Tricks Read online

  tricks

  Also by Ellen Hopkins

  Crank

  Impulse

  Burned

  Glass

  Identical

  Margaret K. McElderry Books

  tricks

  Ellen Hopkins

  MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by Ellen Hopkins

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Book edited by Emma D. Dryden

  Book design by Sammy Yuen Jr.

  The text for this book is set in Trade Gothic Condensed 18.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hopkins, Ellen.

  Tricks/Ellen Hopkins.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Five troubled teenagers fall into prostitution as they search for freedom, safety, community, family, and love.

  ISBN 978-1-4169-5007-3 (hc)

  ISBN 978-1-4169-9642-2 (eBook)

  [1. Novels in verse. 2. Family problems—Fiction.

  3. Emotional problems—Fiction. 4. Prostitution—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.5.H67Tr 2009

  [Fic]—dc22

  2009020297

  This book is dedicated to the fine members of law enforcement, social work, and the judiciary who truly care about young people forced to walk the streets in search of simple sustenance. With a major nod to Randy Sutton of the Las Vegas P.D., Judge William Voy, and Children of the Night.

  Special thanks must also go to three amazing friends, exceptional writers Susan Hart Lindquist, Jim Averbeck, and Suzanne Morgan Williams, who push me to reach ever deeper for the very best stories I’m capable of writing. This book is better because of them. And my life is better because they are in it.

  tricks

  A Poem by Eden Streit

  Eyes Tell Stories

  But do they know how

  to craft fiction? Do

  they know how to spin

  lies?

  His eyes swear forever,

  flatter with vows of only

  me. But are they empty

  promises?

  I stare into his eyes, as

  into a crystal ball, but

  I cannot find forever,

  only

  movies of yesterday,

  a sketchbook of today,

  dreams of a shared

  tomorrow.

  His eyes whisper secrets.

  But are they truths or fairy tales?

  I wonder if even he

  knows.

  Eden

  Some People

  Never find the right kind of love.

  You know, the kind that steals

  your breath away, like diving into snowmelt.

  The kind that jolts your heart,

  sets it beating apace, an anxious

  hiccuping of hummingbird wings.

  The kind that makes every terrible

  minute apart feel like hours. Days.

  Some people flit from one possibility

  to the next, never experiencing the incredible

  connection of two people, rocked by destiny.

  Never knowing what it means to love

  someone else more than themselves.

  More than life itself, or the promise

  of something better, beyond this world.

  More, even (forgive me!) than God.

  Lucky me. I found the right kind

  of love. With the wrong person.

  Not Wrong for Me

  No, not at all. Andrew is pretty much

  perfect. Not gorgeous, not in a male

  model kind of way, but he is really cute,

  with crazy hair that sometimes hides

  his eyes, dark chocolate eyes that hold

  laughter, even when he’s deadly serious.

  He’s not a hunk, but toned, and tall enough

  to effortlessly tuck me under his arms,

  arms that are gentle but strong from honest

  ranch work, arms that make me feel

  safe when they gather me in. It’s the only

  time I really feel wanted, and the absolute

  best part of any day is when I manage

  to steal cherished time with Andrew.

  No, he’s not even a little wrong for me

  except maybe—maybe!—in the eyes

  of God. But much, much worse than that,

  he’s completely wrong for my parents.

  See, My Papa

  Is a hellfire-and-brimstone-preaching

  Assembly of God minister, and Mama

  is his not-nearly-as-sweet-as-she-seems

  right-hand woman, and by almighty God,

  their daughters (that’s me, Eden, and my

  little sister, Eve—yeah, no pressure at all)

  will toe the Pentecostal line. Sometimes

  Eve and I even pretend to talk in tongues,

  just to keep them believing we’re heaven-

  bound, despite the fact that we go to public school

  (Mama’s too lazy to homeschool) and come

  face-to-face with the unsaved every day.

  But anyway, my father and mother

  maintain certain expectations when

  it comes to their daughters’ all-too-human

  future plans and desires.

  Papa: Our daughters will find

  husbands within their faith.

  Mama: Our daughters will not

  date until they’re ready to marry.

  You Get My Dilemma

  I’m definitely not ready to marry,

  so I can’t risk letting them know

  I’m already dating, let alone dating

  a guy who isn’t born-again, and even

  worse, doesn’t believe he needs to be.

  Andrew is spiritual, yes. But religious?

  Religion is for followers, he told

  me once. Followers and puppets.

  At my stricken look, he became not

  quite apologetic. Sorry. But I don’t

  need some money-grubbing preacher

  defining my relationship with God.

  At the time, I was only half in love

  with Andrew and thought I needed

  definitions. “What, exactly, is your

  relationship with our Heavenly Father?”

  He gently touched my cheek, smiled.

  First off, I don’t think God is a guy.

  Some Old Testament–writing fart

  made that up to keep his old lady

  in line. He paused, then added, Why

  would God need a pecker, anyway?

  Yes, he enjoyed the horrified look

  on my face. More laughter settled

  into those amazing
eyes, creasing

  them at the corners. So sexy!

  Anyway, I relate to God in a very

  personal way. Don’t need anyone

  to tell me how to do it better. I see

  His hand everywhere—in red sunrises

  and orange sunsets; in rain, falling

  on thirsty fields; in how a newborn

  lamb finds his mama in the herd. I thank

  God for these things. And for you.

  After that, I was a lot more than

  halfway in love with Andrew.

  The Funny Thing Is

  We actually met at a revival, where nearly

  everyone was babbling in tongues,

  or getting a healthy dose of Holy Spirit

  healing. Andrew’s sister, Mariah, had

  forsaken her Roman Catholic roots

  in favor of born-again believing and had

  dragged her brother along that night,

  hoping he’d find salvation. Instead

  he found me, sitting in the very back

  row, half grinning at the goings-on.

  He slid into an empty seat beside me.

  So …, he whispered. Come here often?

  I hadn’t noticed him come in, and when

  I turned to respond, my voice caught

  in my throat. Andrew was the best-looking

  guy to ever sit next to me,

  let alone actually say something to me.

  In fact, I didn’t know they came that cute

  in Idaho. A good ten seconds passed before

  I realized he had asked a question.

  “I … uh … well, yes, in fact I come here

  fairly regularly. See the short guy up there?”

  I pointed toward Papa, who kept the crowd

  chanting and praying while the visiting evangelist

  busily laid on his hands. “He’s the regular

  preacher and happens to be my father.”

  Andrew’s jaw fell. He looked back and

  forth, Papa to me. You’re kidding, right?

  His consternation surprised me. “No,

  not kidding. Why would you think so?”

  He measured me again. It’s just … you look

  so normal, and this … He shook his head.

  I leaned closer to him, and for the first

  time inhaled his characteristic scent—

  clean and somehow green, like the alfalfa

  fields I later learned he helps work for cash.

  I dropped my voice very low. “Promise not

  to tell, but I know just what you mean.”

  It Was a Defining Moment

  For me, who had never dared confess

  that I have questioned church dogma

  for quite some time, mostly because I am

  highly aware of hypocrisy and notice

  it all too often among my father’s flock.

  I mean, how can you claim to walk

  in the light of the Lord when you’re

  cheating on your husband or stealing

  from your best friend/business partner?

  Okay, I’m something of a cynic.

  But there was more that evening—instant

  connection, to a guy who on the surface

  was very different from me. And yet,

  we both knew instinctively that we needed

  something from each other. Some people might

  call it chemistry—two parts hydrogen,

  one part oxygen, voilà! You’ve got water.

  A steady trickle, building to a cascade.

  If Andrew

  Was the poser type, things would

  probably be easier. I mean, if he could

  pretend to accept the Lord into his heart,

  on my father’s strictest of terms, maybe

  we could be seen together in public—not

  really dating, of course. Not without a ring.

  But Andrew is the most honest person

  I’ve ever met, and deadly honest that night.

  Did you have to come to this thing?

  It seems kind of, um … theatrical.

  We had slipped out the back door,

  when everyone’s attention turned to

  some unbelievable miracle at the front

  of the church. I smiled. “Theatrical.

  That sums it up pretty well, I guess.

  You probably couldn’t see it in back, but …”

  I glanced around dramatically, whispered,

  “Brother Bradley even wears makeup!”

  Andrew laughed warmly. So why do

  you come, then? Pure entertainment?

  I shrugged. “Certain expectations are

  attached to the ‘pastor’s daughter’ job

  description. Easier just to meet them, or

  at least pretend they don’t bother you.”

  It was early November, and the night wore

  a chill. I shivered at the nip in the air,

  or at the sudden magnetic pull I felt toward

  this perfect stranger. Without a second

  thought, Andrew took off his leather

  jacket, eased it around my shoulders.

  Cool tonight, he observed. All

  the signs point to a hard winter.

  He was standing very close to me.

  I sank into that earthy green aura, looked

  up into his eyes. “You don’t believe in

  miracles, but you do believe in signs?”

  His eyes didn’t stray an inch. Who

  says I don’t believe in miracles?

  They happen every day. And I think

  we both knew that one just might have.

  It Was Unfamiliar Turf

  I mean, of course I’d thought guys were cute

  before, and the truth is, I’d even kissed

  a few. But they’d all been “kiss and run,”

  and none had come sprinting back for seconds.

  Probably because most of the guys here

  at Boise High know who my father is.

  But Andrew went to Borah High, clear

  across town, and he graduated last year.

  He’s a freshman at Boise State, where his mom

  teaches feminist theory. Yes, she and his rancher

  dad make an odd couple. Love is like that.

  Guess where his progressive theories came from.

  That makes him nineteen, all the more reason

  we have to keep our relationship discreet.

  In Idaho, age of consent is eighteen,

  and my parents wouldn’t even think

  twice about locking him up for statutory.

  That horrible thought has crossed my mind

  more than once in the four months since

  Andrew decided to take a chance on me.

  Four Months

  Of him coming to church with Mariah,

  both of us patiently wading through Papa’s

  sermons, then waiting for post-services coffee

  hours to slip separately out the side doors, into

  the thick stand of riverside trees for a walk.

  Conversation. After a while, we held hands

  as we ducked in between the old cottonwoods,

  grown skeletal with autumn. We joked about

  how soon we’d have to bring our own leaves

  for cover. And then one day Andrew stopped.

  He pleated me into his arms, burrowed his face

  in my hair, inhaled. Smells like rain, he said.

  My heart quickstepped. He wanted to kiss

  me. That scared me. What if I wasn’t good?

  His lips brushed my forehead, the pulse

  in my right temple. Will I burn if I kiss you?

  I was scared, but not of burning, and I wanted

  that kiss more than anything I’d ever wanted

  in my life. “Probably. And I’ll burn with you.

  But it will be worth it.” I closed my eyes.


  It was cold that morning, maybe thirty

  degrees. But Andrew’s lips were feverish

  against mine. It was the kiss in the dream

  you never want to wake up from—sultry,

  fueled by desire, and yet somehow innocent,

  because brand-new, budding love was the heart

  of our passion. Andrew lifted me gently

  in his sinewy arms, spun me in small circles,

  lips still welded to mine. I’d never known

  such joy, and it all flowed from Andrew.

  And when we finally stopped, I knew

  my life had irrevocably changed.

  Day by Day

  I’ve grown to love him more and more.

  Now, though I haven’t dared confess

  it yet, I’m forever and ever in love with

  him. After I tell him (if I ever find the nerve),

  I’ll have to hide it from everyone. Boise,

  Idaho, isn’t very big. Word gets around.

  Can’t even tell Eve. She’s awful about

  keeping secrets. Good thing she goes to

  middle school, where she isn’t privy

  to what happens here at Boise High.

  I’m sixteen, a junior. A year and a half,

  and I’ll be free to do whatever I please.

  For now, I’m sneaking off to spend

  a few precious minutes with Andrew.

  I duck out the exit, run down the steps,

  hoping I don’t trip. Last thing I need

  is an emergency room visit when I’m

  supposed to be in study hall. Around one

  corner. Two. And there’s his Tundra across

  the street, idling at the curb. He spots me

  and even from here, I can see his face

  light up. Glance left. No one I know.

  Right. Ditto. No familiar faces or cars.

  I don’t even wait for the corner,

  but jaywalk midblock at a furious

  pace, practically dive through the door

  and across the seat, barely saying hello

  before kissing Andrew like I might

  never see him again. Maybe that’s because

  always, in the back of my mind, I realize

  that’s a distinct possibility, if we’re ever

  discovered kissing like this. One other

  thought branded into my brain is that maybe

  kissing like this will bring God’s almighty wrath

  crashing down all around us. I swear, God,