Tricks

by Ellen Hopkins

  arcade games and carnival rides.

  Have you two done the dirty yet?

  I swear, she’s panting. I could

  make her day—her month, even—

  by inventing something juicy. But

  where would that leave what’s left

  of my reputation? Do I care? Jeez.

  My reputation might just improve

  if people believed I was having

  regular sex with someone

  as delicious as Lucas. One thing

  for sure. Whatever I tell Paige

  will most definitely get around.

  She’s not very good at secrets.

  Maybe I’ll just keep her guessing.

  I attempt an air of mystery. “C’mon,

  Paige. You wouldn’t want me

  to screw and tell, would you?”

  We Both Know

  She would, and we both know

  the way I’ve circumvented

  her question means I’m still

  a virgin. Technically, anyway.

  It’s the “technically” part that

  has now piqued her interest.

  Okay, then. How far have you

  gone? I want every single detail.

  Ah, what the hell? “We almost

  did last week. In fact, we were

  just about naked. …” I tell her

  the story about not quite getting

  busted, right there on my living

  room couch. “You’ve never seen

  two people get dressed so fast.

  I didn’t even have time to put on

  my bra. Good thing Daddy dropped

  his keys. Gave me time to hide it

  under the cushion. Things had to

  look pretty suspicious, though.”

  Paige giggles. Oh, yeah. Messy

  hair and smeared makeup.

  Been there, done that. But what

  about yesterday? Did you …?

  “Nah. Everything but. Wrong

  time of the month and all.” Now

  that was a big slice of truth. I don’t

  usually talk about my periods.

  But Paige wants even more.

  Did you, like, use your mouth?

  Her eyes light up. Is she waiting

  for a (ha!) blow-by-blow description?

  “Why? Need instructions? ’Cause

  you can get tips on the Web, you know.”

  I am something of an expert there,

  because I checked ’em out myself.

  She laughs. Nah. That’s okay.

  I think I’ve got it figured out.

  Just wondering if you have.

  Anyway, it’s not rocket science.

  Now I have to laugh. “Except the part

  where it goes off like a rocket.”

  We both bust up, and now she knows

  I’ve got it figured out too.

  Capitola Mall

  Isn’t huge, but it’s big enough.

  And, it being Sunday, it’s pretty

  crowded. I don’t mind crowds.

  People watching is a fun pastime.

  Paige cruises the parking lot slowly,

  waiting for someone to vacate

  a spot close to an entrance. “There’s

  probably room in the garage.”

  Probably. But you never know

  what kind of weirdo might be

  lurking in a parking garage.

  Mom says it’s safer out here.

  Is there more than one kind

  of weirdo? Okay, I can’t let

  that one slip past. “How many

  kinds of weirdos are there?”

  She doesn’t laugh. Lots. And

  the worst are the ones you

  don’t suspect. They’re the ones

  you invite inside your front door.

  Inside the Mall

  I can’t help but go on a weirdo

  watch. Paige is right. Potential

  freaks loiter everywhere, and

  they come in all shapes, sizes,

  genders, and ages. “Hey, Paige.

  Check that out.” I point to a boy,

  maybe six, staring, drop-jawed,

  through the window of Victoria’s

  Secret. “Future weirdo, for sure.”

  We crack up, but when we’re well

  down the aisle I glance back over

  my shoulder. He’s still there.

  Paige doesn’t notice, could

  care less anyway. Let’s go

  to the Gap. I need some jeans.

  Her focus shift is immediate, intense.

  Mind on her goal, she picks

  up her pace. So much for people

  watching. Faces, bodies, and packages

  blur. Motion sickness threatens.

  Finally, Gap in sight, she slows

  a little. Enough for me to notice

  a really cute guy sitting outside

  the door, waiting for someone,

  at least that’s my guess. As we

  approach, he notices us, too, and

  the smile he gives me could melt

  an entire iceberg in two seconds flat.

  Weirdo? Maybe. I mean, he’s at least

  ten years older than me, and he’s def

  taken an interest. Do weirdos come

  this hot? My guess is no, but I’m not

  here to pick up a guy (yeah, Lucas,

  remember him?), especially one who

  could be my—what? Big brother?

  Wow, it might be cool to have a big

  brother hot enough to be a rock star.

  No, wait. All my friends would want

  me to introduce them. Then they

  wouldn’t be my friends any more,

  because they’d be doing it with my

  brother. Scratch all that. Don’t want

  a hot brother, or any brother at all.

  Don’t even want my sister, and why

  the heck am I thinking all this,

  anyway, just because some pervert

  guy sitting outside the Gap might

  or might not have checked me out?

  Warped

  But who’s warped, him or me?

  Okay, I’m pretty sure I know

  the answer. Pretty sure I’ve gone

  from appreciating some nice-looking

  (hot) older guy to imagining

  I have some fictional brother who

  is doing unmentionable things with

  my best friends. I steal a covert glance

  at Paige, who is def not noticing

  the guy (who is def not my brother)

  at all, let alone having sex with him.

  I need food. Haven’t eaten today.

  As Paige and I go inside, I can feel

  not-brother’s eyes crawling all over

  my back. I nudge Paige. “Psst. Did

  you see that cute guy checking us out?”

  What guy? She turns, and I follow

  her eyes, only to find his eyes

  locked on me. Well, he’s def

  checking you out. Talk about

  robbing the cradle, or wanting to.

  Like, totally tasteless. C’mon. There’s

  a pair of skinny jeans with my

  name on them right over there.

  Someone Should Tell

  Paige that “skinny jeans” are

  most def not her best friend.

  She and I are the same age,

  and about the same height.

  But she’s got a lot more

  curves. In a way, I envy that.

  Paige looks more like a woman.

  I, on the other hand, look like a girl.

  Skinny jeans work better for girls.

  Still, Paige manages to pour

  herself into a pair. Do they

  make my butt look big?

  Well, duh. But I’m not

  about to say so. Friends


  don’t tell friends they look

  fat. Or even curvy. “Nah.”

  Cool. So what are you waiting

  for? Try some on. Check it out:

  Thirty percent off. She stands,

  hands punctuating well-defined hips.

  Debate is useless. I slip into

  a pair and have to admit they

  look pretty good. Oh, why not?

  What’s a trip to the mall for?

  Shopping with Paige

  Reminds me of that TV show:

  TLC’s What Not to Wear.

  Paige has spent big bucks, and

  what does she have to show for it?

  A couple of pairs of too-tight

  jeans, three blouses guaranteed

  to show too much tummy and/or

  cleavage, and a pair of hot pink

  sneakers with soles as thick

  as six hundred-page novels.

  Now we’re leaving Claire’s,

  where I’m pretty sure Paige

  took advantage of a five-finger

  discount. Not that she can’t afford

  a cheap pair of earrings. But ripping

  them off gives her a total rush.

  Hurry up, she urges, glancing

  nervously over her shoulder

  as we hustle toward the food

  court. Talk about obvious!

  Still, by the time yummy scents

  of fat-laden foods entice our noses,

  we see no sign of security on our

  tail. Way to “borrow,” Paige.

  What do you want to eat? asks

  Paige, sniffing the air. Subway?

  Pizza? Hey, you know what sounds

  delish? A hot dog on a stick.

  The built-in joke is just too good to

  pass up! “Damn, girl. You really do

  need a boyfriend, you know?” We both

  snort into gut-busting, pee-your-pants

  laughter. “Oh … my … God!”

  I stutter. “I have so got to pee.”

  I turn, ready to run. And who’s

  sitting at a table nearby, grinning

  like an orangutan—a very hot

  orangutan? The guy. The cute

  not-my-brother weirdo. And he’s checking

  me out again. Is he, like, stalking me?

  I Still Have to Pee

  But before I do, I have to say

  something to the hot monkey.

  Ooh. That was a very bad thought.

  Wonder how hot his monkey is.

  Okay. Way worse thought.

  What’s up with me? “That guy

  is over there, staring,” I tell

  Paige. “Let’s go talk to him.”

  She pulls her eyes away from

  the Hot Dog on a Stick sign.

  What? Hey. No. That’s stupid.

  He might get the wrong idea.

  Or exactly the right idea. “Yeah,

  maybe. But don’t you want to

  know where he’s coming from?”

  I don’t wait for her to answer.

  I pull myself up very tall, take

  dead aim at my stalker. Behind

  me comes the sound of Paige,

  scrambling to catch up. Wait.

  Almost to his table, my courage

  dissolves and I think seriously

  about turning around, grabbing

  Paige, and hauling buns out of there.

  Too Late

  The guy looks up, and the warmth

  of his smile melts all thoughts of

  running. Hello. One word out of his

  killer mouth, I think I’m lost.

  “Oh. Hey.” Now what do I say?

  “I … uh … just wondered if you

  were looking at anything special.”

  Totally brilliant. Set myself up.

  But he knows just what to say.

  Well, actually, yes. I was looking

  at you, wasn’t I? You’re quite

  special. But then, you know that.

  Is he saying I’m stuck-up?

  Beside me, Paige chokes on

  a half laugh. Guess that’s what

  she thinks he was saying.

  He studies my face with amazing

  eyes, the blue of robin eggs. You are,

  in fact, the most special young

  woman I’ve seen in a long time.

  He so is a stalker. But a stalker

  who knows how to make a girl feel …

  uh … special. “I’m sorry, but

  I don’t get it. What do you want?”

  His grin widens. Now that’s

  a loaded question. I want more

  than you’ll probably give me.

  But I’ll settle for your name.

  Paige elbows me and clears

  her throat, like I don’t have

  enough sense not to give my name

  to a stranger. A totally luscious,

  completely random, too-old-

  for-me-to-even-consider-him,

  somehow hypnotic stranger.

  I find myself saying, “Whitney.”

  Whitney, he repeats, nodding.

  The name fits you. Well, Whitney,

  pleased to meet you. I’m Bryn.

  Care to sit down for a few?

  This Is Insane

  For some stupid reason,

  I really, really do want to

  sit down with him for a few.

  What is the big attraction?

  It’s not like a guy has never

  put the moves on me before.

  And I’m pretty sure that’s what

  this is, even though he’s smooth.

  But Paige isn’t taking the bait.

  We were going to get something

  to eat, remember? And I thought

  you had to go—She catches herself.

  Fact is, I do have to go. Now.

  “I’d like to sit, Bryn, but Pai—

  uh … my friend is hungry.

  Maybe another time?”

  His smile slips a little. But

  he says, Of course. Then he

  reaches into his pocket. Here’s

  my card. Call me sometime.

  A Poem by Ginger Cordell

  Reach

  They say you should

  reach for the stars,

  and I’d like to, but

  my arms

  are much too short.

  They say to reach

  out for hope, but I

  don’t

  understand what hope

  is. They say to reach for

  goals, but I don’t

  know

  how to define mine,

  and so I won’t listen.

  But if you only tell me

  how to

  love you, I’ll reach

  into the depth of me

  and find a way to

  hold you.

  Ginger

  School Sucks

  Don’t even know why I try.

  We’ve moved around so

  much, I’ve always been behind.

  I’m not going to graduate without

  a hella lot of summer school

  or something. And I don’t plan to

  spend summer vacation locked up

  in Barstow High, trying to figure

  out algebra. Who needs it, anyway?

  Not like I’m going to college. I’ll be

  happy waitressing. Minimum

  wage and tips isn’t such a bad life.

  Would be nice to settle into a town.

  (Not that Barstow’s the one—it’s

  not!) Have a nice, steady job. A friend

  or two. Maybe even fall in love,

  if there is such a thing, and if

  I can ever get past … Anyway,

  we’ve never stayed in one place

  long enough for me to make friends.

  All I’ve had to hang with are sisters.
>
  Actually, I’ve Kind of Connected

  To one girl, Alex. She’s in my

  creative writing class, and

  she’s totally goth. Black clothes,

  black fingernails. Heavy black

  eyeliner, which somehow

  makes her seem innocent,

  like a little girl, trying too hard

  to look all grown up. There’s

  something about that—something

  about her—that is really

  attractive to me. More than

  once since I’ve gotten to know

  her, I have thought about

  what it might be like to hold

  her. I’ve even fantasized about

  kissing her. It’s major weird

  and kind of messed up, I guess.

  I’ve never kissed anyone,

  guy or girl. Been kissed,

  but it was never my idea,

  and I hated it. Hated them.

  I want to know what a real

  kiss is like. But why I keep

  thinking about doing it with

  Alex is a mystery. She has

  never even halfway come on

  to me. That’s cool. Who needs

  complications? It’s good

  enough to have a friend.

  And anyway, I’m guessing

  it isn’t easy for her to get

  close to people. She has

  had a tough life, maybe

  tougher than mine. Her mom’s

  doing hard time for armed

  robbery, and she lives with her

  loser stepdad, who’s a bartender

  at some sleazy club out on

  Old Highway 58. Wonder if

  I should try to set him up

  with Iris. A pair of low-life

  druggies. The perfect couple.

  Alex and I

  Are hanging out downtown,

  scoping out people, scoping

  us out. I take a deep drag off

  a bummed Kool, cough like a

  dweeb on the exhale. “Does

  your stepdad have a girlfriend?”

  Alex keeps watching people

  walk by. She rarely looks you

  in the eye. Nah. No one special,

  not since Lydia boogied on

  down the road. Guess he has

  fuck buddies, though. Why?

  “I dunno. It just came to me

  that maybe he and my mom

  should hook up or something.”

  She doesn’t miss a beat.

  You kidding? You don’t

  like your mom or what?

  I laugh. “Not much, actually.

  But she’s easier to deal with

  when she’s got a man in her life.”

  Really? Seems to me life is a lot

  easier without getting attached

  to someone. Too complicated.