Tricks

  I just hate when they argue.

  Because it’s usually about me.

  More and More Lately

  It seems like Mom makes

  a point of staying gone when

  Daddy’s home. She golfs. Plays

  tennis. Spends hours at the gym.

  Sometimes she visits a friend

  in Monterey. I assume a female

  friend, but wouldn’t put it past Mom

  to have a thing going on the side.

  Pretty sure she doesn’t have a bi

  side, but whatever floats her lead-

  bottomed boat, as long as it means

  she’s hanging out anywhere but here.

  I love when it’s just Daddy and me.

  Usually it’s here in SC, but once

  in a while, I’ll go into the city,

  spend the weekend with him there.

  San Francisco has to be the most

  beautiful place in the world, with

  its stunning old homes, stacked

  like Legos on its incredibly steep

  hills. There are museums. Galleries.

  The symphony and the ballet.

  Daddy has taught me to appreciate

  all of these things, and not give

  a sideways glance at SF’s uglier

  underbelly. Homeless people.

  Panhandlers. Drug dealers, pimps,

  and Tenderloin freaks, often only

  a street or two removed from

  the thriving business district

  and the vibrant waterfront tourist

  traffic. A city of enigmas.

  I like enigmas. I mean, face

  it. Semi-absent father. Absent-

  for-the-moment sister. Totally

  absent mother, not a whole lot

  of affection, but plenty of time

  all on my own, I’m a walking,

  talking poster child for early

  promiscuity. Aren’t I?

  Well, Not Exactly

  See, between the longtime local

  hype about AIDS and a real-time

  example of how rotten young

  mothering can make a person

  (Mom was only nineteen when she

  had Kyra; I followed a little over three

  years later), not to mention how truly

  disgusting venereal diseases

  look in those movies they show

  you in school, I have not been

  in a hurry to let just any guy

  pluck the rosebud. True love first,

  I’ve always said, and that has

  been enough to keep me a virgin.

  Up until now. I mean, technically

  I’m still a virgin at fifteen.

  But I’m also in love, and I’m pretty

  sure Lucas loves me, too. We’ve been

  skin-on-skin. I just haven’t let him

  talk me into “all the way in.”

  That’s Liable to Change

  Any time. I’ve been holding out,

  wanting to be certain that he loves

  me for more than my bod. But how

  can you really know that?

  We’ve been together almost

  a year. He’s a senior at Kirby,

  the same private college prep school

  that prepped Kyra for Vassar.

  She was valedictorian, of course.

  I take AP classes at Empire. Less

  pressure. Less having to live up

  to valedictorian expectations.

  Lucas and I met at a Kirby honor

  choir performance last spring. Kyra

  sang two solos. Lucas stood in the back

  row, mostly faking the words. Once

  in a while he actually belted out a few

  in a deep, mellow bass. I couldn’t

  help but stare. And not at Kyra.

  Lucas stole my attention completely.

  I mean, he’s freaking beautiful.

  His hair falls, a lush gold cascade,

  well past his shoulders. It frames

  the steep angles of his face perfectly.

  His eyes are green, but almost

  clear, like cool emerald pools.

  You want to dive deep down

  into them and swim awhile.

  That first night, after the sheet

  music was all stored away,

  I went looking for Kyra and cookies,

  not necessarily in that order.

  I found her, talking with Lucas.

  And for not even close to the first

  time in my life, the little green

  monster sank its fangs into me.

  Kyra wasn’t interested in Lucas.

  Her taste in men runs toward PhD

  candidates (total geeks). But I

  wasn’t sure Lucas knew that.

  So I took dead aim at making

  darn sure he did, pushing straight

  in between them. “Hey, sis,” I said,

  “Mom is looking for you.”

  That Was Mostly a Lie

  But it worked. Kyra kisses

  Mom’s butt almost as much

  as Mom kisses hers. She took

  off with a simple, Excuse me.

  I turned to Lucas. “Good

  performance. You’ve got

  a great voice… .” Better

  eyes, but I didn’t go there.

  His smile revealed major bucks

  in dental work. Yeah. At least

  when I can remember the words.

  So … you’re Kyra’s little sister?

  The “little” made me wince.

  Of course, I was only fourteen

  at the time. Kyra’s eighteenth

  birthday was sneaking up.

  Whatever. I had to play nice.

  “That’s me. Kyra’s little sister.

  But you can call me Whitney

  if you want. It’s shorter.”

  Something about the tone

  of my voice tipped him off.

  Ooh. Struck a nerve, huh?

  Well, little sis, no worries.

  He gave a long, assessing look.

  You measure up okay. Besides …

  He lowered his voice. Just between

  you and me, your sister’s a bitch.

  O-M-G! No one, and I mean no

  one, had ever told me that before.

  I studied his face, trying to find

  a hint of insincerity. Couldn’t.

  Something sparked between us.

  Maybe it was as simple as him

  thinking my sister was a bitch.

  Sharing my opinion. Something

  others rarely do. And not only

  sharing it, but not being afraid to

  voice such an unpopular sentiment.

  “Just between you and me, I agree.”

  Okay, Very Likely

  He saw how much I needed

  to hear that, and maybe he figured

  it might be a way into my panties,

  and maybe it will lead to that eventually.

  Maybe even soon. I’m not really sure

  how or why I’ve held out this long,

  except that protecting my virginity

  is one thing I can accomplish

  all on my own. Won’t give it away

  too cheaply. Not even to Lucas,

  whose touch simply electrifies me.

  That night, as the reception broke up

  and we started toward our families,

  our hands touched. The energy

  was pure magic. He felt it too,

  turned back to me immediately.

  His smile was lupine. Ravenous.

  I needed to get to know this guy,

  and so when he said, Uh … don’t

  suppose you’d give me your number?

  I recited it once. Repeated it.

  Asked him to repeat it to me,

  a feat that he managed easily.

  H
e remembered it too.

  It Kind of Surprised Me

  When he called a couple of days

  later. Not sure why. I guess it’s

  because I always set myself up

  for disappointment. Not that time.

  Hey, he said, it’s Lucas, from

  Kirby…. Like I wouldn’t have

  remembered! I was thinking about

  a day trip to Big Sur. Interested?

  Like I wouldn’t have been!

  But I didn’t want him to know

  my temp had just flared well over

  one-oh-one. “Uh, maybe. When?”

  I don’t suppose you could, like,

  ditch school tomorrow? At

  my long pause, he laughed. Okay.

  How about Saturday, then?

  That gave me two whole days

  to make up a believable excuse.

  No way would Mom let me go

  to Big Sur with a guy I just met.

  Okay, she wouldn’t have let me

  go with any guy. Not that I cared.

  Getting away with stuff was a well-

  loved hobby. And even if it wasn’t,

  I would have done just about

  anything to spend the day with

  someone who made me feel

  important. Pretty, maybe. Alive.

  Believe it or not, my mom made

  it easy. I’m playing golf with Cyn

  tomorrow, she told me on Friday.

  And we’re doing dinner afterward.

  You’ll be okay here alone, right?

  She barely even heard my ramble

  about going over to Trish’s for

  he day. Great. I’ll be home late.

  Just like that, my Saturday had

  opened up. And, very much like

  my wandering mother, I was oh-

  so-ready to go out and play.

  We Played That Saturday

  Lucas’s silver Eclipse Spyder

  seemed to maneuver those

  Highway 1 curves all by itself.

  Good thing, considering how

  buzzed we got. Okay, it wasn’t

  the first time I’d smoked weed,

  but I’d rarely smoked myself

  so close to outer space before.

  Finally Lucas pulled well off

  the road, parked. C’mon.

  I want to show you something.

  He took my hand, led me along

  a narrow trail to a steep rock

  wall. No way could you climb

  up from the front, but around back,

  little ledges allowed access to the top.

  Despite the residual morning mist,

  the view of the crest-and-crash

  Pacific literally stole my breath

  away. “Insane,” I managed.

  We sat, lost in our buzz and the roar

  of the sea, and when he slipped

  his arm around my shoulder, it

  felt right. No, better than right.

  It felt necessary. He wanted

  to kiss me, I knew that. And

  I wanted to let him, but I was

  afraid I’d look like an idiot.

  I’d only ever kissed two other

  guys, in an eighth-grade game

  of Truth or Dare. Not real kisses.

  Not even real practice kisses.

  Still, when he touched my face,

  it rotated easily toward his. And

  when our eyes locked, I dove into

  those emerald pools and our first

  kiss was an effortless float.

  All the love I’d ever thirsted

  for swelled, symphonic. Finally,

  too soon, he pulled away. Wow.

  A Man of Few Words

  Most definitely, but I didn’t

  need words then. I needed

  another kiss, which he gave

  me, and another. And another.

  Without asking for more. Even

  though by the end of that make-out

  session, my body was saying, “Please,

  more.” And it has many times since.

  A few days ago Daddy was in the city,

  and Mom was off at some fashion

  show. I asked Lucas to come over.

  We were making out hot and heavy.

  He started to unbutton my blouse.

  I let him. And when he unzipped

  my jeans, I helped him help me

  out of them. Snared by the heat

  of his kiss, I barely noticed when

  he slipped out of his own Levis.

  Skin urgent against skin, only

  panties and boxers between us,

  I was ready to shed that final thin

  barrier, allow him access to the most

  private part of me, when familiar faces

  floated past the window. Not-quite busted!

  A Poem by Ginger Cordell

  Faces

  I wear many faces,

  some way too old

  to fit the girl glued

  to the back of them.

  I

  keep my faces in a box,

  stashed inside of me.

  It’s murky in there,

  overcast with feelings I

  don’t

  allow anyone to see.

  Not that anyone cares

  enough to go looking.

  No one wants to

  know

  what bothers me. Too

  hung up on their own

  problems. Sometimes

  I think I have to see

  the real

  Ginger, so I open

  the box, search inside.

  But no matter how hard

  I look, I can’t find

  me.

  Ginger

  SOP

  Standard operating procedure.

  Iris is yelling again. At the phone.

  At the guy on the other end.

  At what he’s done to her world—

  her totally messed-up, totally self-

  centered piece of the universe.

  Wish she would just shut the fuck

  up. Hang up. Forget Hal or Bill

  or Joe or Frank or whatever this

  one’s name is. I can’t remember

  them all. Only a couple of names,

  a face or two. A few other body

  parts I’ll never be able to forget.

  All because of Iris’s “womanly

  needs.” That’s what she calls

  her overinflated sex drive. Why

  can’t she stop thinking about

  herself and act like a mom?

  She could start by letting us call

  her Mom. But, no, she insists on

  Iris. Says it makes her feel pretty.

  Not sure she was ever really

  pretty, but if she was, too

  many babies and too much

  hard living has sucked her dry.

  Too much, too many. That

  describes Iris pretty damn well.

  Too much booze. Too many

  smokes. Way too many

  pills. Speed. Downers.

  Everything in between. Any-

  thing to shut off and shut

  up what’s left of her brain.

  A Door Slams

  Guess she’s done on the phone.

  Done with another Mr. Wrong.

  Thirty seconds, she’ll be in here,

  crying. Wanting me to say, “Don’t

  cry, Iris. Everything will be okay.”

  And, you know, maybe it will.

  “Okay” is all in how you look at

  things. Compared to some bum

  on the street, or some starving

  kid in Africa, we’re okay, living

  with our grandma, who manages

  to feed Iris and us six kids.

  Six kids, five different fathers.

  Only Maryann and I share one,

 
not that we know one damn thing

  about him, except he’s an army

  lifer who gave us his face (neither

  of us takes after our mother) and his

  last name. Guess Iris actually

  married him. Wonder if she

  ever officially unmarried him.

  Yes, no, or maybe so, the other

  kids—Porter, Honey, Pepper,

  and Sandy—all have different

  fathers, but share the same last

  name. Belcher, just like Gram’s.

  Our first names come courtesy

  of Iris’s infatuation with ancient

  black-and-white TV reruns. Ginger

  and Mary Ann were characters on

  Gilligan’s Island. Porter and

  Sandy were on a show about

  a dolphin named Flipper. Pepper

  was Police Woman, and Honey

  West was a private investigator,

  cop, or other woman-in-danger.

  Anyway, we’ve been at Gram’s

  place in California for seven months,

  eating every day, sleeping warm.

  But I don’t know how long it will

  last. Iris gets along with her mother

  about how she gets along with her men.

  Thirty Seconds Is Up

  Iris doesn’t bother to knock.

  She slaps against the door,

  pushes her way into the room

  that I share with Mary Ann, Honey,

  and Pepper. Four girls, two

  beds. Luckily, only I’m here now.

  Iris tosses herself across my bed,

  lands facedown against rumpled

  blankets. Bastard! Why are they all

  such bastards? She sobs, and her

  body shakes like she’s got the DTs.

  Like she’d ever suffer through detox.

  I should feel sorry for her, I guess.

  But I don’t. I can’t. She makes

  me sick. Maybe because I know

  I could turn out just like her. No way

  to dig myself out of this grave for

  the living. No way I’ve found yet.

  I try to dig up a little sympathy.

  “He wasn’t such a great guy

  anyway, Iris.” He was nasty.

  But she doesn’t think so. No one’s

  p-perf-fect. I thought we

  were doing just f-f-fine.

  Anger punches me suddenly,

  hard, little blows to the gut.

  “Maybe he found out how you

  make your … uh … living.

  Not many guys will put up

  with someone who screws

  other guys for money. And if

  they do, then all they’re after

  is free booze and an easy lay.”

  She jerks upright, grabs me

  by the shoulders, shakes till