by Julie Dill
But I don’t.
I don’t tell him anything. I barely smile, shrug my shoulder, and shake my head to say, “No.”
I walk into the bright sunshine.
And I don’t go back.
Chapter 33
For two weeks I don’t step foot in the casino because I attempt to do better. I work hard at school. I put my application in at three different restaurants and one clothing store. I deep-clean the house and keep up the laundry. I spend extra time at Miss Stella’s . . . I even start eating fruit.
I’m very aware that all these things are not for the betterment of my character, rather, I am punishing myself for the horribly stupid loss of that one single hand that I just can’t seem to shake. How could I be so inattentive? His hand was practically screaming out to me “Back off, you idiot! It’s a flush!” But I just didn’t hear the scream. As simple as that.
With one more week of the boot, I feel it’s believable enough that I can now put pressure on my foot. No more crutches. I imagine myself at the tip of the Titanic leaning over—one crutch in each hand—and chucking them into the deep blue. I imagine soaking them with gasoline and dropping a match. Also, in my head, I go after them with an ax.
But I simply wrap them in a towel and place them in my trunk and never think about them again.
It’s liberating, to say the least.
So I gather my books and get out of my car with ease, not having to balance on one foot as I prop the crutches to grab the books to hobble away in armpit pain.
Yes, I have bills. And, yes, I am in the middle of the Atlantic without a floatie, but I am making it.
One day at a time; my new motto.
I’m fake hobbling down the hall when it happens.
I don’t even have to strain to remember his name.
I look deep into the crowd, and there he is.
David.
Information files rapidly into my brain:
David is wearing a t-shirt and sports jacket.
David is an older man walking amongst teenagers and lockers.
David has a pencil tucked behind his ear.
David, the dealer, is a teacher.
David, the one who knew he knew me, is a teacher!
I divert and crouch behind the moving crowd of kids and speed up my pace. I don’t take my eyes off of him, and he never looks my way. He checks his phone as he walks. I slip into my class, unseen. I sit down at my desk, and take my folders out, the bell rings, and I feel like a fugitive in hiding.
I know most teachers have second jobs, but I thought waiting tables or working in department stores was more of the norm. A card dealer?! Really?
This makes me uneasy between passing periods. I must avoid his hall, so I go to the office to check out the directory. DAVID LACKEY, Psychology, room 212. I’ve heard people talk about Mr. Lackey’s class before . . . how awesome he is . . . how they talk about cool stuff and do cool projects . . . but NEVER have I heard someone say he’s a teacher by day and dealer by night. I don’t think anyone knows this about Mr. Lackey. It seems like this would be an ethical issue, working in a casino. Just like teachers can’t be strippers, or can they? Sheesh. Pay the teachers more, already!
Chapter 34
After school, I decide that my self-imposed two-week sentence is enough. And being the gambler that I am, I’m willing to take the gamble on playing again. Yes, there’s the Mr. Lackey issue, but I know I’ll be fine if I stay on the low-stakes tables. He’s never dealt that game before so there’s no reason for me to think he’ll be dealing that tonight. Besides, leaving right after school gives me an hour or two window. I can’t imagine him having to be at work for an evening shift by three-thirty.
I can’t get there fast enough. I feel giddy, like being on a diet for two weeks then getting a big slice of red velvet cake. I’m so excited that when I park I run into the yellow concrete bumper, and it jolts me back into consciousness. Calm down, I tell myself. I know better: I’m in no state to play poker, and I decide I must get some composure before I go in.
I sit in the car, take deep breaths, and I hope that I see Nate. Hopefully he’s working. Two weeks has been too long, and I realize now that I like him even more than I realized.
I want Nate.
I want poker.
I want a big win.
I take off the boot, toss it into the back seat, and check myself in the mirror. It’s one of my better hair days, and I hope Nate is able to see this.
I know that it’s basically an all-in situation, and I’m not even at the table yet. I take my waded up ten bucks, two dollars made up of quarters, dimes, and nickels (how embarrassing), and stick it all in my back jean pocket. I take a few more deep breaths, and enter the smoky, adult version of Disney World.
It’s that feeling, again. That feeling of being somewhere exotic. The two-week hiatus makes it that much sweeter.
I see Nate before he sees me. But when he does see me at the front sign-up counter, he stops mid-conversation with a dealer. He holds his finger up to the dealer, and I read his lips when he says, “Hang on just a second.” He doesn’t wait for acknowledgment from the dealer. He doesn’t take his eyes off me and walks my direction.
“Well, hello.” He says smiling through his words.
“Hi, there,” I say.
We’re mutually happy to see one another.
“Long time, no talk.”
His soapy, clean smell cuts through the casino smoke. I step closer to get more of it. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ve had so much going on.”
His smile grows bigger.
“I’ve missed seeing you around.”
“Well I’ve missed seeing you too.” I put my hands in my back pockets.
We stare and smile, then smile and stare some more.
“Do you need a table?”
“Yeah. 3-6.”
“What, no high stakes today?”
I pull my hair behind my ear.
“Oh, I may make my way over there later. We’ll see,” I laugh, “I need a warm-up. I’m a little rusty.”
He turns to a worker in a suit and says, “By all means, Rick. Let’s get the lady warmed up. 3-6.”
Rick looks around the room. Then says, “Right this way, ma’am.”
I know that Nate knows this is not the end of our encounter, so he walks off confidently, knowing we’ll talk again before I leave.
I sit down, super excited to be here but wishing I was on the high-stakes table. Because sometime today someone will take down a big pot that could be mine.
I take out my money and try to make sure the change doesn’t make noise as I stack it neatly in one dollar stacks. I don’t look at anyone until it’s traded out for poker chips. I mean, four quarters wager the same exact way a dollar bill does, right?
I’m the only girl at the table, and none of the players look familiar. A couple of months ago I would have let that intimidate me, but not today. In fact, this is to my advantage because they think I know nothing. I will do everything in my power to let them think this of me, because, after all, the “less I know,” the better.
I decide to play it up, just a bit. For fun.
I throw an ante out, knowing that it’s not my turn for the blind.
The dealer retrieves it, and tosses it back to me.
“Miss, it’s not your blind, yet. I’ll let you know when.”
The guys all look around at each other and crack smiles letting each other know, in the silent-poker-form-of-communication, that I’m ready for the taking.
I play a few hands without betting. I laugh on the inside when I ask my neighbor, “What makes a flush, again?”
He leans my direction. “It means all the same suit. Like all diamonds, all hearts; you’ve got to have five of the same suit.”
“Ohhh.” I nod my head in understa
nding. “Thanks. I always get a flush and full-house confused.”
I take down a few decent pots, and my dumb-blonde-poker-player persona is working nicely until we change dealers, and the dealer calls me by name.
“Hey, Chandra.”
The players look at each other. They’re all asking themselves how the dealer knows my name. Needless to say, my hamming it up comes to an end. This isn’t a bad thing, though, it keeps them guessing, in other words, I’m still a mystery and that’s exactly what you want to be to your opponents. A mystery.
We’re deep in the middle of a hand when I look up and almost pee myself.
I don’t know when he got here, but he did.
Mr. Lackey.
Chapter 35
My eyes shift back and forth, back and forth . . . back and forth . . . from the game to Mr. Lackey’s location in the room. He’s at a safe distance, but it stresses me out, no doubt.
A pair of queens in the hole temporarily takes my mind off the Lackey factor. I bet heavy, and come out a winner. My stack is growing nicely. The guys at the table think I’m just a dumb blonde getting lucky every once in a while. What they don’t know is that I’ve got them all figured out, but one. Their “tells” include: excessive blinking, shaky hands, knuckle cracking, and cigarette lighting, all independent of one another. It’s just another day at the office. After thirty minutes of my stomach growling, I take a break to go get a burrito from the food court.
At the cashier’s window I exchange a five dollar chip for the cash, then walk and get in line behind a couple scraping their change to come up with as much as they can. She’s digging around at the bottom of her purse; he’s checking every pocket in his jeans to make sure he hasn’t missed a single coin. Discovering a hidden quarter right now would be like hitting the jackpot.
I overhear their conversation. It’s hostile.
“If you wouldn’t have played it all back we’d have some to eat on!” She sets her purse on the floor and squats to get in a better digging position. Her khaki capris are in decent shape, but her white canvas tennis shoes have seen better days.
He responds with a sarcastic laugh. He wants to fight. “How do I always get blamed for this?!”
She continues to dig.
I take two dollar bills and hand them to her. “Here. Take this . . . Yes, I’m sure.”
They’re so very appreciative. One would think that I just ordered them steaks and lobster tail.
“No, really . . . It’s no big deal. I’m having a good day,” I say.
I hear the couple as they discuss the sum of their loose coin and my donation: $5.37. Then, they step up to the cashier and place their order . . . I’m directly behind them, so of course I hear everything. The lady orders for both of them.
“One burrito, one taco, and two waters.”
The cashier punches in the order, and I catch a glance of the digital numbers that light up the total before the lady steps in front of it in effort to conceal it.
$2.01! Their order total is $2.01, and they have no intention of handing me back my money! They scoot down the counter and grab their sack of food with a sense of urgency, and I stand in disbelief.
My anger turns to sadness quickly, because I realize that they have a serious gambling problem, and there’s no doubt in my mind that my two dollars—their last two dollars—will end up in a slot machine. It’s so incredibly sad. These people have problems.
I get my burrito, devour it in a few bites, and make sure I top off my Coke before I go back to the table. I purposefully do not look down the rows of slot machines. I do not want to see the couple that just put me together for two bucks. I file the situation in a folder in my brain that I will never open again. There are a couple of empty seats when I return to the table, but chips reserve their place.
I get comfortable in my chair, work my tongue around my teeth to remove the remaining tortilla and bean shells, and survey my stack. I’m consciously aware that life is good with a full belly, a stack of chips, Nate in the building, and cards flying across the table declaring a new hand.
Then, it happens.
Two big-bellied security guards and a woman in a black skirt suit walk over to Mr. Lackey’s table. He stops his deal, even stands up mid-hand, and nods my direction. My heart pounds like never before, and I start to feel woozy.
They all look directly at me, and Mr. Lackey nods his head.
The thought crosses my mind to pick up my chips and run for the door, but I become paralyzed. I can’t move.
I toss in my cards, out of turn, and slump down in my chair, hoping, PRAYING, that it’s not happening.
With the suit lady as their leader and without urgency, they walk straight to me. I know this not by looking directly at them, but by using every capability of my peripheral vision. I know a black blur comes around the table then stops directly behind me.
The lady leans down and whispers in my ear.
“You need to come with us.”
My hands are shaking at convulsive levels . . . ironically like the time I took down my first big pot. I don’t reply; I just start stacking my chips to take with me, wherever it is I’m going.
The lady leans down again.
“You won’t need those. Leave your chips on the table.” She is firm, and there’s a military aura about her.
I release the chips from my hands.
I know this is it.
I know somewhere that Nate is processing what is happening to me. Is he mad? Does he hate me? Is he embarrassed?
I comply.
We walk through the main walkway of the casino. They don’t grab my arm and lead me, nor do they place me in handcuffs. I even get the sense that one of the security guards feels sorry for me.
The ringing of the slot machines sounds muffled. It’s all surreal, and I don’t even feel like I’m in my own body. I think of Dad, and I stop a tear with my hand before it rolls down my face. My nose becomes runny, and of course I sniffle. We walk in formation: me in the middle, security guards on each side, and the lady behind me. It seems endless, like we’re walking across the country.
We enter a door that leads to an area with a couch, kitchen, television, and reclining chairs. There’s another security guard kicked back eating a sandwich and watching TV. A walkway separates the living space and the offices, divided only by glass windows.
Still no sign of Nate.
The security guards join their coworker to watch Wheel of Fortune, and I realize it’s at least six-thirty in the evening, later than I thought.
I’d do anything to be in my living room watching Wheel of Fortune with Dad.
I’m still in shock when the lady motions for me to go in her office. “Let’s go in here,” she says.
She sits behind her desk, and I catch a glimpse of her family photo displaying four kids, a husband, and golden retriever. I’m surprised, because she doesn’t come across as the motherly type.
“Have a seat,” she commands.
I settle into a cheap plastic chair. I know she knows I’m scared to death. Her hair is pulled up in a stylish way. She pulls paperwork and an old Polaroid camera from her desk drawer. I wonder if the cops have already been called.
“Do you know why you’re here?” she asks.
I choose not to respond.
She “Can I see some identification?”
I cry.
I unzip my purse and my shaky hands manage to pull my driver’s license from my wallet. I place it on her desk, then scoot back in my chair, as far back as I can go.
She stares at me, almost hesitating, then picks up the plastic card that tells who I am. She only looks at the picture for a second because she has no doubt that it’s me.
She puts on her red-rimmed reading glasses, and reads the information aloud.
“Chelsea. Chelsea Knowles.” She goes on
to read my birth date, address, weight, and every other detail that the Department of Public Safety finds necessary to include on a driver’s license. She sets my license down and folds her arms. “So you’re only seventeen?”
I can’t answer verbally. I just shake my head yes.
“Well, Miss Chelsea, do you know the legal gambling age in the state of Oklahoma?”
I nod yes, again.
She answers her own question.
“It’s eighteen. You must be eighteen-years-old to gamble.”
My nose is runny and the tears just keep coming. She surprisingly hands me a tissue.
I look back through the glass windows to see if the real policemen have arrived yet.
The police have not arrived.
But Nate has. He’s standing in the hallway with his hands on his hips, staring in our office.
Bad has gotten worse.
Chapter 36
The lady in charge looks around me to see what it was that I just saw that caused more tears.
She sees Nate, says nothing at all to me, and gets up and walks out the door. I turn around again, to see what it is she’s doing, and she stands there with Nate talking for a very long time. Is he working in my favor? Or is he so pissed he’s requesting maximum penalty? I can’t hear a word they’re saying, and it’s the unknown that’s the worst punishment of all.
I have a vision of Cassidy wearing her cheer uniform and visiting me in jail.
I think of Dad the most. What would he do without me? How will he survive? Who will write out the bills? Balance the checkbook?