anyone at all.

  This time I get a look at the driver, a guy with black hair and a black mustache, a red bandana tied around his forehead. He says, “Oh, baby, who you callin’? 911?” He stops the car and shifts to park. The passenger car door opens and a couple of them pile out. One falls, and they all crack up.

  I dart back to the other row, and they’re still laughing over the fall. I’m trying not to look, but I’m looking. My eyes move, my neck stays stiff.

  While I’m jogging I realize I can’t scream. I can’t make a scene. I can’t rely on security or police, because I’m Chandra. A guy that I didn’t see gets out of the car jumps from out between two cars right in front of me. He reaches to grab my arm; he misses. He tries again; he gets my wrist.

  Through my teeth I say, “Let go of me.” I jerk my arm back, but he’s got a tight hold.

  “Now why you playin’ hard to get, baby?”

  I keep pulling my arm.

  “Get the hell away from me!”

  “We just want to play, baby. You lose all your money at the casino tonight, baby? Is that why you in a bad mood?”

  His friends continue to laugh; one is laughing belly down over the hood of the car.

  “Leave me the hell alone!” I jerk back again. My vision blurs because my eyes are full of water.

  “Oh, baby. We got money if that’s what you’re upset about.”

  I hear more of them coming. Then, he sees something coming behind me and drops my wrist and runs to the car.

  “Let’s go!” He yells to h
is posse, and they manage to pile back in, shut the car doors, and speed off. Their bass is turned louder than even before, and they screech around the parking lot until they’re gone.

  What I thought was more of them end up being a security guard on a bicycle and Nate running behind him. The guard pulls right up, balances with one leg on the ground, and holds his bike handle with one hand, his gun with the other.

  “Are you okay?” His yellow security shirt is a blur, and his question is the go ahead for me to start bawling.

  Nate reaches us; the security guy gets off his bike and kicks the kickstand.

  After Nate puts his arm around me, he steps back and starts looking for injuries.

  “Did they hurt you? Did they steal your money? What’d they say?”

  I don’t know which question to answer first.

  “I’m okay.” I’m shaking horribly. I’m trying to contain the tears. “I’m okay, really.”

  The security guard pulls out his walkie-talkie when he says, “Let’s call the police and make a police report.”

  Shit.

  “No, NO, really, I’m okay. Really, I’m okay, I promise.”

  He’s not listening. He’s pulling out more stuff that looks to be communication equipment.

  “Don’t call the cops, please. It was nothing, I swear.”

  Nate intervenes, “Chandra, we’re calling them.”

  “No, please. Please don’t call them. I’m fine; they didn’t even do anything. They were just playing around, is all.” I start walking toward my car.

  His voice gets louder, not with anger, but because I’m getting father away.

  “Chandra, come back. Are you okay?” He tries to catch up with me. “Are you sure you’re okay? Won’t you come back in and go sit in the office with me for a few minutes? I don’t think you should be getting in your car right now.” He hollers back at the guard to forget the call to the cops, and the security guard complies with a, “You sure?”

  The guard backs off and Nate catches up to me, then stretches out his arm to hand me his business card.

  “If you ever need me,” he says. “I mean if you ever get into trouble.”

  Without words, I take it.

  Chapter 13

  The next morning I shake off the thought of those bad guys as I tuck my money—every bit of it—deep into my purse before I head to the mall. I like the idea of going to the mall and actually having money to spend. I’ve been a mall tagalong with Cassidy since sixth grade when her mom would drop us off for a couple of hours. Cass would try on clothes, buy outfits, sample perfumes, and look at shoes while I sat off to the side, smiling and telling her how cute she was.

  Today it’s my turn.

  It’s a whole different experience, this mall thing, when there’s money in the purse. When I walk in, it’s a skin care kiosk I stop at first. The guy squirts some lotion into my palm and goes into his spiel about it being European and having all natural ingredients . . . there’s nothing on the market like it. He tells me I have pretty hands then starts showing me “packages” available for purchase. I lose interest, but walk away smelling the top of my hand and smiling at the fact that I could buy one of those packages if I wanted. I have the money.

  I go to the big department store and pass through the makeup counters then find my way to the shoes. Fall boots. Tall ones, short ones, suede, and leather. I find a gorgeous black pair with a zipper all the way down the back and flip them over to check the price. $279.

  I meander around and settle on a trendy, tan suede pair, and sit down to try them on. $174 dollars seems like a bargain after checking prices and comparing. The salesman shows up to help me, a guy with white hair spending his golden years passing out hose footies. But I get it—the bills, the insurance, the need for basic things like food and electricity. This gets me to thinking . . . I wonder if they get commission and if Dad would do better here than the convenience store.

  He asks, “Can I help you?” in a robotic tone.

  I ask for my size, and he disappears in the back.

  I can’t remember anyone ever asking if they could “help me.” Yes, it is just grabbing a pair of boots. But he is helping me.

  He brings out my boots, and I slip them on and walk to the mirror. I’ve seen Cassidy do this a million times so I know this is what you’re supposed to do when you go out shoe shopping. I look down at the reflection and smile because they are just that fabulous. New boots. For me! I take a few seconds to stare down at the boots before I slip them off.

  “I’ll take them,” I say excitedly. He wraps them back in tissue, tucks them safely into the long box and walks to the register. While he rings me up, he looks at his watch twice—counting down the minutes, I’m sure, until he walks out the door to forget about smelly feet, until the next time.

  Skinny jeans and leggings are a must with new boots, and I find the perfect store for those. In the dressing room I peek my head out and ask the clerk if I can pull out my boots to see how they look with the jeans.

  “No problem,” she says. She swings a flannel shirt over the top of my door, and asks if I’d like to try it with the jeans. I feel like royalty at this point.

  “Sure,” I reply, and I can’t pay for the whole ensemble fast enough.

  The shopping gives me hunger pangs, and I start making my way toward food, but first I get sidetracked with accessory purchases: bracelets, earrings, and a couple of to-die-for chunky scarves. I throw in a bottle of new nail polish at the last minute.

  It’s usually a ninety-nine cent corn dog and a water to go, but today I wander around the food court and decide to get the most expensive gyro on the menu, along with potato chips, a large Dr. Pepper, and a chocolate chip cookie for dessert. Twelve bucks. Which is next to nothing compared to the wad of cash I have deep in my purse. I even add a dollar to the guy’s tip jar.

  I take a deep breath in. I love this new position I’m in. Money . . . Nate . . . poker . . . it’s as if I’ve stepped away from my old shell and entered into something brand new.

  The tables are crowded with hustle and bustle so when I sit down to eat I crowd my bags close to me, around my feet. I’ve never had bags! I’ve had a bag. But never, ever, in my whole entire life have I had bags. I stare at my food tray a few seconds before I begin eating because I don’t ever want to forget what this feels like, this first experience of luxury I’m having.

  Chapter 14

  Monday morning before school, I go to Miss Mound’s classroom to pay all the money that’s due.

  She’s watching Good Morning America and drinking coffee from a mug tattooed with bright red lipstick.

  “Hi, Chelsea. Good morning.” She only looks up for a second, then her eyes return to the live story on dog parks in America, the dos and don’ts.

  “Good morning, Miss Mound. I have my money for you.” I hand her a cashier’s check that I’d bought at the convenience store. She looks at it, and her eyebrows show me she’s puzzled it’s not a personal check. She flips it over and looks at the back, then looks at the front again.

  I stand and wait.

  She looks at me, then back at the check.

  “Okay, hon. Thanks.” She’s back in dog park land, and I slip out.

  Slipping out in my new designer boots is so much better than slipping out in worn flats. AND my cheer fees are caught up. Is this what it’s like to be normal?

  I do everything in my power to avoid Cassidy until practice. Since I haven’t returned any of her calls, I need to figure out my answers to what will be her hundred questions.

  Leah, this popular girl in my third hour, comments on my boots.

  “Cute boots!” she says. “I haven’t seen those before.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I just got them this weekend.”

  “They’re really cute. They must’ve cost a fortune.”

  I cross
my legs and position my feet for her to get an even better look.

  She looks again.

  I smile again.

  And this is the new me.

  Confident. Worry-free. All bills paid.

  I make it through the day with no Cassidy encounter, and I’m convinced I’m perfectly fine without her. But my luck runs out when I walk into the locker room after school, and she’s the only other one in there. At first we just do our own thing. I’m putting away my books, pulling out my change of clothes, and she’s doing the same. There’s uncomfortable silence and lots of it.

  My boots are the icebreaker. She says, “When did you get new boots?”

  I look at them as if I’ve forgotten.

  “Oh, these? Over the weekend. They were on sale.”

  “Oh.” She goes back to changing, and I never stop changing.

  I’m out on the gym floor first, and we don’t say anything else to each other at all, and I’m okay with this. While stretching, I fade into deep thought. I can’t help to think that it bothers Cassidy that I have cute boots. What if I had a wardrobe like hers? If I had money and she didn’t, would things be different? Would we be friends?

  After practice I go to get gas, and I can’t ever remember pumping more than ten bucks at one time. I stand by my tank not sure what to do with all this time it takes to fill a tank. I push my cuticles down on every finger. I throw away some granola bar wrappers and a Diet Coke can from my console. But, wait! How will I know when the tank is full? Does it spill out the sides? I jump toward the gas tank and squeeze to release the nozzle. Think this through. Around me, there’s no one but a stressed out mom pumping gas while her crying toddler tries to escape from his car seat. She’s multitasking in heels, hose, and a khaki suit—on her cell—trying to entertain her baby with peek-a-boo through the window. Her hands are not on the gas nozzle, so I watch to see what happens.

  The kid screams louder, chucks his binky though the half-opened car window, and Mom trots a few steps from the car and places her free hand over her open ear in attempt to finish the phone call. Kid still screaming.

  I wait and watch.

  Her gas nozzle pops down on its own. Mom walks back over to return the nozzle. So that’s how.