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.
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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,
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