Out of Aces (Betting Blind #2)

by Stephanie Guerra

  When I got home, I went straight to Berto’s. “I owe you,” I said as I handed him the keys. He leaned in his doorway, the TV blaring behind him. His girlfriend, Sofia, was kicking it on the couch, black hair spilling down her shoulders, wearing an oversized jersey, holding a bowl of something on her lap. She watched us curiously.

  He shrugged. “You already paid me with the gas. But if I find a scratch on her, I’ma have to send you a bill.”

  “There’s no scratch.”

  “Did your girl like my ride?”

  I nodded.

  “Give her my phone number,” Berto said, with a slow smile.

  “Berto!” Sofia hollered from the couch.

  Berto dug in his pocket and pulled out a roll of cash. “Here’s your deposit.”

  I tucked it away. “Hey, thanks again.” I lifted a hand and started down the path.

  “We’re having a party at Pelon’s house tonight. I’ll text you the address,” Berto called after me.

  Then I was wrestling with my key again. My digs seemed especially ghetto after spending the weekend in Irina’s hotel room, and I thought for the hundredth time that I should finally buy some furniture, even if it was just from The Salvation Army.

  I locked myself in, sat on my mattress, and closed my eyes. My whole body went limp, like a worn-out runner. I felt sad but peaceful. A strange feeling. The future would be whatever it would be.

  My new phone woke me up, buzzing like a cicada on the floor. It was a piece of junk—all I could afford, at least until I started at Helios. Mom. I didn’t answer. I wasn’t mad at her anymore, but I didn’t want to talk to her, either. There was a text, too, that I’d slept through. It was from April. I’d texted her last night—just Hi—and she’d sent back three long ones.

  Thanks a lot, now Nick is making everybody bring in birth certificates!

  Want to meet for drinks at the Crown later?

  BTW I did what I said I’d do—it’s OVER

  I smiled to myself. Good for her. As I was getting ready to write an answer, my phone jumped in my hand—a new text coming through. It was from Irina, one word: Please? And the dyslexia link.

  So stubborn. She’d never let up until I did it. I let my finger hover just over the link, feeling dread but also a weird determination. I trusted Irina. She loved me. And if it was the one thing she asked, I could do it. Not that I’d tell her.

  I went ahead and touched the link.

  A clean, professional page popped up: Adult Self-Assessment Tool: Are You Dyslexic? I groaned at the small print (Isn’t this supposed to be for dyslexics?) and started to read. Ten yes or no questions.

  They were all yes for me. Every single one.

  I blinked hard, stared at the tiny screen, and read through the questions again. I let out a shocked laugh. Ten out of ten; I had never gotten 100 percent on a test before. I dropped my phone and leaned on the wall. My pulse was going as if I’d run around the block. What the hell? It looked like I had this shit. High school, the GED . . . dyslexia was the axe that cut down those trees.

  I felt sick. Like I had found cancer in my body.

  All right. I could handle this. I’d handled worse before.

  What did people do for this? Could you take a pill, like that medicine they had for hyper kids? I picked up my phone again, and my fingers raced over the letters. Google. Is there medicine for dyslexia?

  And . . . no. The answer was no. I scrolled down, tapped, and tapped some more. It’s not too often you find so many sites agreeing on something.

  I stared at the screen, feeling sucker punched. I’d been avoiding this for a really long time, and now it had finally caught up to me. Anger rolled through my gut. It wasn’t Irina’s fault. She was trying to help. But if there were no pills for this thing, then what kind of help could there be?

  What kind of help did I need?

  I’d never forgotten what Irina told me about her friend’s brother getting double time and an audio version of tests. Would they do those things for people who wanted to take the GED?

  Google. If you have dyslexia, can you take the GED? Probably a dumb way to ask, but I didn’t know how else to put it. It didn’t matter—there were tons of hits, a lot on GED testing accommodations. I scoped out the first site. Yeah, they would give you extra time and audio, and whoa, a private room and breaks . . . But you had to have a shrink qualify you.

  Ideas flashed through my head so fast, I tried to squash them. I didn’t want to get excited or start hoping. But I wanted to pass that test.

  I jumped back to the ten-question test page. I’d seen a link on the bottom: Find a provider. I searched and there were plenty in Vegas, pages full. I randomly clicked on links, looking for information. How much for a visit?

  The answer was about five hundred bucks. I had fifteen hundred left. That was a third of my bankroll. And I needed to save up for a car. I’d be busing it to Helios for at least a few months, and I was only making twelve bucks an hour, although Father Giorgios told me the tips were good.

  Five hundred.

  I slapped the computer closed and lay back on my bed, feeling worse than I had in a long time. Why did I even look at that website? I told Irina I didn’t want to know. I closed my eyes. Confirmation: you are stupid.

  I heard Irina’s voice, like she was answering me: Thomas Edison, Leonardo da Vinci, Albert Einstein. She didn’t usually lie.

  I pictured green felt stretching in front of me, a trick I used to focus. This was no different than a poker game. The thought calmed me down. In poker, you start off with your five-card hand, but you don’t know what’s going down on the table.

  My five cards were 100 percent on a dyslexia test; dropping out of high school; flunking the GED; getting sick every time I tried to read; and writing so badly that teachers thought I was screwing up on purpose.

  How did you win with a hand like that?

  And what was the pot? I didn’t know. For me, right now, passing the GED would be enough. The rest of the pot . . .

  I opened my eyes. The rest of it, I already had. I was a good bartender. Hush had been great training. I was staying in Vegas, not slinking back to Washington. I had friends, real ones. Kosta, Berto, and April. They’d all cared enough to show up when I was in trouble, my own half-assed version of a family. I had a legit job, and I knew in my gut that if I ever got serious about opening a business, Father Giorgios would teach me what he knew. I wanted Irina, or a girl just like her, but I was okay with not having that now. I wasn’t ready to get married, anyway. But now I knew I was capable of not cheating. So maybe, if I wanted, I could get married someday and not completely fuck it up.

  And hell, I was alive. That was a pretty good pot.

  So really, the only thing left was the GED.

  What cards did I need? Double time and an audio version would be a pretty good start.

  It was Monday. Doctors’ offices would be open. I reached for my phone again. I’d gambled five bills plenty of times before. This was nothing but a different kind of bet.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Stephanie Guerra is the author of the young-adult novels Betting Blind, Out of Aces, and Torn, and the middle-grade novel Billy the Kid Is Not Crazy. She is also coauthor of the forthcoming Zach and Lucy series for early readers, written with Jennifer Bradbury. In 2014, Stephanie was awarded the Virginia Hamilton Essay Award for her writing on multicultural literary experiences for youth. She teaches children’s literature and writing at Seattle University. Stephanie serves as the Seattle host for the teen fiction blog Readergirlz. Her research focuses on literacy instruction for incarcerated and at-risk teens. The two novels in the Betting Blind series, Betting Blind and Out of Aces, were supported with grants from the Seattle Office of Arts & Culture. Stephanie lives in Seattle with her husband and children. Learn more at www.stephanieguerra.com.

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  Stephanie Guerra, Out of Aces (Betting Blind #2)