Tricks Read online

  it is what a little horndog she turns

  into when she’s smoking. Boo

  frigging yah! Whatever I want.

  Jack Coughs

  Pulling my mind away from

  Ronnie’s superior body, back

  into the present, toward the sofa.

  I go sit next to Jack. Boy, is his

  face pale. “Mom’s not home

  yet. Can I bring you something?”

  He turns toward me, eyes wet

  with tears. (Tears?) No, Cody,

  I’m okay. Where are you off

  to tonight anyway? Got a hot date?

  Before I can answer, a door slams.

  Must be Cory. He’s the only one

  who comes into the house like

  that. Sure enough, he stomps

  into the room, grinning like a goat.

  Damn, even from here he smells

  like a brewery. Hey! What’s up?

  Why you look sho—so serious?

  Jack takes it in. Turns to me.

  He’s messed up, huh? I could

  say no, and Jack might even go

  for it. But Cory’s way too young

  to start down this ol’ road. I nod.

  You been drinking, Cory boy?

  Cory’s face flushes, from beer

  and defiance. So what? Cody

  drinks all the time. You never

  sh—say nothing to him! Fingers

  knotting and unknotting, he

  waits for someone’s next move.

  If he’s expecting me to deny

  it, he’s drunker than he looks.

  I don’t want the situation to

  get out of hand. I’ll try humor.

  “‘Never say nothing’ is a double

  negative. What you said means—”

  Suddenly Cory wobbles.

  Weaves. Drops face-first to

  the floor. Holy shit, says Jack,

  trying to get up, and wobbling

  almost as bad as Cory before

  he took his literal nosedive.

  I nudge Jack back down on

  the overstuffed cushion. “No

  worries. Other than a lump or

  two, I’m guessing he’ll be fine

  once he sleeps it off. I’ll get him

  to bed.” Like when he was little.

  I Pick Him Up

  Off the floor, haul him to his

  room, thinking about when we

  were younger, before Jack came

  along. I took my big-brother job

  seriously then, and often helped

  Mom feed him, bathe him, put

  him to bed. Déjà vu! Except this

  time he smells like cheap brew.

  Thirteen! How did he even get

  hold of the stuff? Ripped it off,

  no doubt. But from where? Or

  who? Damn it all, Cory! I tuck

  a light blanket around him, go

  to check on Jack. He’s snoring,

  pushed down into a painkiller

  pit. I pull up the foot of the La-Z-

  Boy, cover him with Mom’s

  favorite afghan. She’ll be home

  soon. Think I’ll make my escape

  now. Things could get ugly—or

  at least complicated—when every-

  one wakes up and accusations get

  kicked back and forth. I don’t want

  to play explanation dodgeball.

  It’s a Short Drive

  To Vince’s apartment, not far

  from the UNLV campus. But since

  it’s Friday evening, just past six,

  the freeway looks like a boulder

  field. I opt for surface streets,

  which aren’t a whole lot better.

  him to bed. Déjávu! Except this

  time he smells like cheap brew.

  Thirteen! How did he even get

  hold of the stuff? Ripped it off,

  no doubt. But from where? Or

  who? Damn it all, Cory! I tuck

  a light blanket around him, go

  to check on Jack. He’s snoring,

  pushed down into a painkiller

  pit. I pull up the foot of the La-ZBoy,

  cover him with Mom’s

  favorite afghan. She’ll be home

  soon. Think I’ll make my escape

  now. Things could get ugly—or

  at least complicated—when everyone

  wakes up and accusations get

  kicked back and forth. I don’t want

  to play explanation dodgeball.

  The Game Hasn’t Started Yet

  Four or five guys are drinking.

  Smoking. Snorting something

  off the glass-topped coffee table.

  They barely notice me join the party,

  and that makes me a little nervous.

  Vince is setting up the card table.

  He, at least, sees me come in. Hey.

  Help me out here. You brought

  some of that good green, didn’t you?

  As I suspected, the key to my invite.

  When I nod, he surprises me. Cool.

  I’ll throw some extra chips your way.

  When he actually does, I’m even

  more surprised. Six of us belly up

  to the table, and I light a big fat one.

  I buy in for fifty, and he slides me

  sixty in chips. The dope is worth

  more, but I didn’t expect anything,

  so I figure I’m ahead. “Thanks.”

  The poker-for-beginners rules

  said to watch the other players,

  learn how they “tell.” In other

  words, read their body language.

  Three might as well tell for real.

  You can see what they’ve got in

  their eyes. But Vince and some guy

  called Fly (pretty sure I don’t want

  to know why) are damn good at bluffing.

  I keep my bets low. One pair ain’t going

  to beat much, and that’s all I’m dealt

  for several hands. I bluff a couple of

  times, to make ’em think I know

  the game. Down thirty, the deal goes

  to Fly. I turn my cards over one at

  a time. Ten. Eight. Ten. One pair.

  Here we go again. King. Ten.

  Holy crap. I swallow the rush. Can’t

  tell ’em I’ve got three of a kind. Ante up.

  Don’t bet too much. Ask for two cards

  without smiling. One dude folds.

  Another bets five. Vince calls, raises

  ten. I flip one card. It’s a three. Fuck.

  Bet comes to me as I flip the last card.

  Ten. Four of a kind? Calm. Stay calm.

  I raise Vince twenty. Fly folds. Vince

  looks into my eyes, but I give nothing

  away. He calls, shows two pairs.

  I win! For once in my life, I win!

  I Leave Vince’s

  Two hundred dollars richer.

  I’m walking on water, oh yeah,

  and the rush is effing amazing.

  Only one thing could make

  this night better. I dial Ronnie’s

  number. “Hey. It’s me. You

  up for some fun?” I knew her

  answer before I asked the question,

  and she doesn’t live far. When

  I get there, it’s too late to knock

  on the door, so I go to her window.

  It’s the only one with a light in it.

  My head is Tilt-A-Whirling with

  substance abuse, but more because

  of finishing off the evening as

  a winner. I won at poker. And I’m

  about to win at something even

  better. Ronnie comes to the glass,

  opens it, lets me inside. Her room

  smells of roses, and she has nothing
>
  on but a thigh-length shirt. She puts

  a finger to her lips, but there’s no

  need for words once we fall together

  into her bed. Night slips away.

  A Poem by Eden Streit

  Once

  I thought fairy tales were

  lies or worse, promises

  spoken, yet meant to be

  broken. Intent is all.

  Why

  do grown-ups feel

  the need to make up

  a story, only to later

  confess that it was a

  lie?

  Why look for a prince

  when frogs are much

  more common? Why

  reach for a dream

  when

  you’re at ease within

  your nightmares? Why

  scramble to disguise

  what your personal

  truth is

  when reality not only

  hurts less in the long

  run, but is most often

  the easier path?

  Eden

  Spring Break

  And for once, it actually feels like spring

  in Idaho. For most of my life, spring break

  was called Easter vacation. Daddy about had

  a meltdown when the school board caved

  in and changed it. What’s this country

  coming to when the Spring Bunny delivers

  spring eggs to children? As if he ever gave

  two cents about bunnies and egg hunts. Not

  in his church. Not on the holiest day of the year,

  and Easter Sunday remains that for Christians

  near and far. For the family of Pastor Streit,

  it is even more, because at Papa’s church,

  it’s an all-out celebration of the Resurrection,

  and, dressed up in our Easter bonnets, we sit

  front and center. I’ve never really minded

  that before. But today, I’d much rather hang out

  in back, pretending not to notice the good-looking

  reformed Catholic sitting nearby.

  Papa Has Noticed

  Andrew, of course. No way would he miss

  a possible convert wandering into his hallowed

  sanctuary. Once or twice he’s made the effort

  to engage Andrew in conversation and Andrew,

  bless his heart, does his best to respond

  positively. No dunking yet (and Papa is quite

  likely the reincarnation of John the Baptist

  himself!), but he is cordial almost to the point

  of brownnosing. Almost. And speaking of

  nosing, Mama’s ever-observant gaze is harder

  to avoid. She must have seen something,

  because two Sundays ago, she went fishing:

  That McCarran boy is a fine-looking

  young man, don’t you think, Eden?

  If Papa is John the Baptist (again), Mama

  is the Inquisition incarnate. I tried not

  to gulp, struggled to meet her eye. “Who?

  Him?” I pretended to study his face

  for the first time. “Well, now that you mention

  it …” Then I almost blew it, almost smiled.

  My mouth twitched. Mama pounced,

  all lioness to my poor little gazelle.

  Appearances can be deceptive. Her hand

  settled on my shoulder. Why, if I had tumbled

  for every handsome boy who looked my way,

  I shudder to think where I might be today!

  I bit hard on my lip, excused myself

  to go to the bathroom, barely making it

  through the door before shuddering

  myself—with uncontainable laughter.

  Needless to Say

  Andrew and I have been completely

  discreet at church since then. And today,

  no way to flirt even a little, it’s going to be

  really tough. But you know, just seeing

  Andrew at all makes any day special.

  He’s already there, with his sister

  and mother, when we arrive. Mariah

  smiles and waves. She is four years

  older than Andrew, but the two are tight.

  So tight, in fact, that he has confessed

  our secret to her. So tight that, despite a little

  righteous worry, she has chosen not only

  to keep quiet about our relationship, but

  also to nurture it. She comes over now.

  Happy Easter, she says to Papa before stroking

  Mama. Lovely dress. That color is wonderful

  on you! She takes my arm. May I borrow Eden?

  I’d like to introduce her to my mother.

  Andrew and I are hoping to get her to church

  more than two or three times a year.

  If Mama is surprised that Mariah

  and I are acquainted, she hides it well.

  Of course. Eden, you know where

  to find us. See you in a few minutes.

  Mariah steers me toward love. Andrew wears

  it like skin, so obvious it makes me blush.

  His mother’s face, so like his, lights as she

  takes my hand in hers. Her voice is soft,

  and still she forces it low. Hello, Eden. I hope

  you don’t mind that I tagged along today,

  but I simply had to meet you. She draws me

  a little bit away from anyone likely to overhear.

  Then she looks me in the eye. I’ve never

  seen Andrew so happy. Thank you for that.

  My reply comes easily. “There is no

  one like Andrew. Thank you for that.”

  Old Mrs. Beatty

  Launches a spirited “Old Rugged Cross”

  on the aging organ, and I must fall back

  into the role of perfect preacher’s daughter.

  I take my expected place in front, but find

  every opportunity to glance behind me,

  even as I hear the well-known story

  of a love greater than any human love

  could ever be. So sayeth Papa. Again.

  Three rows back sits the greatest love

  I’ll ever know, and my heart promises

  that our love was sparked, as all love is,

  by God’s love. So why—WHY—is it wrong?

  Rephrase. Why—WHY—does my own

  family think it’s wrong when his doesn’t?

  Three rows back sits the one true love

  of my life, surrounded by his own

  family’s love. A family that accepts me

  for who I am, to him. A family I long to

  be part of. And if that means leaving

  my family behind, maybe I have to go.

  As Soon as the Thought

  Crosses my mind, I backtrack. Can’t

  go. Not yet. He’s not ready for me.

  And I am only sixteen. Sixteen.

  Immersed in the Easter story. Thinking

  about loving Andrew, about giving him

  the ultimate gift—my virginity. This week.

  Not that he knows it. But it’s spring break.

  Lots of girls give it away on spring break, right?

  So it’s normal. And, despite sitting in the front

  row while my papa preaches about resurrection—

  including ways to avoid it—I want to be normal.

  Not “normal” as defined by abnormal people.

  My people. My parents. I never considered

  them (and so never considered me) abnormal

  until I met Andrew. But it’s completely clear

  now. And the best way I can think of to become

  completely normal is by becoming a woman.

  All I need is the opportunity. Eve, help me.

  Ironically

  It is Eve (not the original) who sets it up.

  See, my s
ister has asthma. Talking major.

  And like I said, it is spring, also in a major

  way. We had snow over the winter, an early

  melt. Rain to follow. And that means wild

  flowers. Early bloom of sage. Beautiful.

  Obnoxious to someone who can’t tolerate

  pollen. Especially someone young. Someone

  like Eve. It is Tuesday. Spring break. Eve

  wakes, wheezing. Papa is off somewhere,

  leaving Mama to rush my little sister

  to Emergency. She calls just before noon.

  They want to keep her for observation.

  I have to stay with her. You’ll be okay?

  “I’m fine, Mama. You do what you need

  to. If I’m not here, I’ll be at the library.

  I have to research a history paper.” Guilt

  wants to well as I hang up. I force it

  back down, call Andrew, knowing

  it’s wrong. Wondering if I’m damned.

  In the Back of My Mind

  I’m thinking he’ll take me to a hotel, all the while

  stressing about how we’ll get away with it.

  Spies, remember? But when he picks me up,

  we head out of town, and it occurs to me

  that I never confessed what I had in mind

  for the afternoon. “Where are we going?”

  He pulls me very close to him, right

  up against his very warm body. Home.

  My parents went to Elko for a few days.

  Not exactly a world-class destination,

  but for them it’s a second honeymoon.

  You and I will go to Hawaii, okay?

  He always says the right thing. “Okay.

  But I’m allergic to pineapple.” I’m not,

  at least, not that I know for sure. But

  they say humor steadies the nerves.

  Nervous?

  Let’s see. Why wouldn’t I be? My mom

  and sister are at the ER, which is the only

  reason I’m here. What if Mama calls and

  I’m not home? Will she buy the library thing?

  And what if something is really wrong

  with Eve? Should I be there? Or here?

  Andrew’s parents are likely a few hundred

  miles away. But are they really? And are

  they discussing the likelihood of what is

  going on here? Are they talking about me?

  And even if they’re not, and everything else

  is on the up-and-up, am I seriously considering

  doing that stuff I read on the Net the other

  night? I answered all those “Are you really

  ready” questions and came away with