Date: 2009-08-25T04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Young Adult; Poetry; Contemporary; Realistic Fiction; LGBT; Romance
Description: Tricks Five troubled teenagers fall into prostitution as they search for freedom, safety, community, family, and love in this #1 New York Times bestselling novel from Ellen Hopkins. When all choice is taken from you, life becomes a game of survival. Five teenagers from different parts of the country. Three girls. Two guys. Four straight. One gay. Some rich. Some poor. Some from great families. Some with no one at all. All living their lives as best they can, but all searching…for freedom, safety, community, family, love. What they don’t expect, though, is all that can happen when those powerfu
Publisher: Margaret K. McElderry

Tricks

Ellen Hopkins

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-preachin,

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 in 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, voila! 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, it's not just about the delicious electricity

*
coursing through my veins. It's all about love.

And you are the source of that, right? Amen.

A Poem by Seth Parnell Possibilities

As a child, I was wary, often felt cornered.

To escape, I regularly
stashed myself in the closet, comforted by curtains of cotton. Silk. Velour.

Avoided wool, which
encouraged my
itching the ever-present rashes on my arms, legs. My skin
reacted to secrets, lies, and taunts by wanting to break out.

Now I hide behind a wall of silence, bricked in by the crushing
desire to confess, but afraid of my family's reaction.

Fearful I don't have the strength to survive the fallout.

Seth As Far Back

As I can remember,

I have known that

I was different. I think

I was maybe five
when I decided that.

*

I was the little boy who liked art projects and ant farm tending
better than riding bikes
playing army rangers.

*

Not easy, coming from a long line of farmers and factory workers. Dad's big
dream for his only son has
always been tool and die.

*

My dream is liberal arts, a New Agey university.

Berkeley, maybe. Or, even better, San Francisco.

But that won't happen.

Not with Mom Gone

She was the one who supported my escape
plan. You reach for your

dreams, she said. Factory
work is killing us all.

*

Factory work may
have jump-started it, but it was cancer that
took my mom, one year and three months ago.

*

At least she didn't
have to find out about me. She loved me, sure, with all her heart. Wanted
me to be happy, with all her

*
heart. But when it came to sex, she was all Catholic in her thinking. Sex was for making babies, and only after marriage. I'll never forget
what she said when my cousin

Liz got pregnant. She was just
sixteen and her boyfriend hauled his butt out of town, all the way of an army base in Georgia.

*

Mom got off the phone with

Aunt Josie, clucking like a hen.

Who would have believed
our pretty little Liz would
grow up to be such a whore?

*

I thought that was harsh, and told her so. She said, flat out, Getting pregnant without getting married first
makes her a whore in God's eyes.

I knew better than to argue with Mom, but if she felt
that strongly about unmarried
sex, no way could I ever let her know about me, suffer

*
the disgrace that would have
followed. Beyond Mom,

Indiana's holier-than-thou
conservatives hate "fags" almost as much as those freaks in Kansas

*
do--the ones who picket dead
soldiers' funerals, claiming their fate was God's way of getting back at gays. How in the hell are the two things related?

And Anyway

If God were inclined to punish someone
just for being the way he created them, it would
be punishment enough

*
to insert that innocent
soul inside the womb of a native Indianan.

These cornfields and gravel roads are no place

*
for someone like me.

Considering almost every
guy I ever knew growing is a total jock, with no plans the future but farming

*
or assembly-line work, it sure isn't easy to fit in at school, even without overtly jumping out of that frigging closet.

*

I can't even tell Dad, though I've come very
close a couple of times, in response to his totally
cliché homophobic views:

Bible says God made

Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve, and no damn
bleeding-heart liberal
gonna tell me different.

*

Most definitely not this
bleeding-heart liberal.

Of course, Dad has no clue
that's what I am. Or have
become. Because of who

*

I am, all the way inside, the biggest part of me, the part I need to hide.

Wonder what he'd say

If I told him the first person

*
recognize what I am was a priest. Father Howard
knew. Took advantage, too.

Maybe I'll confess it all to Dad someday. But not

*
while he's still grieving over Mom. I am too.

And if I lost my dad because of any of this, I really
don't know what I'd do.

So I Keep the Real Seth

Mostly hidden away.

It is spring, a time of hope, locked in the rich loam
we till and plant. Corn.

Maize. The main ingredient

*
in American ethanol, the fuel of the future, and so it fuels our dreams. It's a cold March day, but the sun
threatens to thaw me,

*
like it has started to thaw the ground. The big John

Deere has little trouble
tugging the tiller, turning the soil, readying it for seed.

*

I don't mind this work.

There's something satisfying about the submission, dirt to churning blades. Submission, yes, and almost as ancient

*
as the submission of one
beast, throat up to another.

One human, facedown to another. And always, always another, hungering.

Hunger

Drives the beast, human or otherwise, and it is the essence of humanity.

Hunger for food. Power.

Sex. All tangled together.

*

It was hunger that made
me post a personal ad on the Internet. Hunger for something I knew

I could never taste here.

*

Hunger that put me on the freeway to Louisville, far away enough to promise
secrecy unattainable at home.

Hunger that gave me

*
the courage to knock on a stranger's door. Looking
back, I realize the danger.

But then I felt invincible.

Or maybe just starved.

I'd Dated Girls, of Course

Trying to convince
myself the attraction toward guys I'd always felt was just a passing thing.

Satan, luring me with

*
the promise of a penis.

I'd even fallen for a female.

Janet Winkler was dream-girl
pretty and sweeter than just-turned apple cider.

*
but love and sexual desire
don't always go hand in hand.

Luckily, Janet wasn't looking to get laid, which worked out
just fine. After a while,

*
though, I figured I should
be looking to get laid, like every other guy my age. So
why did the thought of sex with Janet--who I believed

*

I loved, even--not turn
me on one bit? Worse, why
did the idea of sex with her

Neanderthal jock big brother
turn me on so completely?

Not that Leon Winkler is particularly special.

Not good-looking. Definitely
not the brightest bulb in the socket. What he does have

*
going on is a fullback's
physique. Pure muscle.

(That includes inside his two-inch-thick skull.) I'd catch
myself watching his butt,

*
thinking it was perfect.

Something not exactly
hetero about that. Weird
thing was, that didn't
bother me. Well, except for

*
the idea someone might
notice how my eyes often
fell toward the rhythm of his exit. I never once
lusted for Janet like that.

*

I tried to let her down easy. Gave her the ol'

"It's not you, it's me"

routine. But breaking up is never an easy thing.

Not Easy for Janet

Who never saw it coming.

When I told her, she looked as if she'd been run over by a bulldozer. But you

told me you love me.

*

"I do love you," I said.

"But things are, well...

confusing right now. You
know my mom is sick...

Can't believe I used

*
her cancer as an excuse to try and smooth things
over. And it worked, to a point, anyway. At least it gave Janet something

*
to hold on to. I know, Seth.

But don't you think you
need someone to...?

The denial in my eyes
spoke clearly. She tried

*
another tactic, sliding her arms around my neck, seeking to comfort me. Then she kissed me, and it was a different kind of kiss
than any we'd shared
before. Swollen with desire.

Demanding. Lips still locked to mine, she murmured, What
if I give you this...?

*

Her hand found my own, urged it along her body's
contours, all the way to the place between her legs, the one I had never asked for.

*

To be honest, I thought about doing it. What if it cured my confusion after all?

In the heat of the moment,

I even got hard, especially

*
when Janet touched me, dropped onto her knees, lowered my zipper, started to do what I never suspected she knew how to do. Yes...

*

No! Shouldn't... How...?

The haze in my brain
cleared instantly, and I pushed her away. "No. I can't," was all I could say.

All Janet Could Say

Before she stalked off was, Up yours! What are you, anyway? Gay? Not
really expecting a response, she pivoted sharply, went

*
in search of moral support.

So she never heard me say, way under my breath, "Maybe

I am gay." It was time, maybe
past, to find out for sure.

*

But not in Perry County,

Indiana, where if you're
not related to someone, you know someone who is. All fact here is rooted

*
in gossip, and gossip can
prove deadly. Like last year, little Billy Caldwell told Nate

Fisher that he saw Nate's mom
kissing some guy out back

*
of a tavern. Total lie, but that didn't help Nate's mom
when Nate's dad went looking for her, with a loaded shotgun.

Caught up to her after Mass

Sunday morning, and when he was done, that church
parking lot looked like a street in Baghdad. After, Billy felt
kind of bad. But he blamed

*

Nate's dad one hundred percent.

Not Nate, who took out his grief on Billy's hunting dog.

That hound isn't much
good for hunting now, not

*
with an eye missing. Since

I'd really like to hang on to both of my eyes and all of my limbs, I figured I'd
better find my true self

*
somewhere other than Perry

County. Best way I could
think of was through the

"be anyone you choose to be"

possibilities of online dating.

Granted, One Possibility

Was hooking up with a creep-- a pervert, looking to spread
some incurable disease to some
poor, horny idiot. I met more than one pervert, but I never

*
let them do me. Nope, horny or not, I wasn't an idiot. No
homosexual yokel, anxious
enough to get laid to let any
guy who swung the correct

*
direction into my jeans.

I wanted my first real sex to be with the right guy. Someone
experienced enough to teach
me, but not humiliate me.

*

Someone good-looking.

Young. Educated. A good
talker, yes, but a good listener, too. Someone maybe even
hoping to fall in love.

Incredibly

Unimaginably, Loren turned
out to be all those things, and I found him in Louisville!

He opened my eyes to a wider
world, introduced me to the

*
avant-garde--performance art, nude theater, alternative lit.

He gave me a taste for caviar, pâté, excellent

California cabernet. After

*
years of fried chicken and

Pabst Blue Ribbon, such
adjustments could only be
born of love. Truthfully, love was unexpected. I've

*
said it before, and I'll repeat,

I didn't fall out of the tree
yesterday. But that first day, when Loren opened his door,

I took one look and fell

*
flat on my face. Figuratively, of course. I barely stumbled as I crossed the threshold-- into his apartment, and into the certainty of who I am.

A Poem by Whitney Lang Stumbling

I only have one question, scraping the inside of me.

Answer it, and I will
stumble
back into her shadow.

Shut my mouth, never
ask again. I've tried to ignore it, but it won't go
away.

It haunts my dreams, chases me through every single day, and I
don't
have the strength to turn around. Face it down. So please tell me and I swear I'll never
ask
again. It's in your
power to make it go
away And all you have to do is tell me
why
you love her more.

Whitney Living in Someone's Shadow

Totally blows. Don't get
me wrong. I love my sister.

Just not as much as my mother
loves her. Doesn't matter how

*
hard I try, I can never quite
measure up to Kyra. I'm pretty.

She's beautiful. I'm smart.

She's a genius. I can sing

*
a tolerable alto. She'll solo, lead soprano, at the Met.

Mom's own failed dreams
resurrected in Kyra.

*

And speaking of dreams, mine are small. Shortsighted,

Mom calls them. Interior
design, maybe. Or fashion.

*

Kyra, however, is majoring in International Relations.

I don't get it. What does she want to be? A spy?

I thought things would get
better when she went off to Vassar. Two thousand, three hundred and fifty-six

*
miles away from Santa Cruz, the pretentious California beach
town where we live. But no
amount of miles can make

*
her shadow disappear. It's
only longer, stretched across the continent. Her on one side.

Me stuck fast on the other.

It's Not So Bad

When my dad's home. He's an investment banker in the fine
old city of San Francisco.

Too far to commute every day,

*
so he keeps an apartment there
four nights a week, comes home for regular three-day weekends.

Used to be regular, anyway.

*

My dad's my hero, and when
he's home he makes Mom stay off my ass. I don't say words like "ass" when he's around.

*

Don't want him to think I'm a "foul-mouthed bitch," as my
mom enjoys calling me. Wonder
where I got the mouth from.

*

Anyway, Daddy loves me, and if he happens to play
favorites, the dice usually roll
my way. Probably just making

*
up for Mom. But hey, that's
okay. One out of two ain't bad.

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 body. 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.

He 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 Irish's for the 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
my teeth rattle. You little bitch.

*

How dare you talk to me like that? You know anything

I do to get by, I do for you.

"You"

Meaning her collective offspring.

I look into her eyes and find only
honesty there. She means every

*
word, hasn't even the slightest
clue how full of shit she totally
is. I don't care. She should know.

*

"Some people wait tables or work in grocery stores, Iris. Hustling

BJs is lazy work." All on your knees.

*

Emotions cycle through her eyes like a color wheel. She wants to hit me. Wants to hug me.

*

Her hands, still attached to my
shoulders, tremble. I'm sorry.

I just don't know anything else.

*

Finally her hands fall away.

I thought maybe things would
change with Greg. Get better.

*

What planet does she live on?

"Get real! What guy wants a woman like... like you?"

Smacked Down

That's how she looks, but I don't
feel bad about it. She wants me to mother her. Well, what mother

*
with half a pair of balls wouldn't say the same thing? (Not counting
my mother!) And I've got a full pair.

*

I swear I can see smoke billowing from her ears. Who made you so stinking mean? She spits the s's.

*

What a fucking stupid question!

Isn't she expecting my answer?

"Who do you fricking think?"

*

She wants to say more, but at this
exact moment, Gram comes into the room, carrying an armful

*
of detergenty-smelling laundry.

Her head swivels toward us.

Uh. Am I interrupting something?

*

Iris shakes her head. Nothing
important. I need a smoke.

She rolls off the bed. And a beer.

I Must Look

As pissed as I feel. Without a word, Gram lays the folded
clothes on the other bed.

*

She turns toward me slowly, and for maybe the hundredth time,

I wonder what has carved

*
such deep wrinkles into her face.

She's only, like, fifty-three or so, and I'm pretty sure that,

*
unlike Iris, Gram used to be a knockout. You okay?

Her voice is pillow soft.

*

My eyes sting suddenly. It
should be Iris--Mom--
asking if I'm okay. "No."

*

Gram comes over, sits on the edge of the bed. Up
close, her face looks like

*
earthquake-splintered stone.

Worn, but not worn out.

I wish I could change things
for you. And for her too.

Her childhood was no
walk in the park either. Not

*
easy, being an army brat. And
touching down in Barstow
wasn't exactly a reward for years

*
spent hauling around the U.S.

Then, when her dad got killed...

well, she went starved dog wild.

*

Between Fort Irwin, Edwards, and the Marine Corps bases, there were plenty of men willing

*
to be stand-ins for her fallen
father. Only it wasn't exactly
daughterly love they were after.

Guess That Explains

How she got knocked up with me when she was only sixteen. Just my age.

*

And maybe it explains why she never outgrew teendom.

Still, "Why are you taking her

*
side? She pisses you off too.

Not like we can't hear you
yell at each other, you know."

*

Gram nods. I know. I'm sorry.

It's not such a big place.

Barely enough room to fit

*
you all in. But we'll get by.

Yes, I get mad at Iris. She can
be downright infuriating. Always

*
was a selfish girl. Never one to think about others, or try to spare their feelings. Not

*
mother material, not at all. Not
fair to any of you to pop you
out, then leave you to mostly fend
for yourselves. Even coyotes and jackals do better by their pups.

All I'm asking is for her to get

*
a job. Something legit. Pay taxes, stop whoring arou--She skids to a stop, has said too much.

*

It's okay. I know what she does.

Hate what she does. She'll never
stop. Not for you. Not for any of us."

In the Next Room

Sandy starts up a fuss. Short
nap. He'll be a little turdcake
tonight. Gram and I move at

*
the same time. Iris will let him
squish around in his wet Pull-Up until someone else changes it. I stop

*

Gram with a touch of my hand.

"I'll get him. You do enough."

I kiss her cheek gently before

*
sliding off the bed, onto the chipped
linoleum floor. Nothing special about Gram's house. Except Gram.

*

One second, she says, giving me a fierce hug. I know things haven't been easy for you kids. A regular

*
parade of Iris's men, most of 'em
bad ones, in and out of your lives.

Not even knowing your daddies.

*

Moving around, cycling through homes. No homes at all sometimes.

And not because the army was giving
anyone orders. I wish I'd known
sooner, but Iris didn't talk to me at all for years. Anger just eats

*
a person up inside, and I swear
that girl was born angry. Anyway, that ain't no here nor there.

*

But now you know where I live.

Whatever happens, I want you to remember this is always your home.

*

Love, unlike any I've ever known, floods through me. I kiss Gram's
cheek. "I will." I want to say more,

*
but I'm afraid if I do I'll jinx
myself, and the other kids too.

Speaking of them, there's Sandy

*
again, crying like he's dying.

"Better go!" I dash toward the door, and as I leave, I can

*
hear Gram's quiet, Tsk-tsk.

Then she whispers, Too bad

Iris can't be more like her daughter

I Don't Think

She meant me to hear it.

But I did, and I flush, blood warm with pleasure.

*

That was probably the nicest
thing anyone has ever said about me, if not to me directly.

*

I start toward the small bedroom
that used to belong to Iris when she was in high school. I hate

*
going in there, because I know
it's where she got preggers with me. Same bed, even. No,

*

I'm not guessing. One night, after a beer or two too many,

Iris felt the warped need to share

*
the whole story--how Private First

Class Kenneth Cordell sneaked in through the window, not once,

*
but enough times to make damn
sure and knock up one Iris Ann

Belcher. Thanks so much, Daddy.

A Poem by Cody Bennett Not Damn Sure

Where my real daddy ran
to, if he settled down in some

Podunk town or if he fell flat off the face of the earth.

No clue who he is or why Mom
slept with him seventeen
years ago, give or take.

Maybe it was rape.

No lie.

Mom is pretty much a prude. A nice prude, and all things considered, a really great mom.

No complaints about her or how we
live. Yeah, I've got a stepdad, but he's pretty
damn good to us.

No reason to turn all emo over not
knowing my real--scratch
that--I mean biological
father. Why would I want to?

No worries.

Cody After Wichita

Vegas is a strange, strange city.

I mean, everything in Wichita is ebony and ivory. Everyone knows
where everyone else stands on things like immigration (electrify the wall) or global warming (greenhouse... huh?).

*

But in Vegas, no one knows
one damn thing about their next-
door neighbor, even. We moved
here almost two years ago, and the only reason I know anyone on the block is because of school.

*

Even there, unless you really
push hard, you don't make
friends, and if you do, they're
liable to move away before long.

They say Vegas is a transient
city. Whole lot of truth in that.

*

People come. People go. Not like Wichita, where people
mostly stay. Guess I miss
some things about Kansas.

But worrying over it won't help
anyone. Especially not me.

I Go with the Flow

Don't make waves, don't
buck the current. I clean my
room, play nice with my little
brother. Maintain a solid 3.0

GPA. Might even go on to college. Meanwhile, I work

*
part time at GameStop to pay for gas and insurance. My hair is trimmed, my clothes are neat, and I never wear all black, except to funerals. You probably
wouldn't notice me walking

*
down the street, unless you
happen to be attracted to

"average." It's not such a bad
thing to be. When you fly
well below the radar, you get
away with a hell of a lot.

Of Course

My mom would forgive me
just about anything. Always
trying to make up for the absent
father thing. Not sure why.

My stepfather, Jack, is really
pretty cool. To her. To me.

*

He's an aircraft mechanic, working a civil service job at Nellis AFB. Mom met him at Boeing in Wichita. She was a receptionist there. It wasn't
exactly love at first sight, at least

&
not for her. She called him

"persistent." He called himself

"bit by the love bug." Okay, that's corny, but hey, that's Jack.

I've gotten used to corny. Typical

Jack joke: A rope orders a drink,

*

but the bartender says, "We don't
serve ropes here." he rope goes
outside, ties himself up, unravels
one end, goes back inside. Bartender
says, "Hey, aren't you that rope?"

Rope shakes his head. "Frayed knot."

Get It?

You know, "frayed knot,"

meaning "'fraid not." Corny as hell, like I said. But also kind of funny. Anyway, it's easy
enough to put up with corny when
it's from-the-heart honest.

*

Jack is honest as a mare-sniffing
stud, which is why he gets along with Mom. She can't stand when
people lie. Can't blame her, so I try
not to do much out-and-out lying.

"Omitting" is something else.

*

I do my fair share of omitting.

Despite Mom's ongoing request to know where I'm going, who

I'll be with, and when I'll be home, she rarely questions the bare-bone
details I usually provide.

*

I suppose that might change if

I ever fall into serious trouble.

But so far I've done a whole
lot of weekend partying without getting busted, addicted, or dead.

Smarter than the average stoner.

Tonight Being Saturday Night

I plan on a little fun before going home. First I have to finish my shift. One hour and counting, the door buzzer
signals a customer. Hope he knows exactly what he wants.

*

Oops. I mean she, and not just
any "she," but Veronica Carino.

I haven't seen her around much
lately. Not since I broke up with Alyssa, her best friend.

"Hey, Ronnie. What's up?"

*

She barely glances my way as she starts a counterclockwise
circumnavigation. Wii. Xbox.

PlayStation. Doesn't she know
what system she has? "Can I help
you find what you're looking for?"

*

Finally she reaches the counter, leans across, inflating the scoop of her tank top. Thanks, but I think

I found it. She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue, pouts full on.

How come you haven't called me?

Is This a Trick?

Something she and Alyssa cooked up to make me look like a jerk?

Ronnie Carino has never even
batted her pretty green eyes at me before. Let alone given me an up-close view of those tasty-looking

*
tits. Something twitches behind my zipper. Glad I'm
standing behind the counter.

"Uh... called you? Guess

I figured since 'Lyss and I broke
up, you'd probably be mad at me."

*

Ronnie takes a deep breath, rounding the mounds I can't
quit staring at. Then she exhales in a big sigh. Why would I be mad at you? You and 'Lyssa weren't

good for each other Oil and H20...

*

True enough. We argued over everything, from music to sports.

Only one thing was really good between us.... That twitch again.

"So, are you saying you want to go
out with me?" The direct approach
usually cuts straight through the bullshit, but it can backfire.

I half expect her to laugh and tell
me I'm out of my mind. Instead she smiles a total come-on. Yeah.

Why? Does that surprise you?

*

Can't she see the shock in my
eyes? I feel like I touched a hot
wire. "Kinda, I guess." I watch her inhale. Exhale. Ah, why not?

One reason comes immediately to mind. "What about Alyssa?"

*

She'll get totally pissed off But after she thinks about it, she'll be
okay... or maybe she won't...

Ronnie dips even lower, giving
me a quick nipple shot before drawing back and straightening.

*

Right now, I don't care what

'Lyss thinks. Do you? She waits for me to answer. The thought
crosses my mind again that this
could all be a setup. Still, I shake
my head. Great. How 'bout tonight?

I Watch Ronnie Leave

Wondering what the hell just
went down. Thinking with my
dick. That's for sure. So what is Ronnie thinking with? That
makes the dick in question
think even harder. Thank God

*
when the door opens next, it's a bunch of kids. Keeping an eye on them will help me forget about what might happen tonight.

Ronnie and I are going to Frozen75, the only underage club in Vegas.

*

I guess she's on some special list so we won't have to wait in line to get in. No booze inside, but whatever. I just want to watch her dance. We can keep the refreshments in my car. And as for dessert...

*

Stop that! One of the kids comes
over, whining about Pokemon

Purple, and why don't we have it, when it's right in front of his grubby, little face. "Hang on a sec and I'll get it for you." Brat.

The Rest of the Hour

Creeps by. Tick-tick... tick.

I'm actually happy when people
come in, asking dopey questions.

At least it keeps me from looking at the freaking clock every ten
seconds. Why am I so anxious?

*

Well, yeah, there is the idea
that I just might hook up with one very hot girl. I have to admit

I have thought about boinking her more than once, while
taking solo care of a hard-on.

*

Oh yeah, the big M. I probably
do it more than I should, and

Ronnie is definite boner bait, at least when I'm left to my
own imagination instead of

Internet porn. Viva la webcams!

*

Good thing Mom and Jack
aren't too nosy when it comes to my personal web-browsing
history. One very good example of "omission." If they asked, would

I out-and-out lie? Who wouldn't?

Now, at Least

I won't have to lie about where

I'm going tonight. I can omit
confessing the fun stuff, should
any of it actually happen. Finally

I get to clock out. Need to shower off the customers' germs, put on

*
clean clothes. Girls love clean.

I'm good with giving it to them.

It's warm for late March, but then it never gets really cool in Vegas.

The dry desert air is peppered with exhaust and city noise.

*

It's a short ride home, radio
screaming, and I'm singing to myself as I park, head up the walk to the front door. Life is good, and I can't help but smile as I go inside. Mom and Jack

*
are in the kitchen. Even from here, the tone of Mom's voice
makes me know something's
up. I close the distance quietly.

Wait and see what the doctor says.

Could be lots of things besides...

Doctor?

Is someone hurt? Sick? What?

I push through the door. "Lots of things besides what?" My eyes
whip back and forth between them.

Both their faces are the color of old
paper. Almost, but not quite, white.

*

Jack recovers first. Not important, son. I've just been having some

problems with indigestion. Went in for tests. Could be an ulcer.

Or maybe just your mother's
cookin'. Nothing to worry about.

*

Then why is Mom wearing worry in two long horizontal
lines across her forehead and two short vertical creases just above her nose? She's easier to read than a comic book.

I don't really want to read her, at least not all the way to the last
page. So I'm relieved when she reaches deep down for some humor.

You want to blame my cooking?

Then take me out to dinner.

*

The garage door slams and in marches Cory. He's thirteen, a skater, and thinks he's tough.

I let him maintain the fantasy.

Cory may be pushing six feet
tall, but he's a little kid inside.

*

We all clam up immediately, something Cory totally misses as he launches a verbal upchuck.

I can't believe it! They outlawed
boards at the park. Something about liability. Damn it to hell!

*

Mom sucks in her breath, and Jack
jumps up from his chair. What
did you say, young man? You
apologize to your mother right
this minute! His face is bright
red. But he doesn't look sick.

Cory does not apologize. He stomps into the living room, muttering a long string of very bad curse
words. Hmph... mother... sucker...

hmph ... have to if... Hey, did he say something about me?

*

Jack trails him, and Mom and

I follow. We are just in time to see Jack grab Cory by the collar.

He spins him around until they're
face-to-face. This is still my house, young man. Now you apologize.

*

There is something mean in

Cory's eyes, something I don't
remember seeing before. But Jack is in charge. Cory lowers his glare to the floor. Sorry. Now let me go.

He tempers his tone. Please.

It's Almost Seven

By the time I pick up Ronnie, who claims the front seat like she owns "shotgun." Damn, the girl is fine, in a short denim
skirt and skimpy lavender tank
top. Oh, Ronnie and her tanks.

*

Wave nice to my mommy, she says, turning to do the same.

Then she yells out the window,

Don't worry, Mom. We won't
stay out too late. Cross my heart.

Now, a mean whisper. Let's go!

*

She doesn't have to ask twice.

Last thing I need is her mom
smelling the bud in my pocket.

I aim for the freeway. "You look
great." Compliments are good ice-
breakers. Ronnie is the ice queen.

*

But tonight she seems almost
thawed. Not quite warm, but not completely bitchy. She sniffs the air. Smells like you brought the party. We've never gotten high
together. First time for everything.

By the Time

We reach Frozen75, we've def
gotten high together. This guy

I work with scores really good
bud, and he's not above dealing a little to me. "So what do you
think about the smoke?"

*

The ice queen has defrosted all the way to room temp. She laughs.

It's awesome. Then she reaches
over, touches my leg. Tonight
will be fun. Thanks for taking me.

Her hand strokes my thigh gently.

*

Which raises my heart rate, which raises several questions.

Why me? Why now? Why go out of her way for tonight? But one of those questions will do for now.

"I... I have to ask. Why me?"

*

Out of the corner of my eye

(I don't dare look away from the road), I can see her shake her head. You really don't know, do you? Cody, I've been in love with you for a very long time.

A Poem by Eden Streit Being in Love

Means hard questions.

Will I? Won't I? Should

I? Could I? Yes? No?

You?

Me? There is no me without you. Is there a you without me?

And if we're truly one, how will I breathe when
circumstance pries us
apart?

You are my oxygen, my
sustenance, the blood inside my veins. When
we
touch, you are my skin, hold all my joy inside of you. When you go, I
wither.

Eden Saturday Evening

Papa is officiating a wedding. Mama, of course, went along. Few enough

*
excuses to get all dressed up around here.

Eve put on her Sunday best and went too.

*

The bride has a really cute little brother, just about a year older than Eve.

*

The groom has a nice-looking brother too, but I'm not the least bit interested.

*

I've got someone I'd much rather see, so I begged off. Told them I didn't

*
feel very well. God is going to strike me down for sure if I keep lying this way.

*

But I've got at least three hours to spend with Andrew. There's a park

*
right down the street from our house.

It's a short walk on a cool night,

*
but by the time I reach Andrew's truck,

I'm hot all over. From the inside out.

No One Around

I slip into the Tundra unobserved.

As the interior light goes dark,

*

I move into Andrew's arms, accept his gentle kiss. But we don't dare

*
stay here. "Let's go for a drive. Can't
believe how much I've missed you."

*

He grins and puts the truck in gear.

It's only been four days, you know.

*

I slide my hand into the warmth of his.

"And all I could think about was you."

*

True. Too true. In class. PE. The library.

At home. Bible study. The dinner table.

*

Faces. Whiteboards. Gym mats. Smudged
together. Bells. Laughter. Curses. Blurred

*
into white noise. Locker room armpits. Floor wax.

Gourmet cafeteria. Marker ink. All smeared

*
into senseless potpourri. Four days, the only
clear picture, Andrew's face. The only sound

*

I wanted to hear, his soft hello. The only scent
my nose kept sniffing for, alfalfa green.

We Drive into the Foothills

Andrew knows this area well. He turns up a dirt road, slick with spring melt ice.

*

Unlikely we'll run into anyone back here.

Certainly not any old spy from Papa's church.

*

Andrew parks. Pretty tonight. Looks like you could reach out and touch

*

the stars. Come on. He tugs me into the chill March air, lifts me into the bed

*
of his truck. There's a double sleeping bag
there. We climb inside, and he slides his arm

*
around my shoulder, pulls my head against his chest. Nice. He sighs. Very, very nice.

*

Suddenly we're kissing, beneath an ocean of distant suns. Can't believe it's me here,

*
in this amazing place, with this amazing guy.

I want him to hold me forever, never let go.

*

I feel like I'm in a movie. Unrehearsed words
tumble out of my mouth. "I love you."

There

Said it. Didn't really mean to, but now

I've gone and done it. I tense, waiting

*
for his response. It's swift. Oh God,

Eden, I love you, too. How did I ever

*
live without you? It's like I was missing a huge part of me. The best part of me.

*

Until I found you. I want... I want...

He loses his words. He never does that.

*

I kiss his temples. Close his eyes with kisses. "What? What do you want?"

*

His eyes stay closed. I stare up into the night as he says, I want to be with you always,

*
to share forever with you. I want to give
you more than I have to give now--security,

*
a comfortable life. He pauses. Considers.

Decides to finish. I want to take from you

*
what I've no right to take. Not now. Not yet.

But that doesn't make me want it less....

I Get What He Means

And as much as I would like to chalk it up to him being a guy, truth is I want

*
it too. At least I think I do, and only when

I'm this close to Andrew. When I am, God

*
forgive me, I want to know what it means to give myself to him so completely. Want

*
to feel what it's like when it's absolutely
right. Not that I've felt it when it's wrong,

*
or felt "it" at all. But I don't want my heart to feel wrong about my body feeling good.

*

I have no doubt it will feel incredible with Andrew.

"I want to too. But I'm scared. I've never..."

*

I know. I know you haven't, and I know
you're scared. I'm scared too. You might

*
not believe this, but I've never either. He
stops. Smiles. Don't tell anyone, okay?

*

When you're ready, when you trust me
enough, I want you to be my first. My only

I So Want to Be

His first. His only. I so want him to be
mine. "I promise to be your first.

*

"Your only. If we just had a little more
time, I would be those things tonight...."

*

No. Not tonight. Not in the cold, hard bed of a pickup truck. When we do it, it will

*
be in a warm feather bed, with soft quilts and pillows you fall into. I want it

*
to be perfect. And if we don't get it right the first time... He lets me finish.

*

"Practice makes perfect?" We laugh
together. Easy. Meant to be. And I know

*
the first time someone makes love to me, it will be perfect. Because it will be Andrew.

We Should Head Back

But I can't. Not quite yet. I need some
answers that will prove he means what

*
he says. "So why did you wait? And how
did you know the right person was me?"

*

I know all guys are supposed to be sluts or something. But sex with just anyone

*
never did seem exactly right to me.

Maybe it's my Catholic upbringing,

*
or hell, who knows? Maybe I need Viagra
already. He laughs. Nah, that can't be

*
the problem. When I'm with you, I don't need a pill to want to make love to you.

*

He always says the right things.

Maybe he should be a politician.

*

As for you, I suspected you might be the right person the first night we met.

*

You were so sure of yourself, your beliefs, and you didn't let me sway you. I loved

*
your self-confidence, your obvious loyalty.

Your solid sense of right and wrong.

Okay, so maybe he's not exactly politician
material. "When did you know for sure?"

*

The first time I kissed you. One kiss,

I was totally hooked. Addicted to you.

*

I could never love anyone the way I love
you. I'd follow you across the universe.

*

I look up at the sky, brimming stars in the rise of a waning moon.

*

The universe is a big place. If I was lost up there, how would you ever find me?"

*

He gathers me in, kisses me gently.

Don't you know? We're connected

*
by an invisible chain. It's very long, very
light. But also very strong. It can't rust.

*

Can't break. And the only thing that can
sever it is if you ever stop loving me.

We Drive Back into Town

Back to the park, which is deserted.

Dark, but for a single streetlight

*
at the far end. Andrew parks away from it and I slide across the seat, into

*
his arms. One last kiss. Or two. I don't
want to stop. Don't want to go home.

*

"I'll never stop loving you," I whisper.

"And I want to make love with you soon."

*

My body aches with wanting that very
thing. "Maybe we should run away."

*

If I thought that was the right thing to do, I wouldn't hesitate one minute.

*

But it's not. You'd never forgive yourself, and that would mean never forgiving me.

*

Once you turn eighteen, once I graduate, we can go anywhere. I'll get a job. You can

*
go to school Or stay home and let me take
care of you. Whatever makes you happy.

*

He kisses me one last time. As long as we're together, everything will be all right.

I Walk Home Slowly

Trying to soak up the things Andrew
said tonight. Sponge them up, absorb

*
them through my skin, into my flesh, so they'll always live inside of me. I know

*

Andrew and I were meant to be together.

How can I prove it to my parents? How

*
can I make them understand that love
this real, this deep, must come from God?

*

I look up again at the night sky, but here, city lights take center stage, mute

*
the celestial backdrop. I don't belong
here, in the city. Don't belong in my

*
parents' cold house. I'm a stray, called to another place. A wild place, where

*
rules and expectations don't dare intrude.

A warm place, safe in Andrew's arms.

The House Is Quiet

They're still not home, and that's great by me. I don't need questions. Don't want

*
to make up excuses. Have no patience for a sister-to-sister chat session.

*

The clock says nine thirty, but it seems
much later. I go into my room, trade

*
jeans for a soft flannel nightgown, lie on my bed in the dark, listening

*
to silence. Something happened tonight.

Something wonderful. Terrifying.

*

An awakening. This must be how Eve

(the original) felt after taking a bite

*
of forbidden fruit. Every nerve on fire, every fiber of flesh alive with desire.

*

If Andrew was here, beside me on my
not-exactly-a-feather bed, I would give

*
him my virginity, give it gladly, without a second thought. It belongs to him.

*

I close my eyes, return to the foothills, to the back of the Tundra, to a double
sleeping bag. I slip inside, into the warm
envelope of goose down. And Andrew.

*

His voice fills my head. I want to take from you what I've no right to....

*

Oh, Andrew. I want that too. Tonight.

Right now. My body is begging to learn

*
what your body wants to teach it. Need
blisters up, and with it, a way to teach

*
myself some of what I'm dying to know.

Abstinence programs encourage it.

*

Mama not only discourages it, but swears it put Mary Magdalene on the highway

*
to degradation. What Mama forgets is that Mary

Magdalene was the forgiveness poster child.

My Hand, Disguised

As Andrew's hand, moves lightly down my neck, over collarbone,

*
breastbone. Goose bumps rise in unusual places, and my body tingles

*
in a completely foreign way. Because of Andrew. But he's not here. I pretend

*
he is and let "his" hands explore the rounds of my breasts, move in tighter and tighter

*
orbits, and now fingers circle the hard
center nubs, raised like it's cold in here.

*

It's not. I'm burning up. Delirious with raw need. My hand wants to slide lower,

*
to a place I know nothing about except what they call it in books. And suddenly

*
it comes to me how completely inept

I'll be when Andrew and I finally

*
share that warm feather bed, with comfy
quilts and pillows we can fall into.

I Turn on the Light

Go to the computer, try to avoid
looking at the Calvary screen saver.

*

Jesus, hanging on the cross, staring down at his poor crying mother.

*

Mama downloaded that, no doubt
specifically to deter the kind of

*

Internet exploration I have in mind.

I just have to be very careful not to surf

*
to the wrong kind of website. A touch of the mouse, Golgotha dissolves

*
into the ether and voila, up pops

Windows. Double-click on Explorer.

*

Here it comes, ready to take me where

I need to go. But where is that, exactly?

*

Might as well get straight to the point.

I type in, "losing your virginity."

When I Hear

The door open, the sounds of return,

I hurry to turn off the computer

*
before Eve catches me, breathlessly
reading stories about other girls' first

*
times. Some wonderful, some awful.

Some taken by force, some given

*
away. Some total disappointments.

Some more than they expected.

*

What none of them had, at least I'm
pretty sure they didn't, was Andrew.

*

I rush into bed, pick up a book on the nightstand, pretend I'm reading.

*

Eve breezes into the room, sighing.

I love weddings. You should have come.

*

Her goofy grin says a lot, "So...

Zach asked you to dance or what?"

*

Mama wouldn't let me. But he asked.

She looks at me. How did you know?

*

"I'm a good guesser." And I'm guessing she never once thought about losing it.

A Poem by Seth Parnell Losing It

Some days I think

I'm losing my mind.

What seems so clear
most of the time
becomes a big question
mark. Am I really the way

I perceive myself, or is the person others see the truth of me? I wait
for
answers, but inside

I know I have to go out and find them. And
answers, like knowledge, are not always where we
look first for them.

Seth Worked My Farmer Butt Off

All day. Can't believe
my dad wants to give
me grief over going out.

What's a Saturday
night for, anyway?

*

I think you should stay
home tonight, he says.

Hard to get up Sunday
morning when you're
out late the night before.

*

We're at the dinner table, finishing off big ol' plates of venison sausage, biscuits, and mushroom gravy. A mediocre
rendition of Mom's recipe.

*

Dad seconds my opinion.

Not as good as your
mother's, I know. I don't
have her magic touch.

But I do the best I can.

He does. If he left it to me, we'd eat nothing but bologna and cheese, with the odd pizza thrown for a little variety.

*

I save my more gourmet
palate for when I go out with Loren. Not that Dad
would understand the draw
anyway. Caviar? Fish bait,

*
right? And pâté? Glorified
liverwurst. Still, in some
circles, venison sausage is probably considered
quite the taste sensation.

*

"Dinner's great, Dad. I bet
some of those hoity-toity
big-city chefs would kill for this recipe." Probably
not. But Dad's face lights.

*

Think so? Well, I wouldn't
want 'em to kill anyone, but I wouldn't mind
selling the secret formula for big bucks, you know?

Other Than Large Male Deer

Big bucks are something

I'm pretty sure Dad
gave up on having a long
time ago, if he ever really
cared about such a thing.

*

I glance toward a photo of Mom and Dad, taken on their twentieth anniversary, before we knew she was sick.

They look content. In love,

*
despite years of worry, debt, and loss. Through
years of struggling to make
ends meet, they had each
other. And that was plenty.

*

Dad wears his age less
gracefully now. Factory
work and farming, a one-
two punch. Add loneliness...

Guilt swells. But I have plans.

Plans

For an evening with Loren.

Plans that require getting
out of the house. Plans

I would rather not outline in detail. I hate lying to Dad,

*
but I can't see a way around it. "Tell you what. I'll do a little research. See if I can
find a five-star chef with a hankering for deer meat.

*

Meanwhile, I'm gonna run into town. Billy Clayborn's
band is playing at Bristow

Tavern. Thought I'd take a listen. Maybe I'll get lucky...."

*

I leave it hanging. Dad
has never asked, but surely he's wondered
if, at almost eighteen,

I've ever once gotten lucky.

*

The comment sinks in like a hog in mud--
slow but sure. Finally he says, Okay then. Just

don't stay out real late.

I Know

He wants me to go to Mass with him in the morning.

How can he go through the motions? I've heard
him talking to himself.

*

He blames God for taking

Mom early, taking her first. Yet come Sunday
morning, he's on his knees, genuflecting. Bowing down.

*

Maybe he's searching.

For Mom. For proof
that there's something beyond this soil. This
earth. Maybe it's a way

*
to keep on belonging.

Whatever it is, I sweeten the deal, mostly because

I plan to stay out pretty late.

Scratch that. Real late.

*

"How about if I go to Mass on my way to Bristow? That way, if I do get lucky, I'll
already be absolved."

Dad Laughs Softly

Shakes his head, but says,

Okay. I guess you're old
enough to make your
own decisions about stuff like religion and...

*

He can't bring himself to finish. But Catholic or not, I'm sure he wants his son to have "normal"

sexual desires. Wonder

*
if he suspects otherwise.

I'm relatively sure he knows

I have no plans to fulfill my

Mass obligation tonight or any night. I've pretty

*
much given up on the idea of salvation. Catholicism and homosexuality only
go hand in hand in the highest church circles.

Not Much Doubt

I'm damned anyway, so I swing the old Chevy toward the freeway, Louisville, and Loren. My heart pumps
wildly in anticipation.

*

I turn up the radio, change the station from country to alternative. My Chemical

Romance fades and the DJ
segues into a Muse rocker.

*

Before I met Loren, I'd never
heard of either group. Now the Dixie Chicks and Rascal

Flatts have taken a backseat to music more relevant to me.

*

Muse, in fact, was playing the first day I let Loren
show me what love can
be when two people give
themselves completely

*
to each other. It was our
fourth date. Up until then, we'd only talked. Kissed a little. Touched even less, and only with our clothes on.

Loren was patient about the rest. I'm not looking for an easy lay, he said.

If I wanted that, I'd
pick someone up in a bar.

*

He could without even
trying. He's beautiful.

I'm happy he doesn't do
gay bars. "So what are you looking for, then?"

*

A friend. A partner who

I can trust. Sex that is more than mutual
masturbation. Sex that is an outpouring of love.

Up Until

Our fourth time together, individual masturbation was the bulk of my sexual
experience. There were a few short chapters of "touch

*
here, I'll touch you there" in my very slim book of adolescent sexual escapades, but nothing more. I had no
idea what to do beyond that.

*

When I slipped into my
fantasies, I always had
sex with men. But that
day, overwhelmed as I was with desire for Loren,

*

I was scared. Nothing
had ever scared me so much, not even knowing
my mom was going to die.

Does every person feel

*
like that their first time?

Like what if they do it wrong? Or worse, what
if they do it poorly--so
horribly their partner laughs?

Loren Didn't Laugh

There proved to be nothing to laugh about. Unexpectedly, it all came very easily.

Like, yes, that was exactly
how it was meant to be--

*
me, taking control. Before we
started, I had no clear idea about our roles. Who's on top and who's not means
nothing when you aren't

*
completely positive
that you belong in either
position. But that night, one kiss and need struck with enough force to erase

*
all doubt, all hesitation.

I didn't wait for Loren to say it was okay, didn't ask
him to show me what to do.

Pure animal instinct led me
just where I wanted to go.

It wasn't tender. Wasn't
pretty. It was a raw, naked
joining, energized from years of dreaming about what it

*
could be like, or should be
like. I gave, he took, and when it was over, like Adam,

I shook at the forbidden
taste of new awareness.

*

Afterward, with his head
nested gently against my
chest, Loren whispered,

Are you sure you've
never done that before?

*

"Never." My voice floated up from a deep haze of contentment. "But I want to do it again." It was a long
few minutes before I could.

Since That Day

I've grown more and more confident in the part I'm supposed to play. Loren is older.

More experienced. Wiser,

*
in many ways. He is also
softer. Passive. Anxious to please me, let me have
my way. He has become
my favorite teacher ever.

*

I can barely make it through each week, pretending to be the same old Seth at home, when a short drive will
allow the new, improved Seth

*
to come out and play. I am torn, wanting to keep
my dad satisfied, when

I know Loren is waiting to satisfy me. One day soon

*

I'll have to decide which

Seth I can live without.

Until then, Improved Seth will
have to escape when he can.

And he's escaped tonight.

By the Time

I knock on Loren's door, treading a maelstrom of love and lust, I have
almost made up my mind to leave Dad and home in

*
my wake and move to

Louisville before

I graduate in June.

I know it's not long, but I'm sick of pretending.

*

Loren opens the door.

I don't wait for his greeting before pushing inside and yanking him tight up against me. "God, I've missed you!"

*

He stiffens, and I finally
take a good look at the worry sculpted in his face. I missed you, too. Come on. Sit down.

*

Something is definitely
wrong. I follow him to the couch, afraid to ask what it is. What
kind of bad news do I have
to hear now? He couldn't be
sick, could he? No. Too young.

Too healthy. Unless... No!

Stop it. Just ask. I search his eyes. "What's wrong?"

*

Nothing. He takes my hand.

I mean, nothing major.

Relax, Seth. It's just... He
reaches toward the coffee
table, picks up a letter.

*

I got this today. He cradles the paper protectively, like he doesn't want me to know
what's there. You know I go to school at Louisville Seminary...

*

Uh-huh. Louisville Presbyterian

Theological Seminary. Studying
marriage and family therapy.

I nod my head, but I'm
totally confused. "Yes. So?"

*

A requirement for my BA is three months of "field
study." They're sending
me to a congregation in

New York for the summer.

Something Thick

But tasteless rises up my
throat, into my mouth.

I break out in a panicky
sweat. "Congregation?

You mean, like a priest?"

*

He manages a thin smile.

More like a minister, but yes. That is my calling.

But you knew that.

He rests a hand on my knee.

*

"I don't know. I guess..."

Guess? What else would a seminarian have planned?

But what about me? Us?

"What does that mean for us?"

*

Time apart. You can't
come with me. I'll be
living at the church. He lets
that sink in. Don't worry
now I don't leave until May.

*

Don't worry? He hacked
me off at the knees.

But it's only temporary.

"You're coming back, right?"

The silence screams.

A Poem by Whitney Lang Scream

I whisper and you close
your eyes. I speak and you turn away. If I
scream, will you finally
hear
me beg you to hold me
close to you, promise
you'll never let go? Do
my tears
upset you? Can you
see them fall on fallow
ground--the soil of your head?

Fear is a better friend than you, who feels nothing, beneath the weight of my pain.

Whitney I Despise Shopping

But it's Paige's idea of heaven, so we're going to Capitola Mall.

Mom hangs out with Paige's mom and encourages our friendship.

*

She wouldn't, if she knew anything at all about Paige other than that her mom
plays a mean game of tennis. But she doesn't, so we're on our way to the mall.

*

Did you go out with Lucas last
night? Paige broke up with her last
boyfriend a few months ago and dates
vicariously through me. Voyeuristic ho!

*

I don't mind entertaining her--or
making her jealous, either. "Actually, we spent most of the day together.

We hung out down at the Boardwalk."

*

Uh-huh. And what else? Voyeuristic
enough to want details beyond 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 of 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
out 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. 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
our 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.

*

"God, do you know my mom?

But she thinks having a guy around makes her important."

*

Alex snorts. How old is she, anyway? Sounds like she still plays with Barbies.

*

"I doubt she ever played with

Barbies. Just a shitload of

Kens." And Sams. And Bills,

*

But, as much as I think Alex is pretty okay, I'm not about to share too much information

*
about Iris and how she brings in cash. Besides, maybe Iris would
stop tricking for the right guy.

*

Maybe if the right guy came along, we could live a nice, normal
life. However that's defined.

I Guess Nothing Says

Moms have to be good
people, though. I mean, look at Britney Spears. She

*
might not be a complete
whore, but she's not
exactly a shining example

*
of motherhood. And, just down the block, a woman in baggy sweats yanks her

*
little girl along, yelling,

Hurry the hell up, would
you? The kid's bawling.

*

And then there's Alex's
mom. Busted for robbing a liquor store with a gun.

*

All for another fix. A few
hours of finding a way to forget everything. Alex included.

*

I hope I'm never a mom. But
if I am, I'll make damn
sure my kids look up to me.

Speaking of Kids

I really ought to get home.

Gram has a hair appointment
this afternoon, so unless Iris

*
suddenly figured out motherhood,

Mary Ann is the only one there to take care of the little kids until I get

*
home. "Better go," I tell Alex.

"Time to play mom. How

'bout a smoke for the road?"

*

She grimaces. At least my winner

mother had the sense to get fixed.

You're gonna pay me back, right?

*

Pay her... oh, for the cigs.

"Yeah, sure. I can 'borrow'

some from Iri--uh, my mom."

*

Not sure why I don't want

Alex to know I call her Iris.

Yeah, it makes her seem like

*
less of a mom, but Alex knows
she's not much of a mom anyway.

Anyone with eyes could guess it.

I Walk Up the Street

Slowly, sucking nicotine into my lungs. Tastes like crap, and I know if I don't stop it will

*
kill me. But it satisfies some
deep call. And what the hell?

I don't want to live too damn long.

*

Suddenly an ambulance screams
by. Fear punches my gut. Without a doubt, I know exactly where

*
it's headed. I throw the lit Kool into the gutter, start to run, choking on yellowish smoke.

*
round the corner and sure as day, the square red truck is in front of Gram's, warning lights spinning.

*

Beside it, a police cruiser blocks
most of the street, and another is parked farther up the road, routing

*
traffic away. Shit, shit, shit! I run
faster, barely able to breathe.

Fricking cigarettes! I skid to a stop,
try to take in what I see. Two
paramedics kneel next to Sandy.

His little body lies in the street,

*
unmoving. "Is he okay?" I scream, trying to push closer, only to be
stopped by a young police officer.

*

Give them some room. The little
boy is breathing. That's all
we know. Are you the mother?

*

"No. I'm his sister. But I--I--"

What else is there to say right
now? "Wha-what happened?"

*

Hit and run. His radio scratches
some unintelligible information.

Hang on. I've got to take this call.

*

Your, uh, sister over there saw the whole thing. Why don't you
talk to her? But stay right here.

*

Like I would go somewhere?

Damn me. Why wasn't I here?

Must be what he's thinking too.

Mary Ann Stands Sobbing

On the sidewalk, eyes wide with fear. "What happened?"

I struggle to keep my voice gentle.

*

He--I--Sandy was kicking a ball on the lawn. Pepper and Honey started to fight, and...

*
when I tried to stop them, I guess the ball rolled into the street and Sandy ran after it and...

*

I guess a motorcycle came down the street and ran over him and just kept going and... and... I

*
was right there and I didn't mean--

Oh my God, I'm so sorry. Oh
my God, I'm so sorry...

*

I grab her shoulders, shake hard.

"Stop it. It's not your fault. Go
take care of the kids. They're scared."

*

They all stand huddled together on the doorstep. Mary Ann goes over to them as another ambulance
arrives. Two ambulances for one
person? Talk about overki--

Don't dare finish the thought.

*

Two new paramedics open the back
doors of their ambulance, remove a gurney and a backboard.

*

Together, the four prepare Sandy for a ride to the hospital. I can't
do anything but watch them

*
lift his still motionless form, tubes
running into his arm and an oxygen mask over his face, onto

*
the wheeled stretcher. As they load
him into the waiting ambulance,

Officer Lemoore comes over to me.

*

Your brother has internal injuries.

They'll need someone to give
permission for treatment. Where

*
are your parents? Can you call
them and tell them to come to Emergency right away?

I Tug My Eyes

Away from the ambulance, finally really look at the policeman in front of me.

*

He must be straight out of the academy, not too many
years older than me. He's

*
good-looking, in a straight sort of way, with topaz gold eyes.

Eyes brimming sympathy.

*

"I--I'll try to get hold of my
mom. But it will probably be
my grandmother. Is that okay?"

*

He hesitates. The information
sinks in. Your mother would

be best. She has custody, right?

*

I nod. "But she's not always, uh..." How can I say this?

"Easy to track down."

I see. Well, do the best you can.

If we need to, we can get a court
order, but that takes time. And...

*

He shakes his head, and his meaning is very clear: There
might not be a whole lot of time.

*

Guilt churns. I want to heave.

"Can't I go in the ambulance?

If he wakes up, he'll be scared."

*

He won't wake up. He's sedated.

Besides, you need to find your
mom. And someone needs to take

*
care of your brother and sisters.

He gestures toward the crew.

You're the oldest. It's up to you.

I Am the Oldest

It was up to me to make sure
something like this never
happened. But no, I needed to

*
hang out downtown, smoking with Alex. If Sandy doesn't
pull through, I'll make sure a hit

*
and run happens. To me. The cop
follows me to the front door.

I need to ask you a few questions,

*
he says to Mary Ann, moving her off to one side. Tell me again
what happened. Can you describe...

*

I push the other kids inside.

"I need to get hold of Gram.

Go watch TV. And don't fight."

*

I try to call Iris first. Her cell
goes straight to voice mail. Big
surprise. Gram left the beauty parlor

*
number next to the phone. No
surprise there, either. She's
good about communication.

Hands Shaking

I dial the number, ask to speak to Vivian Belcher. "Gram?"

I force my voice calm, hope

*
she'll respond in the same way.

"You have to go to Emergency
right away. There was an accident...."

*

I don't tell her everything. Don't
have to. Enough for her to know

Sandy's life hangs by a sliver.

*

I poke my head into the living
room. Porter lies on the sofa, absorbed in Hannah Montana.

*

Pepper and Honey sit on the floor, holding each other in silent
acceptance of one another, and

*
maybe of the small part they, too, played in the afternoon's
drama. I go to tell Officer Lemoore

*
that I got hold of Gram. He's finished with Mary Ann, whose face is white as smoke. "Let's go inside," I say.

A Poem by Cody Bennett Smoke

You stand in front of me, pretending to be solid, but you are nothing
more than smoke and mirrors.

You said you'd never
leave, that you would
care for us forever.

But now you claim you
cannot
stay, that you've been called away. When you
go, who will I turn to when it all crashes down?

Tell
me who. Then tell me
how I can believe in anyone again, if all your
promises have been lies.

Cody Nothing's Static

If I've learned anything at all in sixteen years, it's that
things change. What you feel
bad about one day can turn around like that. Same goes for the things you care about.

*

Three weeks ago, I kind of liked
spending time at home, goofing off online or picking at my guitar, or just watching TV. But now
everything feels strained at the Bennett house. Not

*
really like home at all. Everyone is strung tight. On edge.

Concerned about the future.

Something to do with Jack's
digestive system. Whatever it is, neither he nor Mom

*
wants to talk about it. Silence, thick with apprehension, hangs over the place like a shroud.

No more dinner table banter.

No more cheerful ribbing.

No more stupid jokes.

Three Weeks Ago

I didn't have a girlfriend.

Not being partnered up wasn't so damn bad, not
that I totally mind having the hottest girl in my crowd
acting like she can't get

*
enough of me. It's just kind of complicated because, as

I suspected, Alyssa is not
very happy about Ronnie
jumping my bones, jumping

'Lyssa's ship in the process.

*

The first time 'Lyssa saw us
together, I thought she'd shit on the spot. We were sitting
together (okay, like glued
together, front to front, Ronnie in my lap) on the grass at

*
school. 'Lyssa came hauling around the corner, headed
somewhere in a hurry. But
when she saw us, she braked and did a double take. Just

what do you think you're doing?

I'm not sure if she was talking to Ronnie or me, but Ronnie
jumped right down her throat.

What does it look like we're
doing, Alyssa? Having tea?

Then she laughed. Too hard.

*

'Lyssa puffed out her cheeks and her face turned red--the rotten
red of an overripe tomato. Her
hands clenched. Unclenched.

I thought we were dog meat. But
all she said was, That's fucked up.

*

Oil and water or not, Alyssa was the first girl I ever had
real feelings for. And now her feelings were shredded.

I felt like shit. Still do. But
not enough to tell Ronnie to

*
take a hike. She's freaking
beautiful, with black coffee
eyes, shiny dark hair, and legs
that go up to there. Slipping in between them is like making
love to warm milk and honey.

We Had Sex

The very first night we went
out together, although I didn't
think it was going to happen, what with her brother being a bouncer (okay, security guard) at Frozen75, something she

*
neglected to tell me until we
slithered up to the front of the line. Pissed off a bunch of people, for sure. But, just like any club, I guess, they
have an Invited Guest line.

*

And if your brother's a bouncer, you're invited. Especially if he's a bouncer the size of a VW

Beetle. Vince Carina plays
linebacker for the UNLV Rebels, a decent university team,

*
usually the second best in the state.

Never mind there are only two, and the one from that cowtown up north, Reno, generally comes
out on top. Not always, though, and when Vegas wins, it's party time.

Then Again

It's pretty much always party
time in Las Vegas. They don't
call it Sin City for nothing.

Ronnie and I partied down that first night for sure. And
we've been partying ever since.

*

See, Vince is not only okay with his sister and me being together.

He encourages it. Says she needs a guy in her life to keep her in line. Not that I'd ever try that with Ronnie. I'm a pacifist.

*

Vince is not. But he is a partier.

Drinks like no serious athlete
should, not that I think he's
especially serious. What I think
is, he likes knocking people down--
smashing them into the ground.

*

Glad he seems to like me. Booze
isn't his only bad habit, though.

Pot. Pills. Crack. Probably other
stuff, but that's all I've seen. And
that's plenty. I so do not want to know too much about Vince Carino.

Vince and I Have Shared

A bottle or two, a fistful of doobs, pipes and pipes and pipes. Tonight, we'll pass around all three at his regular Friday poker game. Not sure
how I reached the heart of his inner
circle so quickly. Suppose it could

*
be because I'm usually the one
supplying the weed. Anyway,

I know zip about poker, but it sounds like a hell of a lot more
fun than staying home, listening to Jack cough and Mom sigh.

*

Before I go, I guess I should
brush up on the rules a little.

Punch a few words into my
search engine and I come up with... whoa. Way too much
information. Let's start with

*
the basic what hand beats what?

One pair, two pair, three of a kind.

Easy enough to remember. Straight.

Flush. Full house. Four of a kind.

Straight flush. Royal flush. Together, do those equal a hetero queen's toilet?

Damn It, Jack

You've cursed me! You're the one who's supposed to be coming up with corny jokes.

I'm supposed to laugh at them, whether or not they're funny.

Now I need to check up on you.

*

He's in the living room, adrift on anonymous painkillers. The TV is blaring, and his eyes are aimed at it, but vacant. Dread shoots through my body on a wave of adrenaline.

"Hey, Jack. How's it going?"

*

He jumps a little. Huh? Oh.

Hey, Cody What's up, son?

His speech is slurred, just
barely coherent. Fucking
meds. Where's your mom?

Is she home from work yet?

*

Damn. For a minute, I really
thought he might be dead. But
why would I think that? He's
only got indigestion. Jeez, man.

Talk about jumpy. Freaking
crack is famous for that.

But I've got to admit I like the way it makes every nerve
come alive. Just like Ronnie
said it would. She's got a tidy
little habit. I have to be careful
not to let my own toking get

*
so out of hand. I swear I never
had a clue she had made friends with the pipe. Best thing about 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 Las-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.

*

Which gives me way too much
time to think about what's going on with Cory. I've been watching the anger build up inside him, and

I know it's because things feel
fragile in our once rock solid home.

*

I wasn't much older than he is the first time I sucked a few down.

But I drank those Coronas for fun.

I think Cory wanted to swallow his fear and it took a couple too many
brews to make that happen.

*

Ah, here we go. Magenta Springs.

Why does that remind me of blood?

It's a pretty nice place, at least from the outside. I park in a visitor's space behind a tall stucco wall. My beater
car is probably safe. What about me?

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.

I 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! 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 sister 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 a definite "Yes." But am I really, really?

Andrew answers the question for me, though I'm sure he has no idea that's what

*
he's doing. I can't wait to show you the ranch.

Someday it will be your home too. No hint

*
of hesitation. He's not only saying his home is mine, he's telling me his life is mine.

*

We turn down a long gravel driveway, the smell of spring sharp through the windows.

*

Cattle graze in one field, horses in another.

I know nothing about either animal except

*
what I've seen on TV. But that will change with time. Time with Andrew. One day,

*
not far in the future, we'll have plenty of time
together. Something powerful rises up inside me.

Home

Andrew parks the Tundra and we are home.

A bluetick pup lifts her head from the porch,

*
and when she sees Andrew, sprints to greet
him, tail stub wagging. I know how she feels.

*

Andrew bends to scratch her behind an ear.

Here now, little Sheila. Say hello to my Eden.

*

And now she is my puppy too. She licks
my hand, telling me so, and I cannot believe

*
that any of this is real. Where is my familiar
home? Where is Boise? I never want to return

*
to either. I slide my arms up around Andrew's
neck. "I love you. More than anything in

*
this world." And, for a swift-passing moment, the thought crosses my mind that I love him

*
more than anything in any world. Torn, always
torn, I throw out a silent entreaty to whatever

*
might exist beyond this world: "If love like this is wrong, Lord, go ahead and damn me."

I Feel Zero

Trepidation as Andrew takes my hand, encourages me through the front door.

*

I hold my breath, not sure why. I feel like a bride on her wedding night, despite

*
the nag inside my head who insists:

Not married. Not right. Not married...

*

"Shut up!" I will her, silently. Because, despite the lack of white gown and cake,

*
dripping frosting flowers, I know what will
happen soon means Andrew and I are forever

*
one. Sheila, puppy of honor, follows us
inside. She's probably not nearly as impressed

*
as I am. The decor is simple. Real. Wood.

Leather. Antiques, refinished, as if the people

*
who own them care about their history.

And, of course, they do. "Oh, Andrew.

*

It's all so perfect. I love it!" And I do.

"But not nearly as much as I love you."

*

We're kissing. We've never kissed exactly like this, because we've never felt this easy
with each other. No one here. No one to see. Only Andrew and me.

*

(Sheila doesn't care. Doesn't count, because she only wants what Andrew

*
and I do. Love.) We could talk, I guess.

But there's nothing, really, to say beyond

*

I love you, and we've already said that.

Andrew stops kissing me, and his eyes

*
ask what he's afraid to, and my eyes answer in the same way, so he takes my hand, leads

*
me down the hall to the bedroom that I would
have picked as his without analyzing. It has

*
a big feather bed, with massive quilts and pillows I have to fall into. With Andrew.

I Thought It Would Be

So easy. That loving him as much as I do would
conquer any hint of fear. But when he kisses

*
me, I'm shaking, and there are tears in my eyes. We don't have to, he whispers.

*

"I know. I want to. I'm just..." Unsure.

I'm completely unsure about my body.

*

What if he hates it? But now he touches
me. His hands are tentative, and I remember

*
that this is new for him, too. Is this

okay? he asks. Tell me what you like.

*

He kisses me as he picks me up, lays
me gently on the bed. A slow, mutual

*
exploration begins. As we learn together, the fear falls away, and sheer exhilaration--

*
like standing on the very edge of a cliff, with the wind in your face--replaces it.

*

He likes my body, and I love his, and there are only a few seconds of pain, before waves

*
of pleasure. Wave after swelling wave of everything right. Wave after wave of love.

A Poem by Seth Parnell Nothing's Right

Not when you know
someone you love
must leave too soon.

The thought of losing a friend stings.

The pain of losing a parent revisits you.

The insanity of losing someone who has become
your very heart slices
you right in two.

You can't
eat. Can't sleep. Can't
concentrate on simple
things. All you do is wonder how you'll
live without the necessary beat inside your chest.

The weight of dread
takes your breath away.

Seth Three Weeks

Until Loren leaves me.

One month until my life
falls into limbo. I never
knew limbo was meant to be experienced on earth.

*

I'm halfway there already.

I fake my way through every day, eating, drinking, staring off into the classroom
void, with finals fast approaching.

*

I don't care about school, about getting into some
highbrow university.

Don't care about the price of seed or serious lack of rain.

Will I care about any of that when he's gone?

Maybe it will be easier, not sneaking off to see
him every stinking chance

*

I get. Not trying with every ounce of what's inside me to make him
damn well remember
me every minute he's away.

I'd Be Lying

If I said things haven't changed between us already. It's like we've erected a tall wall of silence, and neither of us
will break down and be first

*
to try and scale the stupid
thing. We used to talk for hours, discuss issues, confess
latent secrets. We used to have fun. Used to go out.

*

Now when he opens the door,

I don't even say hello, just
push my way through, barely close it behind me before pulling him off down

*
the hall to the bedroom.

We have changed there, too. Especially me. I take
control from the start, don't ask, only demand.

*

I want to hurt him, like he will hurt me when he goes off to minister. I only
have one way to do that.

And I'm doing it now.

He Accepts

Every jolt of punishment without a word or even a sigh. When I can't give
any more, when the act is finished, I stand back,

*
waiting. Expecting anger.

Tears. Anything but his soft, Don't you know how

sorry I am that I have to go? I love you, Seth.

*

And the tears that finally
come are mine. "Jesus,

Loren. Why did I have to meet you at all? What do

I do when you leave?

*

"Go back to school, back to farming? Back to the old
me, who was never me at all?" I look at him, find his eyes, but no answers.

He comes over to me, slides his arms up around my neck, kisses the kind of kiss that makes
me want more. A lot more.

*

Just when I think I'm ready for more, he stops me.

Let's clean up and go out for a while. I'm starving.

How about some Italian?

*

As I start to say no, my
belly rumbles a good one.

I haven't eaten a darn thing since morning Cheerios.

"Sure, why the hell not?"

*

Probably a good idea to get out of this place before I start to cry again.

Sometimes, top crust or not, I feel like a total girl.

Despite That

And despite being an hour from home, I don't want to look like a girl when

Loren and I go out, not
even in this neighborhood,

*
where many of the people

I see could easily be identified as "gay." Not even knowing
most everyone here is gay.

Who knows who might be

*
cruising this place for a date or just for kicks?

Hetero couples wander the sidewalks. Looking for a threesome? Or just

*
to be somewhere safe, where
one half of the couple won't
ask the other, What the HELL are you looking at? Somewhere
safe? Is there such a place?

Loren Leads the Way

Weaving us in and out of the Bohemians
crowding the sidewalk.

It's nice to be out with him. But it also makes me

*
sad. We used to do this
more when we first got
together. Restaurants.

Theater. Long walks, talking about life in general.

*

Then it all became about sex. More sex. Better
sex. Unusual sex. Like
most couples, I guess.

Is that what I'm really

*
afraid of losing? Not
connection or affection, not the growth caused by absorbing love? If
so, what have I become?

I Can't Help

But think about that as

Pietro escorts us to our favorite table, one
we haven't asked for in too many weeks, a fact he

*
reminds us of. Why have

you stayed away so long, misters? I was beginning to think you
maybe got bad fish last time.

*

Loren always orders the fresh fish. He responds,

Now you know we've never
gotten so much as a single
bad mouthful here, Pietro.

*

The broad Italian smiles.

Well then, we have on the menu fresh sea bass
tonight.... He goes on to describe the specials in detail.

*

I'll stick with my usual
mushroom raviolis.

I lost Pietro after sea bass, wondering if, without Loren,

I'll ever eat here again.

I Guess I Might

If I ever happen to come to Louisville again, once

Loren's gone. The food is delicious. If the place was in a different part of

*
town, I might even bring

Dad along, see if he could
interest Pietro in his supersecret
recipe for venison
sausage, biscuits, and gravy.

*

The thought makes me smile, and that makes Loren smile
too. What? he says, the corners of his mouth still curled in that oh-so-familiar way.

*

It's hard to put him and Dad in the same place, even if
that place is inside my head.

"Nothing." Under the table,

Loren's hand finds my thigh.

*

So, he says, I thought
we might go out for a little while after we
finish dessert. There's a club not far from here....

His touch is doing strange
things to me. At least, they
feel awfully strange in a restaurant. "A club? You
mean...? You're not serious."

*

Completely serious. Tonight
they even let underage guys
inside, as long as they have a sponsor. I figured I could
sponsor you. How about it?

*

Right now, my body wants
him to do more than "sponsor"

me. But I have to admit, I'm a little curious. "I thought
you didn't like gay bars."

*

I don't. Not alone. But I'm
not alone tonight, am I?

He spies Pietro, bringing
our tiramisu, and his hand
falls away. Leaves me cold.

Cold Becomes Clammy

As Loren and I make our
way past Mr. ID Checker at the door to Fringe. He
looks at Loren's license, nods, barely glances at mine.

*

I shake my head. "What was that? He didn't give a damn about how old I am. And just
why do you have to show ID to prove you're underage?"

*

Loren grins. You're supposed to be eighteen to get in.

But you're right, he doesn't
really care. Kentucky is notoriously lax on

*
such things. It hasn't been all that long since they
raised the drinking age to twenty-one, and they
don't very often bust bars

*
for serving to minors.

Still, I wouldn't stand
right in front of the guy, sipping bourbon. He
might decide to get nasty.

Fringe

Is a lot different than I
thought it would be.

I expected sleazy, but it borders on upscale, all dark
wood and brass and suede.

*

It's not that late, as bar
scenes go, so the place
isn't too crowded. Still, maybe fifty or sixty guys are drinking, laughing,

*
and hitting on other guys, if they're not coupled up already. Loren and I find
cushy chairs in the back, and he goes to order drinks.

*

I use the opportunity to check out the river of faces.

Many are average. You
wouldn't look twice at them on the street. A few

*
you wouldn't want to look
at. Okay, they're not very
attractive, and when they
openly stare at me, it creeps me out completely.

There are also some beautiful
men here. Most of them are younger, yet a fair number
gravitate toward much older
guys. I don't think it's all about

*
love. I watch a decent-looking
middle-aged man, sandy
haired and very well dressed, head off to the men's room.

Within three minutes, his young

*
companion flirts obnoxiously.

Glad he didn't pick me to flirt
with. When the older guy
returns, he is not pleased.

He slams his fist on the table,

*
grabs his designer overcoat, and stomps toward the door, followed by the younger guy.

If I beat up a table, would

Loren follow me out the door?

Would He Decide to Stay

If I tried coercion instead of a simple plea? What if

I threatened his family?

Like I could, considering

I don't know who--or where--

*
they are. He's never shared
that information with me, nor told me where he went to school, or how (or if) he outed himself.

That's a lot not to tell me.

*

He returns now with two
sugar-rimmed glasses, filled with amber liquid and some sort of green
leaves. Mint juleps, he says.

*

Froufrou drinks? I take a big
swallow, fight to not choke.

"H-holy crap. What's in these things?" Whatever it is burns going down.

*

He can't help but laugh.

Bourbon. A little sugar
syrup, some mint leaves, but other than that, bourbon. Sip, don't gulp.

I'm Doing a Fair Job

Of sipping, not gulping, when one of the most
incredible-looking men I've ever seen
shakes his butt by. My mouth
must have dropped open,

*
because Loren turns to see
what I'm staring at. My, my

He is a fine work of art, isn't
he? We watch the guy cozy up to a what might be less

*
than affectionately termed

"old faggot." Within five
seconds, the ancient dude is buying the fine work of art a drink. "What's up with that?"

*

Oh hon, haven't you ever
heard the term "sugar
daddy"? Lots of young
guys go looking for easy
drinks, easy meals, maybe

*
even a place to stay. When
you look like him--he
points toward Pretty Boy, then he turns and his eyes
scan my face--or you,
it isn't hard at all to find
someone who'll take
care of you. Sometimes
they'll set you up in your
own place, or move you

*
into theirs. Sometimes
you live like a movie
star, even. The price
tag is regular sex.

He waits for my reaction.

*

"Regular sex, with someone like that?" I take a deep
drink of minty bourbon, actually enjoy the burn.

"I could never do that!"

*

Loren shakes his head.

Never say never, dear.

You might be surprised at what you can do, should
circumstances dictate.

A Poem by Whitney Lang Circumstances

Create our conception, how we live, what kind of person we manage to grow
into. Another day, a different hour, take a left and not a right, you'd wind up a whole
different being. Knowing
if that would be better
requires a realm of experience
only decades can build.

Roses? Lilies? Moonlight?

Sunlight?

Which do I prefer? Ask
me again in thirty or forty years.

Whitney The Best Thing

About my mom being such a bitch is not worrying about trying to make her proud of me. Smoke it

*
up, drink it up, and if

I happen to get caught, well, wouldn't it just slay her if the news got around?

*

Kyra, too. Oh, she'd pretend
that her concern was all about me, rather than her precious reputation,

*
but that would be total
toad crap. "Total toad
crap." TIC. Hey, I like that. TTC, my new spew.

Kyra's Home

From Vassar. Normal
college geeks go to places like Florida or Mexico for spring break. Not Kyra.

*

She comes home to spend
time with Mom, who actually
rescheduled a tennis game to take her into the city.

*

I sooooo need some new
clothes, Kyra fished.

The styles back east are sooooo not me, you know?

*

Like jeans aren't the same beyond the Mississippi.

Like you can't find angora in Manhattan! TTC. for sure.

*

Mom swallowed the bait.

We'll run up to Sacramento

Street. There's a new boutique

I've been dying to check out.

*

Then maybe Daddy can take
time to have lunch with us. New

York seafood can't possibly
compare to San Francisco's.

sounds fun, said Kyra. Give

Daddy a call and see if he can
make it. I'll go take a shower.

Unless you want it first....

*

Directed at me. "No, no.

Go ahead. I'm not planning on going anywhere special
today, just hanging out here."

*

Mom just shook her head, but

Kyra sputtered, You're not
coming? But you have to! It will
be so much more fun with you.

*

Like they really wanted me to come. Talk about TTC!

"No, you guys go. I don't feel so great today, anyway."

*

Kyra might have argued
more, but Mom decided,

You should stay home then.

Last thing I need is a bug.

Last Thing

Any of us needs is Mom with a bug. She's bitchy
enough totally healthy.

Weird, but I can't remember

*
the last time she was sick.

Too freaking mean, I guess.

She probably scares the bugs
away. Anyway, Kyra and

*
she continued their mutual
butt-kiss fest all the way out the door. I have to admit

I half wanted to change

*
my mind and go with them.

If I believed they really
wanted my company, I just
might have. Instead, knowing

*

I'll have the place to myself
most of the day, I called Lucas as soon as the door slammed behind Butt Kissers One and Two.

After the Last Fiasco

Lucas was just a bit hesitant.

Are you sure? Man, last time was a way close call. I definitely
don't need that kind of trouble.

*

What a wuss! But that's not
what I said. What I said was,

"They won't be home until three at the absolute earliest.

*

Come over right now. Please?"

Then I made my voice all
breathy, hoping that was sexy.

"I really, really need to see you."

*

Need to see him, to melt like candle
wax against his heat. Need his heat.

Any heat. Need to feel warmed, wanted. For a change.

*

But I didn't say any of that, either. No use letting him
know I'm needy. Anyway, it worked.

He should be here any minute.

I Did Shower

Even borrowed some of Kyra's
way expensive ginger-scented
shampoo and lotion. No wonder she always smells so good!

*

The last time I went to the mall with Paige, one of the few
investments I made was in a sapphire blue satin nightshirt

*
with matching bikini panties.

Good thing my cute stalker,

Bryn, didn't see me buy
this outfit. He would have

*
followed me home for sure.

I still have his card in my purse.

Not sure what for. Anyway, all dressed down in sapphire

*
satin, damp hair, and smooth
skin perfumed with ginger,

I feel sexier than I ever have
before. Could I really be sexy?

Lucas Makes Me Wait

Almost two hours. It's closing in on noon by the time he decides to grace me with his presence.

I've chewed three fingernails

*
clear down to the quick, yanked several strands of hair
out of my head. Not great
ways to deal with nerves,

*
and I know it when I'm doing
them, but can't seem to stop
myself, especially just sitting in limbo next to the window.

*

By the time his Eclipse streaks into view, I'm totally in need of fake nails and my scalp
pulses pain. And I'm pissed.

*

But when I open the door, see Lucas standing there, in all his tanned hotness, anger
morphs back into neediness.

*

He checks me out, gives a low
whistle. You should dress like that more often. Nylons and heels, you'd be just about perfect.

The pout that pops up is not
manufactured. "What do you
mean, 'just about'? Not the right
thing to say to someone you

*
kept waiting for two hours."

I let him in anyway, and he rewards me with one of his luscious kisses. Def perfect.

*

Too soon, he pulls away.

Sorry I'm late. But I wanted to pick up a little something to make the afternoon interesting.

*

He reaches into his jacket
pocket, pulls out a small metal
can. Inside is a miniature baggie, a razor blade, and a short length

*
of drinking straw. All we need is something to chop this up on.

Something glass, like a mirror or maybe a picture.

*

I'm not sure what's in the bag, let alone if I want to try it.

So why do I jump to my feet to go find something glass?

What's in the Baggie

Is a half-dollar-sized chunk of something yellowish white.

It sparkles in the sunlight.

Lucas slices off a thin section

*
and tells me, Cocaine, clean as you can find anywhere.

My brother knows the importer.

Wait until you try it.

*

I don't want to admit the idea
scares me. Weed is one thing.

Cocaine is another. I've seen it waste people. Seen it waste

*
entire families, in fact, when
one parent or the other (or both)

invests everything they have into staying buzzed on coke.

*

Lucas keeps chopping, but my
silence alerts him. You've done
coke before, right? No? Oh, baby, you're gonna love it.

*

You're totally gonna fly.

Don't worry. He grins like a leprechaun. You're safe
flying with me. Mostly anyway.

I Watch Lucas

Suck two long, thin, sparkly
yellowish lines up his nose.

Then he hands the picture to me.

Not too hard or you'll sneeze.

*

I inhale gently, one line up the right nostril, the other up the left. Immediately, both sides of my nose go

*
cold and numb. Now, just like that, my heart is racing and the hairs on my arms rise, sending little chills throughout

*
my entire body. OMG. No
wonder people like this drug.

I look at Lucas, who's watching
me carefully. "More, please."

*

He laughs. Careful now.

A little of this goes a long
way. But he indulges me, and himself, with two more.

*

Every nerve jumps to attention.

I can't feel my mouth or nose, but other parts of my body are begging to be touched.

Lucas indulges them, too, with his hands and his mouth.

I love how he kisses, love how his fingers move over my body.

*

Everything is hard. Everything is warm. No, cold. No, warm.

I've never felt so alive. Never
felt so in love. I glance at the clock.

*

Not even one. We have plenty of time. But I don't want to do it here on the couch. "Let's
go to my bedroom, okay?"

I Don't Have to Ask Twice

Lucas scoops me up into his toned arms, carries me down the hall, like a groom
clutching his bride. The thought

*
makes me blush, and I have
no clue why. I rest my head against his chest for the entire
ten-second journey. Then

*
he lays me gently on the bed, unbuttons my shirt, peels
back the blue satin, stares at what he has uncovered.

*

I am totally exposed, totally
flying high, and yet I do, in fact, feel safe with Lucas, even as he lowers himself

*
over me. Every ounce of me
wants what he's about to do, and yet for just an instant, regret stings and I say, "Wait."

*

He pauses. What? You

don't want me to stop, do you? Because I don't
think I can. I need you. See?

He lowers my hand to feel his need, and my heart screams,

"Hurry!" Still, my brain whispers,

"You can never take this back."

*

I look up into Lucas's eyes.

"I don't want you to stop.

But please don't go too fast.

I'm afraid..." Afraid it will

*
hurt. Afraid it will change me.

Afraid... afraid... the word
thumps in time with my heartbeat, even as Lucas soothes, I'll go easy.

*

And he does. And I'm ready.

And it does feel good, despite the pain, because it also hurts.

And then, it's just over.

Still Buzzed

And yet also drained, we lie
together for a while. I don't
know if it was good for Lucas or not. I want to ask, but I don't

*
want to ask because if I do and he says no, it will leave a scar.

I don't even know if it was good for me, because I'm not sure

*
what "good sex" is. Your first time
probably isn't so good, right?

Because I didn't exactly feel
fireworks. Maybe I was too

*
numb. Doesn't matter. What's
done is done, and I love Lucas
even more now because he is my first. My ear rests against

*
his chest. I listen to the promise of his heart, and suddenly
my mouth is moving and what
spills from it is, "I love you."

I Wait for Him

To tell me he loves me, too.

After several seconds, I notice

I've been holding my breath.

I grab air as he rolls out of bed.

*

It's getting late. Don't want to get busted. He stands, looks
down, at himself and the bed.

But not at me. Why won't he

*
look at me? We'd better clean
up. And you might want to wash your sheets. You're
not on your period, are you?

*

"No, not for..." Now I notice
how the front of him is splashed
red, and the crimson stain
flowering on my bed. My face

*
burns. "It's not my period."

How could he not know that the first time can make a girl bleed?

Or did he maybe not believe...?

A Poem by Ginger Cordell Bleed

Open a vein, feel the rush, exodus, delicious.

Don't be afraid, there's no pain in the letting, delectable.

Watch the red
flow, let it go, drip, make it slow, drip.

If you've done it right, you won't
wake from the night's
indescribably peaceful
dream.

Ginger You Would Think

The possibility of losing a child would be a wake-up call.

Not for Iris. No way.

*

Sandy is still in a coma, wandering around somewhere
deep inside his brain.

*

The doctors don't know
if he's going to make it.

They say we should pray.

*

Gram's done a whole lot of praying. She's the one who sits by his side, day

*
after day. Iris says it's too
hard to see her little boy
that way. She's only been

*
to the hospital two or three
times. Makes Gram mad.

Makes me mad too. Iris

*
doesn't give two squirts who she pisses off. All she cares about is herself.

It's Been a Month

A month of worry, of guilt, of my having to play the role of "Mom" even more, because

*

Gram isn't there to help
me do it. A month of

Mary Ann, withdrawing

*
into a silent, blank-eyed
world where accidents
don't happen, especially

*
not on her watch. I try to help, but she isn't ready to quit blaming herself.

*

A month of mounting bills--
doctor bills, ambulance bills, hospital bills--that Gram

*
is determined somehow to pay. Where there's a will, there has to be a way.

*

A month of Iris diving
deeper and deeper into bottomless bottles of numb.

She Has a New Boyfriend

A big-boned truck-driving
son of a bitch, with eyes like a crow's--black, dead.

*

I've seen eyes like those
before, on another of

Iris's badass lays, one

*

I can't forget. I do my best
never to think of him, what he did. Try never to remember

*
that place in my childhood, but sometimes it pops into view despite all my efforts

*
to keep it hidden. I was almost
ten, and we lived in Pahrump, the butthole of Nevada. Iris

*
worked at a cathouse, making
money her usual way, only without walking the streets.

*

Walt was a miner, and though he was a regular paying
customer at Mimi's, he had
an appetite for younger
meat. Iris was younger then
too, but even at twenty-six,

*
she was way too old for Walt.

Still, he paid for her, then he followed her home. She let

*
him move in for a while.

I remember his sour sweat, coming in after working backhoe.

*

I remember how he touched

Iris, and how she didn't care
that her kids could see.

*

I remember his Marlboro breath
falling all down around me when he said, Let me show you something.

On Another Day

It wouldn't have happened, couldn't have happened.

Too many witnesses around.

*

But for some odd reason, that particular afternoon,

Iris had taken the other kids

*
to play in the park. You stay and start dinner, she said.

We won't be gone very long.

*

I didn't mind. I was too old for swings, and I've always
liked spending time by myself.

*

But it wasn't more than ten
minutes before Walt came through the door. He didn't

*
ask where Iris was, or why the house was so quiet.

He didn't say one word.

*

I opened a can of refried
beans, spooned them into a pot. I had no real reason
to be afraid. So why did
my hands shake? I kept my back to him but could feel his eyes,

*
carving into me. Finally, he started toward the living
room. Bring me a beer, sweets.

*

I dug one from the fridge.

But he wasn't on the couch, as expected. Back here, he called

*
from Iris's room. He was already
out of his jeans. I didn't know
much then, but I knew there was

*
something very wrong about that. Still, I took him the beer, holding my breath against his

*
stench. He grabbed my hand, jerked me hard against him.

Let me show you something.

*

I tried to run, but he was faster.

Tried to fight. He was stronger.

Tried to scream. He choked my cries.

When He Finished

(Thank God it didn't take long), he rolled off me with a grunt.

Reached for his beer. Slammed it.

*

Ripped and pried, swallowed up by the shame of what that
meant, I crawled into the bathroom

*
to scrub away the evidence.

Not that I'd dare tell anyone.

Not when he followed me,

*
stood in the doorway, watching
me, finally said,

Tell a soul,

I'll do your sister too. He knew

*
that was a bigger threat than saying he'd hurt Iris or some
other TV kind of shit. Because

*

I knew he would come back for Mary Ann. She was only
eight. If he did this to her, she'd

*
die for sure. It had almost
killed me. I'll probably
always link sex with pain.

All That Comes Back

Like a sucker punch, mirrored
now in Harry's corpse-cold
eyes, moving all over my body--

*
climbing up, shimmying back
down. I hate them. Hate him, because he's no different from Walt.

*

Iris doesn't notice, or maybe
doesn't mind. She's always
saying, You be nice to Harry.

*

We want to keep him happy.

She's bold about bringing

Harry around, bold because

*

Gram is mostly at the hospital.

Her path has only crossed

Harry's a couple of times,

*
and when that happens, their dislike for each other hangs
thick in the air like smog.

*

Iris pretends that it doesn't.

Iris is good at pretending.

She breathes make-believe.

Not Sure

If Harry is tuned in to how Iris earns her booze and pill money. Don't think

*
so, though. She has always
tried to keep pleasure and business in two different boxes.

*

Ugh. Bad double meaning
there. A sick sort of laugh
escapes and Iris, who is at

*
this very moment sitting across the room from me, asks, What's so funny?

*

Which makes me bust up even more. All I can do is snort, "Nuh... nothing."

*

Harry, who is sitting next to Iris, slurping a Keystone, butts in. Then why the hell

are you laughing? Those crow
eyes take even bolder liberties with my body, and there's

*
something in his voice--
something far beyond mean.

Something approaching

*
sadistic. People don't just up and laugh for no damn
reason, do they little girl?

*

Anger firecrackers. I want to yell. Instead I keep my
voice very low. "I don't know

*
who in the fuck you think
you are, but you're nothing to me. I don't answer to you."

*

Fists knotting, Harry jumps to his feet. Iris reacts by jumping to hers. W-wait,

*
baby. No need to get mad.

The words puff from her mouth. She's just a dumb kid.

A Nuclear Bomb

Goes off inside my skull-- a white-hot mushroom
cloud of rage. "Yeah, well,

*
least I'm not a whore! Wait.

'Whore' is too good a word for you and what you do.

*

'Hooker' works much better."

I hesitate just long enough to gain some satisfaction from

*
the look on Iris's face. Then

I escape out the front door before the shit smacks the fan.

*

It's May, and Mojave heat
practically knocks me off my feet, but I run. Run from

*

Iris, from her crow. He'd pick
my bones clean, and I know it.

Run from Gram's house, not

*
home without her in it. Run from shadow into overbearing
sunlight. Run toward town.

I wish I could keep running.

Farther. Forever. Wish
nothing could turn me back.

*

I run all the way to Alex's house.

By the time I get there, sweat
streams from every pore, washing

*
away hurt and anger. Luckily, when I pound on the door, it is Alex who answers. Hey.

*

She steps back, and I fall into cool darkness. It's like diving
deep. What happened? she asks.

*

We are alone in the place, and that is good, because for some stupid reason, I tell

*
her the entire story, including the stuff about Walt. Words
keep spilling out of my mouth

*
as if a faucet broke. When I
finally stop, I'm crying.

And Alex is holding me.

No One Has Ever

Held me like this before, strong but kind. Gentle, even. Fact is, I'm surprised

*

I'm letting her hold me.

My MO is to withdraw.

But this feels good, and that

*
makes me cry harder. What
have I missed? "I'm sorry.

You didn't need to hear all that."

*

Alex brushes the hair from my
forehead, mindless of sweat.

It's okay. I understand. Men

*
are dogs for the most part.

Scratch that. Dogs are kind of cute, and they only come on

*
strong when the bitch is in heat. She goes quiet, lets me finish feeling sorry

*
for myself. Finally I go quiet
too. I look up, wanting to thank her. She smiles. Kisses me.

It's a Soft Kiss

On the mouth, sensual, and it's exactly the way

I imagined it might be.

*

Her lips are smoothed by a sheen of raspberry
ice, and they make no demands

*
beyond this sweet three
seconds of connection.

Iris's men dissolve, salt

*
in rainwater. There is no
more, no "let's have sex,"

which leaves me both content

*
and confused. I think you

need a drink, she says.

As she goes into the kitchen,

*
a new fantasy springs to life. "Have you ever
thought about running

*
away?" I call after her.

She returns with a couple of

Cokes, spiked heavily
with what I think is rum.

All the time. No one would
even miss me. What about you?

*

"I'd go right now, but who would take care of the kids?

And anyway, where would I go?"

*

We sip our drinks in silence.

The afternoon slips by, hazy with alcohol. Finally I glance

*
at the clock. Almost six. I don't
want to go, but someone has to make dinner. When I get home,

*

Iris is on the phone. She turns, smiling. Sandy will be okay.

They'll release him in a few days.

A Poem by Cody Bennett Release

I'm not the religious
type. Mom goes to church but I mostly ignore it.

Not sure
if there is a God or why
some all-powerful being would give half a damn about the likes of me. Lately, though, I've tossed out a prayer or two, thrown
them like fastballs at heaven, if there is such a thing.

I'm afraid they only
bounced back to

Earth, or spun out into space, unheard. Either way, guess I'll give it another
try. Why not? What the hell
have I got to lose?

Cody Falling Apart

That's how everything feels, like it's dissolving one molecule at a time. I'm scared. Damn it,

I hate to admit it, but my gut churns
night and day. I can barely eat.

Only booze goes down and stays.

*

Mom is at church right now.

Church, of all places! We haven't been regular churchgoers since we left Wichita. Now she's not only
religious. Apparently she's Catholic, and asking for intervention. Praying

*
for a miracle. Some sort of Hail Mary
sign that Jack will make it home
again, happy, healthy, and maybe a little wiser about indigestion and what that can mean. That persistent
bellyache? Turned out Tums

*
weren't going to fix it. No wonder

I can't eat. Too much information about what causes stomach cancer and what happens when it metastasizes, infiltrating blood and cells to infect the esophagus, pancreas, and who
knows what else. It's just about enough to make me choose a liquid
diet. Water. Bottled. (Tap water can
be carcinogenic.) V8 (low sodium--
salt is a factor in stomach cancer) for your veggies. A little bouillon

*

(takes care of the protein requirement, right?) watered down with vodka.

And for dessert, stiff megashots of gin. Hey, someone besides Cory
should drink it. He's developed a tidy habit and isn't real good

*
at hiding it. But Mom and Jack
can't turn him around. They barely
notice him. Or me. More important
shit on their minds. Like praying for miracles. Like staying alive
just one more fucking day.

So Cory Drinks

Way too much. Pickling his brain, and much too young to end up relish.

But how can I say anything when I
drink? And more. I smoke. Snort.

Pop pills. Anything to keep from thinking about death, come knocking.

*

When Cory and I finish off Jack's
dwindling booze stash, scoring more
won't be a problem. Vinnie will happily
buy. At least as long as I keep bringing
bud to the Friday night games.

I've become a regular, and I've learned

*
to play poker, not that I always
win. Not even. I've dropped a dime or two. But the rush that comes
when I do win is worth every penny down the drain. Gambling is like snorting cocaine. Up. Down. Up.

*

And, despite knowing you have to crash sometime, all you can think about when you're doing it is the high.

I've dropped two hun in a single night.

That sucked. But once I won almost six.

Oh, yeah! Put me clear through the roof.

A New Rush

I've just tapped into is online
gaming. Roulette. Blackjack.

Poker. More. I've learned how to play games I never even knew
existed. It's fun. Really fun. In
fact, it's a total, amazing rush,

*
and you don't even have to leave
home to get it. All you need is a computer and a way to deposit
some cash in your own Internet
casino account. And hey, I've got a bank card. Not a whole lot in my

*
personal checking, but that's about to change. All I need is one big win.

And what's really insane is the casino
gives you a cash bonus to sign up. I put in five hundred; they threw in three.

I'm ahead already. Well, was ahead.

*

I've gone through the bonus and a little
more. But that's the nature of gambling.

Win some. Lose some. Just have to stay on top of things. Walk if it isn't
your night. Tonight I'm almost even.

All I need is one hand, the right hand....

Shit!

Okay, that wasn't the right hand.

At least I only had twenty riding.

Maybe I should switch to roulette.

My brain isn't working so well right
now. Not sharp enough for poker.

Roll the ball, watch it go round

*
and round. Come on, twenty-seven!

Just as the traitorous ball drops into thirty-four, my cell phone rings.

My face flushes hot, like a little kid
caught dipping his fingers in the frosting.

But it's just Ronnie. Hey. What's up?

*

"Uh... not much. What's up with you?" She wants me to come get her, and as she waits for my response,

I can picture her face, all pouty with impatience. Pretty face. Better
body, all sleek and tan and...

*

Ah, what the hell? I'm not making
much progress here tonight. "Sure, babe. Give me a few." Why not?

Would be good to get out of the house, and boning Ronnie is the one thing that
can take my mind off everything else.

First Things First

Just one more spin of the ball.

Come on, twenty-seven, come on, twenty-seven. Sixteen? Shit!

Stop. Ronnie's waiting, something
she's not real damn good at.

Besides, Lady Luck doesn't seem

*
to have joined me tonight. Bitch.

One more. Ten on twenty-seven.

Odds are better if you play the same
number. Yeah, I know I could play
columns or colors, but what's the fun of winning even money or two to one

*
when thirty-five to one puts you over the top? Come on... Twenty-seven!

Fuck yeah! There it is! Maybe you
just gotta call ol' Lady Luck names.

Three-fifty in the bank and I'm going after the finest little piece of pie

*
in Vegas. In a minute. I'm playing on casino bucks now, and I'm on a roll. Think I'll try a hand or two of blackjack. Another swallow of gin to keep the courage flowing.

Oh yeah, it's definitely this boy's night.

Damn Lucky Dealer

So much for three of the three-fifty

I won earlier. Blackjack
isn't my game tonight, that's for sure. I need to learn the finer points, like when to double down. Ah, hell.

The phone again. What time is it?

*

Almost ten? Where did the last
two hours go, and what does this
do to my odds of getting laid?

Ronnie's pissed, I'm guessing.

She is. I thought you were coming

Over. I've got school tomorrow.

*

Quick! Make something up. "Sorry.

I... uh... Cory came in all messed
up. I had to help Mom get him to bed."

I'll probably burn for lies like that, but I think it worked, so I sign off, delete all incriminating history.

*

The extra-long pause means she thinks

I might be bullshitting her. But finally she gives in. What else can she do?

She so wants me! Come over anyway.

My parents are in bed. I'll sneak
you in through the window

Her House

Is fairly close to mine. Good
thing. Hanging out in my room,

I didn't notice how buzzed I was.

I'm definitely feeling it now, though. It's hard to drive a straight
line. Thank God I can take side

*
streets. If I actually had to talk to a cop, he'd haul my ass in, no
doubt. Gonna be hard enough trying to say a few coherent words to

Ronnie. Even this late at night, it's really warm--probably pushing

*
eighty. I drive with the windows
down, letting air movement fight
brain blur. Every street in Vegas is well lit, and everywhere you
look at night, bursts of neon
color the obnoxious skyline.

*

I cruise slowly, tripping on a tall
turquoise tower, how it seems to weave in and out of the breeze-ruffled
palm trees lining the street.

Suddenly, something--someone--
dashes into the road right in front
of me. I punch the brakes, honk the horn, barely manage to miss the dimwad, who skids to a halt on the far side of the street.

Then he turns back toward my car. What? Who? Cory!

*

He rips around to the passenger
door, jerks it open, jumps inside.

Go! I shake my head, try to make
some sense of what just went down.

Did I almost run over my brother?

Fucking Hurry up, okay?

The Tone of His Voice

Is enough to make me comply.

I punch the gas pedal, no tangible
clue why, almost overwhelmed by the smell of cheap booze clinging to my little brother. "What the hell is going on, Cory?" As the question

*
sputters from my mouth, I get a sickly feeling I don't want to hear the answer. But hey, he's not exactly
dying to give me an answer. Nothing.

Not a goddamn thing. So why are his hands shaking? And how

*
is it obvious, in the murky half-light inside the car, that his face is approximately the color of dirty cotton?

Whatever. He'll tell me when he feels like it--or maybe he won't. I'm not the type to pry. As I turn the corner,

*

I hear his small, tortured exhale as he scrunches down in the seat. A patrol
car comes cruising up the block toward us, spotlight sweeping sidewalks, yards. Looking for Cory, no doubt.

What has the dumb shit done?

I Try Not to Think

About that as I fight a sudden
explosion of fear. I'm driving in a straight line, under the limit, at least the speed limit. As for blood
alcohol, there is a very good
possibility that I'm well over

*
the .08. And should this cop decide to pull me over, just in case he really ought to take a look (and hey
apparently he should!), exactly
what charges might I have to face, for no more reason than having

*
a certain passenger in my car?

Whatever Cory has done, I want to wring the little prick's neck.

"What the hell did you do, Cory?"

My hands are slick with sweat against the sticky steering wheel.

*

I keep glancing in my rearview
mirror, sure I'm minutes away from a trip to juvie. But the cop
keeps driving up the block, likely
positive in his little pea brain that
whoever he's looking for is on foot.

Or maybe he's just too lazy to worry about possibilities

(and viable possibilities at that), driving by in the other direction.

Speaking of driving by, I just
motored on past Ronnie's.

*

The house was dark, except for a light in a single window.

A bedroom window, where

I have no doubt a gorgeous, well-built girl sits waiting to do me, after she's finished

*
bitching me out completely.

Major butt kissing in order, if I happen to actually make it home without becoming a suspect in a... what? What the fuck?

Suddenly my head is clear.

*

I turn another corner. Drive away from home. Stay under the limit.

Find a deserted street, pull right up against the sidewalk. "If you don't
tell me exactly what's going on, I'll
knock your bony ass to the curb."

His Answer

Is a couple minutes coming, like he's considering making up a lie.

Finally his shoulders sag. It will
be the truth. I kinda broke into a house. They had an alarm.

He doesn't look at me, just stares

*
out the window, into the night, the same night I'm staring into.

"What do you mean, 'kinda'?

You can't 'kinda' break into a house. You did or you didn't."

Jeez, I sound just like Jack, at

*
least just like Jack before...

Now I get to play dad to Cory, not that it's a role I want, or do very well. Still, I can't just
sit here and say okay to burglary.

Anyway, "Kinda or not... why?"

*

Zero hesitation. Why the fuck

not? Jesus, Cody, do you live on a different planet? We need the stinking money! Jack's never
going back to work. You know that.

Don't you hear Mom jabbering
about too many bills, not enough
insurance and such? What do you
think's gonna happen to her when he kicks the freaking bucket?

What's gonna happen to... us?

He stutters. Breaks. Tries to buck

*
up. But suddenly, like fragile glass
stressed beyond redemption, he simply shatters. Fuck it!

Cory's giant sobs fill the front
seat with booze-infused exhales.

He probably wants to cry like a man--

*
alone within his pain. This may
be the wrong thing to do. But as

I watch him, my own fear hiccups to the surface. I pull my tough, break-and-enter little brother into my arms, and we cry together.

Headlines Turn the Corner

Flooding us with halogen blue
light. Cop? No, but it comes to me that we probably look like gay dudes making out or something.

Cory must think so too, because he jerks like he's been shocked.

*

Sorry. That was totally lame.

Let's go before we get arrested.

He withdraws across the seat, gaze
again drawn to the neon-spiked
night. Too bad Jack isn't here, ready with some witty remark

*
to make everything okay. Too
bad Jack isn't here, period. "No
worries. But don't ever do anything like that again. Shit, Cory, if you
get busted, you'll just make things
worse. We'll be okay. I promise."

*

I start toward home, chewing on how I could have promised such an unlikely thing. Now I've got to find a way to keep my word.

One way comes to mind. All

I need is a little investment capital.

A Poem by Eden Streit Need

Need is a curious thing.

Until you plant the seed, nurture it, encourage its
awakening, you're not even sure
it's there. But once it germinates, nudges up, breaking ground, you can no longer deny it has always lain dormant inside you. And now, blossoming with every kiss, every
touch of his hand, this
new kind of need is growing, sprouting shoots, tendrils of desire
threading you, consuming you.

Six Months

Since Andrew and I first started
seeing each other. Almost a month since

*
we took our relationship all the way, clear over the top, dropping me eye-deep

*
into a bottomless pit of obsession.

That's pretty much how it feels.

*

Like I'm in so deep I'll never climb out, not that I want to. So okay. I'm obsessed.

*

Whether or not God will forgive me remains to be seen. But I have absolutely no clue

*
how I could un-obsess myself if Andrew
ever decided he didn't want me in his life.

*

So far, though, Andrew seems every
bit as obsessed with me as I am with him.

*

We have learned a lot about each other.

How to touch. Where to kiss. When to let go.

*

Before this month, I didn't really believe

I was his first. But I was. Am. I have taught
him as much as he has taught me, all through mutual experimentation. Mad

*
sex scientists, that's us. There have been clumsy moments, yes. But they are rare. Few.

*

The worst was when it suddenly came to us
that, swept downstream by a flood of desire

*
we hadn't used protection the first time.

But either I'm sterile or the timing was right,

*
because three days later I started my period.

We've been careful ever since. I wish

*

I could go on the pill, but I know for certain
if I showed my face at Planned Parenthood,

* * *
word would get back to my parents. A trip to the pharmacy would yield the same result.

*

Meaning birth control--condoms, not the best but better than nothing--is up to Andrew.

With or Without Condoms

(Because after all, we don't have to have
sex every time we see each other, do we?)

*

I'm hoping to see Andrew today. Saturday, so no school, and I'm done with my chores.

*

I've just got to come up with the right little
white lie. Or big black lie. Whatever.

*

Mama seems kind of suspicious lately.

I think what they say about being in love

*
is true--some inner glow becomes obvious to everyone around you, even those

*
you most want to keep solidly in the dark.

"So, Mama. Shania and I are doing

*
an English project on The Lord of the Rings. She invited me over to work

*
on it. Would that be okay?" Shania
is, like, my only friend. I've known

*
her since she moved here in second grade and her family joined Papa's church.

*

Once in a while we do stuff together, and the English project is for real.

If I really go over there before meeting

Andrew, it will be a big white lie.

*

Mom is busy paying bills. She barely
glances my way. That's good, because

*
when she says, Um. Guess so, I can
actually feel the love flicker ignite.

*

I hurry out the door before she changes her mind. The day is warm and scented

*
with spring blooms. Shania is watering the yard when I get there. "Hey, girl."

*

A fair amount of surprise fills her eyes.

Eden. What are you doing here?

*

"Mama let me escape for a while. Just
thought I'd drop by and say hi. Why?"

*

She shakes her head. It's just that...

well, lately... I haven't seen you much.

*

Guilt nibbles. "I know. I'm sorry. I guess

I've been kind of distracted." By Andrew.

Can't Tell Her That Part

Or can I? Should I? It would feel good to confess something this special.

*

Shania saves me the trouble. By your

boyfriend? Does she know? Or is she

*
guessing? "I suppose you could call
him that." I'm not telling everything.

*

Really? A big grin crinkles her eyes.

So okay, she's guessing. Good thing.

*

But now that the cat has halfway escaped from the bag, she wants to know all.

*

Come inside and tell me more.

Who is he? Is he cute? How old

*
is he? Does he go to our school?

She grills me all the way through

*
the front door. "Hang on a sec.

I'll tell you all about him...."

*

Well, not all. "But first, I need to make a call. Can I use your phone?"

An Hour Later

I say good-bye to Shania, who is slightly wiser about Andrew.

*

I didn't tell her he happens to be the very
cute guy who sits in the back at church

*
most Sundays, or that he is picking me up just down the block in a few minutes.

*

As I start walking, I can, in fact, see the Tundra, patiently lurking curbside.

*

The obsession thing quickens my pace, but behind me I hear Shania's Bye.

*

I turn to wave, and see curiosity has
drawn her all the way to the sidewalk.

*

But Andrew is parked facing away from her. I hurry on past the Tundra, motion

*
discreetly for him to follow me around the corner. Out of Shania's sight, I fling

*
open the door, slide across the seat, and kiss

Andrew like I haven't seen him in days.

*

Mostly because I haven't. Every filament of me shimmers. "We have got to stop
meeting like this, you know." Then

I add, "Almost forgot. I love you."

*

He rewards me with that beautiful
smile. And I love you. Where to?

*

I shrug. "Anywhere. But not too far.

I should probably be home by four."

*

Gotcha. He starts the Tundra, and as he pulls away from the curb,

*
a little white car slows its approach.

I can't help but notice the driver--

*

Shania's sister, Caitlyn. And she most
definitely notices me. Her expression

*
is an interesting mixture--one part
curiosity, one part disbelief, one

*
part... jealousy? Is this trouble? I know

I should probably have Andrew turn

*
straight around, drop me off near the house.

But he's so close. And he smells so good.

*

I need to be with him more than anything.

And if this is trouble, it already is.

A Quarter to Four

Andrew drops me off around the corner from home. It has been an amazing

*
afternoon, filled with love and making love.

He kisses me. See you soon. Very soon.

*

Ten to four, I walk in the door. Mama and Papa are sitting there, waiting for me.

*

Nine to four, I know I'm most definitely in trouble. Likely the major kind. "Hi?"

*

Mama pounces first. Where have you

been? And who have you been with?

*

Then she assesses my semi-disheveled
state. And what have you been doing?

*

Guilt flushes my face, burns my ears.

But I'm going to play stupid anyway.

*

"I told you before I left I was going to

Shania's." Stop there. See what happens.

*

Papa shadows Mama as she stands, takes a step in my direction, fists clenching.

*

You know very well what I'm talking
about. You were with that McCarran boy.

Five to Four

My life is over. At least the slender
wedge of it that holds happiness.

*

Denial is ridiculous. Still, the words
pop out of my mouth, "Says who?"

*

I already know the answer. It is Papa who gives it. Caitlyn Curry. Your mother

*

called to ask you to pick up some butter on your way home. Caitlyn said you had

*
already left. And that she saw you in a truck with the young man. Now I want

*
to know why you were with him. And why
you lied. His face is redder than mine.

*

Deception impossible, defiance
flares. "I was with Andrew because

*

I'm in love with him. And why

I lied should be pretty damn obvious."

*

At the very intentional curse word,

Mama gasps. Papa pushes her behind

*
him, advances. You apologize to your
mother this instant, you little trollop.

Trollop? Who uses that word for real?

Laughter dribbles from my mouth.

*

And I stand my ground. "But I'm not
sorry, Papa. I'm tired of you and Mama

*
treating me like a little girl. I'm old enough to fall in love. Why won't you let me?"

*

Mama's turn. Her voice drips
icicles. I believe you're confusing

*
love and desire. Do you really think
that man is in love with you? What

*
he wants... Once again, her eyes travel over me, trying to look under my clothes

*
to the sin she intuits beneath them.

He wants your innocence. I will not

*
let you succumb to temptation. She is past Papa, hands moving toward me.

*

They fall. I don't dare try to defend
myself. I've been here before. Tears

*
sting my eyes. From the pain of her blows.

And from the heartbreak tomorrow holds.

Heartbroken

Face bruised, eyes swollen almost
shut from crying, no way can I go

*
to church today. Mama would stay, to keep an eye on me, but it happens

*
to be Mother's Day. All the ladies will
turn out in their best dresses, to be celebrated.

*

Don't you dare take one step out of this house, Mama warns. If you

*
do, I'll know, I promise you that.

I'll take care of Mr. McCarran. too.

*

As soon as the car is out of sight,

I rush to the phone. Thank God

*

Andrew is still home. Hey. I was just
heading out the door. Everything okay?

*

The whole ugly tale comes gushing
out, and I can't believe I dare to beg,

*

"Hurry and come pick me up. Please!"

It may be a very long time before I get

*
to see him again. I need to see him today.

Right away. Even looking the way I do.

Twenty Minutes Later

I am in Andrew's arms, crying softly against his chest. He lets me whimper

*
for a few minutes, then pushes me
gently away and says, Look at me.

*

Let me see what she did. His hands are kind as they soothe the bruises,

*
trace the contours of my face. But his eyes smolder, hot with anger.

*

How could anyone do something like that to their child? he demands.

*

"It doesn't matter. All that matters is how we can see each other now.

*

Without you, my life is meaningless.

Without you, I have nothing to live for."

*

Don't say that! And don't mean that.

You have everything to live for. We'll

*
figure something out. I promise. He
tugs me back into his arms. I promise.

I Want to Stay

Knotted to Andrew forever, warm and safe, and loved. But he insists

*

I am home before my parents get
back from church. Don't give her

*

a reason to hurt you. Please, Eden.

It's my fault she did this to you.

*

I start to argue, but he won't let me, and he won't let me stay any longer.

*

One last quick kiss and he urges, Just go.

If she catches you, who knows how long

*
it will be before we can see each other
again? I love you. Now go on.

*

He's right, of course, and I hurry. But
when I turn the corner, I can see

*
our car in the driveway. My stomach
lurches, like I'm in an elevator and

*
the cable snaps. I fall to my knees and vomit until there's nothing left

*
but cramps. I wobble to my feet, up the sidewalk, and in the front door.

Mama Is Waiting

Sitting on a straight-backed chair, facing the door. You were with him

*

just now, weren't you? She already
knows the answer. Why try to lie?

*

The truth is doubtless magnified by the tear storm in my eyes. "Yes."

*

I expect the same chaotic anger she threw at me yesterday. She stands,

*
and my muscles clench. But she stays
remarkably calm as she approaches.

*

I knew it when he didn't show up at church today I'm not sure why

*
it took me so long to realize what the two of you were up to sitting

*
back there.... Her jaw goes tight, and her left hand reaches for me.

*

I wince, but she simply slides her arm around my shoulder, guides me

*
toward the kitchen. We need to talk.

I'll make some tea. She pushes me
into a chair. My stomach churns acid as I watch her put two cups of water

*
into the microwave, reach for teabags and sugar. Silence overwhelms the room

*
until she puts the steaming cups onto the table. Get the cream, please.

*

I go to the refrigerator, take the cream from its reserved spot on the top shelf.

*

Mama pours a little in each cup, hands
me the carton, which I return to its place.

*

Wordlessly she hands me a cup, takes a sip of her own, gestures for me

*
to do the same. The tea is sickeningly
sweet, but I don't dare not drink it.

*

Finally she says, There can only be one
explanation for such total disobedience.

*

Head spinning, I wait for her to finish.

You are obviously possessed by demons.

A Poem by Seth Parnell Demons

I never believed in demons or monsters
lurking under my bed.

But lately I've started to wonder
if evil hasn't in fact
infiltrated this world, slithering streets and sidewalks, wearing
whatever
disguise suits its
immediate purpose.

When a choirboy is molested, is it by the devil in a priest costume?

Or does Satan play a more clever game to get what he wants?

To win the contest, accomplish his goals, might the prince of hatred
mask himself as love?

Seth I Never Realized

What a bogus holiday Mother's

Day is until I didn't have a mother anymore. No one to send flowers to. No one to cook a special breakfast for.

*

The ironic thing is, my mom
used to call Mother's Day a "Hallmark holiday." You
know, something invented to buy pricey greeting cards for.

*

I know how much my men
love me, she said more than once. I sure don't need a three-dollar card or candy to prove that there fact to me.

*

Regardless, Dad and I
always sprang for some
silly card, with glittery
roses, spring greenery, and flowery sentiment.

Maybe Hallmark should invent
some new holidays, like Dead

Mother's Day. They could tweak their old motto: When you still
care enough to send the very best.

*

Only where would you send it to?

Better yet, how about Breaking

Up Day? They could invent a new
motto: A cheerful good-bye when
you don't give a damn anymore.

No Card

To ease the pain of Loren
leaving today. Part of me
doesn't want to see him.

I'm not much good at good-byes. But the bigger

*
part wants to hold him one
last time. Wants to haul
him off into the bedroom, make love to him, convince
him he can never go away.

*

Dread simmers in my gut.

Approaching Loren's door, it works itself into a full boil.

I reach for the bell, change
my mind, let myself in with

*
the spare key Loren gave me.

"Hello?" Even as the word
slips past my lips, I know
he's not here. He rented the apartment furnished.

*

Couch. Coffee table. Easy
chair. Nothing missing.

Nothing except Loren.

His absence overwhelms the room. "Loren?" I say it,
knowing it's useless, follow the silence into the bedroom.

The closet and bureau drawers are empty. The only trace of Loren is a hint of his cologne.

*

That, and a note left on the bed, beside rumpled
memories: Dearest Seth,

I'm sorry to have left you
this way, but I couldn't say

*
good-bye face-to-face. Total
coward, I know. Rent is paid through the end of the month.

Go ahead and use the place until then, if you want. I'll

*
write you once I'm settled, okay?

I wish I could see you graduate.

It's such a big day--the start of the rest of your life. Enjoy!

I love you very much. Loren.

I Haven't Cried

Since Mom died. I mean, after something like that, what's
left to cry about, right?

But I let myself cry now.

Loss is loss. Doesn't take

*
death to create it. My legs give
way. I slide to the floor next to the bed, rest my head against the bare mattress.

I can smell him there, smell

*
us there. I reread the note.

Phrases jump out at me:

... see you graduate... rest of your life... love you...

Suddenly, certainly, it hits me.

*

Loren won't cheer for me
when I get my diploma.

He isn't including himself in the rest of my life. He
isn't coming back. Ever.

Why didn't I get that sooner?

All the hurt I've been holding
dissipates, like a ghost in sunlight.

Something dark replaces

It--a black tidal wave of anger.

*

How could Loren dare say he loves me? You can't
walk away from someone
you love, leave them
drowning in your desertion.

*

If love has no more meaning than that, you can keep it.

I don't want it now or ever
again. Don't want to hear the word or wear its scars.

*

I'll go back to the farm, to fields rich with hope.

Go back to my books, prep for finals. I'll celebrate leaving
high school. And then what?

Suddenly I'm Thirsty

And not for water or soda.

What's calling is a stiff
shot of good old' Kentucky
bourbon. Maybe Loren
left a little behind. I go to

*
the kitchen, half-hopeful.

But the cupboards, like the closet, are not only
empty but spotless. That's

Loren, okay. OCD clean.

*

Hell, I need to get out of here anyway. I'll go downtown, find a way into Fringe.

I remember Loren saying,

All you need is a sponsor.

*

So I'll go find a sponsor.

Some old Viagra-stiff
queen, hopeful that buying a drink means buying a lay.

They were thick as flies

*
last time Loren and I went to Fringe. And hey, if I find
one, he can think whatever he likes. Wanting and getting are two different things.

Sunday, Late Afternoon

The sidewalks aren't especially
crowded. I don't want to look like I'm anxious for a date, so

I hang out a half block from

Fringe, trying to find the balls

*
to go up to some strange, lone, obviously gay older dude and ask if he'd like to sponsor
me past the familiar bouncer at Fringe's front door. And what

*
will that guy think? And why
do I care about that anyway?

Just as I'm sure I should give up on this idea, an attractive
man, maybe fifty, gives me

*
exactly the right kind of smile--
interested but also hesitant, as if he's not positive why

I'm checking him out. Yes,

I think this one might just do.

The Smile

I return leaves zero room for misinterpretation. Where

did I learn to be such a flirt? This is a whole new
side of the not-so-static me.

*

Wonder if it's business as usual for the guy, who on further inspection may
be a few years beyond fifty.

Still, he's not bad-looking,

*
very well dressed. Familiar.

I've seen him before. Here?

I can barely make out his face....

Yes, here. Oh, I remember.

The guy who stormed off,

*
leaving the younger guy to follow him out the door.

He's a regular, then. He'll
know what I mean. I smile, and he takes that in stride,
doesn't flinch or look away.

I'll take that as an invitation.

I walk right up to him, hoping he likes the straightforward
approach. "Hi. I'm Seth.

*

I was hoping to get into Fringe."

His eyes, an odd, almost clear
blue, travel my body, starting around thigh level. Finally
they lock onto my own eyes.

*

Pleased to meet you, Seth.

I'm Carl. And I happen to be heading there myself.

I imagine you're in need of an escort. Care to join me?

Escort?

Seems to me I'm the one
escorting him, at least in the classic sense of the word.

I guess he's using it in place of "sponsor." Sounds less

*
like Alcoholics Anonymous, but more like Rent-a-Guy.

Whatever. I've got my
ticket inside. "Thanks, Carl.

I appreciate the invitation."

*

I fall in a step or two behind him, note how well his pricey
clothing fits his slender body.

The security dude waves us
right through the door, not even

*
checking IDs. He recognizes
both of us, and if he's surprised

I'm with someone other than

Loren, he hides it really well.

What I want now is whiskey.

Carl reads my mind, or maybe
it's written all over my face.

The first drink is on me.

What's your pleasure?

Kentucky permeates his accent.

*

"I'll have a mint julep, please."

In memory of Loren. Bastard!

I can't believe he'd leave without saying good-bye.

One drink will not be enough.

*

Carl gives me a funny look but goes to the bar and returns with two frosty, mint-trimmed
glasses. He takes a long swallow.

Oh my, that is good, but not

*
for a novice drinker. Tell me who introduced you to this
li'l libation. If it's a long
story, so much the better.

He settles back into his chair.

I sip my julep, fight the sudden
blitz of memory. The second
swallow is bigger. The minty
burn clears my throat, trickles down the esophagus, into my

*
rumbling belly. A little voice
warns, "Could be trouble."

I tell it to shut up, look at

Carl to see if he might have
heard it. Or at least intuited it.

*

He wears a patient smile. Oh, yes. He asked for the story.

I don't want to talk about

Loren. But what the hell?

I'm drinking in his honor.

"I actually had my first one of these right here, with my..."

The word sticks in my craw.

A gulp of bourbon clears
it, raises a nice, warm buzz.

*

Suddenly I want to talk, and before I know it, I have
vomited the whole tale, going all the way back to Janet and how I lusted

*
after her football-player
brother, forward past

Mom and Dead Mother's

Day, to Loren's promises.

Betrayal. Ultimate desertion.

Carl Listens

Without comment, except a nod every now and again.

When I finally slow to a stop, he raises one finger, gets up and goes to the bar. He comes

*
back with two more drinks and a bowl of snack mix.

Thought you could use both of these. He watches me dive into the pair before saying,

*

One thing I've learned in one or two years on this planet is to put myself first. Love is a fine thing while it lasts, but rarely is it permanent.

*

We don't know each other at all, but if I might offer a word of advice, gleaned from many relationships?

He waits for a response,

*
and when I offer a nod, he says,

In lieu of love, lust will do nicely.

Now why don't I buy us dinner?

I start to say no, and he hurries to add, No strings attached.

Two Hours

Four courses of French cuisine and two bottles of wine later, my stomach is churning with rich food, my head buzzing with alcohol.

Carl and I exit the restaurant

*
and I look for my truck. Where
did I leave the damn thing?

"Uh, th-thanks s-sho much for a great evening. I have to go.

It's-sh a long drive home."

*

Carl assesses my obvious
condition. I can't let you behind the wheel like that.

You can stay the night at my
place. No worries. It's clean.

*

"Uh I d-don't..." The words
blur. I can't drive like this.

"Okay." It's a short walk to Carl's tenth-floor apartment.

Once inside, I call Dad, make up

*
a lie about staying the night with some girl I met at a party.

He sounds relieved, but whether
that's because he can tell I'm drunk or because of the "girl," I don't know.

That accomplished, I take a long look around. The place is beautifully decorated. Tall
windows overlook the city.

Someday I'll live like this.

*

I have to pee. Again Carl
reads my mind. The guest
bathroom is right there. Oh, you'll find new toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet.

*

Sounds like a plan. Between
garlic, shallots, whiskey, and wine, my mouth could
use a good scrub. I take full
advantage of the guest bathroom.

*

When I come out, smelling of mouthwash and expensive
lavender soap, Carl is in red silk
pajamas. He hands me a matching
pair. Unless you sleep naked?

*

His message is clear, in his words and in his eyes. I have the choice--
leather sofa or feather mattress.

I remember how he said, Lust
will do, and follow him to his bed.

A Poem by Whitney Lang Follow Me

That's what he said.

Follow me, and find the meaning of love in my bed.

I followed, found sheets cold as death. Neither of us
could warm them, not me, not
him.

Not a maelstrom of body heat so intense it felt like fever. After, we slept, chilled.

He tossed and turned, lost in some obnoxious
dream. And when we
woke, he ordered
me away.

Whitney So Basically

Life sucks even more than it did before. I mean, everything's the same on the Mom and Kyra
front. Kyra went back to Vassar,

*
along with two suitcases stuffed with trendy new boutique clothes.

Mom went back to tennis and whatever else she does at her club.

*

Dad went back to the city, where he seems to stay for longer and longer
periods. He and Mom barely speak, even on those rare occasions when

*
they happen to be in the same room.

Nothing much new there. What's
new is no Lucas, and it has nothing to do with his graduation, fast

*
approaching. He tells me he has to study for finals, but we both know
that's bull. He'll ace them, like he aces every test, stoned to the nth
degree or not. He's brilliant.

Beautiful. And def avoiding me.

Near as I can tell, it started right after I gave him my virginity.

*

Since that day, he doesn't return
my phone calls, and if I happen to catch him, he always has an excuse for why he can't see me. Did I do

*
something wrong? He won't even
tell me that much. Only a couple of weeks until school's out, plus summer vacation. Then he's off

*
to college in San Diego. Not so far, but far enough I won't see him often.

I want to share this time with him, burn him into memory so I can

*
find him there when I need him. How
can he be so selfish as to take that
away from me? One thing for sure.

I'm going to find a way to ask him.

The Way Practically Falls

Into my lap. It's the Friday after

Mother's Day. (Still musing over how my mom got mad because

I didn't give her a card. Some bullshit

*
sentimental tripe about what a great
mother she is? What's her doctor
prescribing, and can I get some?)

I'm sitting on the grass at lunch,

*
not eating as usual, when a shadow
falls over me, drawing my attention.

"What's up, Skylar?" She's never been a friend. What does she want?

*

Not much, she says. Just wondering
if you're going to the party tonight.

She stands, left hand perched on an all too obvious hipbone.

*

I may not eat much, but I bet she throws up what she does eat.

Not that I care. "Party? What
party?" I haven't heard a thing.

*

She smiles, and something in how she smiles activates my radar.

There's a party at Lucas's house.

You did know about it, didn't you?

Obviously, she's pretty sure I didn't.

But I can't possibly admit it to her.

"Oh. That party. Um, I haven't
decided if I'm going yet."

*

Really? Her smile grows wider.

Does that mean you and Lucas
aren't a thing anymore? She looks like a coyote eyeing a jackrabbit.

*

Anger--and a fair bit of confusion--
throbs in my temples. What does she know? "How is my relationship with

Lucas any of your business?"

*

Her eyes go marble cold. Guess it isn't, if there is a relationship.

I heard you two broke up is all.

If I made a mistake, I'm sorry.

*

Off she goes, clearly knowing
something I don't. But what?

And how does she know it? Looks like I'm going to a party tonight.

I Talk Paige

Into driving me. Mom's not home
when she picks me up, so I leave a note: Gone to a movie with Paige.

More like a soap opera, probably.

*

I have no real idea what's going to happen, but I've got a feeling it may not be pretty. I've been over and over Skylar's remarks,

*
and I can only conclude that Lucas
said something to somebody that
somehow got back around to Skylar.

Well, fine. If he's having a party,

*
makes sense he'll be there. And if
he's there, he won't be able to ignore me. I'll see to that, though

I will try playing "nice" first.

*

I don't feel nice right now. I feel
angry. Ignored. About the same
way I feel around Mom and Kyra.

Suffering from "Nothing Syndrome."

Lucas Was Supposed to Be

The antidote to that illness.

Instead he has become another
symptom. What is wrong with me? Why aren't I worth loving?

*

I say none of this to Paige, of course.

She's thrilled to be going to a party with real, live guys and probable
substance abuse. Why spoil her fairy tale?

*

"Hang a left." We turn into Lucas's
neighborhood. Holy crud. This isn't a party. This is a major sometime-
tonight-a-neighbor-will-call-the-cops

*
freaking bash. And he didn't
invite me? My earlier irritation
blossoms into full-bodied anger.

"Hurry up, would you?"

*

Where am I going to park? whines

Paige, cruising slowly past a mega-line of cars. Looks like the whole
darn town is here! She turns
the corner and finally spies an empty
slot next to the curb. Always good to get a little exercise before getting
buzzed, right? She giggles.

*

Usually I can handle Paige's goofball
laugh. But not tonight. Not right now.

Still, I'm not going to snap. I'll save that for Lucas. Because suddenly,

*
without a doubt, I know I've been dumped. But why? Why? A wave of tears swells, hot and salty.

"Come on. I think I need a drink."

There's Plenty to Drink

People leak out of Lucas's house, onto the porch and lawn. Some

I recognize. Others I don't, but they all pretty much have one

*
thing in common--sixteen-ounce
red plastic party cups. "Let's go
find the alcohol." I don't wait for Paige's response, just push

*
through the crowd, into the house.

I've only been here twice before, and both times it was a lot emptier.

The alcohol seems to be in the kitchen,

*
at least that's where most of the noise
is. I work my way through the human
knot, stopping twice to take a hit off lit blunts. By the time I reach

*
the kitchen, I've got a nice little
pot buzz going on, something to mellow the fog of anger. At least until I walk through the door.

*
to find Lucas, zipper to zipper with Skylar. No. How can that
be? Oh! My! God! That whore was effing taunting me!

Not Only That

But she wanted me to come tonight, wanted me to see them together.

I played right into it too. Well, if she wants me in her face,

*

I'm all the way there. I stomp right up to them, push between them.

"Excuse the hell out of me!"

Directed at Lucas, who is totally

*
blown away by my being here, and not just at the party, but right
here, pressed up against him.

"Thanks for the heads-up."

*

Directed over my shoulder at

Skylar, who backs out of my way, grinning like Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs.

*

Lucas gives me the stupidest

huh? look ever. "What?" I spit.

"Didn't expect me? Well, FYI, your--
your--friend, there, invited me."

Now he looks confused. Friend--
who--what--what do you want,

Whitney? He glances back and forth between Skylar and me, unsure

*
of what I'll do next. I'll make it easy, not that he deserves it. "All I want is to talk to you. I think you owe
me at least that much, don't you?"

*

Uh, yeah... sure... He dares turn toward Skylar, as if asking for her permission. He never treated me with such respect. Tears threaten.

*

No. Won't cry. I make my voice
hard. "I'm sure she doesn't mind, do you, Skylar?" She shakes her head, and I dismiss her. "Good. Lucas,

*

I'll meet you in your bedroom, okay?" He exits the kitchen without looking at either of us. I start to follow, change my mind.

First I Pour

A hefty shot (okay, more like four) of Cuervo Gold. No need to bother with salt or limes, no worries about tequila burn going down.

*

It feels good. Great. May make me sick
tomorrow, but it's stoking the courage

I'm in desperate need of. Another stiff
pour and I head for Lucas's bedroom,

*
feeling tequila heat creep back up from my belly, all the way to my face.

My ears are ringing too. Hope I can
remember the way to his bedroom.

*

Both times I was here before, that's
exactly where we ended up. Nothing
major happened then, but now I wish it would have. At least if it's over

*
between us, and it's def looking that
way. But why? I still don't get what
happened. All I did was finally say
okay. All I did was say, "I love you."

Lucas Is Sitting on the Bed

Wearing a completely unexpected
expression--pity. Can that be right?

What the hell? A deep swallow of Cuervo sandpapers my throat.

*

I go over to Lucas, drop down on my knees, rest my hands on his legs, look up into his eyes, "Lucas, will
you please tell me what's going on?"

*

He doesn't answer right away, and for some stupid reason, that makes
me think there's hope for us. But
when he finally speaks, his voice

*
is ice. When you first told me you were a virgin, I didn't believe you.

Not a lot of those around, you know?

But when I figured out you were telling

*
the truth, I totally wanted to pop your
cherry. You were my first virgin, and you'll probably be my last. Because...

sorry, but virgin sex really isn't very good.

*

I jerk my hands off his legs, wobble to my feet. "F-fuck you! I c-c-can't
believe tha'sh all I meant to you." One
more gulp and I repeat, "Fuck you!"

I Stumble Out the Door

Go in search of Paige. I have to get the hell out of here! My heart
knocks in my chest. My face is on fire--with booze and embarrassment.

*

How could I have believed he loved
me? How could I have given my love to such an asshole? "Paige?" Did I just
yell that? Everyone is staring. Maybe

*
that's because tears cascade down my
face, which is probably streaked black with mascara. Has anyone seen Paige?"

Someone points toward the living room,

*
where my dear friend Paige has hooked up with some guy I sort of recognize from school. They're making out like... like they're really into each other.

*

She looks at me, clearly torn between wanting to help me and preferring to stay
right where she is. "Never mind," I say.

"I'll find another ride home." On my

*
way to the front door, I pass Skylar, staring at me with--fuck that!--pity.

"Hope you're not a virgin. Oh, wait.

Forgot who I'm talking to."

Now What?

I go outside, sit on the sidewalk, will
myself not to get sick. Can't call Mom to pick me up, not here. Don't know if

I've got enough cash for a taxi home.

*

I reach into my purse, find my wallet.

When I open it, a business card falls
out. Perfect Poses Photography.

Wha...? At the bottom is a name.

*

Bryn Dawson, Bryn? Oh yeah, hot monkey, the guy from the mall.

I remember his face, the way his eyes
looked at me. Don't suppose he...

*

Nah, Friday night, he's out somewhere, with some hot female orangutan.

So why does my hand reach for my cell phone, and why do my

*
fingers dial his number? One ring...

This is stupid. And now he'll have my
number. Two rings... Hang up, stupid.

I can just imagine Paige, asking me

*
what the hey I'm thinking. Three rings...

See? He's so out with someone else.

And why would you think, even if he wasn't, that he'd even remember you?

Must Be Fate

Because someone, I'm assuming him, answers on the fourth ring. "Bryn?

This is Whitney. You probably don't
remember me, but we met at the mall

*
and you gave me your card...."

Definitely must be fate, because he does remember me. I break down into an inebriated crying binge.

*

He'll hang up now for sure. But
when I tell him, "Sh-shorry to bug
you, but something bad just happened and I really need a ride...."

*

He barely hesitates before he answers,

No problem, Whitney. Always happy to help a damsel in distress. Give me
twenty minutes. And directions.

A Poem by Ginger Cordell Directions

Why doesn't life come with them? "Go straight until you hit sixteen, take a right, then proceed slowly until you're positive
it's okay to hang a left toward where you belong."

I guess in someone else's world, parents are road maps, who tell you
which way is the correct direction to travel. But without a map, how
do I
know the best route?

Without guidance, how do I know
which way to go?

Ginger School Totally Blew Today

First I got back my history final, with a big, fat D on top, despite all the studying I did. I completely

*
effed up in that class, and to cop the credit, which is a requirement for graduation, I'll have to do

*
summer school. Then our Nazi

PE teacher started yelling at the back of the pack running laps

*
to Move your lazy buns. Damn, it's like over ninety out there in the sun. Still, I probably shouldn't

*
have yelled back, "Why don't you
get your fat ass out here and run with us? See how fast you can go."

*

The bitch wrote me up. Detention at least. Maybe suspension. To
top it all off, this guy I thought

*

I kind of liked called me an emo

freak because I put blue streaks in my hair. Yep. School definitely blew.

I Take My Time

Walking home, puffing on a bummed Kool. Don't
care much for menthols, but

*

I need nicotine to calm my
nerves. Iris won't really
care if I get suspended. But

*

Gram will be so disappointed in me. She'll be spending a lot more time at home once

*
they finally release Sandy, today or tomorrow. Guess
they have to do a couple more

*
tests to find out just how bad his brain damage is. Right now, he's learning to talk all over again.

*

The house is quiet when I open the door, quiet except for the TV.

Where are the kids? Something's off.

*

I can feel it in my bones. "Iris?"

No answer. But something--
someone?--moves, and suddenly
the TV goes silent. The hair on the back of my neck rises.

Little waves of panic churn in

*
my gut. Ridiculous, right? No
murderer would be sitting
there watching TV. "Harry?"

*

But the face that appears in the doorway doesn't belong to Harry. You must be Ginger.

*

Iris has told me so much about you. Hey, I like your hair. Rad.

The last word sounds weird,

*
spoken by the guy, who is maybe
forty-five and built like a bull.

Did Iris dump Harry for this guy?

*

Not like it would be anything
new. "Uh, right. Where is Iris, anyway?" I need another cigarette.

*

She and Harry took the kids for ice cream. Say, would
you mind getting me a beer?

Déjà vu Strikes

Lightning. Without a doubt

I know I need to play cards
just right. I want to yell,

*

"Get the fuck away from me."

But every instinct screeches for me to answer carefully.

*

"Uh, sure." I go to the fridge, reach in for a Keystone.

The guy is right behind me,

*
beer breath hot on my neck.

Iris didn't lie. You really are a knockout. His arms wrap

*
around me, and his rough hands
go straight to my boobs. I try to knock them away but am no

*
match for his strength. You like it rough? 'Cause I'm just the guy to give it that way No extra charge.

*

The words burn into my ear. "What?

What the fuck did you say?" A sudden
burst of will pushes him back, away.

I turn to face him. He advances, a thin line of spit leaking from his mouth to his chin. I stare at

*
evil. I said, no extra charge.

Already paid two hundred
dollars for a good time with you.

*

Might as well make it very good.

He's on me, yanking my hair, pushing me to my knees. He flips

*
me over. You're even prettier from behind, know that? I hear his zipper lower. It is the loudest

*
sound ever. "Don't," I try, but it sticks, pasted to disgust, lodged in my throat. Useless to plead. Useless

*
to fight. He yanks down my shorts in a single swift motion. He is on me. In me. Humiliating me in every

*
possible way, right here on the kitchen floor. As promised, he is rough. Biting. Pounding.

Shredding. Ripping. "Please?"

The word bounces off him, ping-pongs
weakly in my ears. Trying

*
to fight him only fuels him.

For a fleeting second, I think
maybe someone will come

*
through the door to save me.

And then, despite everything
that's happening to me, I laugh

*
out loud. Save me? What did he say? I already paid for a good time with you. I've been

*
sold. And just who would
sell me? The answer is all
too obvious: Iris. My mother.

*

And as he finishes, all sticky and stinking and revolting, something else suddenly

*
becomes crystal clear. This day was exactly like that other day.

If this guy paid Iris, so did Walt.

When He's Gone

I use wet paper towels to clean the mess on the linoleum. Under the sink, I find the Pine-Sol,

*
carry it to the shower. It stings, which means it's working.

I scrub my body over and over,

*
washing away all evidence of this
afternoon. On TV, they want you to call the cops. Tell. But what do

*

I say? "Hey. My mom took money to let some guy rape me." Who'd
believe that? I go to my room,

*
stuff clothes into my backpack.

I'm gone. Where? No clue, but this will never happen again. I feel

*
bad, leaving Gram to deal with Iris.

But she's strong. And with Sandy
home, she'll be here, too. The others

*
will be safe. I'll write her a letter, tell her what she has to know so she'll never let her guard down.

The Door Slams Behind Me

I stand on the step for a few
seconds, confused about what to do next. Can't pause long.

*

They'll be home soon. Not like ice cream takes forever. Only
longer than rape. Fuck! My eyes

*
burn, and not from the sun, sitting
smack on the western hills. I stare into it, and for one mega-brilliant

*
instant, all I can see is a stab of light. My feet start walking toward it. Where else is there to go?

*

Throbbing with pain, inside and out, I find myself on Alex's
street. Should say good-bye.

*

She opens the door. Damn, man. You smell like toilet

cleaner. What happened?

Alex lets me in and I sink into cool dark solace, repeat the tale of Ginger, paid for.

I Love Alex

Love the way she lets me spew, contributing zero commentary, until I'm obviously finished.

*

When I am, what she says is,

And I thought my mother was queen of the fucking wack jobs.

*

So what are you going to do?

She listens as I outline my
non-plan for running away:

*

Take off and see where I end up.

Finally she shakes her head.

Stupid idea. You can't just run

*
off without some idea of where
you're going and how you'll
get there. The thing is, after we

*
talked about it last time, I started
thinking about the best way to leave this stinking shit hole.

*

Does that mean she wants to go
too? "Really?" I hope she came up with something good. "And...?"

Remember I told you about my
dad's old girlfriend, Lydia?

Well, she lives in Henderson.

*

She told me to come visit any time.

We'll stay with her until we can
find a way to get a place of our own.

*

She has thought this through!

A place of our own? Still... "Are
you sure you want to go too?"

*

Hell yeah, girl. You can't go
alone. Besides, there's nothing for me here. Adventure calls!

*

I checked it out and the bus to Vegas costs thirty-five bucks.

No big deal, right? Any way

*
you could come up with maybe
fifty? I've got a little stashed.

Enough for smokes and Cokes.

*

Where could I get fifty bucks?

The answer smacks me in the face.

She owes me a lot more than that.

I Leave My Stuff

Go on home. No cops, no alarms.

No one missed me at all. Not
even Gram, who's fixing dinner.

*

In fact, everything seems so normal it almost makes me wonder if I
imagined what happened earlier.

*

I go over to Gram, give her a hug. "Something smells
good. We've sure missed your

*
cooking around here! Where is everybody? Is Sandy home?"

If he is, how can I possibly go?

*

Gram keeps stirring her chili.

No. The tests they ran tired the little guy out. They're keeping

*
him one more day, to be sure
he'll be okay Worry weights her sigh. He'll be just fine, though.

*

Guilt chews at me until a sudden
whiff of Pine-Sol reminds me
why I'm here. "Where's Iris?"

Gram shakes her head. She and her... her friend went out.

I doubt we'll see her tonight.

*

Perfect. She won't miss it until morning, earliest. By then I'll be
all the way to Vegas. Now I need

*
a way back out of here. "Hey,

Gram. I was invited to spend the night with my friend, Al--"

*

Probably should make up a name. "Alicia. We're going to study for finals. Is that okay?"

*

Sure thing, hon. I'm glad
you're finally making
some friends. Her smile

*
initiates a new round of guilt.

Especially considering that not
long after I'm gone, she'll find

*
out I already messed up on my
finals. Oh, well. By then she'll
have given up on me anyway.

The Kids

Are in the living room, watching the boob tube. They don't see
me slip down the hall, and that's best.

*

I go into Iris's room. Top dresser
drawer, beneath her underwear--
yech!--there's a navy blue sock,

*
where she stashes her cash.

I watched her do it once when she was too drunk to realize

*

I was standing right there. Sure
enough, it's here, stuffed with sex
money. I count out two hundred,

*
which doesn't include whatever

Walt paid her. Screw it. I take the whole wad--four hundred

*
sixty-nine dollars. In its place,

I leave a note: Not even close to what you owe me. I hate you.

*

"Bye, Gram," I call, eyes stinging.

I ease out the door, into velvet
night, chasing a glimpse of freedom.

When I Come Through the Door

Alex is packed and waiting, rocking softly side to side in a nerve-fueled rhythm.

*

Wow. I've never seen her look so worried. "Are you
sure you want to do this?"

*

Her odd movement stills and she looks at me with shimmering eyes. I've wanted

*

to run forever, but I was scared to run alone. I never
told you the truth about Paul.

*
he's not my stepdad. Mom and him never got married.

When they sent her away,

*
he let me stay with him, but only if I... you know.

I have nothing here, or

*
anywhere, except for what

I have with you. Let's go before he gets home, okay?

The Half-Empty Bus

Idles, preparing for departure.

The diesel fumes are strong, but the seats are comfy. No one

*
cares about Alex and me in back, sipping rum from a water bottle. Before long,

*

I feel zero fear. Zero pain.

I flip up the armrest between us, slip my hand into hers.

*

Heedless of any prying eyes, she kisses me, and I kiss back, inhaling her intoxicating scent.

*

My heart dances. My body, abused so viciously just
hours ago, at last knows joy.

*

As the bus begins to roll, my lips spill words unspoken until now. "I love you, Alex."

*

I love you too. Now let's get the flying fuck out of here.

Together we break free.

A Poem by Cody Bennett Flying

Is that what it's like when you die? Do you
slip out of your skin, go
soaring up into a butterscotch
sky? Do you surf waves of light? How far?

How high?

I hope that's what it's
like, but I'm afraid
it's a lot more like falling with no net to catch
you, and no way of knowing
how hard
you will hit or where
you'll stop. Will you touch down back on Earth, or will you land in the nightmare
you always feared
you'd never wake up from?

Cody Funerals Suck

This isn't the first one I've had to go to. There were a couple in

Wichita. But this is the first one
that mattered. Old people are supposed to die. Jack wasn't old, and he sure wasn't ready to die.

*

It's a blistering day, and we're
standing here graveside, dressed
all in black. Fuck you, Jack. How
could you leave us? You swore
you'd take care of us. And now
you're nothing but pickled flesh,

*
broken promises. Mom is a mess, although she pretends she's okay and looks steadier than Cory, who is completely tattered. The two brace
each other, trying to stop shaking as the minister drones on about

*

Going home to his heavenly father.

Funny, but none of us really thought
much about heaven until the last
few weeks. Is there such a place, and is Jack already there? Is there a chance in hell someday I'll join him?

If Funerals Suck

Wakes are worse. I don't even
know who half these people
are, laughing and drinking and scarfing the food they brought so Mom wouldn't have to worry about cooking for a day or two.

*

They should just go and leave the food. Better yet, run to the grocery store and fill up the fridge. It's almost empty.

The only thing emptier is my
chest--where my heart used to be.

*

The doorbell rings. I open it to find Ronnie, a total knockout despite how ashen her face looks.

Is all that pale meant for me?

Hey, you. Her voice is soft. So is the hand that touches my cheek.

*

How are you doing? Sorry

I missed the service. I meant to come, but I overslept and...

She shakes her head. The truth
is, cemeteries scare me to death.

The last word makes her flinch.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm not big on them either." I take her hand, pull her through the door. No
one else has even noticed her presence. Good. "Let's go to my room, okay?" I want

*
to hold her, want to make love to her. Need to feel something
warm and alive. Need to fill
that empty space inside. I lead her to my disheveled bedroom.

"Sorry it's so messy," I whisper,

*
pulling her into me. "God, you
smell good." Like baked apples.

Not like flowers. Don't want to smell those. They remind me of death. Ronnie rises on her tiptoes, lifts her slick, honey-sweet lips

*
to meet mine. It's the sweetest
kiss ever, but it soon becomes
more. I lock the door, guide her to my bed, and for maybe the very
first time, sex is more than getting
off. This time, sex feels like love.

For the First Time

I stop myself before Big Bang, look down into Ronnie's violet blue
eyes. "I love you." And at this
moment, I do. And at the words, surprise (or maybe disbelief)

contorts her pretty face. "What?"

*

Nothing. She smiles. It's just...

wow. She undulates seductively, the rise and fall of her body like salty waves beneath my own.

Another first, this time no faking
climbing higher and higher, until

*
she finishes with an amazing
gush and tears of satisfaction.

I love you, too, she exhales softly.

We lie, tangled together, unmoving, unspeaking. And we both know
this is what sex should be.

All Awesome Things

Must come to an end, damn it to hell. Ronnie and I are slipping toward sleep, still intertwined, when the doorknob rattles. Cody?

It's Cory. Good thing I locked it.

Are you in there? Can I come in?

*

Ronnie starts to scramble.

I hold her tight, put a finger to my lips. "Shh." Then I say toward the door, "Just a minute, okay?" I've never had a girl in here. He probably thinks

*

I'm taking care of business, solo. I really don't want to let

Ronnie go. All the hurt will
come flooding back. But Cory is waiting. I kiss Ronnie's face, her neck, lick the shimmer

*

of sweat from the deep fold between her breasts. She sighs, and that makes me want more.

But Cory again bumps the door.

I rest my chin on her belly, look into her eyes. "Thank you."

We Throw on Clothes

But dressed or undressed, it's obvious what we've been doing in here. When I open the door, Cory is pretty much
amazed. Oh. Uh... sorry. I, uh, didn't know you...

*

His face is the approximate
shade of an unripe plum.

Ronnie and I both have to grin. "No problem, bro. Oh, this is Ronnie. We've been going out for a while now."

*

Cory has no patience for my
method of dealing with grief.

His voice, curt, slices the air.

Yeah, well, people are starting to leave. Mom's looking for you.

He pivots sharply, leaves the room.

*

I start to apologize, but Ronnie
stops me, stroking my lips with soft fingertips. It's okay. He's
hurting. And your mom needs
you right now. I should go. Her
kiss is a bittersweet good-bye.

One by One

Everyone leaves. Mom stands at the door, looking worn. Torn.

Emptied. She has managed the day so far without breaking down.

But now she dissolves. I go to her, put my arm around her shoulder,

*
steer her to the sofa. "Sit down.

I'll get you a drink." Something
strong, to help her sleep. She hasn't
slept much since the day Jack up and left us. Mom isn't much of a drinker. I pour her three fingers.

*

She accepts the brandy without protest. Sips it slowly, stares out the window. Finally she says,

I never believed this day would
come. Some stupid part of me kept
insisting the doctors were wrong.

*

Oh God, I miss him so much already.

What am I going to do without him?

She swallows the last of her drink in a giant gulp, throws her face into her hands and sobs. I want to help. But I have no answers.

I take her glass, go to refill it.

She deserves a good drunk, and so do I. As I pour, Cory comes
in, checks out the brandy bottle with covetous eyes. Oh, why not?

Mom won't care today. We sit

*
on opposite sides of our mother, downing alcohol that cannot warm the death chill infiltrating us, inside and out. Soon the silence becomes
overwhelming, and Cory turns on the TV. Doesn't matter what's on.

*

The three of us get drunk together, semi-listening to the announcer on Sports Central, droning on about

Jet Fuel, the unlikely winner of both the Kentucky Derby and Preakness, his even unlikelier odds of winning

*
the Belmont Stakes, and so the Triple

Crown. When Mom starts to nod
off, I help her to her feet, down the hall to her room, gentle her onto her bed. "I love you, Mom. Don't
worry. Everything will be all right."

Why Do I Keep Saying That?

Will everything be all right? How the hell would I know? Fuck this!

Jack, if you weren't already dead,

I swear I'd... I'd... My legs
give and I don't fight, sinking to the floor beside the bed Mom

*
and Jack shared for so many years.

She snores softly, and I hope she isn't trapped in some disturbing
dream. I look around the room, still so full of Jack. His clothes
drape the chair beside the window.

*

His shoes form a straight line just inside the closet. The scent of Brut
deodorant lingers, as does a vague
hint of medicines, sweated despite antiperspirant. Pictures of him and

Mom hang on the walls, and one of

*
my favorite family photos--camping at Lake Mead--sits front and center on the dresser, beside his belt and wallet. Where are you now, Jack, having left all this behind? Are you
whole? Is any of you left here?

Also on the Dresser

Is a stack of mail. From here,

I can see much of it is unopened.

I get up, go sort through it. Bills.

Power. Water. Trash. Mortgage.

Hospital. Doctor. American Express.

And there will be more coming.

*

Funeral home. Cemetery. Jesus!

Insurance won't take care of it all.

Neither will Jack's pension. I've got a paycheck coming, but that barely
covers my own expenses. Stop!

Can't think about this now. Not today.

*

One day, at least, to mourn. One
day to try and forget about death.

Mom's totally gone. I need to get
high. Wacked. Out-of-my-brain
fried. No need for Mom to see
bills first thing when she wakes up.

*

I scoop everything off the dresser, into an empty shoe box lying on the floor. Jack wore new shoes to his funeral. A big, fat joint is calling my name. And after that,

I need to hear Ronnie's voice.

Bud and Booze

May not exactly cure what ails
ya, but partner 'em up and they'll
definitely make you forget it for a while. I turn on my computer, and the first thing that pops up on my Yahoo page is news headlines.

*

And there, again, is Jet Fuel.

They're laying odds against him.

Which makes me wonder... Yeah, oh yeah, there it is--an online Sportsbook and yes, they are most definitely
taking bets on the Belmont, as well

*
as just about every professional
sporting event out there, from soccer
matches to major league baseball.

Why didn't I think of it before?

If there's one thing I know about, it's baseball. Been a Kansas City

*
fan since I could spit, and the Royals are looking good this year. I want in on this action. First I need to set up an account. Let's see. All I need is a credit card and something to prove I'm eighteen, which I won't be
for over a year. But where there's a will--and I've definitely got
that--there's a way. It comes to me
suddenly that the way just walked into my room in a shoe box, along with a pile of bills. Jack's wallet

*
has three credit cards in it, along with his driver's license. This may
be a gamble, but I'm betting they
won't be checking to see whether or not Jack Bennett is dead or alive.

Not as long as the cards are good.

*

I sort through the stack, locate the AmEx and two Visa bills, check available credit. Damn right, more than I thought. Cool. In less than five minutes, I've got an account set up and a hundred

*
smackeroos riding on tonight's

Royals game. When they win,

I'll pay the electric bill and buy
some groceries. Meanwhile,

I'll polish off this roach.

And I'll give Ronnie a call.

The Pot Buzz

Should make me feel better, but all it does is combine with the alcohol to make
loneliness hit like a freight
train. Mom's asleep, Cory's
out somewhere, doing who

*
knows what god-awful things.

Jack's dead. Dead. The word
repeats itself over and over.

Dead. Damn, man. Dead.

I need to hear Ronnie's
voice. She answers her phone

*
on the first ring. I thought

you might call. Are you okay?

She knows I'm not, but waits for me to tell her so. Do you
want me to come over? Vinnie's
here. He'll give me a ride.

*

"Oh God, Ronnie, yes. I need
you." I do, and it feels awful and wonderful, all smooshed
together. We'll make love, and

I'll forget about the Royals.

Forget about Jack. Forget... Dead.

Stinking Royals

Can't believe they lost last night, and to the stupid Mariners to boot.

Oh, well. That means they have to win today, so I'll lay down two
hundred. And while I'm at it, I'll
put fifty on St. Louis. Why shove

*
all my eggs into one flimsy carton?

Mom never even missed Jack's
wallet or the bills. She woke up, fighting a hangover headache.

Me, being a hangover expert,

I convinced her to try a little hair

*
o' the dog. Cory didn't feel much
better. You'd think his tolerance
would be taller built by now.

The two of them are napping.

Good. I can't stand seeing so much pain in two pairs of eyes.

*

Speaking of two pairs, just won
sixty bucks at poker. Almost made up for the hundred I dropped
yesterday. My luck is coming
around. Just in time. Because beyond major league baseball,

I'm planning on laying a major league
bundle on Jet Fuel. The odds on him
just keep growing longer and longer.

I'll wait a couple of days, see how
long they'll go. But right now, a thousand-dollar bet on the win

*
could net almost twenty big ones.

Twenty thou would pay an awful
lot of bills. And now I need money for my insurance. Between Jack and Ronnie and spending a lot of time in front of my computer,

*

I lost my job. Not that I care. Jobs like GameStop are a dime a dozen.

And anyway, I've got bigger plans than spending my days directing snot-nosed
kids to Pokemon Purple. High
finance is in my immediate future.

A Poem by Eden Streit My Future

Is meaningless now, flavorless as an icicle
melting, drip by drip to puddle and freeze
again upon shadowed
ground. They say to drop the pretense, as if
confessing my heart was a game of charades.

Tears
such as these could
only be born of soul-ripping
sorrow. They
fall, in relentless procession, summer rain upon parched playa, relentless.

Eden Demon Possessed

Apparently, that's the real definition of falling in love--Satan implanted some evil angel

*
inside me to steer me away from God's family.

And it isn't only Mama and Papa who think

*
so. Or claim to, in the name of the Almighty.

Almighty dollar, that is. Samuel Ruenhaven--

*
who strongly prefers being called Father--
graduated seminary the same time as Papa.

*

But Father's path led him to the stark sand of northeastern Nevada, where he settled

*
a sizeable chunk of desert he dubbed Tears of Zion. Oh, it's a very special place,

*
where Father and his "disciples" rehabilitate
incorrigible youth. Exorcise demons.

*

I've been here almost a month. Mama delivered
me personally, after slipping enough Lunesta

*
into my tea to knock me out for eleven hours.

When I finally woke up, we were bumping along
hundreds of miles from home. It will never
be "home" again for me. I hate it. Hate Mama

*
worse. When she saw me conscious that day, head thumping from a narcotic hangover, almost

*
immediately she started in quoting Old Testament
scripture. That was the extent of our one-sided

*

"conversation." She never said another word to me. I tuned her out, concentrated on trying

*
to connect psychically with Andrew, who could have had no idea what happened to me.

*

I didn't know the details then myself. Couldn't
have guessed where we were headed. Even

*
when we pulled through the Tears of Zion gates,

I had no clue what was coming. I began to suspect

*
it wasn't good when Father waddled out to greet

Mama. She offered a hand, free of emotion,

*
and her plea was simple: Do whatever it takes to bring my daughter to her senses.

Father's Methods

Are likewise uncomplicated. You can sum
them up in a single word: Deprivation.

*

No food for the first three days. Water only.

Flushing poisons, he claimed. Cleansing

*
body before examining soul. Since then, an unvaried daily thousand-calorie diet--

*
oatmeal, thin soups, flat bread. Minimal sleep, even now. The subconscious is Satan's

*
classroom. The worst thing is the isolation.

I rarely see anyone but Father and his disciples--

*
creepy guys who always dress in bleached white
jeans, matching T-shirts. And the sad, sick thing

*
is I'm almost glad to see them. I know that's the point. But I don't know how to fight it.

*

I spend every day alone, silence squeezing
me until I think I'll go totally crazy. Insanity

*
might, in fact, be better. I'm supposed to be
reconsidering my choices. But all I do is pace

*
the perimeters of this featureless room, thinking about Andrew. And how completely I love him.

Is He Thinking

About me? Wondering where I am?

Where is he? Home? Looking for me?

*

Or has Mama decided to have him arrested?

I have no answers. Can't process clearly.

*

My brain feels like day-old mush. Unstirred.

Undisturbed. Left for scavengers. And speaking

*
of bone pickers, the cloying scent of rabbit
brush precedes Jerome through the door.

*

As Father's believers go, Jerome is the least
offensive. Not that he's good-looking.

*

He's short, partly because he carries himself as if his shoulders are weighted with iron.

*

What hair he has left is thin, reddish. It reminds
me of an alcoholic's morning eyes. His nose

*
is shaped like a toucan's bill, and the watery orbs
just above it look at me with a mixture

*
of sympathy and... lust? He places a tray on the splintered table. Eat hearty.

*

"Right. Lukewarm oatmeal. Mmm." Unlike
some of the other disciples, Jerome allows
me a fair amount of sarcasm. Lukewarm is better than cold. And... He glances around

*
the room, as if some voyeur stands in the corner, watching. Then he takes something from the tray.

*

Look what I brought you. Promise you
won't tell? He holds out a napkin, unfolds

*
it slowly, revealing three beautiful strawberries.

First crop. Delicious. And just for you.

*

Their sweet red perfume permeates the room's stale air. My mouth waters.

*

I start to reach for them, reconsider, snatch my hand quickly away. "Why me?"

*

He creeps toward me, baiting, pallid
tongue circling his mouth suggestively.

*

Because I like you. He puts a berry to my lips. And because you're beautiful.

*

Instinctively I suck the fruit onto my tongue, crush it against the roof of my mouth, go weak

*
at the intense rush of pleasure. "Thank you." It
comes out a whisper. "I promise not to tell."

Jerome Isn't Quite Finished

He takes my hand, caresses it gently before placing the other two berries on my palm.

*

If you're really good at keeping secrets...

His eyes bore into mine. Something feral

*
pacing there. We could have a little fun.

If you be good to me, I'll be really good

*
to you. Strawberries are just the beginning.

Cheese. Meat. Chocolate. Maybe even some

*
shampoo to use instead of that vile soap.

He touches my hair. I bet it's pretty

*
when it's clean. I bet it smells like rain.

Here now. What did I say? Don't cry.

*

A recollection clutches my throat, chokes. It's Andrew's voice, surfacing

*
like a creature, dead and bloated, from deep sea. Smells like rain.

*

Pain throbs. No, not pain, not even
agony. Something there is no word for.

*

Something I can't fight. Can't fight. Can't.

All I can think to do is say, "S-sorry."

My head spins. My legs go numb.

Jerome catches me as I collapse, and my tears

*
soak into his bleached white shirt. Okay, baby, he soothes. Go ahead and cry.

*

I should jerk away, out of his arms, but his gentle rock cradles my loneliness.

*

There is nurturing here, and it comes to me, with a whoosh like sudden wind, that there just

*
might be a way out after all. And that way
could very well begin and end with Jerome.

So When He Kisses

The top of my head, I stay perfectly
still against him. And when his hands

*
begin a slow journey over the landscape of my body, I grit my teeth. Do not

*
protest. Will not complain. Forgive
me, Andrew. Please understand.

*

It's my only way back to you. But

I won't give him everything.

*

I go as far as to let him open my blouse, touch beneath my bra. Now he kisses

*
down my neck, to the skin he has just
exposed. Drawn tight up against him,

*

I feel him grown hard against my thigh.

Now it's he who shakes. Shivers

*
with hunger, and just like that, I am in control. I push him away, but tenderly,

*
like a mother convincing the infant at her breast that he's had enough.

*

I make my voice light. "That's all
you get for three strawberries."

He is pliable. Clay. He smiles, clearly into the game this has unmistakably become.

*

Fair enough. Father would probably miss
me now anyway. Just one question...

*

He helps himself to a final taste.

What will you give me for ice cream?

*

I back away, closing buttons. Reach down deep for the "inner whore"

*

Father claims all women harbor inside.

I smile. "Haagen-Dazs or store brand?"

The Door Locks

Behind Jerome, who promised to see what I can do about Cherry

*

Garcia. Dirtied, I drop to the floor, tuck my back into a corner, as if walls could

*
protect me. Lord, please forgive this
sin. What I've done. What I may do,

*
though I'm not exactly sure what that
might be. All I know is I have to escape

*
this place, run far, far away. From here.

From home. Toward what, I don't know,

*
except somehow, some way, that "what"

must bring me closer to Andrew. I'm tired.

*

Hungry. I glance at the bowl on the table, oatmeal grown granite cold inside it.

*

I want pancakes. An omelet with sausage.

I want the key to this unbarred cell.

*

Jerome has perhaps offered it, if I will
only reach for it. I close my eyes. Think

*
of Mary Magdalene. What was her prison?

And how far did she go to get the key?

Some Biblical Scholars

Believe Magdalene wasn't really a prostitute at all, but the woman

*
most loved by Jesus. A few even
think they might have been married.

*

Papa preaches that she was a whore, reformed by the love of Christ. No sex

*
involved in the reformation. Mama echoes
this tale. But Mama thinks I'm a whore

*
too. A laugh bubbles up, bounces off the barren walls. What incredible irony.

*

Sorry, Mama. Making love with Andrew
didn't make me a whore. But sending me

*
here might very well do exactly that.

I have nothing to lose. You've already

*
stolen everything important. Made me an outcast. Tossed me into this wilderness

*
prison. And now the question becomes:

How far will I go to get the key?

To Know That

I need to find out what Father has in store for me. We meet every afternoon except

*
on Sunday (no work on the Sabbath), for "prayerful counseling." So far,

*
it's the only time I'm allowed out of my
room, into the sunlight, the sage-tainted air.

*

There are two long, low buildings, with rows of doors just like mine. I'm not

*
the only one here. Once in a while, I see
other kids, working alone in the garden

*
or shoveling manure from the chicken
coops. Punishment? My guess is reward.

*

There are smaller cottages, too--staff
residences, I'm sure. A large house looms

*
in the distance. Father's, no doubt. Wonder
if there's a Mrs. Father. Probably not.

*

The chapel is large, with rows of chairs, so I imagine there are Sunday services
that I'm still not holy enough to attend.

Don't know if there are classrooms

*
somewhere, or if any of us juvenile
delinquents are allowed schooling

*
other than what's taught in the Bible.

It's the only book I have in my room,

*
and I have to admit with no TV or other
distractions, I've read more Old Testament

*
here than ever before. Today as I walk, escorted, to the chapel, the compound

*
looks deserted. How many of us are there, biding our time in solitary, entertaining

*
ourselves with Leviticus? Do those further on their way toward rehabilitation interact?

*

How many will actually be rehabilitated?

What exactly does that mean, and how is it

*
accomplished? How does someone leave
this place? No harm in asking, is there?

A Dozen Questions

Fill my head as I enter the chapel.

Father's office is tucked in back

*
of the altar. He is working at his computer but turns and stands

*
as we enter. Welcome, Eden. Brother

Stephen, you may leave us. He motions

*
for me to sit before launching into a long-winded entreaty to the Lord

*
to deliver wisdom. To me, obviously.

Father already knows everything.

*

I keep that to myself, of course.

In fact, I say nothing as he "counsels"

*
me on how I might return to the Path

Toward Salvation. Finally he finishes

*
and actually gives me the opening I need.

Do you have any questions for me?

*

I pretend thoughtfulness for a second.

"I've had lots and lots of time to think,

*
and I really believe you've opened
my eyes to my sinful ways. I was just
wondering what I have to do to prove
that to you so I can go back home."

*

He smiles. But it is a cheetah's smile.

Do you really believe I'm so foolish?

*

I find no hint of contrition in you.

What I see before me is a liar. Still,

*
you're not stupid. So you must understand
that your behavior reflects on your parents.

*

They don't want you to come home, do
not want your tarnish on their sterling

*
community standing, or for you to influence
your sister to repeat your mistakes.

*

You will be here for the foreseeable future.

Shall we decide to make the best of it?

*

Of course. I should have known. "Thank you,"

I say, meaning it. Because he just gave me

*
permission to do what it is I need to do. I am completely resolute to leave this place. Soon.

A Poem by Seth Panel What I Need

Is something intangible, and so, unattainable because it is ever
changing.

Neither can what I want
be defined. To someone
standing on the outside perimeters of my life,

I might look
one hundred percent the same.

But if they had the ability to split

me open, look deep
inside, they would know the mask that
appears to be
my face is painted over the real me, smoke and mirrors, an illusion.

Seth Graduation Came and Went

Whoopee. Finally free of educational necessity.

No more pencils, no more
books. No more Janet

Winkler's dirty looks.

*

I've got to stop drinking.

But not right now. What
else is there to do around here? Funny, but not so long
ago, I swore I'd be off to college.

*

Now I really don't care about moving on. What was I thinking? I'll never
go on to school. What for?

My destiny was decided

*
for me by the circumstances of my birth. Hick boy from

Indiana. What am I going to do? Turn into a rock star?

Or maybe run for president?

Yeah, I Know

The state of Indiana has
produced one of each. But
neither was gay. So hurray.

It's farming for me. Oh well.

At least this little piece of

*
enlightenment has brought
me closer to Dad. No more
long afternoons in Kentucky, though I do sneak off and meet Carl every now and again.

*

Not for love, but for lust.

As older guys go, he's not so bad in the sack. And
besides, he's incredibly
generous with the same

*
sort of perks I got from

Loren. Gourmet dinners.

Theater and concerts.

Art house movies. Only with Carl, the maitre d's
know him by name, and sit
us at view tables. He's got
off-Broadway season tickets, not to mention box seats at Churchill Downs. I'm not

*
big gambler, and know
squat about horse racing.

But Carl knows enough for both of us. And it is his money we wager.

*

Beyond any rush at the rare
win, I love the atmosphere.

Rich people, outfitted in elegance, sipping mint juleps and inhaling the extravagant

*
potpourri of leather, grass
hay, and Thoroughbred
manure. It's a sensual
experience, highlighted by

Carl's commanding presence.

*

He hasn't made me forget

Loren, or soothed the sting of desertion, but he has made
me realize that I don't have to live my life in isolation.

Thinking of Loren

Makes me want liquor.

Dad isn't much of a drinker, but there's usually beer in the fridge, and the afternoon is hot for June. A cold brew

*
sounds pretty damn fine.

I'm done tending garden for the day. Carrying gray
water by the bucketful.

Looking up into the sharp

*
blue sky, no sign of rain.

We can grow vegetables
this way, but the corn looks
mighty thirsty. We could lose the whole crop, if God

*
doesn't cooperate. Weird, but not a hundred miles from here in Illinois, they're
drowning under monstrous
thundershowers. Just goes

*
to show the randomness of the Almighty's hand.

Hey, Ma, if you're up there, could you put in a good word for the farm you left behind?

I Go into the Cool

Of the house. "Dad?" He has
drawn the shades, flipped the small window air con on.

The faux breeze it has raised
blows gently over the sweat

*
on my face. Aaaaah! Soap and water attack the grime on my hands, and now it's

Miller time! I reach into the fridge, find a frosty can,

*
pop the top, take a long
swallow. A voice falls over my shoulder like a shadow. Who the hell are you? Iron hands--

*

Dad's hands--grab hold of my shoulders, spin
me around to face him.

The look in his eyes is a blend of disbelief and

*
revulsion. He knows.

But, "How?" He points to the kitchen table, to the envelope and pages
lying spread across it.

I gather Loren's letter, glance at the words, talking about his church, his new
home, his congregation.

Talking about missing me,

*
wishing there was a way
we could be together. It's not
pornographic, but there is enough detail so Dad can
have no doubt what it means.

*

I saw a New York postmark.

Thought maybe it was from a college or something.

My God, Seth. How could
you? How long have you...?

*

A vortex of emotions--anger, relief, fear--roil together, geyser from my mouth,

"I've been gay--can you
even say the word gay?--

*
since I was born, Dad.

This"--I wave the letter in front of his face--"is who I am. Who I've always
been. I can't change that."

I'd Give Anything

Not to cry. To prove, no
matter my sexual lean, that I am every inch a man.

But tears overflow my eyes, stream down my face.

*

The only good thing is,

Dad's crying too. And
he's definitely straight.

But he says, No, no, no.

You can't be... He can't

*
say the word, after all.

Thank God your mother
didn't find out about this before she... It would
have killed her. Sooner...

*

"No, Dad! How can you
say that? Mom would
have been all right with it. She loved me. Just like

I am. Even if I am gay."

*

He goes silent. Shrinks
somehow, like a corpse
too long in the sun. She
would not have accepted this.

And neither can I. Not ever.

"Please, Dad." I reach out for him but he recoils, as if

"gay" was something you
could catch. Time. It will take
time. That's all. "Please?"

*

He shakes his head. Hard.

Homosexuality is a sin, an abomination in the eyes of

God. Just the thought of you...

His eyes go flat, drained

*
of love for me. Temporary, right? I kept hoping you'd
find the right girl, bring her home. Get married. Have kids.

But not some--some man!

*

Not in my house. Not in my
face. Oh my God. What if
you have AIDS? Or some
other sick homo disease?

He slows. Catches his breath.

*

Considers some moments before he says, You have to go. Pack your stuff and get the hell out of here. He turns his back to me. And I know
there is nothing I can say to make him change his mind. Still, I have to try.

I swallow the mounting
hysteria. Keep my voice

*
low. "I'd say I was sorry, but I can't apologize for being who I am. I didn't ask to be gay. I was born this way, and if you think it's been easy,

*
living a lie and knowing
this day might come, you'd be wrong. I'm still the same person I was before you found out. Still your s--"

*

His head starts moving back and forth before I can finish the word. "Okay, then. But
where will I go? I have no job, no money. How will I live?"

*

Still facing away from me, he reaches for his wallet.

Extracts two twenties. Tosses
them to the floor. Best I can do.

You'll figure something out.

Time

It will take time for him to accept this. Right? I am still his son. No way he can quit being my father. Quit loving
me. Not because of this. Right?

*

Loren's letter is still in my
hand. I fold it carefully, slide it into my back pocket, along with the forty dollars

I retrieve from the linoleum.

*

My room is still my room.

Isn't it? This has always been my haven. My sanctuary. How
do I leave it, especially knowing it may no longer be mine to

*
return to? Because I am who

I am? I don't understand.

Nothing is different. Not one
damn thing, except there's
no reason to hide anymore.

*

I am not an abomination.

In fact, I could easily argue
that God wanted me this
way. Dad will come around.

All it will take is time. Right?

Meanwhile, I've Been Banished

Damn you, Loren. This is all your fault, and you're
not even around to give
me a place to stay. I put in a call to Carl. He's not

*
home, but I leave a brief
message, asking if I can
spend a day or two at his place. Hopefully he'll say
okay. Not sure what else to do.

*

On my way out of town,

I stop by the cemetery.

Might be a while before

I can get back for a visit.

"Hey, Mom. How're things

*

Up There, anyway?" I kneel beside her grave, yank the weeds that have grown around her headstone. "Guess
you know what's going on

*
here. I'd appreciate it if you
could maybe send a message

Dad's way. A little intercession?

You're not mad at me, are you?

I mean because of..." A fresh
storm of tears erupts.

"You still love me, right?"

A little breeze picks up suddenly, lifts my hair like fingers. I'll take that as a sign.

*

I sit in the cool grass, as close to Mom as I can get, at least for now. I take Loren's letter from my pocket, begin to read, dunking myself in loneliness.

*

Dearest Seth, he begins. No
wonder Dad kept reading.

Sorry I haven't written

Sooner. You probably think

I've forgotten you. Never!

*

Your touch, your taste, your scent, are etched in my brain forever....

Why did he write these
things to me now? Every

*
sentence brings the pain of missing him so alive.

I read until the letter ends:

Our time together will always
remain a treasured memory.

Ba-bump!

Not that I didn't already
suspect his leaving meant he was dumping me for good. But to have it put so succinctly, long distance,

*
is a two-fisted gut punch.

And to have a Dear John
letter be the one to bring
me so completely down is more like chopping me

*
in two, midsection. Why
write at all? Just to make
damn sure I knew that he was never coming back?

A low throb begins in my

*
temples, and my eyes glaze
red with anger. That son of a bitch! If he were here,

I'd rearrange his face.

Not that I'm one hundred

*
percent sure how you go about doing such a thing.

It's a whole new, horrible
thought for me. Hell, maybe

I'm a real man after all.

I Contemplate the Meaning

Of "real man" all the way to Louisville. I cruise
slowly--I have nothing to hurry for--and by the time I reach the city

*
limits, I've decided if being a real man means
smashing someone in the face or turning
your back on a person

*
because of their sexuality,

I'll just stay a girl. Guess
my dad is a real man because he's decided

I'm not. Oh damn well.

*

I arrive at Carl's door, determined not to break
down. But the minute

I see his face, hear his mellow-voiced welcome,

*
it all comes pouring from my mouth. What is it about

Carl and confessions? He
fixes strong drinks, listens
patiently. Finally he touches
my cheek gently. I'm sorry.

I never dared come out to my parents. They both
went to their graves without knowing. I've regretted that.

*

He thinks for a minute.

Finally he says, I have so enjoyed your company.

You have been a balm for this lonely old man. You may

*
stay for now, and I'd ask
you to stay longer, but only yesterday I received
news that my company
has landed a big contract

*
in Las Vegas. I have to move to Nevada as soon as I can
put it together on this end.

I'll be there at least a year; maybe many more, with luck.

*

Vegas. Hot. Dry. Fifteen hundred
miles away, give or take. Forty
bucks won't cover a ticket. But
maybe I can convince Carl

I'm worth buying a ticket for.

A Poem by Whitney Lang Worth

How much would you pay to stay alive? I mean, if you could somehow
get the money?

What is your life worth?

Ten thousand? A mil?

How do you measure
something like that?

Is
your life more dear than a homeless person's?

Or a mercenary's--who
kills innocents for money?

My life
might seem valuable to a kidnapper or a life
insurance agent.

But what, really, is it worth?

Whitney Screw Lucas

Who needs the a-hole anyway?

I hope he and Skylar are totally
miserable together. And, no
doubt, they totally are. But

*
even if they're totally in love,

I am too, and with someone so much better than Lucas
could ever pretend to be.

*

On a scale of one to ten, Lucas
might rate an eight point five.

Bryn is an eleven--classically
handsome, so smart it's almost

*
scary. Yes, he's a few years
older, but nothing wrong with maturity. He knows what he wants, where he's going.

*

And unlike Lucas, who is a world-class bullshitter, Bryn, I know in my heart, would never lie to me. I trust him with my life.

That Night After Lucas's Party

Just as he promised, it took
twenty minutes (okay, maybe
twenty-five) for Bryn to collect
me, buzzed and brokenhearted.

*

While I waited, several people, some of whom I've known for years, walked on by me without a word, despite

*
the steady rivulets of tears
ruining my makeup, streaking
my face. Too much drama,

I guess. And yet, here came

*
this complete stranger, in his midnight blue BMW. He pulled
over, double-parked, came around to open the passenger door for me.

*

Come on, sweetheart. Everything
will be okay. He settled me into the seat, buckled me in, as if I were a little child. Where to?

I shrugged. "I don't care, as long as it's away from here."

Away from there. Away from him. Away from friends,

*
not really friends at all, if it meant you or some guy.

I stared out the window, watching the procession

*
of streetlights, begging myself
not to get sick. "Thank you for coming to get me. I didn't
know who else to call."

*

Really? Already driving slowly, he took his foot completely off the gas pedal. What about your
parents? Or, uh, your boyfriend?

*

I snorted. "My dad is hardly
ever home. And all my mom
cares about is my sister. And as for my boyfriend..."

I wasn't sure how much to say.

But whatever. "That party was at my ex-boyfriend's house."

There. Complete confession.

*

Well, not quite complete. Bryn
called me on the rest. Ex, huh?

Then why were you at his party?

Want to tell me what happened?

*

"Can we go somewhere and talk?

I know I shouldn't ask. I'm sure you
have better things to do." I could hardly
believe it when he said, Not really.

We Drove Down to the Beach

By the time we parked, got out, and walked a little way, barefoot in the cool, damp sand near the water's
edge, I had mostly sobered up.

*

I sat, combing the sand with my
toes, as I told him pretty much
everything about my pitiful life.

When I talked about Kyra and Mom,

*
he kept nodding. Turns out he, his brother, and father have a similar
relationship. Like Dad, Shane is a high-priced criminal attorney.

*

And me? Well, I'm just a lowly
photographer. Never mind
that I've shot most of the top
modeling talent in this country.

*

Which explained the company name on his business card: Perfect Poses.

"So what are you doing in Santa

Cruz? Why not L.A. or New York?"

*

He exhaled deeply. My dad lives in Los Angeles. But my mom
hated the city She lived here... until she died a few weeks ago.

"Oh wow. I'm so sorry. I hope

I didn't..." I couldn't finish.

I had sure stuck my big ol'

foot in my even bigger mouth.

*

No. It's okay, I came here to help settle the estate. She left her house to me. So I really don't
know many people here yet.

*

Which explained why he wasn't
busy that night. In need of a subject
change, I moved on to Lucas. "Not
everyone here is worth knowing...."

*

I told the whole virgin thing. When

I finished, he responded with a hand, placed gently on my knee. What an idiot. Does he not recognize

*
what a gift you gave him, what an amazing opportunity you are?

You've lost not a thing, lovely
lady. You've lost not one thing.

Okay, His Syntax

Can be a bit elevated. Overeducated, maybe, like having a PhD in poetry, which should come from the heart, not from some cardboard rulebook.

*

But hey, nobody's perfect. And Bryn
comes just about as close as a guy
can come. Since that night, we've
seen each other almost every day.

*

It hasn't been that long--only a couple of weeks. But day by day, I tumble deeper and deeper in love with him. Yeah, it was fast.

*

Can falling in love be too fast?

I don't think so, and neither
does Bryn. Best of all, he isn't
afraid to tell me he loves me.

The First Time He Told Me

Was the same time as our first
kiss. It was only a few days after we started seeing each other.

He said he wanted to wait,

*
thinking I wasn't quite ready for someone new. I wanted you to be sure. Rebound things can

be incredible letdowns. So stop

*
me if you don't want to hear
this, okay? I don't know how you
feel about love at first sight, but that day in the mall, I knew

*
right away that you were unique, a girl who stood out in the crowd.

And when I saw you sitting there on the curb, crying over someone

*
who didn't deserve your broken
heart, I wanted to make everything
right again for you. I've never
fallen for anyone so fast!

*

We were at our favorite beach
hideaway, listening to the symphony of the waves as the sun set, tangerine, on the horizon.

Bryn pulled me into his lap, leaned his forehead against mine, kissed me softly. This is so odd for me, Whitney. I've photographed

*
many beautiful girls. Had flings with a few. But I never felt for any of them what I already feel for you, and we barely know each other.

*

You are more than a pretty face.

You are beautiful inside, and that
beauty radiates, shines like a star.

I know it's wrong--I am a few

*
years older than you--but you have
filled an empty place inside me.

He turned to look me in the eye.

I love you, Whitney. I really do.

*

Then he kissed me, and though

I found hunger there, I also found the love that he professed. And now

I experience that love every day.

We Haven't Made Love Yet

He says he wants me to be very, very sure I want to, because he treasures me for more than just
my body. I'm pretty sure I'm ready,

*
but that isn't quite "very, very sure."

Still, maybe today will be the day.

Yes or no, first he's going to take
some pics of me. I want to show you

*

just how beautiful you are, he said.

Then he took me shopping for what he wants me to wear--a long, flowing
skirt and gauzy off-the-shoulder blouse.

*

Both white. A celebration of virginity, was his explanation. We'll send a couple to your old boyfriend.

He meant that last part too.

*

It's an incredible day--seventy
degrees, nonintrusive breeze.

Just enough to rile your hair, carry scents of summer blossoms.

*

I feel pretty, all decked out in white, with just enough makeup to enhance
my features, not make them obvious, as per Bryn's request. Virginal.

We'll Do the Shoot

Where else? At the beach.

But down the coast, away from town. As we S-curve along serpentine Highway 101,

*

I can't help but think about

Lucas and our first time together.

Driving this same stretch of road.

Getting high. "You don't happen

*
to have any pot, do you?" Bryn
has never offered to get high with me. Come to think of it, we've never even discussed it.

*

He doesn't slow down. Afraid not.

I haven't smoked marijuana in years.

I do have some Valium, if you're a little nervous. In there. He points

*
at the center console. Valium?

Why not? "I'm not exactly
nervous. But a good buzz never
hurt anyone, right?" I pop one,

*
wait for it to kick in, watching the ocean's heave. By the time
we reach Bryn's chosen location,

I'm feeling pretty darn fine.

We walk down the deserted
beach until he finds a nice stretch of undisturbed sand. This will do.

He unpacks his gear, then checks

*
me out, all up and down. Take off the bra and panties, okay?

We want a glimpse--a hint-- of what's under all that white.

*

I do as instructed, allow Bryn to position me exactly the way he wants. He sits me, skirt tucked
provocatively between my bent

*
legs, and when he goes to move
my arms, his hand brushes against the fabric covering my breasts.

My nipples go hard immediately.

*

Lovely, he says, assessing.

Exactly what I'm after. Then he kisses me sweetly. Exactly
what I'm after He makes me

*
feel like a real model--beautiful, every man's desire. When he's
finished with his camera, he lays
me back on a thick blanket.

You are exceptionally lovely, he says, brushing sand from my hair. He settles beside me, props himself on one elbow.

*

Bryn's free hand begins a slow
exploration of my body, over the sheer fabric, tracing each
curve. You don't mind, do you?

*

Eyes closed to the lowering
sun, brain suspended on a Valium
cloud, I sigh, lift my head. "Kiss
me." He does, and then he lowers

*
his mouth to other, much more
intimate places. So this is making
love! Well, not quite. I want to know the rest. "Make love to me."

*

You're sure? he asks, but there
can be no doubt I'm very, very
sure. Bryn guides me to a place

Lucas has no idea exists.

Okay, It's Kind of Disturbing

That, immediately after learning the meaning of "orgasm," I think of Lucas. Maybe it's because

I need to know, "Was that okay?"

*

Oh, darling. Bryn kisses across my face. That was more than okay. That was extraordinary.

With just a little practice,

*
you will become perfection.

And I so want to be...

want to be your coach. But...

He rolls away from me--déjà

*
vu of the most terrible kind.

I jerk upright, reach out for him.

"What? What did I do?" Oh my God, he's not going to dump me too?

*

Nothing, baby. He accepts my hand against his cheek. It's just that

I got a call this morning, from an agency in Vegas. They want me

*
to shoot a beauty pageant, plus some pre-event studio work. I'll be
gone for several weeks. Oh, sunshine,

I am sure going to miss you!

My Summer

Just grew a whole lot darker.

"Oh." It is barely audible, but even if I could make words come
out, I wouldn't know what to say.

*

He takes my hand, kisses
my fingertips. I probably

shouldn't have... you know.

But I couldn't help myself.

*

You looked like an angel.

And now I want you more than ever. If only you could...

He shakes his head. Never mind.

*

"What?" What he suggests
thrills me. Scares me. Tempts
me. And, finally, "I'm not sure
how I could pull it off."

*

I know. I didn't really think
you could. But it would be like a dream to spend every day with you. He pulls me to my feet,

*
and we wander up the beach toward the car, his invitation
echoing inside my head: Come with me.... Come with me.

Mom's Home

When Bryn drops me off. She takes
one look at me--how I'm dressed, the state of my hair and makeup--
goes off on a rant. Where in the hell

*

have you been? And with whom?

I never gave you permission to go
anywhere. She catches her breath.

You do remember "permission"?

*

Suddenly she cares? "You do
remember that you actually have to hang around the house long
enough to give permission?"

*

Rant becomes rave. You shut the hell up. And you'd better
understand that you may not
leave this house for any reason.

*

I want to scream. But silence is the better course of action.

"Whatever." I go to my room, flop down on my bed. Where--

*
and why--did she find this sudden
case of maternal instinct? I consider
my next move carefully. Call Bryn.

"Okay. I'll go. Pick me up at ten."

A Poem by Ginger Cordell Move Carefully

Who knows what lurks beneath that beautiful
rock you want to turn
over?

I once thought

I wanted to live on a mountain. But
how high before the altitude
would take its toll?

Now I want to dive
under
deep water. But can

I hold my breath, stand the pressure?

How low
can I go, and will

Fate keep the sharks
far away, or will Destiny in fact send some
hideous sea creature to catch me in its jaws, drag me down?

Ginger They Call Vegas

Sin City, like calling it what it is somehow legitimizes the name.

Las Vegas is Sin City. Whole lot

*
of sinning going on, from fancy
high-rise casino rooms to sleazy
well-off-the-strip motel dives.

*

People come here specifically to sin. But I wonder whether
it's really true that "what happens

*
in Vegas stays in Vegas."

People stain themselves here.

I bet, no matter how hard they

*
scrub themselves after sinning, when they go home, a certain
amount of stain remains visible.

*

Then, I guess, it's up to the spouse or significant other to recognize the meaning of that dark splotch

*
ghosting beneath the bleach.

Most of 'em probably don't want to look. Don't want to know.

The Reason

I know so damn much about the sinning is I have pretty well been pushed into causing some

*
of it. As sin goes, at least so far, my own participation
has remained fairly mild.

*

See, when Alex and I first hit
town, like a few weeks ago,

Lydia seemed okay with giving

*
us a place to crash. Alex called her from the bus station. Hey, girl. You said to look you up if

*

I ever made it to Vegas. Well, me and a friend just got here.

Could you come pick us up?

*

It was early morning, and

Lydia was not real happy about having to pull herself

*
out of bed. We waited a couple of hours, sipping coffee, until she finally showed, took us back
to her small tract house south of the city in a burb called

Henderson. She keeps her place

*
neat, with pretty flowers in trim
beds, giving the impression she wants to give--legitimate.

*

See, for a while Lydia worked as a stripper in a fairly nice
club near the Stratosphere.

*

I made pretty good money.

Most of it went to the house, which took a big cut for keeping

*
the girls safe. I did all the work, they reaped sixty percent of the bennies. Hard to swallow.

*

So Lydia got smart, started her own business--Have Ur Cake

Escorts. Now she takes a cut from

*
the girls (and guys) whose "dates" she sets up. I still strip for fun
once in a while. All on my own terms.

Her Neighbors

Are completely clueless about her means of support.

They think she's a showgirl.

*

The ultimate Vegas dream.

Anyway, she let Alex and me
move into her spare bedroom.

*

But not for free. You can stay for a week gratis. After that,

I'd appreciate a little rent.

*

She never asked why we were there, although she did mention

Alex's dad. How's he doing?

*

Alex shrugged. Same ol, you know? But if he happens to call, I don't want to talk to him.

*

Far as I know, he never did, and Lydia let the subject
drop. Alex and I looked for

*
under-the-table jobs, but they're
hard to find, unless you're good with pulling weeds for five
bucks an hour. A week came.

A week went by. Two. Plus a couple of days. Finally Lydia

*
said something. Okay, here's the deal. Both of you are pretty
girls. Great bods, with that fresh

*
look guys (especially old ones)

appreciate. You could make
boatloads taking off your clothes.

*

The clubs are careful about underage girls, but work for me, no one will check your IDs.

*

My first reaction was no way
would I ever let evil old pervs
see me naked. That's when Lydia

*
mentioned how much money
we could make. Easily five
hundred a night. And that's no

*
touching allowed. Bachelor
parties alone could make the two of you very comfortable.

What She Forgot

To mention was that her cut for setting us up in the exotic
dancing business was one-third

*
the hourly rate. Tips are ours to earn and keep. And hey, considering Lydia handles all

*

Have Ur Cake calls, screenings, and advertisement, she's
worth every penny. As per her

*
well-advised counsel, Alex and I
work exclusively as a team.

Sooner or later, Lydia said,

*
you'll have to deal with a jerk who won't want to hear "no
touching allowed," if you decide

*
to stick to that. With two of you, you've got a fighting chance, or at the very least, a witness.

*

So far, though we've had many
requests for more, and a few
grumbles when we say no way,
the men have all honored the "look but don't touch"

rule. Our two-for-one fee

*
is three hundred an hour

(a bargain!) plus tips for straight dancing. Private

*
lap dances are twenty dollars per song. Girl-on-girl action
adds another hundred to the tab.

*

Besides Lydia, we give a cut to our regular taxi drivers, who keep us off their meters.

*

They're cool and weren't hard to hook up with. Pretty much
everyone in Vegas is a scammer.

*

As for the actual stripping,

Lydia gave us some pointers.

Turns out I'm a better dancer

*
than Alex. Her boobs are bigger, though, and really beautiful.

I swear I never knew I leaned
toward girls until I met Alex.

Guess I never let myself lean any
way at all. Didn't dare get close

*
to anyone, male or female.

But Alex and I are tight. I love her heart. Her brains. Her body.

*

The men we perform for like when we dance with each other, breast-to-breast or belly-to-ass,

*
tan skin against pale, ebony hair on blue-streaked blond, fingers
touching hidden places we won't

*
let "clients" touch. Powerful!

That's how I feel, seeing how
helpless we make them. I so enjoy

*
reducing them to masturbation.

It's like they are masturbating for me, and I can control when

*
they come by how I move
my body, what I let them see.

It's a game I win every time.

Another Few Weeks

We'll have saved enough to get our own place. Maybe a nice little townhouse closer

*
to downtown, where most of the action is. Tonight
we've got a bachelor party.

*

Great gigs. Tips are good.

And when there's a crowd in the room, the dicks mostly

*
stay hidden. I'm standing by the window, keeping
watch for the cab, when Alex

*
comes into the room, wearing a yummy short leather skirt.

Just got a ten o'clock. We should

*
be finished with the boys before nine. Younger guys tend to get
started early. The best man booked

*
us for seven, and they should all
be well on their way to passing
out before we even get there.

Which is why we collect our
basic fee up front. Don't want to get caught with our fingers

*
in some drunk guy's wallet.

Of course, we do hope they
stay awake long enough to

*
reward our girl-girl routine.

We knock on the condo door at seven on the dot. The guy

*
who answers is pretty cute.

Hello, girls. Come right in.

Can I get you ladies something

*
to drink? We decline and he escorts us inside, where a half
dozen guys are ogling cable porn.

*

While I ask Best Man for cash up front--six hundred, split
seven ways--Alex flirts. Okay,

*
boys, where's the groom? We
want to treat him right! Where did she learn that shtick? Stripping
for Dummies? Hah. Anyway, once the cash is safely tucked
away, Alex outlines the rules:

*

Absolutely no touching, or we
leave immediately One lap dance is included, for the groom only

*

If any of the rest of you are into that, it will cost extra. Tips are encouraged! Any questions?

*

One rat-looking dude pulls his eyes from the TV screen
action. How much for head?

*

A couple other guys laugh
nervously, but Alex has it covered. You'll have to ask

*
your buddies. We don't do head, except on each other, and that
will cost an extra hundred.

*

No surprise that Ratman
reaches into his pocket for a Benjamin Franklin.

Seven Fifty, Minus Commission

Toward a place of our own,

Alex and I bid adieu to groom,

Best Man, et al. Poor bride.

*

We're giggling as we get into

Leonard's cab. What's so funny, girls? Care to share?

*

Alex hands over a fifty. No

offense, Len my dear, but men are just so disgusting.

*

I mean, really. Would you dare
beat off in front of your best
friends? We crack up again.

*

Lenny looks into his rear-view
mirror, grins. Only if
you two were dancing for us.

*

It's a short drive to our next
appointment, in a not very nice
part of town. Lenny promises

*
to stay available, Just in case
you need a quick ride out of here. Be careful, okay?

Hey, says Alex, no worries.

But if we don't call you in an hour, it's okay to come looking.

*

She gives him a twenty for caring and off we go. Unlike

Best Man, this guy is a pug,

*
short, wrinkled, and bug-eyed.

He doesn't talk as we handle the business stuff, but he does

*
pay extra up front for a three-song
lap dance. I glance at

Alex, who nods, meaning

*
she'll do it for him. She knows

I never could. After a little
girl-on-girl rubbing, she goes

*
to take care of it. He sits
very still in his chair, staring as she strips free of her bra.

*

Suddenly his hands are all over her. "Hey. Cut it out.

Absolutely no touching allowed."

No good. Alex's eyes go just a little wild. Okay, man, we're
out of here. She tries, but

*
the creep snakes his arms around her waist, squeezes like a hungry boa constrictor.

*

All I want is a hand job. Give it to me, I'll let you go. You, over there, play with yourself.

*

So much for control. Good
thing it doesn't take long. He
finishes with a loud, Aaaagh!

*

He does let go of Alex, who wipes her hand on his shirt.

We grab our clothes, throw

*
ourselves out the door, mostly
naked. Yank on what we can at a dead run. Suddenly Alex

*
starts to laugh. She holds up a wad of bills. Stupid shit
just gave us a really big tip.

Later, After Several Shots

Of whiskey (Lydia buys it for us, as long as we
drink it post-business only),

*

Alex and I go to bed.

Fresh from the shower, her skin is warm and apple-scented.

*

I reach for her, but she turns over, away from me. Not now. I'm tired.

*

Lately this happens more and more. When sex is your job, it gets harder

*
and harder to let it be about love. "Please, Alex.

Can't I at least hold you?"

*

She sighs gently, backs up against me, into my arms.

Before long, she trumpets

*

Jim Beam-fueled snores.

Wish I could laugh about it. Wish she was really here.

A Poem by Cody Bennett Might as Well Laugh

Dying is for babies, little kids. Old people who somehow can't
remember the way to the toilet, so have to rely on

Depends. Once, when

I just couldn't hold it anymore, I peed
my pants in the car.

Life
totally sucked until Jack
stopped and Mom got me
some clean ones. Cory
made
major fun of me for days!

Please, God, when I get
old, let me have enough
sense to find my way to the toilet!

Cody So Lady Luck

Ain't no lady. She's a total bitch, not to mention a tease. I mean
one minute she smiles, and dice
roll your way. Then she turns
right around and hands you snake
eyes. Three times in a fricking row.

*

Lately she hasn't even half-ass
grinned at me. Don't know what it is, but I can't win an effing bet to save my neck. Not even a little
one, and at the moment, I'm not so sure I could even manage that.

*

The Belmont fucked me good.

I scraped together the thousand, knew in my heart of hearts that
jerk-off Jet Fuel was gonna take the Triple Crown, despite what the so-called experts had to say.

*

That damn horse laid back just a little from the start. I knew the jockey was saving something for the home stretch. Damn, my
heart got to thumping in my chest.

Thought it might give clean out,
especially when they turned into that final straightaway, and Jet Fuel found his stride.

I was jumping up and down.

Screaming, "Go, you sucka, go!"

He went. Finish line in sight,

*
he took the lead by a nose.

A neck. Then, from the back of the pack, here came Girly

Girl, a stinking filly, no less.

I swear, once Jet Fuel took a look at her ass, he was done racing.

*

Didn't place. Didn't show.

Hauled his butt across the line in fourth. Girly Girl, a true long
shot, paid out forty to one. At
least the experts weren't right about her, either. But Jet Fuel,

*
damn the nag, broke my bank
account. I should have known to bet the filly. Girls always win, always get their way. Except
when their boyfriends are freaking penniless losers.

Saturday Is Ronnie's Birthday

I wish I could get her something
special, or at least take her out to dinner somewhere really nice.

But I'm completely broke. Can't
lay my hands on a dime, thanks to one too many bad bets. All

*

I need is one good wager to make
things right. But I don't have seed
money for even the smallest bet.

I suppose I could go stand on a street
corner, panhandle a buck or two.

The sign could say: DADDY DIED. PLEASE HELP ME FEED MY FAMILY.

*

So far, we're still eating. But

Mom's bank account is definitely
dwindling. She's out right now, looking for a job. I should be
doing that too, instead of combing through Jack's clothing, hunting

*
spare bills, or at least change. One
little bet could make it all right.

Food. Bills. Insurance. Oh yeah, and bud. I've pretty much had to go
cold turkey on that, and a good damn
buzz would make everything easier.

I've Scrounged

Four dollars, give or take, when

Mom comes slamming through the garage door. Better exit her closet!

I tuck the cash into a pocket, head toward the kitchen. She's at the sink, faucet running, and over the top

*
of the water splash against stainless
steel, I can hear her crying. I don't
want to scare her, so I make a lot of noise, stomping across the floor.

Her shoulders droop, so I know
she's heard me. "What's wrong?"

*

She keeps her back toward me, keeps on scrubbing her hands.

Only when I touch her does she speak. I don't know what I was thinking. How can someone like me find work in Las Vegas?

*

The only places that will hire a person my age are Wal-Mart and McDonald's, and even then

I have to compete with young
people. It's like once you turn
fifty, you become disposable.

I reach around her, turn off the faucet. Then I spin her gently around to face me. "You are not
disposable. Don't ever say that
again. Cory and I need you more than ever...." Especially Cory,

*
who needs an intact parent to turn
him around before there's no more
turning. But I can't say that. She's
got more than enough on her mind.

What I say, despite Mom's tears, is, "Please try not to worry."

*

Don't worry? We're going to lose the house! The foreclosure notice
will arrive any day. We'll be out on the street.... Her body shudders, and she slumps into my arms.

I carry her to the sofa. She's light

*
as weathered bones, and her skin
looks like old paper. "Mom? Mom!"

At my voice, she comes out of her trance.

I'm okay, she mumbles. Jack's pension
will come through. We can always
rent a little place. We'll be just fine.

That Phrase Again

More and more, I'm starting to believe we won't be "just
fine" after all. But I can't let

Mom know I feel that way.

"Yes, we will. You rest now."

She closes her eyes, and I sit

*
beside her for a few minutes, holding her hand and brushing
obstinate wisps of hair back off her face. Foreclosure. The word
has been in the news a lot lately, especially here in Vegas. But

*

I had no idea it would ever
threaten us directly. Mom sinks into troubled sleep. I have to do
something. But what? A job like

GameStop won't pay the mortgage.

Neither will Wal-Mart. So what?

*

Quick cash-shortage fixes are plentiful in Vegas. Payday
loans won't work, since I'm
currently not getting paid.

Credit card advances are out, considering every card in
the household is currently maxed.

(Thanks mostly to me.) One solution
remains. I go into my room, look
around. Not the computer. Not yet.

TV? Check. Stereo? Check.

And in the corner sits one more

*
dream I'll never attain anyway--
my guitar. I carry TV, tunes, and instrument to my car, head toward the far end of the strip, where pawnshops are plentiful. I choose the one
that claims, "We Pay Top Dollar."

*

The little puke behind the counter is not impressed by my twenty-inch
flat panel television, nor my pricey Bose Wave Music

System. Fifty bucks for both.

Neither will he give me much

*
for my amazing Martin guitar.

Forty. But beggars have no
power to negotiate. The dude
thinks this stuff is hot, anyway.

As I'm filling out the paperwork, he spies the ten-dollar gold piece

(a gift from Jack), hanging on a gold rope chain (a gift from

Mom) around my neck. You
interested in a loan against those?

He eyes them covetously as

I run my fingers over the chain.

*

Fuck it. They're just things, right? Still, I can picture Jack, three Christmases ago, when he handed me the little present, wrapped in shiny purple foil.

He was so proud! I haven't

*
taken it off since that day.

But now I ask, "How much?"

The pissant wants to see them
closer, and after a quick inspection
offers one-fifty. "Two hundred,"

I counter, not expecting him

*
to say okay. But he does. I walk
out of Superduper Pawn not
quite three hundred dollars richer.

It weights my conscience heavily.

Now the question becomes, what do I do with the money?

It Won't Cover

Even a quarter of the mortgage
payment. It might pay last month's
power bill, but that's about it.

I can't forget Ronnie's birthday.

Twenty will cover supermarket
flowers and a card. Wait.

*

My insurance is due. Can't let
that lapse, or the state of Nevada
will slap me with a hefty fine.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Three hundred
bucks is nothing! Maybe I should
turn around, go back for my stuff.

*

It's evening, thank God, a desert
breeze lifting to fight the almost
unbearable summer heat. As I go to my car, the streetlights pop on.

They like to keep the sidewalks lit
here in Sin City, especially in

*
the seamier parts of town, where
crimes are nightly events. Some are serious--robberies, gang
shootings. Others don't bother
me much. Prostitution, for instance.

A quick glance reveals five or six
working girls, a transgender and a straight-up guy. Okay, maybe
not so straight. The driver of the car that stops to make a deal with him is definitely a dude.

Hey, whatever dings their dongs.

*

As for the girls, one is kind of cute. She's young. Doesn't look
all used up, like the other ones.

Actually, the he/she might be the prettiest one of all. Funny
what the right outfit and makeup

*
can do for a guy. The next car to pull over, looking for tail, chooses him/her. Wonder if the guy knows for sure what kind of tail lurks under those Frederick's of Hollywood panties! Suuurprise!

*

Speaking of Frederick's, maybe

I'll forget about the flowers, get Ronnie something pretty from there. Something I can appreciate
too. Damn, now look what I've done.

I need Ronnie to ding my dong.

Frederick Has a Secret Too

And that is, his lingerie sure ain't
cheap. I dropped fifty without even trying. Oh well. Ronnie will
be happy, and so will I. That leaves
me two forty, minus sales tax on a red velvet panty/bra set and the price

*
of a power drink. Insurance. Gas, at four bucks a gallon. Fuck it! I'm
broke again. Think, Cody, think.

Okay. If I fill the tank halfway,

I'll probably have twenty left for a small bet somewhere. But where?

*

Sports haven't been real good to me lately. Casino betting has always been better. If I could parlay the twenty into fifty, I could play poker at

Vince's tomorrow night. I always
walk away from there with serious

*
cash. Well, more often than not.

Now if I could just figure out a way to score, I'd be sitting pretty, or at least not quite so ugly. Wonder how
long the grace period is for my car
insurance. Better look into that.

First Things First

No need to worry about poker
if I don't have a stake, and twenty
won't cut it. Vince's games
have become so popular, he made it a fifty-dollar buy-in.

I pump eight gallons into my tank,

*
head on home. I check the mail on my way past the box. No
foreclosure notices, but plenty of other bills, including American

Express and B of A Visa. I'll worry about how to pay those another

*
day. Inside, Mom has moved into her bedroom. The door is closed, and behind it, it's coma
quiet. Cory's door is also closed.

I poke my head in, but he isn't
here. Didn't think he would be.

*

Not sure how he spends his time.

Pretty sure I don't want to know.

Even Mom doesn't really question
why he's out so late every night, what time he makes it home.

What he's doing when he's gone.

I go into my room, turn on the 'puter, navigate to one of my favorite sites. The account is empty. But I happen to have
one last card from Jack's wallet.

It's his ATM card, which draws

*
from Mom's bank account.

I've hesitated to use it because

I had no way to replace any cash

I took out of it. Now, a few bucks in my pocket, I'll make a deposit
first thing in the morning.

*

A hundred should be plenty.

Ten-dollar blackjack bets are pretty safe, and wins can add up quickly. Hand number one:

draw. Nothing lost anyway.

Hand number two: I bust. Shit!

*

But I win the next two hands, ka-ching, ka-ching. I knew
my luck would turn around eventually. Ka-ching! So okay, maybe a little larger bet. Let's go
twenty this time. Dealer holds
on sixteen. I've got fourteen. All

I need is seven or less. Come on!

No! Not nine! Damn, damn, damn.

It's okay. The Lady is still with me.

I can feel her, smiling. Big bet?

Small bet? Big bet? You bet!

*

I lay down thirty. It's my hand and I know it. Deal to me: nineteen.

I hold. Hold my breath. Just as the dealer draws twenty--fuck!-- the telephone rings. Who the hell
could it be, this time of night?

Caller ID

Informs me it's the "Las Vegas

Police Department." My throat
goes dry and my heart drops into my gut. Cory! Little fucker
better not be dead. "H-hello?

Uh, no, this is his brother.

*

Hang on. I'll get my mother."

I start to call her, but she materializes at my side, almost as if she expected this call.

She takes the phone from my
hand, listens to Sergeant Givens

*
without saying more than a few
words. When she hangs up, she looks at me with watery eyes, shakes her head. They arrested

Cory. He assaulted a woman during a robbery attempt.

A Poem by Eden Streit Assaulted

By a glimpse of light,

I am reminded
how precious is freedom.

Swallowed by darkness, emptied of tears, the song of the desert
calls to me and I know to find a way beyond these plywood walls,

I must
become someone

I don't want to know.

I hope the real me will
follow.

And I pray the Lord
understands my reasons.

Forgives.

Eden Escape from Tears of Zion

Does not come easy. Jerome is, in fact, maneuverable, and the key to the lock.

*

He comes to me late at night, tells me to do things I've never even imagined.

*

Things I should have saved for Andrew.

The first time will stay with me, a scar

*
on my heart. The door opened and though

I knew what that meant, I couldn't believe

*
that this supposed man of God would draw
back the sheet, pull up my shift and stand,

*
staring. Forgive me, he whispered, and he meant that, even as he stripped,

*
lowered his ghostly white nakedness over me. I swallowed the building scream.

*

Opened my legs. Wept as he plunged inside.

Choked on his Listerine-flavored tongue,

*
wielded like a weapon. His kiss was, in fact, harder to accept. Sex is sex. A kiss means love.

After he left, I cried and cried, called into the night, "Andrew, where are you?"

*

No answer came then. Or yet. The next
morning Jerome brought a hot biscuit,

*
with butter and honey. Nothing ever, ever, has tasted so good. He came back

*
that night. Afterward, I cried and cried, screamed into the night, "Andrew, save

*
me." But he didn't. Hasn't yet. The next
morning Jerome brought a perfect peach.

*

And so it has gone. I have my shampoo, unscented so Father won't notice,

*
but at least my hair feels clean. Really
clean. I even got my Cherry Garcia.

*

Another small plus: Jerome always uses a condom. That little detail has saved

*
more than a badly timed pregnancy.

It has probably saved my sanity.

*

Almost worse than the thought of having his baby is the nightmare idea of his "leftovers."

After a Few Weeks

The straight sex has become routine.

Something I can shut myself off from.

*

But now Jerome wants other things.

Let me watch you touch yourself.

*

Creepy things. Did you know guys like to use vibrators too? Like this.

*

Downright disgusting things. Your
period? I like the taste of blood.

*

How I wish I could say no. But even
if I thought he'd leave me alone,

*
saying yes is how I have convinced
him to make Father believe I am fit

*
for small freedoms. Like working in the yard, pulling weeds and picking

*
vegetables. Out here, beyond the confines of my room, I understand there is no way

*
to leave the place on foot. I can see
forever across the playa, and the road

*
is a straight, stretched wound. I can tell
cars are coming long before they arrive,
by dust mushrooms sprouting into the hot
blue Nevada sky. Hot? Working outside,

*
even midmorning, sweat pools in my armpits and beads my skin, attracting bugs and dirt.

*

But anything is better than slow suffocation in the tomb of my room. I observe people

*
come and go. Memorize schedules. Learn
where cars are parked, some left unlocked.

*

Ironically, Jerome is one of the worst about leaving his keys under the floor mat.

*

I file that fact away. Plan A has gone awry.

Maybe it will come in handy with Plan B.

Plan A

Was to do whatever it took to get Jerome to call Andrew, tell him where to find me.

*

But a major flaw in that strategy surfaced.

Oh, I have played on Jerome's sympathy.

*

Talked about home. Church. Papa. Told him

Mama is crazy, something he understands.

*

Jerome inherited his own "not rightness" from the XX chromosome side of his family.

*

My mother used to lock my brother and me in the closet, he told me. Then she'd sit

*
outside the door and listen. If she heard
us praying to Jesus, she'd let us out.

*

Even Mama isn't that bad. But our conversation
did reveal some mutual rocky ground. And keeping

*
him talking meant less time for other stuff.

Then yesterday I asked if he'd ever fallen in love.

*

He blushed but said nothing for several seconds.

Finally he confessed, With you.

Talk About Knocking

The squall out of my sails. In love with me?

Looks like loneliness works both ways

*
here at Tears of Zion. Jerome will not help
me reconnect with Andrew. Neither will he

*
leave my door unlocked so I can slip away into the desert night (Plan B). Unless...

*

What would he do if I asked him to run
away with me? Does he really believe

*
he loves me? Would he desert Tears of Zion and Father? Is this a job or true devotion?

*

Could I convince him? Could I make him
believe I'm in love with him, too? Could I

*
live with myself afterward? Could I ever
be forgiven for such painful deception?

*

As I sit here, alone, questioning, phrases
tumble into my head: You'll be here

*

for the foreseeable future.... Make the best of it... Guys like vibrators too.

*

Plan C begins to formulate. Yes, it's wrong.

But not as wrong as everything else.

Plan C

Means courting Jerome's affection, pretending to enjoy his deviant sex.

*

Tonight that means letting him call me

"Mommy" as he sits on my lap and "nurses."

*

I stroke his hair as a mother would, dig deep inside for the words, "Mommy loves you, Jerome."

*

That excites him, as I guessed it would.

I love you, too, Mommy. See how much?

*

Oh, Andrew. Even if you do find me, how
can you ever love me again after this?

*

I hold stubbornly to the dream that he will, as Jerome turns his belly to "Mommy's."

*

Love or no, Jerome wants to punish Mommy.

The sex is rough, but it doesn't hurt nearly

*
as bad as the pretense. And it's even faster than usual. When he finishes, I lay my head

*
on his knobby chest. "Too bad you have to go.

It would be nice to sleep together all night."

*

Jerome's chin lifts and falls against my hair.

Uh-huh. That surely would be nice.

I roll on top of him, look up into his eyes.

"What if we..." Soft kiss. "Never mind."

*

He shivers. Is much too easy. I feel
almost evil when he whispers, What?

*

I sit up, slide the naked place between my legs over his skin. "We could leave. Together."

*

He shakes his head. His body stiffens.

No. I couldn't do that. It would be wrong.

*

"No more wrong than this." I lean forward, cup my breasts, rub them over his face.

*

Confusion seeps into his eyes, and like it or not, his muscles relax. All but one.

*

I rock back gently, invite him inside. "I'd be
all yours and take such good care of you."

*

The second time takes longer, but when
he's finally done, he says, I'll think about it.

*

After he leaves, I lie in an aura of hope.

Say a little prayer to Mary Magdalene.

Hope Begins to Fade

After two days. I haven't seen Jerome
even once. Did I scare him away?

*

I'm pretty sure he didn't say anything to Father, who doesn't act strangely

*
at all during our regular sessions.

In fact, today he is almost friendly.

*

Brother Jerome tells me you've worked
hard in the garden, he says. Is that right?

*

What kind of game is this? Better play
along, whatever the rules. "Yes, Father."

*

Good. Hard work deserves a reward.

Starting Sunday, you may attend

*
the regular worship service, If that
goes well, we can talk about school.

*

Worship? School? No more isolation?

Is this some kind of a trick? Did Jerome

*
confess everything to Father after all?

I have no idea what to believe anymore.

*

One thing I know. It's wiser to say too
little than too much. "Thank you, Father."

Brother Stephen

Walks me back to my room. A girl, a bit younger than me, rakes gravel

*
outside the chapel door. She looks up as we pass and I smile at her, which only

*
makes her drop her eyes to the ground
again. But not before I see the fear

*
floating in them. Is she new here, then?

Or has she been here longer? Long enough,

*
perhaps, to know which is the greater
punishment--isolation or supervised

*
communion. The short exchange leaves
me uneasy. I wish I could talk to her.

But that won't happen. Stephen herds
me forward. Hurry up, would you?

*

"Why? Somewhere you have to be?"

A hard shove lets me know in no uncertain

*
terms that my sarcasm is not appreciated.

Except by what little is left of Eden.

Thank the Good Lord

The piece that remains is the one that can
find a streak of humor, however dark,

*
in almost anything. Otherwise, I would
have gone completely crackers by now.

*

Otherwise, they would have already won.

I'm not conceding yet, and I never will,

*
unless Andrew is out of my life forever. Why
did I think that? He's looking for me.

*

(Unless my parents had him locked up.)

Waiting for me. (Unless he believes

*
our separation was for the best.) Loving
me. (Unless he finds out what I've done.)

*

A wave of depression sweeps over me, washes me into an icy black sea. I'm treading

*
water, poorly, when the door opens.

Why are you lying there in the dark?

*

It's Jerome. The smell of chicken broth
tells me he's brought my dinner.

*

He flips on the light, and I jump up to greet
him, kiss him on the cheek. "I'm so happy
to see you. Where have you been?

I thought for sure you were mad at me."

*

He sets down the tray. Now, why would
you think a thing like that? I had a couple

*
of days off is all. He reaches out, strokes
my hair. So pretty. When we go, I'll buy

*
you shampoo that smells like roses.

You like the scent of roses, don't you?

*

When we go? Chills charge through me.

"Of course, Jerome. Roses are my favorite."

*

Good. I thought so. I have to go now, but I'll be back later. We'll talk then.

When He Returns

He outlines his plan. We'll leave

tomorrow night, when everyone's asleep.

*

By the time somebody misses you, we'll be halfway to Salt Lake City.

*

Salt Lake City? Well, we can't go
back to Boise. Still, "Why go there?"

*

He shrugs. My brother lives there.

I can work for him under the table

*
until you turn eighteen. After that, we're free to go wherever we want.

*

He has really thought this through.

So, "Why can't we leave tonight?"

*

No hurry is there? I'm too tired to drive very far tonight. Besides...

*

He lifts my arms, pulls my shift up over my head. I'm in need of your

*
special brand of lovin'. Help me
out? He nudges me toward the bed.

As He Pokes

And pinches, I concentrate on ways to not reach Salt Lake City. Afterward,

*
he takes me in his arms, like in some awful
romantic movie. Only in the movies,

*
the couple would really be in love, though
they might not know it yet. Despite everything

*
before, and what Jerome has hinted will come
soon, I have to fight not to resist him.

*

It's a losing battle. My body tenses.

He can't help but notice. What's wrong?

*

I drop my voice to a whisper. "Nothing.

It's just... I'm excited. And scared."

*

Don't be scared. Everything will work
out fine. I promise. He kisses me

*
and I draw from the deepest well of dark
deception to kiss him back like I mean it.

When the Door Closes

Behind him, I clean myself, as I do every
time he leaves, with soap and cold water

*
from the wash basin. The air in the room is thick with heat and the smell of sweaty

*
sex, a smell I never knew existed until just a few weeks ago. At first it made

*
me gag, but it has become something

I simply accept, because I have no other

*
choice. When all choice is taken from you, life becomes a game of survival.

*

I lay the towel on the bed, lie on top of it, so I don't have to touch the sheet.

*

Will I carry that habit with me if and when

I leave this place? Will Jerome really take

*
me out of here? What then? I have no
answers, but I do know I can't end up

*
in Salt Lake City. Wherever I go--Los

Angeles, maybe, or Reno or Las Vegas--

*
my only goal is to reconnect with Andrew.

And pray this nightmare ends with a red sunrise.

A Poem by Seth Parnell Vegas

This city is a neon-scaled
hydra, bellying across hot

Mojave
sand. Cobra
heads, venomous, in disguise pretend
beauty, lure you with hypnotic
eyes, copper
promises, and the bare
skin of gods intent on mortal souls. Walk
cautiously, beware the brazen
slither of concrete beneath your feet.

Do not listen to the arid
hiss of progress.

Seth Before We Came

To Las Vegas, I had an inkling
that Carl had money.

But I had no idea exactly
how much until he invited
me to relocate here with him.

*

Truth is, I didn't really
expect him to agree to bring me along. In fact,

I wasn't totally convinced
that I wanted to come.

*

The night my dad kicked
me out, I was in turmoil.

Where to go? What to do
next? I had no clue. Carl was my only solid ground,

*
and when he said he was moving, the earth quaked.

The blood rushed away from my face. Carl reached for me, as a father would.

Someone's Gay father

I propped myself against him. "I don't know what to do. I can't go home. Have
no home. No money. No job.

Sorry. Not your problem."

*

He thought silently for what
seemed a long while. Finally, he led me to the sofa, sat
next to me. I've never told

you about Simon, he said.

*

He lived with me until a few
weeks before you and I met.

He was what some call

"kept." And I kept him.

It was a mutually beneficial

*
relationship. He enjoyed
my hospitality I enjoyed his company, and he looked
good on my arm, at least until he grew bored with it.

A trophy--that's what the guy

I first saw with Carl at

Fringe was. Carl let the idea
filter through my confusion.

I wasn't looking for another.

*

But if you would consider it,

I'd think about taking you
along. He kissed me, led
me to bed. Come on. Show
me how much you want to go.

*

He asked me to do dark, obscene things. Things

I'd never done before.

And he wanted me to do
them without protection.

*

Feels better this way.

And it's okay. I'm safe.

I promise. You have to trust me. He was right.

I had no one else to trust.

A Few Days Later

I climbed on board a jet for the very first time. Sat in first class, where drinks are served before the plane's
wheels ever leave the tarmac.

*

Less than four hours later, we touched down sixteen
hundred miles to the west, and a billion light-years from everything I've ever

*
known. We disembarked the silver bird in Sin City, where trophy boyfriends are almost as common as trophy wives. Carl likes me

*
on his arm. I'm not sure
how I feel about being someone's prize, but it's
better than being homeless, that much I know. Neither

*
am I exactly sure how I feel about the world--at least
my newest little corner of it--
knowing I'm gay. I don't feel
judged. But I do feel exposed.

Culture Shock

Barely describes what
it's like, coming from the wild land of Indiana to the wild life of Las Vegas.

This city defines insanity.

*

Not that I've traveled much, or at all really, but I can't
imagine many other places so built on extravagance.

Or so reliant on human greed.

*

Casinos line the glitzy strip, masquerading as Venetian
canals, Egyptian pyramids,

Manhattan skyscrapers.

Their exteriors boast fountains,

*
pirate ships, giant lions with gaping mouth doorways, roller coasters. And almost
everywhere you look--
billboards and signboards,

*
on taxicab roofs and giant-screen TVs on outdoor
walls and indoor ceilings--
you simply cannot escape the sight of near-naked bodies.

Skin, Skin

Everywhere skin. Instead of Sin City, they should
call this place Skin City.

Female skin. Male skin.

Something-in-between skin.

*

They (meaning Skin City
marketing geniuses)

aren't choosy about gender, as long as the skin is flawless.

Bronze. Young. Beautiful.

*

I'm not griping. I like skin as much as the next guy.

Maybe the real problem is, except for the first few days
here with Carl, I've pretty much

*
been left all alone to set up our luxury condominium in an upscale fringe suburb of the city. There's a lake
out here, and two golf courses.

*

All seem totally out of place in this hot-as-snot stretch of desert sand. One hundred
twelve degrees in the shade?

Who says there isn't a hell?

If Vegas Is Hell

The devil himself probably
lives here at Lake Las Vegas.

He'd only settle for the best, right? Everything here is that, from the boutique shopping

*
to the pristine marina, to manicured waterfront
greens. It's beautiful, if hot.

Perfect, with one small
blemish: Here, I'm not Seth.

*

I'm Seth, who's Carl's.

Maybe that's not so bad.

I don't know what to think
anymore. Lots of people
would envy my life with Carl.

*

I eat well. Drink well. Dress
well. And don't have to work for any of that, unless you
count the sex. All I have to do is keep the place picked up

*

(a housekeeper handles the real
dirty stuff), keep myself fit

(the workout facilities are excellent), and look pretty.

Hey, man. I'm a movie star!

One Big Problem

Is boredom. Back home

I was never bored. Too
much work to do. And
when I was done, I could
go into town, hang out

*
with friends, play pool or dance or spread gossip.

But here, I have no car, wouldn't know where to drive it if I did. I can only

*
work out so much. Lying by the pool is a sure
path to skin cancer. TV is a brain-sucking machine.

I need someone to talk to

*
when Carl is busy playing

Mr. Real Estate Developer.

So I've started spending too
much time online, making
virtual friends. Fantasy

*
connections are better than no outside contact at all. I even found a chat
room called Men Kept by Men. My kind of room.

Sure, There Are Posers

Guys who only wish
they were kept. And
guys who wish someone
would want to be kept by them. Fishermen.

*

Then there are the guys who pretend they want to know all about you, and about five minutes into the conversation,

*
they ask if you'll talk dirty to them, preferably on the phone. Masturbators.

Every now and then, you
come across married guys

*
who want to meet for real, with or without their wives, usually the former. Cheap
thrill seekers. I haven't
played in the flesh, but I don't

*
mind getting someone off telling dirty stories. There's a certain sick kind of power in that. I bet I've even
made a priest or two come.

Which Brings Me Back

To Father Howard. I guess the first time he gave me a hug, I was about twelve, and an altar boy, steeped in Catholic tradition. I was

*
preparing the altar for Mass
when he called to me from the vestry. Seth, come here and help me a minute, please.

It was a stifling summer

*
afternoon, and the loud
hum of the air conditioner
fought heavy rock music, streaming from the radio.

Father Howard was a twenty-

*

-century priest. What do you

think of these colors? He held up some squares in turquoise
hues. I want to paint the office and just can't seem to decide.

I went closer, studied the samples carefully.

Finally I pointed to "Cool

Caribbean." Father Howard
smiled. I like that one too.

*

Cool Caribbean it is, then.

Thank you, Seth. As I turned to leave, his arms coiled around me. You're very
special to me, you know.

*

It was the first time a man
had ever hugged me in such an intimate way. I liked it, twisted around to hug
him back. "Thanks, Father."

*

That was it. That time. I left, feeling very special. It never
occurred to me that it might
be wrong for a man of God to embrace a boy in such a way.

Or Where

That first hug might lead.

The next time we were alone together, Father Howard was bolder. His hug lasted
longer, and he massaged

*
my shoulders. You are such a good-looking boy, he said.

I bet the girls think so too.

He paused, but when I didn't
respond, he tried, Other boys?

*

My eyes went wide. I started to deny, but the adolescent
tugs I'd felt had all been toward boys. I couldn't lie to a priest. I stared at the floor.

*

He tilted my chin, so I had to look in his eyes. It's okay,

Seth. You're beautiful, just the way God made you.

His lips, warm and soft,

*
brushed across my forehead.

I was scared. Thrilled. Amazed at his acceptance of sin, born inside of me. Father Howard
left things there. That time.

The Next Time

Hugging segued to touching.

Not too much. But enough.

Later, there would be more
touching. Mutual touching.

But always gentle. Always

*
with deep affection. We never
had out-and-out (meaning in and out) sex. And though I'd heard about pedophile priests, for some reason, I never thought

*

Father Howard might be one.

Not then, anyway. Not until years later, when I read about him losing his collar because of another boy. In another town.

*

The picture became rainwater
clear. I wasn't special at all.

I was just one of the first of many. I felt betrayed.

Used. White-hot pissed off.

*

But ultimately my emotions
cooled. Iced over. I could
have said no, and Father

Howard would have backed
off. But I didn't. And while
he most definitely took
advantage of my youthful
ignorance, he also made
believe that being drawn to men didn't automatically

*
condemn me to hell. After

Father Howard changed
parishes, I moved on too-- to girls in general and Janet

Winkler in particular. I'll always

*
feel bad about hurting her, but I can't be what I'm not.

Bringing me back to what I am--
gay, and being provided for by someone I like but don't love.

Making Me

According to this guy Chad, a regular chatter in Men Kept by Men, A whore, and not a whole lot more. No worries, mate. I'm a whore too.

*

Turns out Chad's keeper
imported him all the way from Sydney, Down Under.

But wherever he's from, his assessment must be wrong.

*

Okay, I don't love Carl. But
millions of people have lived
together without being in love.

I type, "How is this different from a marriage of convenience?"

*

Chad's fingers are quick:

Did you sign anything to make the arrangement legal?

If your man drops dead, what will happen to you?

*

Carl won't die any time soon.

Right? I mean, he's not that
old. Right? Okay. Valid point.

One I should probably consider
sooner rather than later. Right?

A Poem by Whitney Lang Sooner or Later

Someone
you could not have
ever dreamed of appears like a rainbow
bridging clouds, and steals
your breath away.

Someone beautiful, inside and out, grabs hold of your
hand, guides you along a rarely traveled
road, to a place
where your broken
heart
can be mended, piece by beating piece.

The cost, gratefully
afforded, is only
your love.

Whitney Free

That's what I am now. Free of Mom, of Kyra's shadow.

Free of friction and the pain of a shattered heart. I'm healed.

*

I'm also blown away by Vegas.

What a crazy city! I bet this is what all those Saudi sheiks
wish their desert looked like.

*

Of course, on any given day, there are probably a half-dozen

Middle Eastern moneybags
living it up here in Sin City.

*

This is where they come to get
away from Allah's watchful eye.

'Cause Vegas would scare the living
crap out of any deity worth his salt.

*

It's hot as hell and downright
filthy. Not like dusty dirty, although when the wind blows
hard from the west, it's that, too.

Vegas is the kind of dirty every
mother worries about. What would
my mom say if she knew this is where

I ended up when I left that night?

*

Nothing, probably. I bet she's happy

I'm gone. One less irritation carving
wrinkles. Daddy must be worried
sick. It's been almost two months,

*
and I haven't let him know I'm okay.

Eventually I will. I'm more than okay, actually. I'm great, because

I'm with Bryn, who loves me

*
more than anything. Who wants to be with me always. Who needs me.

That's something all new--being
needed. Treasured. Protected.

*

I'll never let anyone hurt you,

Bryn promised. You are my angel.

I've never been anyone's angel, either. Bryn has given me wings.

We're Staying

In a weekly motel--small, but mostly
clean and air-conditioned. And it's only until Bryn has time to find us something
nicer. He's been working almost

*
every day, photographing wannabe beauty
pageant queens. I don't like him ogling gorgeous girls for hours at a time, but he comes home to me.

*

He photographs me, too. Lately, the pics have all been naked.

Such a beautiful body deserves to be seen, he says. We could make

*
some extra money, too. To get an even better place. More like what you're used to. I want
only the very best for you.

*

I don't mind posing without clothes. Some of the finest art
ever was paintings of nudes.

Bryn makes me feel pretty,

*
and I like how that looks in photos.

At first it was kind of weird, thinking about total strangers
seeing me that way, but it's not
so bad, really. And hey, maybe

Mom will come across one of them.

That would be awesome. Stupid cow
would probably be jealous.

*

Bryn called a little while ago.

I'm on my way home, and I've
got a little surprise for you.

Hope you're up for some fun.

*

Fun? Like what? He must have
gotten paid, which is good. I was starting to worry a little about how we were going to eat.

*

I guess inheriting his mom's house was more about spending money than making money, at least until he can sell it. Not easy right now.

*

Because of the housing slump.

And because going back to Santa

Cruz would probably not be wise.

But he said we'd be fine, and we will.

Bryn Blows In

Like a breeze off the ocean, lifting me with his presence.

Then his arms lift me for real, spin me around and around.

*

Hey, baby. He kisses me, infuses
me with happiness. What a day.

Sorry I'm late. The clock says
it's eight eighteen. He is late.

*

He carries me to the couch, sits
me down. Are you ready for my
surprise? Two surprises, actually.

He reaches into a pocket for the first.

*

Guess it's not a dinner out.

Nope. Not even close. It's a dope-sized
plastic bag with some brown
substance inside. "What's that?"

*

But I suspect his response:

Smack. One of the girls turned
me on to a little. Thought
you might like to share a taste.

*

Heroin. I've never even thought about trying it. "I don't know....

That shit is scary as hell." Way past meth, which is scary enough.

Bryn's Reaction

Is swift, completely unexpected.

Oh, I see. You can do cocaine with your other boyfriends, but you won't try this for me?

*

Holy Pete! He's never snapped at me like that before. I've never
even heard him raise his voice.

My first instinct is to bark back,

*
but I don't want to fight with Bryn.

"I--I'm sorry. I just... didn't...

Uh..." Why am I apologizing?

"It's just, heroin is so addictive, and..."

*

He softens immediately. No, hon.

Not if you only do a little, once in a while. And the places it will
take you! I want to see you there.

*

OMG. I can't believe I'm saying
okay to heroin. But I am. Except,

"No needles! No way will I shoot up anything." I wait for his reaction.

*

No problem. We'll just chase the dragon, okay? He means heated
tinfoil and a rolled-up bill to grab the smoke, draw it up my nose.

I've seen people at parties do
meth the same way. Even before

Bryn creases the foil into a deep

V, my heart starts racing. Fear

*
is exhilarating, all on its own.

I watch him drop a pinhead of H into the makeshift bowl, and goose
bumps cover my arms. I have no

*
idea what to expect when the smoke
lifts into the dollar bill "straw." Ugh.

It tastes like rotten ketchup. Bitter and harsh in my throat. I start to choke.

*

Bryn's warning is rough: Don't
you dare cough it out! He checks
out my eyes. Looking for pupil
dilation, no doubt. It takes a while.

*

If you shoot up, you feel the effects
instantaneously. Smoking it might
take ten or fifteen minutes. Patience.

Meanwhile, I have another surprise.

*

It takes all of ten minutes before

I begin to feel kind of tingly. Euphoric.

Like everything in my life just fell into place. The sensation is gentle,
not at all like the overwhelming
buzz I thought it would be. I can
handle this. What's all the hype
about, anyway? Bryn has finished

*
setting up the second surprise-- a webcam, hooked up to his laptop. I thought it would be fun to put ourselves in the movies.

*

America's Sexiest Home Videos.

Come here. Let's get nasty.

The tone of his voice lets me know
disagreeing is not an option.

*

But I don't want to disagree.

Every nerve in my body screams to make love with Bryn, who responds by taking "nasty" to a whole new level.

*

It is only afterward, floating on a sensual fog, in an uneasy state of half sleep, that it comes to me:

Bryn didn't join in the dragon chase.

A Week After

My first sweet-bitter taste of smack,

Bryn has talked me into indulging
again four or five times. I don't
want to get hooked, and I'm sure

*

I won't, as long as all I do is smoke a little every now and again. I have to admit I like the way it makes me
feel--like I'm on top of the world.

*

Bryn never indulges. I can't

get it up if I do, and I want this to be all about you. So why does he keep asking me to do things

*
that seem mostly all about him?

Things like performing dirty
acts on pay-per-view webcam?

It won't be forever, I promise.

*

Just long enough to save up some serious bank. I've got my
eye on a really nice place. It's
pricey, but you're so worth it.

*

When I'm high, I don't mind.

But when I touch back down,

I start to worry. Is this the same

Bryn who valued my almost-virginity?

I Also Worry

About him spending more and more time away from me.

Talking more and more about

"the girls," and I'm starting to

*
wonder if the girls he's talking about are really pageant hopefuls.

If he's getting paid to photograph
models, he's not getting paid well.

*

Our money seems to come in spurts, and some of that seems to be from the webcam spurting going on.

He doesn't want me to work, though,

*
except for private webcam spurting.

Some guys like to watch girls
getting off all by themselves.

Make it look good for the camera.

*

I was never into touching myself, but it isn't so bad, especially when

I'm high. Besides the occasional

H, Bryn supplies me with bud--
mediocre seeded Mexican-- and prescription downers. Not sure
where he gets them, and I really
don't care. As long as I'm buzzed,

*
the things he asks of me are easy to do, and hey, anything's better than wasting away in Santa Cruz.

God, if I were there, I'd be starting

*
my junior year of high school.

High school is so not me anymore.

Wonder what Paige is doing.

Wonder if she hooked up

*
with that guy after that night at

Lucas's party. Shit! Why did I have to think about him? Wonder if he likes it in San Diego. Wonder... stop

*
it. Fuck. Where the hell's my stash?

I locate it under the coffee table. Two
tokes of half-ass pot, a bigger question
hovers: Where the hell is Whitney?

It's Almost Midnight

When Bryn comes in. He's not
alone. The guy he's with is Latino,

I think. Olive-skinned. Dark-haired.

Okay-looking. Dressed well.

*

Bryn comes over, kisses me.

Hey, babe. This is my buddy,

Oscar. He nods toward the stash
box, sitting on the coffee table.

*

Oscar's been very good to us, if you get my meaning. Now

I want you to return the favor and be very, very nice to Oscar.

*

Very nice? Does he mean what

I think he means? Play hostess.

"Uh, nice to meet you, Oscar.

Can I get you something to drink?"

*

Maybe after. Oscar comes over, touches my face. You're right,

Bryn. She's very pretty. Tight
little body, too. Yes, she'll do.

His hands slide over my front, reach up under my blouse.

The skin of his fingers, seeking
my nipples, is calloused. Cold.

*

"No, wait. I can't. You're not
serious... Bryn?" He can't want
me to do this! I jerk away from

Oscar, turn to Bryn. Search his eyes.

*

They are deadly serious, and so is Bryn when he says, Yes, you
can. And if you love me, you will.

You do love me, don't you?

*

"Of course I love you! But this
isn't..." Isn't right, is what I want to say. But what is right, anymore?

Is this really what loving him means?

*

Bryn's hands press down on my shoulders. Do this for me,

Whitney. Do this for us. He kisses
me. But it is the kiss of a stranger.

I Beg for a Buzz First

Pot won't do. It has to be
smack, and three long pulls of the acrid smoke barely take
me to the place I need to be.

*

Oscar watches. Waits impatiently for the H to kick in. You should

use a needle. Smoking the Lady is a waste of good dope.

*

Fear-queasy, I stumble down the hall, into the bedroom.

Oscar follows, shedding clothes.

His body is lean, muscular.

*

Another time, another place,

I might find him attractive, but attraction is about choice.

I have no choice here but to

*
take off my own clothes, lie on the bed, wait for him to come, and do whatever it is he has paid to do. I hate you, Bryn. I hate you.

Within Seconds

I hate Oscar, too. He breathes
beer, sweats onion, and there is no
love, no kindness, nothing but greed to his sex. He grabs my wrists,

*
holds them over my head so I can't
move when he bites my neck, and lower. I'll wear his teeth marks for days. "Stop. You're hurting me."

*

You think that hurts? You ain't
seen nothing yet. His teeth close
even harder and his hand squeezes
my arms like a vise and now

*
his knees force my legs apart and there is no pleasure to what he does down there. Only pain.

Bruising pain. I give myself to

*
the morphine shroud, denying the pounding between my thighs.

Something makes me look toward the door. Bryn stands there, staring.

A Poem by Ginger Cordell Staring

Into the midnight sky, starlight defeated by the scream of neon, truth is hard to discern.

Does it sparkle?

Does it burn? If a weightless moment
transcends the gravity of time, what proof is there of its existence?

Does it infuse
every
tick of the clock, each blink of an eye?

Which is harder to bear--reality, or a lie?

Ginger Our Own Place

Wasn't easy to come by. Most
landlords prefer their tenants to be over eighteen. We finally

*
found a weekly where the lady in the office didn't look too hard at our application. The four weeks

*
up front probably helped with that.

The room at Lydia's was nicer.

But the drive into the city got old.

*

At least, that's what we told Lydia
when we said we were moving out.

In reality, living with her was getting

*
old. She could be a real bitch, and she was pushing us to do
stuff besides strip. You could make

*

a lot more if you'd treat a few of your clients to a little touchy-feely.

Not all of them, of course.

*

Just think about it. Getting
paid for something most
people give away? No-brainer.

She Pushed Hard Enough

That Alex has actually considered
doing it. It's not such a big deal, as long as they use condoms.

*

The thing is, Lydia wouldn't have to know. I could do it on the side, and not give her a cut We could

*
save up enough money to blow
this city. Go somewhere pretty, like Portland or San Francisco.

*

When she talks like that, it makes
me think about Iris. How turning
tricks has used her up. How she

*
tried to let it use me up. Why
couldn't I have a real mother?

Why did she have kids at all?

*

Iris used to talk about moving
somewhere else--somewhere
exciting, like New York City.

*

Oh yeah, I can just picture

Iris in Manhattan. Cruising

Central Park. Hustling johns.

When I Think About Iris

I can't help but think about

Gram. She must be worried about me. I should probably

*
try to send word that I'm okay.

Alive, anyway, "okay" being a relative term. But how can

*

I let her know without giving
away where I am? Letters have
postmarks and phones can be

*
traced. I just hope she's taking
care of the kids. Keeping them
safe from Iris. Most of 'em are

*
back in school. Except Sandy.

He's still too little. Hope he's all
healed up, chasing balls

*
around again. Just not in the street. Oh God, why did

I have to think about them?

*

A Mack truck of guilt crashes into me. How can I be homesick, when I don't have a home?

I Start to Pace

North and south, across the grease-stained beige
carpet. Guess the last tenant

*
kept his moped in the living
room. The carpet was steam-cleaned
when he moved, but some

*
black marks can't be excised.

Alex went to the store about an hour ago. I would have

*
gone along, but my period
this month is major. I'm close to bleeding out, I think, and

*

I've downed enough ibuprofen to kill a horse. But I've still
got cramps. Maybe that bastard

*
who raped me made me pregnant and God was gracious enough to let me miscarry. Whatever

*
the problem is, it has definitely
put the brakes on shedding
my clothes for strangers.

Which Means a Couple of Things

One, Alex is the only one
working, so our income is cut in half right now. Plus,

*
she's going out by herself, which scares the crap out of me. I know she can take

*
care of herself and all, but still... Ah, can't think about the downside of that.

*

If anything bad ever happened to Alex, I'd go crazy. Except

Gram, Alex is the only good

*
thing I've ever had in my life.

She lifts me, like a double shot of espresso. I wish she were here

*
right now, to lift me out of this
black pit of boredom. My indoor
hike carries me past the bathroom,

*
where the laundry basket
overflows dirty clothes. Might as well wash them as keep
walking by 'em, I guess.

I gather them up, grab some
detergent, and shovel quarters

*
into my pockets. The laundry
room is downstairs and in the other building somewhere.

*

This will be my first trip there.

Jeez, man. For almost October, it's still hotter than hell. Maybe

*
ninety in the shade. By the time

I locate the short bank of washers,

I am dripping sweat. Lovely!

*

Hopefully, the person pulling her own clothes from the dryer
won't get close enough to smell me.

Her Back Is Toward Me

And just in case my ripeness
doesn't precede me, I say,

"Hello," so she knows I'm here.

*

She jumps about three feet.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to sneak up on you." When she

*
turns, I can see she's a little
younger than me. Wow, her posture made me think

*
something different. It's okay, she says. Guess I was off in

Never-Never Land. Don't use

*
that washer... She points.

Someone's pen exploded in it. There's ink all over.

*

"Thanks." As I put my dirties into the other two washers, she starts to fold her clothes.

*

I can't help but stare. The girl
would be beautiful, except for the dark circles under her eyes.

She reminds me of those
models--what do they call
them? Oh, yeah. Heroin chic.

*

I know squat about heroin, but my guess is she's using
something. Or it's using her.

*

Eventually she notices me
observing her and jumps on defense. Something wrong?

*

"Oh, no. Sorry. You just, uh...

remind me of my sister. I haven't
seen her in a long time."

*

Not totally true (Mary Ann
resembles her only slightly), but it works. The girl exhales

*

(was she holding her breath?), and her shoulders relax. Oh. Okay.

I haven't seen my sister in a while

*
either. Not that she cares,

I'm sure. Well, I'd better go.

See you. Poof. She's gone.

The Clothes Are Still Spinning

So I take a minute to duck
out the door, watch where the girl goes. Not sure why.

*

Her room is kitty-corner from ours, across the parking lot and on the ground floor. Wonder

*
who she lives with. Guy?

Girl? Relative? She can't be
out on her own, can she?

*

What is up with me? Why do

I care who she lives with?

Shit, I really am bored, aren't I?

*

Bored and bleeding. Sounds like the name of a book:

Bored and Bleeding in Vegas.

*

Okay, Alex, you'd better get
home soon, or I'll turn into a bored, bleeding, babbling loon.

Early Evening

And Alex still isn't back yet.

Where the hell is she? I call her cell, but the canned voice

*
that answers informs me that
she's unavailable, meaning
she's out of prepaid minutes.

*

Guess I'll have to be patient.

I fold the clothes, put them
away. Treat myself to a Lean

*

Pocket. Turn on the aged TV.

Half listen to Jeopardy! while

I go to the window, hoping

*
to catch a glimpse of Alex, coming up the sidewalk.

I don't see her, but I do see

*
heroin chic going into her room, about six paces in front of a guy.

He's older. Balding. Her father?

*

My guess is no way, or if he does happen to be her father, it's a definite case of incest.

Is Every Girl

In this nasty, stinking city
turning tricks? Young, old, at least as old as you

*
can get without dying of some incurable sex
disease? I swear, I will never

*
do that, never sink as low as my mother. My pretty
heroin chic neighbor.

*

My beautiful best friend, who I love so much it hurts.

And I swear, as soon as

*

I can, I will find a way out of this place. Will Alex come?

Or have I lost her to the night?

She Stumbles In

Around nine. Worry turns to relief. Then I take another
look at her--hair mussed,

*
makeup smeared, clothes
wrinkled and buttons undone.

Relief explodes into anger.

*

"Where the fuck have you
been?" I sound like a crow.

"You scared me shitless."

*

Alex remains placid. Been

taking care of business is all. Someone's got to.

*

It's more than a little bit
obvious that the day's

"business" included more

*
than stripping. The smell of sweat and sex hangs in the air, a storm cloud.

*

"Alex, what have you done?

You're not turning tricks like some hooker, are you?"

A strong memory of Iris
stumbling in after dark, perfumed in sex, surfaces,

*
swims into blurry view.

Goddamn it, no! "Please,

Alex, tell me you didn't."

*

But she doesn't deny. Won't
say I'm wrong. It's okay,

Gin.... It's not so bad, really.

*

I mean, the sex isn't good, but it's fast, and all things
considered, the pay scale

*
isn't bad. Fifty bucks for under ten minutes' work?

Three hundred an hour!

*

Shit, girl, that's attorney
wages, and you don't have to go to school--

*

"Stop it! We don't need money
that bad. I'll get off the rag and we'll go back to stripping.

"Lydia can have her cut. We were doing okay like that, weren't we?" We were, damn it!

*

Finally Alex deflates just a little. Sit down. Please?

There's stuff you don't know.

*

Like how she knew all about

Lydia's escort service before we ever got here. Like how Lydia

*
never invited her to "come stay
any time." Like how when we
talked about running away, Alex

*
called Lydia and set the whole
thing up. Like how Lydia
promised to keep her mouth

*
shut, as long as Alex went to work for her. Like how

Alex's not-stepdad did call,

*
looking for her. But Lydia
denied knowing a thing.

So Alex owes her, big-time.

Alex Goes to Shower

But not before promising
again, It will just be for a little while--just until

*

we can save up enough to blow this freaking city.

I love you, Gin. Stay cool.

*

I love her, too. And I can't
stand the idea of her being with a bunch of stinking, nasty

*
men. If I could bring myself to do it too, we could save up even faster. But I don't think

*

I could. I'd be no better than

Iris. Would I? Did she ever
think, Just for a little while?

*

The room still wears evidence of Alex's recent encounters.

I go to open the window. Notice

*

Ms. Heroin going through her door again. Followed by another guy. Not her father, either.

A Poem by Cody Bennett Door

I once heard an old
saying about things
going all to hell.

It went, "When a door
closes, somewhere a window opens."

If so, when a train
slams into a Volkswagen, does a BMW materialize down the tracks? If you
remember your undies in your
dreams, do you wake up naked? Okay, maybe the logic fails.

But hey, let's
face
it. Logic doesn't really
apply to old sayings, either. Does it?

Cody Logic?

What's that? If it ever applied to my life, my choices, those years

(days?) have vanished from memory.

I am spinning. Spiraling. Clinging to the eye of the tornado. If I give up, give in to the mad desire to just

*
let go, I know I'll die. But death, close by, might be preferable to this dizzying ride. How did I get
here? How did things go so wrong, so fast? Left? Right? Whichever way

I choose, one thing is very clear--

*

I can never turn around, never
go back. Twisters only move in one
direction--full speed ahead.

Like Dorothy Gale, I ran from safe
haven, searching, despite the storm
gathering strength behind me.

The Chiefs Kick Off

In about an hour. Still time to place a small bet. I log on, check out the point
spread. Awesome! So, okay, maybe a little larger bet. I can pay Lydia back
later. Fuckers better step up to the line of scrimmage and play tricking ball!

*

Guess I'll call Ronnie, if only to hear her voice. My cell phone blinks--
did she call me? But when I retrieve the message, it's Misty, grating my ear.

Hey, cutie. How about a double
date? And can you bring smoke?

*

Misty is the skank who hooked
me up with Lydia. Okay, maybe

I shouldn't look at it that way.

She did me a favor, or at least
we both thought so at the time.

Her boyfriend plays poker

*
with Vince. One night he was way too buzzed to drive home, so he called Misty. I had pretty
much lost my shirt that night, and when she showed up, I was looking miserable. Chris still
had a sleeve or two left of his shirt, and while he was busy
losing those, I invited Misty to smoke some bud. We got to talking, and the more we smoked, the more I confessed, which made

*
her open up to me. Yeah, money
sucks, but you can't live without it. I'm paying my way through

UNLV with a little sex-on-the-side.

She let that sink in, and it took too
long. You know... escorting?

*

"You mean you get paid to...?"

I studied her closer. She looked like a college student. Nothing
more. Certainly not a whore, especially not the type I see hawking their wares from the sidewalk.

*

Yeah, and it's not so bad, really.

I mean, if you're going to have sex
anyway, why not earn a little extra
cash, you know? She took a big drag.

Held it a long while, as if it helped her think. I won't trick forever.

I had never once in my life thought about having sex for money. Could
finding enough cash to help myself
out of debt be that easy? I asked for details, and when she mentioned
working for an established escort

*
service, it almost sounded legit.

"Do any guys work there?" My
stupid little brain glommed onto a picture of lonely middle-aged
women paying for an evening of companionship, plus some fun.

*

A couple, she said. Lydia calls
them her "boys," but I think they're, like, in their twenties. Why?

She winked. You interested in a little paid action? I can introduce
you to Lydia if you want.

*

"Let me think about it." Wow.

Sex for money. I still hadn't
considered the possibility of it meaning having sex with men
when I asked, "Oh. One thing.

How much does it pay, anyway?"

Her Answer

Surprised me. Thrilled me. Who
knew you could make a hundred
bucks an hour (after the service's
cut) for screwing? I thought it over for at least a day, and even made a written list of pros and cons.

*

Pro: Work one hour, get paid more than eight hours at GameStop.

Con: What if the old babe was really
disgusting and wanted, like, oral?

Pro: My insurance had already
lapsed, and I had no way to pay it.

*

Con: If Mom ever even suspected, she'd flip her fricking wig!

Pro: If Mom ever found out about the credit cards, she'd lose all faith in me.

Con: People who have sex for money
might end up with some awful disease.

*

Pro: With enough cash to place the right
bet, I could win enough to fix everything.

Con: What if having sex on the side
meant I couldn't get it up for Ronnie?

Pro: I didn't have many choices left.

*

Result: I picked up the phone, called Misty.

She Introduced Me

To Lydia, who outlined the rules and regulations, not knowing

I still had women in mind. When

I finally mentioned that, her smile
slipped a little. But only for a second.

You're envisioning American

*

Gigolo. Sorry, but that kind of escorting is rare. Something you
see in the movies, really. Generally, when I get calls for young men, it's older men doing the calling.

You ever been with a man?

*

"A man? No!" What? Did I look
gay or something? Sex with men?

Not even a hundred bucks an hour was worth that. At least, not then.

"So every one of your 'boys' is gay?

Because I'm, like, totally straight."

*

Lydia shrugged. No one is one
hundred percent hetero. We are all bi to varying degrees. It all
comes down to necessity. Turned
out the statement was accurate. Took about a week to see things her way.

Sometimes Misty and I

Do have "two-fers" with confused
guys. But not today. "Sorry," I tell her.

"I've already got a client lined up."

In fact, I'd better go. I hang up, pop a Valium, "borrowed" from a bottle in Ronnie's medicine cabinet. Fuck.

*

Stealing pills. I suck. But I'm glad

I have something to push away the pain, stash it in a compartment of my brain I don't visit very often.

I cruise slowly, noticing cars
prowling for street-corner hustlers.

*

Twenty bucks for a backseat blowjob?

At least I haven't sunk that low. Yet.

No! That will not become my future.

Then again, if someone would have told
me two months ago I'd be selling myself to men, I'd have said they were full

*
of shit. Necessity is a motherfucker.

And if they would have said I might
even like it, I'd have kicked their ass.

The first time I offered myself up, turned
myself into meat, I ran to the bathroom, heaved. That guy laughed and laughed.

Lydia said it would get easier.

The first time is always the worst.

Just remember you can always
say no, if something doesn't seem
kosher. Somehow I doubt many
rabbis would bless "Cody meat."

*

But Lydia was right. The second
time wasn't as bad. At least I managed to make it through without losing
my breakfast. Every time after was easier
still, except for the guys who needed a shower. B.O. is a definite bitch.

*

Once in a while I get really lucky, when a dude decides he'd rather talk than screw. They're paying me for my time. If they want to complain about their significant others, hey,

I'll listen for a buck fifty up front.

*

But I don't have to like any of it.

Shouldn't like any of it, and getting off is just plain crazy. I do this because

I have to. Not because I want to. I need a good, healthy dose of Ronnie. Only
what if she doesn't turn me on now?

I Pull into Valet

At the Riviera, not the nicest casino in town, but not the sleaziest, either.

Not that it matters. What I'm going to do is more than sleazy. It's sick.

But I'll leave with enough money, even after Lydia's cut, to give Mom

*
a hundred toward the bills. And, depending on how generous the guy
feels after, I just might have enough
left over to place a small bet on the Chiefs. If those bastards do right by me, I could maybe skip a date

*
or two. "Date." Why don't I just call it what it is--a trick. I'm turning tricks.

Can I really have sunk so low?

I'm having sex with men--often married
guys, trying to figure out why
they're attracted to boys--for cash.

*

I'm not gay! Before a few weeks ago,

I had never even checked a guy out, let alone thought about doing one.

So why isn't it harder? Why am I
heading into the elevator, going up eight floors, to room 822?

Two Quiet Knocks

Nothing. Two more, louder. Footsteps toward the door. It opens. "Dan?"

The guy nods, steps aside to let
me in. The room is obsessively neat, and a familiar scent perfumes the air.

Gingerbread? Like Ronnie's shampoo.

*

Dan is fortyish, short crewcut
graying slightly at the edges.

He wears no shirt, and his muscles are tanned. Toned. Jesus. He could
be an underwear model. Why does he need to pay for it? Whatever.

*

As long as he has the cash. "So, Dan.

What can I do for you?" I know the drill.

Lydia coached me in the art of paid
seduction: Strike the deal up front. Never

give them more than they pay for.

Collect before you start. No COD.

*

No cash on delivery, because after you're finished, they might say you
didn't deliver. I've done this for a month now, and so far, not one
has made that claim. Customer
satisfaction guaranteed. God!

Dan Has Done This Before

You can take me around the world.

He reaches for his wallet. One fifty, right? He tries to sweeten the pot. Dan
will pay extra to go without a sleeve.

He talks about himself in the third
person? No wonder he pays for it.

*

No condom? It's not the first time

I've had the request. I'd kill for the extra cash, but I'm not taking a chance on AIDS. "Sorry. No can
do. Cover up, I'll take care of you."

I pull my T-shirt over my head, watch

*
him strip off his jeans. His waist is narrow, his hips straight. Beautiful.

Stop it! What's wrong with me? He's down to his skivvies. I should have
charged more. He's built like a fucking
bull. "Holy crap, dude, I don't know...."

*

What's wrong, kid? Never done it with a real man before? His voice
falls, cold and heavy as hail. You want
me wrapped? Do it for me! He pushes
me to my knees, comes around in front of me. My heart thuds in my chest.

I open the foil pouch, remove the thin latex protection. You ever
seen a ramrod like Dan's? I shake
my head as I roll the condom down over it. No, of course you haven't.

Let's see just how good you are.

*

I close my eyes, fight not to gag at the taste of lubricant, not to choke on his thrusts against my throat.

I think about Cory, locked up in juvie until a judge decides
he's been "rehabilitated."

*

Dan decides he's done with Europe.

He pulls me to my feet, moves behind me, drapes my back with his chest.

His muscles are thick cables, but his skin is smooth and cool as snake skin. Check it out.

The little boy likes that. He reaches down

*
between my thighs. Look how hard he is.

No! How could something so messed up turn me on? Whatever he does, I won't...

His lips brush the back of my neck
and, still folding me into him, he moves
me toward the bed, urges me facedown.

The sheets smell of bleach. I picture

Mom, waiting tables at Denny's. Jack's
life insurance put off the foreclosure.

But not forever. And those fucking
bills just keep piling up. Her meager
tips won't pay them. Something has to.

*

Down go my boxers. Oh my. What a sweet little bottom. Dan's hands, moving over my skin, are soft, and when he lowers himself over me, a cloud of cloves and apple sinks around me. Reminds me of... Ronnie.

*

God I love her. She is my spark of sanity. My light against the darkness, closing in. She knows things are bad, but not how bad. If she even suspected...

this. What I'm doing. What I've already
done, she'd never speak to me again.

*

Dan is in for a real treat, isn't he?

He presses up against me. I brace and he pauses. Do you think it will hurt?

Let's see. He pushes, but only a little.

A test. Oh yes, I'm afraid it might.

And after Dan, nothing else will do.

I Bite Down

On a strange metal taste--a metal
taste of emotions. An odd blend of fear
and... excitement. For some fucked-up
reason, I'm excited. I can't want
this! Adrenaline firecrackers through my body. Blood pulses in my temples.

*

You make Dan happy now, hear?

Pain! Oh my God! Nothing
has ever hurt like this. I tense, beg
him to stop. But he doesn't stop.

Doesn't slow. Can't take it. Can't.

Through the rhythmic pain, apple.

*

Pressure. Pressure, deep. Oh!

Nothing has ever felt so good.

Exquisite. Exquisite. No! I won't.

No matter what, I won't. This isn't me.

I'm only here for Mom. Cory. I won't!

But I do. And when I do, it's over the top.

I Leave, Emptied

And when I get home, the house is emptied too. Emptied of life.

Emptied of love. Emptied of... us.

I suppose Mom might find another man, but he can never be Jack. And Cory?

He's already harder. A stranger.

*

If there's anything left of my brother,

I don't know where it is. I hate to visit
him because when I look into his eyes, all I find is death. He's a walking, talking, breathing corpse. Lockup
will only make that worse.

*

I go into the bathroom, turn the shower as hot as my skin can stand it. Scrub.

But the universe doesn't hold near enough soap to wash this filth away.

The slippery lather does what it often
does to me. But when I touch it, I hear,

*

The little boy likes that, doesn't he?

Scrub harder. I keep at it until the spray
goes cold, shrinking every body part and raising rows of goose bumps. Can

I ever feel decent about a shower again?

Can I ever feel okay about me?

A Poem by Eden Streit Shrinking

Do you know how it feels to be shrinking?

Withering away into nothing
more than a memory?

You need to put one foot in front of the other, but running in place is all you can do.

How do you overcome
pain
when it's something
you breathe, a blast of hot exhaust in your
face, something turned
you must eat, or starve?

How do you search for tomorrow
when you're mired in an endless today?

Eden They Say Freedom Isn't Free

I agree. My bid for freedom from Tears of Zion has already cost me dearly.

*

I don't know what will happen to me
if Jerome keeps his promise, unlocks

*
my door tonight, steals me away from

Father's house of rehabilitation.

*

I have no clue where I'll end up. Maybe
right back here (please, God, no). The one

*
thing I'm sure of is, should I leave this
place, I will not touch down in Salt Lake

*

City. Will not set up housekeeping with

Jerome. I will find a way to escape him, too.

*

I sit in the dark, heart racing as seconds...

minutes... hours creep by. Did he change

*
his mind? Did someone change it for him?

The air in the room grows heavy. I sink
into it. Can't find breath. I start to drown....

Suddenly I wake up. A key is turning

*
in the lock. Jerome came for me after all.

He pulls me to my feet. Ready? he whispers.

*

The compound is dark, everyone asleep.

We sprint across a cushion of sand

*
to Jerome's Malibu, slip inside. It is old, but tuned, and starts easily. Still, the engine

*
sounds very loud from where I sit, looking for lights to blink on. Not a one. Nothing

*
but a billow of dust, lifting into the night
sky. Night! It's been weeks since I've seen

*
the stars. A voice drifts from not-so-distant
memory: Pretty tonight. Looks like you

*

could reach out and touch the stars. I close
my eyes, transported to a sleeping bag

*
in the bed of a Tundra. Andrew is warm beside me. I want what I've no right to take....

*

Tears fall freely as Jerome turns south on

Highway 93 toward Wells. He doesn't notice,

*
so I let them fall. By the time we reach I-80, the stars are nothing but blurry streaks.

Old Malibus

Aren't exactly fuel efficient. As we roll into Wells, Jerome slows down, checks

*
the gauge. Better gas up. There's a truck

stop ahead. Hungry? It's a long way to SLC.

*

"A little," I fudge. I've barely eaten a bite in two days. "Thirsty, too. Any chance of a Coke?"

*

What'll you give me for it? He snickers at the old joke. Only he isn't joking.

*

He pulls up at the pumps, opens the glove
box, reaches for his wallet. And there, on

*
a folded road map, is his cell phone. A buzz like a high power line vibrates in my ears.

*

Jerome doesn't seem to notice. He gets
out of the car, puts his keys in their usual

*
resting place on the front floorboard.

Do you have to use the bathroom?

*

I shake my head. "Not until after the Coke."

When he goes inside, I grab the phone.

*

One eye on the door, I dial Andrew's cell.

This AT&T customer is not accepting incoming
calls. No! Quick. Dial his home. The number
you are calling is no longer in service.

*

Andrew! Where are you? No time to worry about it now. Not if I want to get away

*
this side of Salt Lake City. I need to buy
some time. The keys... I reach down,

*
locate them, toss them under the backseat, just as he comes out the door, goodies

*
in hand. I have maybe five minutes.

As Jerome starts toward the island, I jump

*
out of the car. "Decided I should pee after all," I say, passing him on the sidewalk.

*

Nerves ping-pong in my stomach. I feel like I'm going to vomit. But I don't, and

*
he doesn't seem fazed at all. Over my
shoulder, I watch him go to the car, open

*
the door. As he leans inside, I duck around the corner of the building.

*

It's quiet this time of day, and in the steel
blue of just-before-dawning, a row of semis

*
waits silently for their drivers to wake. I dash across the short span of asphalt to the far side
of the trucks. Maybe there's somewhere to hide behind them. No! Nothing but desert,

*
stretching all the way to the freeway. What
now? He'll come looking any second!

*

I run down the row, hoping for...? Can I
hide in one of them? Don't think so. If I try

*
to open one of the back doors, it's sure to make a racket. About three-quarters of the way

*
down the line, I pass a travel trailer, attached to a big crew cab. Something about it calls to me.

*

If the owners are asleep in the trailer, maybe

I could slip inside the truck? Could the doors

*
be unlocked? As quietly as I can, I pull up on the rear passenger handle. Holy mother!

*

It opens. I climb up, shut the door, skooch down on the floor, close my eyes.

*

He must be looking for me by now.

When he finds me, what will he do?

But It Isn't Jerome

Who finds me. It's the owner of the fifth
wheel. It is light when he opens the door

*
to let his border collie inside. What the--

What the hell are you doing in my truck?

*

I'm afraid to get up off the floor.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean..."

*

Come on! Think! Something sort of close to the truth pops out of my mouth.

*

"It's just that my boyfriend and I got into an awful fight. I was afraid he'd hurt me,

*
so I hid in here...." I must have fooled the dog, anyway. She licks my face.

*

The man, who's maybe sixty, looks
dubious at first. But something about,

*
my expression makes him go on the alert.

Think he's still here? What's he look like?

*

Thank you, God. "Short. Thin. He drives a blue Malibu. I'm really scared."

*

You stay right here with Trinket. I'll take a look around. He shuts the door.

Relief firecrackers through me in tiny
bursts. I'm stiff. Tired. But maybe okay.

*

It isn't long before the guy returns.

No sign of a blue Malibu. Where you

*
headed, young lady? He gives me a once-over, but if my industrial outfit makes

*
him wonder, he doesn't say a word.

Think fast, Eden. "We were going to

*

Salt Lake City. But I want to go home.

And my boyfriend has all our money."

*

He takes every word in perfect stride.

Okay. And just where is home?

*

South on 93? Keep going, and end up in "Vegas." I hold my breath, hoping.

*

Can't take you all the way there.

But I can get you as far as Ely.

*

I finally feel safe enough to scoot up onto the seat. "That would be great.

*

I can call Andr--uh, my brother to come
get me." And pray he answers this time.

At Fifty MPH

The trip from Wells to Ely takes close to three hours. I stay scrunched down

*
in my seat for a long while. Wes notices without comment. Finally he says,

*

I think you're okay now. Been checking the mirror. Haven't seen anything blue.

*

I straighten a bit. Trinket squirms and yips, as if happy to see me relax. "Good girl."

*

Wes smiles. You like dogs, I see.

Have any at home, waiting for you?

*

I almost say no, that my parents are much more into God than dogs, or any

*
of his creatures that don't tithe heavily.

But then I think of Andrew. The ranch.

*

And, "Sheila. She's a bluetick hound, just a pup." We talk dogs for some time,

*
then ranching. Wes has a big ranch, with Angus and Quarter Horses.

*

"Andrew... uh... my brother works...

uh, worked on a ranch for a while."

Did he, now? Speaking of your brother, do you want to give him a call?

*

We'll be in Ely before you know it.

We should have cell service now.

*

"I'd like to, but I left my phone in my boyfriend's car." His phone, actually.

*

Wes points to the center console.

Use mine. It's right in there.

*

I dial the well-known numbers, with the same results as before.

*

The number you have called... Where
could he be? Still, I know Wes and I must

*
part ways soon. And I suspect he'll worry
if I don't get hold of someone. I pretend

*

Andrew answers. "Hey. Um, something kind of bad happened. Can you come get me?"

Where Is Andrew?

What's up with the phones? Is he okay?

What about his parents? Where are they?

*

It's all I can think about. Wes keeps
right on talking, and I try my best

*
to find answers to his many questions.

But most of them probably don't make

*
much sense. Suddenly Trinket stands up in the backseat, whines a little, wags

*
her stumpy tail. We're getting close to home and she can smell it, explains

*

Wes. The turnoff's south of town, so I can get you a little closer. There's

*

a nice truck stop out that way. You'd
be safe enough there until your brother

*
comes, I reckon. Most truckers I know
won't let your boyfriend mess with you.

*

Sooner rather than later we turn off the straight two-lane blacktop.

*

Wes decides to fill up before heading on home. I leave his company
rather reluctantly, and before I walk
away, I go around and give him a hug.

*

"Thank you so much. I don't know
what I would have done...."

*

He blushes a furious rhubarb color.

Ah. It was nothing but common

*
decency. But tell you what you can
do for me in return...

*

Yeah, right. Figures. I can guess what he wants in return. But whatever.

*

I owe him big-time. And it's nothing

I haven't already done. "What?"

*

Choose your next man more
carefully. You deserve better.

*

Oh my God. How could I think...?

My own face flushes, red hot, and

*
my throat knots as my eyes fill.

"I will," I manage. "I promise."

Eyes Burning

I start away, completely awed by the kindness of this perfect stranger.

*

Wes stops me. Wait one second.

I turn back. In his hand is a twenty.

*

You must be hungry. Have some lunch
while you wait for your brother.

*

I could protest, but I am hungry.

Starving, actually. I kiss him on

*
the cheek. "You're the absolute best!"

He drives away and I go inside.

*

The smell of greasy food almost
overwhelms me. It's been so long!

*

"Double cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake," I tell the waitress,

*
feeling a lot like Pavlov's slobbering
dog. After I eat, I have to get out of here.

*

Jerome must be looking for me, and even a half-wit could guess I came this way.

*

Vegas. Why not? All I need is a ride.

And there are plenty of truckers to ask.

It Takes Three Tries

The first says he's not going to Vegas.

The second one just says, Fuck off.

*

The third, a beefy guy with bad teeth, looks me up and down. You running away?

*

I had an hour at lunch to figure out a good story. I use it now. "Not exactly."

*

He flashes his rotten smile. Not exactly?

What, exactly, does that mean?

*

"See, my parents split up, and my mom
moved me to Elko so she could live

*
with her boyfriend. I hate that bastard. He...

he... you know." I look down, acting

*
all embarrassed. "Anyway, I just want to go home to my dad's. He lives in Vegas."

*

Old story, kid. But what the hell?

I'm going that way Hop in the cab.

*

We climb into opposite sides of the semi.

The trucker swallows some sort of pill,

*
starts the engine, and as he turns onto the highway, I say a little prayer of thanks
for my rescue. But we don't get all that far before rescue becomes something else.

*

Don't suppose you have any money?

asks rotten mouth. Considering

*

I'm wearing nothing but a light blue, pocket-free shift, and carrying not

*
a thing, the answer should be obvious.

Diesel's getting awfully expensive.

"Sorry. No. Stupid me, I forgot
my backpack. Wish I could help."

*

Well, there are other ways a girl
can help out a guy You know?

*

Mr. So-not-nice trucker issues an ultimatum:

Oral sex or a very long walk to Vegas.

*

Stupid me. But it's not really anything new.

At least I don't have to kiss him.

He Drops Me Off

At a diesel stop on the outskirts of the city.

I don't say thank you. I paid my way.

*

It's dirty here and surrounded by desert.

Not pretty pinion-studded playa like up north,

*
or back in Boise. But plain yellowed sand
defiled by houses. Lots and lots of houses.

*

From here, I can see giant casinos, all different
shapes and sizes. Motels. Chapels. Strip malls.

*

Traffic clogs a maze of streets and freeways.

Honking. Puffing exhaust. Military jets scream

*
across the cloudless sky, and commercial
aircraft come and go in regular procession.

*

It's all ugly. Stinking. A sinkhole of unrealized
dreams, forfeited faith. A girl could get lost here.

A Poem by Seth Parnell Dreams Forfeited

Diffused by distance, him a thousand miles
away. Still you feel his pain.

It's as if you can tune into him with a psychic
antenna, catch some unique
sonar that carries his cries across great distances.

It stops you cold in your plodding tracks and you
wonder where he is.

Could he be just
outside? You put your
ear to the door and listen, crazy with want, knowing the front
step is vacant.

Seth Any Farm Boy

Half worth his beans and butter would tell you weight
lifting and cardio training are all about ego. A hard day's
work on the back forty gives

*
you both, and a crop to boot.

But Carl insists I stay in shape. Guess chubby guys
stand on the low rung of the trophy boyfriend ladder.

*

Truth be told, he was pissy about how he put it to me.

You know what happens to muscle when you quit working
it, right? I'm not into fat boys.

*

It would be in your best
interest to invest a little
time at the gym. It was not a suggestion. It was an ultimatum. One major thing

I've learned about Carl is, business or pleasure, it's his way or no way at all. While I can respect
that on a certain level, when

*
it's in my face, it's not easy to take. He is one hundred
percent about control. Not
sure why I didn't see it sooner. Not looking, I guess.

*

The strange thing is, I'm not the least bit flabby, let alone
fat. So why? Preventative
maintenance? Whatever. I have
nothing better to do, anyway.

So Here I Am, Midmorning

Jogging six miles per on a treadmill. Going nowhere and doing way too much
thinking about what I've
allowed myself to become--

*
powerless. Even at home, the only time my dad
dismissed me completely, no argument allowed, was: the night he kicked me out.

*

Remembering him, revisiting the farm, stirs up a cloud of homesickness. Loneliness.

I am alone in this place, despite nightly company.

*

I don't belong here. I know
that. But I don't belong
anywhere else, either.

And that is at the heart of the black depression

*
pressing down on me, flattening me. I have
no place. No home. Sex, but no real affection. I am kept, but not cherished.

I Am Swimming in Sweat

When an amazing-looking
guy decides to share the gym.

The way he assesses me
leaves little doubt that he's
not into girls. Maybe working

*
out isn't such a bad idea after all. He offers a ten-thousand-dollar
smile, then sets his gym
bag down on a chair. I can't
help but stare when he strips

*
off his shirt, revealing buffed
pecs and a six-pack I'd kill
for. The guy is a high-priced

Thoroughbred. And I'm
definitely not talking mares.

*

He goes straight to weights, choosing some machine

I have no clue how to use.

When he looks my way,

I'm still staring like an idiot.

*

He grins. What? Did I flash

you or something? Hope it wasn't offensive. Most guys
seem to like it well enough.

He pauses. Gives me time
to formulate some inane answer.

I slow the tread to cooldown
speed, try to quit huffing.

"I... uh... sorry... didn't
mean t-to stare..." Huff, huff.

*

"I just started"--huff, huff--

"working out and"--huff--

"I know this is dumb, but"--
huff--"I don't know how to use all the machines." Heart rate

*
slowing, I catch my breath and finish, huffless, "I thought

I'd watch you and learn how to do it. Uh, use the machine,

I mean." Okay, that was inane.

*

He finds it amusing. Oh, I see.

Well, I use the machines all the time. Happy to give you
some pointers, if you want.

The name's Jared, by the way.

*

"Seth." I stop the motorized
roadway. "I'd appreciate
anything you can give me...

I mean tips...." Shit!

I'm sabotaging myself!

Hang On

Just why did I think that?

Sabotaging what, exactly?

I'm not shopping for companionship. Am I?

"Tell me to shut up, okay?"

*

Jared laughs. Shut up,

Seth. He gestures for me to come over to the machines.

So what are you most
interested in working?

*

Now we both laugh at the unintended (?) double
entendre. "Well... other than that, I want one of those."

I point to his amazing stomach.

*

Don't blame you. Okay, you can use the ab crunch and the assisted pull-up. But, so you know, diet is huge too.

This is all about protein, my man.

*

"No problem. I can handle
meat...." (!!) Once again,

I give his body an approving
assessment. And just so you
know, I'm not afraid of hard work."

He nods. Most farm boys
aren't. At my perplexed
look, he adds, It's your accent.

Very Midwest, with a touch of the South. Kentucky? Missouri?

*

Oh man. It shows? "Indiana,"

I admit. "I never realized
we had accents, though, especially not with 'a touch of the South.' Really weird.

*

Not sure why it works
that way but it does.

Nothing to worry about, though. I find it kind of appealing. Come here.

*

I'm a kid again, called to the front of the classroom, not knowing what for.

Will he--shiver--touch me?

But no, all he does is show me

*
how to properly use the ab
crunch machine. Still, he stays close, and the entire time

I'm burning gut flab, a word
floats in my head--beginning.

All Worked Out

Tired, sore, I start toward the townhouse to shower.

As I leave, I venture, casually as I can, "Hope to see you around again soon."

*

Jared is toweling off his own sweat polish, and I'm struck again by the beauty of his body.

Hot tub tonight at nine?

*

I hesitate. I never go out
when Carl's home. Still, he wouldn't object, would he? Long as I omit the Jared part. "I'll sure try."

*

He gives me a wry grin.

Could he know why

I live here? If I don't see
you tonight, I'll run into you here, I'm sure. Later.

*

I follow him out the door, watch his sure gait along the walkway, tugged, steel toward magnet. It's odd, really. Usually I'm attracted
to softer men, with the major
exception of Leon Winkler.

And wouldn't his football
jock butt shudder to know
exactly how I looked at it?

*

Don't know why I'm
thinking about any of this
now anyway. I'm pretty
much committed to Carl, who should be home soon,

*
expecting me showered and shaved, all smooth and scented with Armani

Black Code, his favorite
fragrance. Expensive taste,

*
not a bad thing. He'll also
want dinner started. High-end
meat or seafood. Steamed
vegetables. Fresh bread.

Never the same meal twice

*
in any given month. Good
thing Dad taught me how to cook. Hmm. Wonder
how Carl would feel about venison sausage and gravy.

Venison Is Not Easy to Find

In Vegas, so I'm working on seafood Newberg (recipe
care of one of Carl's large
collection of cookbooks)

when he finally arrives.

*

He is not alone. Neither is he sober as he trips through the door, laughing, accompanied by a friend.

Acquaintance? I have no

*
idea. This is the first time
he's ever brought anyone
home. The guy is maybe
forty-five, and everything about him, from the square

*
cut of his bangs to the way he wears his extreme
jewelry, screams "queen."

When he squeaks, Hello there, he leaves zero doubt about it.

*

Carl comes over and gives
me an ostentatious gin-flavored
kiss. Something

smells good, and I'm not
talking about in the kitchen.

He kisses me again, which is weird. For all the sex
we've shared, a kiss from

Carl is relatively rare.

I almost don't know how

*
to respond. Finally he draws
back. Oh, how rude of me.

Come say hello to my friend,

Brett. Brett, meet Seth, my uh... paramour.

*

Carl takes my hand, leads
me to the sofa, where

Brett has made himself
extremely comfortable.

Pretty boy, Brett says. Very.

*

My nerves lift on sharpened
edge, like when you go
hunting and suddenly feel
hunted. I force my voice low.

"Good to meet you, Brett."

*

Now, now. Let's not be so formal. He laughs, and it isn't a pleasant laugh.

Any paramour of Carl's is a paramour of mine, right?

Before I Can Answer

He is all over me. Hands.

Mouth. Ugh. Tequila.

I push him away. "Wait
just one fucking second...."

I step back, look at Carl,

*
but he's into the game.

Refereeing, in fact.

No need to be rude to our guest. He's here by invitation. Understand?

*

"Invi--" Carl wants me to be with this creep?

What happened to our

"exclusive relationship"?

"No. I don't understand."

*

With fine diamond clarity,

Carl explains, I enjoy a bit of variety from time to time. I expect your whole-hearted
participation.

*

He pushes me, and not
gently, toward Brett.

Now apologize to my
friend as I hope you
would apologize to me.

He Does Not Mean

With words. And he doesn't
exactly mean solo. They
move in unison, and I am sandwiched between them,

Carl behind me, moving

*
sensuously, while Brett dares
kiss me again. I hold my
breath against the assault of gin at my back, tequila in my face. A strange tongue

*
in my mouth. Now Brett
rests his chin on my shoulder, and he and Carl are kissing.

It's a cobra dance, and despite what it means, I am charmed.

*

Seduced by sensual motion.

Behind me and in front of me, both men grow hard, and for some horrifying reason,

I respond in like manner.

I Have Never Considered

Three-way sex. How would...?

Oh. No way will I let one of them take me like that.

Like Loren, Carl has always
played the feminine role.

*

But unlike with Loren (who
insisted on using condoms), with Carl (who refused to),

I set limits--"Carl, you know the rule." My rule: hands or

*
mouths only. He stops
kissing Brett, but neither
man quits moving, writhing like mating hooded serpents.

We're playing by my rules,

*
remember? But don't worry.

I only expect you to give.

For now. From somewhere, he extracts a condom, hands it to me, keys to the kingdom.

Don't rush, he orders, and don't you dare
close your eyes. I want to see how much you like it. He moves in front of me,

*
strips Brett from the waist
down, pushes him onto his hands and knees. Then he drops his own trousers.

Come on, he urges, positioning

*
himself inches from Brett's face.

Shaking, I move behind Brett, grab his shoulders. Carl's hands
cover mine. Brett moans as I...

Oh my God! I am damned.

*

But I don't stop and I don't
rush. Carl's eyes never once
leave mine. Finally I beg his permission. "Now? Please?"

He nods and I do. We all do.

A Poem by Whitney Lang Don't Stop

Don't look behind you.

Something is chasing
you, and if you slow
down, it will catch you. Run!

Faster! Through alleys.

Tunnels. Underground.

Down there in that dark place, fear is your friend for complacency kills down where
instinct is survival.

Reach. Find your wings.

Fly away from the monsters, hard on your heels.

Don't stop. Only
then can they win.

Run!

Whitney Fighting "Night Time"

Pretty name for the hideous pukes and soaking sweats of withdrawal.

I understand I have to go through it.

Die if I don't. Maybe die if I do.

*

I don't want to die. Do I? Fuck, what if it's better than living half in, half out of this world? Goddamn Bryn!

Bastard turned me into a zombie.

*

So why do I sit here, crying to see
him? Why do I love him so much?

He cheats. Lies. Lied about everything, from start to now. I know it. Don't care.

*

I want to be with him. Want to make
love with him. Even though that means
waiting my turn. He has other girls.

Other zombies. Killing time in cheap

*
rooms like this one. Sometimes he comes, rewards them like he rewards me, with junk and beautiful sex. Sometimes
other men come. That sex is never
beautiful. It is selfish. Needful.

Fueled by sick desire to get off. Get
even. Get over someone who has
hurt them by symbolically impaling

*
someone else. So Bryn's zombie girls
stay stoned. Out of our heads
messed up. Eyes closed, we can
be anywhere. Italy. France. Australia.

*

Jupiter. Hell. Doesn't matter, as long as we're not here. As long as we can
pretend we're still pretty. As long as we
can make believe Bryn still loves us, too.

I'm Not Stupid

I know I'm addicted. Damn it all, despite the many promises I made to myself, I mainline now. A needle in the vein delivers Nirvana

*
so quickly! And in those first few
minutes, when all the pain is lifted,

I see what Bryn saw in me that first
day at the mall--naïveté. I was stupid.

*

He knew it. I was crazy hungry to fall in love. He saw it in my eyes.

And then, when I called him, stinging at rejection, he so had me. He is very

*
good at what he does. Recruiting
girls, feeding them a steady diet of lies and drugs, then starving them until they submit to his demands.

*

He is a pimp, plain and simple.

A fucking gorgeous, sweet pimp, who I'd do anything for. Including
advertising my body: For Sale. Cheap.

*

He'll come to me soon. I need the Lady
bad and he knows it. Can't send me
out on the streets like this. It isn't pretty.

Probably couldn't even give myself away.

When Bryn's Key

Finally turns in the lock, I'm huddled in a corner, covered in goose bumps, shivering through the sweat. At
least I'm all puked out. He takes

*
one look, nods. Poor baby. Don't

worry. Daddy has presents for his beautiful little girl. He comes over, sits beside me. Pulls a dime bag

*
from his pocket like it's made of gold.

Clean rigs, too. Let Daddy fix it for you. He cooks up a perfect spoon, loads it, plunges it between my toes.

*

Bryn gives me wings. The sting is luscious, the awful rush all I need.

No, not all. I need Bryn. And he's here, all mine right now. His lap is warm,

*
inviting. I climb into it, slip my arms around his neck. Thank you. Better now.

Oh, so much better. Soaring. Up here in the clouds, the air is dry. I kiss him,

*
suck his tongue into my mouth, seeking
moisture. It curls over my own tongue, sensuous as smoke. Time slows.

Make it stop! Make it stop with me,
here in Bryn's arms. I want him.

Want him to take me higher. Want sex as it was meant to be, as only Bryn can
ever give it to me. "Make love to me."

*

He pushes me to the floor. My head
spins, dizzy with anticipation. My brain
screams, kiss me! Kiss all those special
places, just like you used to. I know

*
he will, but... But what? Why is he stopping? He reaches into a back pocket. What is that?

A rubber? No. We don't need that.

*

I'm on the pill. It was one of the first
things we did when we got to Vegas.

"N-no." Is there mud in my mouth?

I can barely cough out, "Why?"

*

He stops fiddling with the wrapper, but doesn't answer right away. Finally he says, Never know what kind of gift
one of your customers might have left.

*

What? My face flushes, hot from the skag, hotter still with an overdose of anger. Always, with no exceptions,

"My customers use condoms."

I Try to Push Him Away

But even if I were perfectly
straight, my stick-figure body
would be no match for his toned
physique. And I'm not straight.

*

My vision is blurred, like looking through a fishbowl, and my muscles
feel like steel cables--much too heavy to drag around. And the weirdest

*
thing about all that is how great it feels. I'll nod soon, and that's when the pain vanishes. So hell, he can screw
me, if that's all it means to him.

*

He boosts himself up over me.

Tries to look down into my eyes.

But I stare at the wall. Will myself to go limp. Familiar one-act play.

*

That's it, he soothes. No need to waste a perfectly good boner

In. Out. In. Out. I close my eyes.

Float. Pretend I'm with a john.

When I Surface

From my lake of dreams, Bryn is gone. He left a note: Stashed the bag and fixings in the usual

place. Same price. Tomorrow.

*

How have I fallen so low? I knew about junk, even told Bryn no way.

Then I let him talk me into it. Love is more than blind. It's brain-dead.

*

My brain screeches, Fix! Fix!

Quick, before I make you heave.

Quick, before I give you the runs.

Quick, before I start remembering.

*

Remembering I once had another
life. Hated it then. Might still hate it now. But more than I hate this?

Hate what I've become? No matter.

*

This is all I've got. I cook up a spoon.

Oh yes. That's good. So good.

Clock. Where are you, clock?

There you are. Evening already?

*

The boys are out, scamming for play. Shower. Hurry. Night's
tick-tocking away. And I've got
bills. Same price. Tomorrow.

Skin Tight Men's Club

Is hopping tonight. Boys go in.

Stay a while, watching pole dancers and cocktail waitresses, shaking their boobs for tips. Boys come out,

*
horny as hell. Some go home to beat off or bug their wives.

Some look for girls like me, loitering in the shadows where,

*
hopefully, cops cruising beats
won't notice them. Bryn taught
me the ropes. Act interested, but don't push. The girls who

*

get busted are in-your-face.

Dress sexy, but leave some up to the imagination. Sexy schoolgirl.

That's the look you want.

*

Ask what they want up front, and collect before you take

'em home. Wouldn't want to do all that work for nothing,

*
and believe me, plenty of guys
got nothing, especially if they
overspent inside. And if some
dude seems hinky, say no.

I've said no a couple of times.

It wasn't because they were fat or bald, but because of what I saw in their eyes. More accurately,

*
what I didn't see in their eyes:

life. Sharks, that's what they were.

Dead cold scary. No way was I
chancing a swim with them.

*

Most johns are more mackerel than great white. Cold slimy bait
fish, quick to jump into the net, especially when what they're

*
jumping in after still looks fresh.

Don't know how long that can
last. Hooking uses you up fast.

Figure in hyping, I'll look thirty

*
before I turn seventeen. I turn
sixteen day after tomorrow, not that one single person in the world gives half a damn.

Why Did I Have to Go

And think about that? Damn!

If I were still in Santa Cruz, I'd be
planning my Sweet Sixteen party.

Daddy would insist. We'd have it

*
at the club, and we'd have a band, and Paige would be there and maybe
even Kyra.... Oh my God. What
have I done? Daddy must think...

*

What? I'm dead? Mom hopes I am.

But not... Daddy. I'm sorry. Shit!

I sit down hard. Sidewalk cement bites into my butt, which is naked beneath

*
a short denim skirt. My head tilts against my knees, and my eyes trickle
tears. Heavy. My head is so heavy.

The H wants to take me away

*
and I want to go. Away. Far. Where
nothing hurts. Nothing... Eyes on me. Are there eyes? Don't look. Have to.

To know... Who? Can't lift my head.

*

Roll it sideways. Are you all right?

The eyes are talking. No. Not eyes.

Lips. Stupid. Eyes can't talk.

Do you want me to call 911?

"N-no thanks. I'm o-o-k-kay."

So okay I can't even say okay.

For some messed-up reason,

I start to hiccup. "Ju--" Hick.

*

"Just think--" Hick. "Thinking about my b--" Hick. "Buh-birthday."

Hick. Hick. Hick. Somehow

I manage to focus my eyes.

*

The guy isn't pretty, but his expression is kind enough. Maybe
even concerned. Are you sure
you're okay? You been drinking?

*

Can you get this screwed up from alcohol? Looney Tunes laughter--
hick-hick--spits from my mouth.

"Sorry. No, don't drink much."

*

Now I can see the wolf in his eyes.

No surprise. Even nice enough guys
go on the prowl. Okay. What
do you do that's fun, then?

I Swear Until This Moment

I never even noticed his hand
creeping up my leg, ever closer to my semi-exposed crotch.

Eyes can be deceptive when

*
they talk. I crack up again.

This time, at least, the hiccups
seem to have disappeared. But

I'm starting to ache for a rig.

*

Bryn's words settle through the fog. Leave something to the imagination. I give the guy a quick feel before pushing

*
his hand away. "Oh, I for sure
know how to have fun." Game on.

Wait. Bryn again. Ask if he works

vice. You a cop or what?"

*

He grins. Or what. I'm not even from around here. He stands, pulls
me to my feet, steadies my wobble.

Live close? I'll walk you home.

It Isn't Far

Just eight blocks. The guy chitchats the whole time. Something about Omaha. Cornhuskers? He
played for them? Bets on them?

*

Oh yeah. Sportsbook. Won five
big ones. (How big? Hundreds?

Bigger?) I can't concentrate on what he's saying. All I can think

*
about is a syringe full of magic.

How fast can I do this guy?

We swing into the parking lot, cut across to Building Two.

*

Key. I need the key. It's in my
purse somewhere. Too much crap in here. Like, why do I carry it, anyway? Just to irritate myself?

*

We reach the apartment and I hear

Bryn again. Look around before you open the door. I do. A car is parking a few spaces down.

*

And going up the stairs of the other
building is that girl I see sometimes, mostly in the laundry room. Copacetic.

Cool word. Where did it come from?

I unlock the door, start to turn the knob, when more words fall into my brain.

Business before pleasure. I turn.

The guy is so close, we're almost

*
attached. I give him a little shove
backward. "Before we go in, we
should talk about what you want and how much that will cost you."

*

Cost? You want me to pay for it?

He pushes me inside. I don't pay for sex. Even if I did, I wouldn't
pay for you, you junkie bitch.

*

He is all predator now, and on me.

Scream! But his hand is already over my mouth. I shake my head, look into his eyes. This wolf has mayhem

*
on his mind. He takes me down.

So okay. Give it to him. I go limp.

No! he screams. Fight, you goddamn
whore! Fight, or I'll kill you.

*

No fight left in me. Fuck me. Kill
me. Don't care. He wants both.

His penis stabs me, his hands lock around my throat. Air. No air. Black...

Air!

My lungs grab it suddenly. I float up into gray light, roll onto my side, vomit. Only nothing comes out.

Noise. Someone's screaming.

*

Get the fuck out of here, you son of a bitch. I'm calling the cops
right now, so you'd better run.

Come back, I'll kick your ass.

*

My throat throbs. The wolf! I sit up.

Too fast. My head is a merry-go-round.

Down. The carpet stinks. Saved.

I'm saved. Bryn! He does loves me.

*

Watches over me. "Bryn? Where are you?" Footsteps across the stinky
carpet. Not Bryn's. Too soft.

Someone leans over me. The girl

*
from the laundry room. Just lie still.

I think you'll be okay. He's hurting, though. I hit him with a book.

Good thing you read big ones.

*

She smiles. Sad. She's sad. Should

I call the cops? Didn't think so.

I'll stay with you for a while if you
want. I'm Ginger, by the way.

A Poem by Ginger Cordell I'll Stay

Right or wrong,

I'll stay until you tell me I have to leave.

Until you can look into my eyes, swear
you no longer love
me.

It would be a bitter
cup of broken-promise
tea, but

I'll
swallow it if you say

I must. If I go, sad
sweet dreams will
follow
me, weighting my days, strangling my nights.

Sad, sweet dreams of you.

Ginger Sadness

Encircles me, a black halo.

It's this city, this dried-up
desert well, sucking hope

*
like sand. People come here, hoping. Hoping to get rich.

Hoping to get laid, Not many

*
go home richer than when
they arrived. Easier to get
laid, as long as they have

*
a few bucks in their pockets.

Then there are the people who move here with big

*
dreams. They dream of stand-up
comedy, of playing rock and roll. They dream of dancing lead

*
in some steamy casino show.

If they're talented and lucky, they might end up in a chorus

*
line or drumming with a bar
band. But lots of them wind up just like me, selling pieces
of themselves. Pieces they can
never have back. There's this
girl who works for Lydia.

*

Her name is Misty. I won't do

this forever, she swears.

Just until I get my degree. Then

*
the world is my apple pie...

Okay, metaphor isn't her best
thing. And neither is school.

*

If she gets her degree, it will
be because she slept with the right teacher. Or three.

*

Every time I run into Misty, a little more of her is gone.

I can see it in her eyes.

*

When you sell your body, you
also sell what's inside. Piece by piece, you sell your soul.

Now Here's This Girl

Who almost lost everything.

She let her guard down. Plain and simple. If I hadn't been

*
doing my usual nosy thing, checking out the neighbors, she'd probably be lying here

*
waiting for her pimp to call the coroner. Yes, I know who her pimp is. He's the only guy

*
who comes around almost
every day. Collecting money and delivering sustenance--

*
food, trinkets, and substances.

Heroin. I was right about that.

I watch her now, plunging

*
a syringe full of hot amber
liquid. Her head rolls sideways and she fixes me with

*
sleepy golden eyes. Want

some? I don't have a whole
lot, but I kind of owe you one.

"No thanks. Not my thing."

Her body visibly relaxes as relief pumps through her veins.

*

Suddenly she clutches her stomach, runs into the bathroom.

"You all right?" I yell at the door.

*

She exits seconds later, pale but smiling. A very bad smell of voided body waste trails her.

*

Doesn't embarrass her at all.

Sometimes the Lady makes
you sick. But it's good sick.

*

There's room on the couch, and a vacant chair, but she sits on the floor, as if afraid of falling.

*

Now she rocks herself. Forward.

Back. Forward. Back. Thank you
for... wait. How did you know?

*

"I dunno. Guess he just looked like bad news. Then he started
yelling crazy shit. I usually
mind my own business...."

Yeah, right. "But my 'little
voice' was screaming. Good

*
thing you never shut your door.

Even better, he was too busy
trying to choke you to notice."

*

Her hands rise protectively toward her neck. I thought

I was on my way to hell for

*
sure. She strokes the raised
scarlet finger marks gently.

Hurts like a mother. Is it ugly?

*

I have to say, "Pretty ugly.

You might have to take a few
days off. Most guys won't want..."

*

Too familiar. Then again,

I just watched her shoot up.

I repeat, "Take a few days off."

I Expect Surprise

That I know how she makes her money. Or anger at me, because I've been such a snoop,

*
or at herself, because she's
made it so obvious. I get neither.

Nothing but silent acceptance.

*

Is it the heroin? Or is it just
her? Probably both. I want to ask where she came from. What

*
kind of parents she has, if she has any at all. How she hooked up with her so-called boyfriend.

*

That's, no doubt, what he calls
himself. Want to ask, though

I know the answer, if he's the one

*
who started her on the junk.

Her head sways forward as the drug carries her toward

*

Dreamville. She'll be totally out of it soon. I'll ask something
easy. "What's your name?"

At the sound of my voice, her head jerks up. Oh. It's you.

You tell me your name first.

*

Wow. She's pretty out of it already. "I told you before.

It's Ginger, remember?"

*

She giggles like a little kid.

A stoned little kid. Oh, yeah.

Hey, Ginger. I'm Whitney.

*

Somewhere in her sudden
animation, I catch a glimpse of Whitney, the way I imagine

*
she used to be before... him.

She nods again and I hurry,

"Are you still in love with him?"

*

Yo-yoing in and out of now, she is coherent enough to know who I mean. Bryn is everything.

It's the Last Thing She Says

Before dropping all the way into whatever dark narcotic
place the junk pushes her toward.

*

I swear I'll never venture there.

Lately I don't even feel like drinking much. All it does

*
is make me stupid and sick.

It doesn't make me forget.

In fact, sometimes, the drunker

*

I get, the more I remember.

I remember the kids, how
annoying and entertaining

*
they could be. Do they miss me?

Have they even asked, Where is Ginger? Why did she go?

*

I remember Barstow, the armpit
town where I first made a friend, first got decent grades. Ms. Felton

*
even told me once, You're an excellent writer. You should

think about it as a career.

Writer? Me? And what am

I doing instead? I remember

Sandy, a ball in the street,

*
and Mary Ann's face, scrunched with pain. I'm sorry. I should
have... Only the blame belonged

*
to me. Which always brings
me back to my very favorite
memories, all centered around

*

Gram, deceptively petite, while so driven. Tireless. Completely
devoted to a pack of kids she owed

*
absolutely zero devotion. All because of her giant capacity to love. Does she hate me

*
now for taking the easy way out?

Would she ask me to come home
if she could? Did she mean it when

*
she said, You know where I live.

No matter what, I want you to remember this is always your home.

Tempting as It Might Be

To get back on the bus, see
if she would welcome me, uglier memories intrude on

*
that sweet little daydream.

Since the revelation about

Iris sicking her snarling dogs

*
on me, other faces--other
mutts--materialize when

I least want to recognize them,

*
often just as I sink into an alcohol-fueled stupor, praying it will let me sleep, dreamless.

*

I was so young the first time,

I didn't know what it meant, only that nothing had ever hurt

*
so bad. Walt tore me up and I bled and bled and when I screamed, nobody came. And he laughed.

That's it, little baby. Scream for your daddy. Only he wasn't
my daddy at all. My daddy was

*
a brave soldier, fighting far away.

Iris told me so. I still believed the stuff she told me then. When

*

I told her about the man, not
my daddy, she said, He was only making you into a real girl.

*

I didn't understand. But I made
myself believe her. I was a real
girl now. But what was I before?

Walt Was the First

There were others. Nameless.

Faceless. I figured out how to close off my brain when they did

*
it to me, to withdraw into a dark
little room inside my head, where

I couldn't see them. Couldn't smell

*
their sweat, their stagnant breath.

Couldn't taste the tobacco coating their tongues, or the beer tainting

*
the spit they left in my mouth.

Couldn't feel what was down between my legs. But now they

*
revisit me. Is it because of what

I'm doing? Because of these
nameless, faceless men watching

*
me? Even without them touching
me, I feel dirty about what I do.

Alex does even filthier things

*
but says it all washes off with soap.

I don't believe that. I think it all
leaves stains. Indelible stains.

I Wait for Her Now

Wondering where she is, what she has done today, if she'll come
home. Lydia called. We've got

*
a bachelor party at ten. It's nine
fifteen already, and no sign of

Alex. I tried her cell. Went straight

*
to voice mail. The battery must be
gone. If she doesn't show, I'll have to go alone. Won't be the first time,

*
and she knows how scared I am to work by myself. I still love her, but I feel her slipping away, bit

*
by bit, every day. Finally the door
opens. She's a total mess--makeup
smeared, hair like a rat's nest, clothes

*
dirty and torn. I rush to her side,

"What happened? Are you okay?"

I try to hug her, but she shoves me

*
away. Don't touch me. Tears spill from her eyes, tracking mascara down her cheeks. She sinks down
on the sofa, puts her face into her hands. Bastard screwed me, then robbed me. Took everything.

*

Again I try to hold her. This time she doesn't pull away, but she is like sandstone. Hard on the surface,

*
crumbling beneath. "It's okay.

We'll be okay." Then, an after-thought,

"How much did he get?"

*

Her head sags against my chest, wetting my shirt with tears, snot.

Not sure. Four or five hundred.

*

Anger flares suddenly, but not because of the money. Because of what we've become. "We've got

*
a goddamn bachelor party, clear across town. We'll barely
make it if we leave right now."

*

She looks up at me with ringtail
eyes. I can't... please. I'm gonna
be sick. She runs to the bathroom.

*

I follow, put an ear to the door, hear the definite sound of puke
splash. "Okay," I call. "I'll take
this one by myself. But when I get
back, we have to talk." For once,

I'm not afraid to do the gig alone.

*

The whole cab ride over, I think about what it is I want to say.

I arrive at a few minutes after ten.

*

The guys are young, not much
older than me. Good. They won't
ask for many extras. I handle

*
the business end, promise a lap
dance to the groom, who looks
excited and scared at the same time.

*

And for the entire hour I'm taking off my clothes, shimmying and writhing and faking "sexy," my mind

*
is on one thing. I don't know
how, where, or even with whom.

Just know I have to get out of here.

A Poem by Cody Bennett Don't Know

Who I am anymore.

I was sure once, not long
ago. Knew where I came
from, and where I was going
to. Now I don't have a clue who puts on my shoes in the morning, nor what direction he's
going
when he closes the door behind him. He looks a lot like me. But his flame has been extinguished, buried
too far beneath his soil to find
air enough to smolder.

It is no more than a vague
memory, all oxygen
gone.

Cody How Do I Find Myself Here?

Not even a year since everything
started a snowball roll toward hell.

It's a place I'm starting to know well, a place I deserve. I mean, I couldn't
stop Cory from fucking up. He was set on it. And Jack wasn't my fault.

*

I didn't make him get cancer, did my
best for him when he did. Hear that,

Jack? I wanted to help you! Couldn't.

I'm not God. What happened is between him and you. Can't you do anything up there to help me out down here?

*

Okay, maybe I'm not worthy of your intervention. Maybe you're
just plain grossed out. Pissed off.

But if you help me, you'll help

Mom, too. She can't make it on her own. Damn it, you promised!

*

And dude, if I can't worm my way
out of this crazy place, I'll have to consider that medicine chest, still full of pain meds and sleeping pills. Mom
would only miss me so long. The rest of the world wouldn't miss me at all.

That Includes Ronnie

Oh, she claims she misses me now.

I only see her at school, and I'm not
there a whole hell of a lot. I should
be, of course. Just started junior year.

If I really want college, really want
more, I need to focus not only on

*
attendance, but on getting good
grades. Impossible. Too much
going on. Too much going down.

Hard enough, just surviving.

Trying not to think about Cory.

Not to think about Lydia, etc.

*

I get to class late, or not at all.

Can't find interest in any of my
classes. English? I talk good enough.

Math? Let me give you a point
spread. History? Want to hear
mine? Chemistry? Girls or men?

*

And Ronnie? She pleads for attention.

Can't you please come over, spend a little time with me? C'mon, Cody.

I miss you so much. Remember...

Then she'll try to convince me, bringing up one of those special

(God, yes, they were special)

times we spent in bed. Oh, I do
miss holding her close. The satin of her hair. The luscious full curves of her body. But sex means something
different now. I can't tell her that.

*

So I lie. Tell her I have to work. (For a temp service, so she can't track
me down any certain place.) Tell her I have to drive Mom somewhere.

(Usually to visit Cory.) Tell her

I'm just too freaking tired. (No lie.)

*

Sooner or later, she'll get sick of the excuses and find another
guy. I only hope it's someone who deserves the perfect girl.

Not an addict. Not a boy whore.

Not a fucking loser like me.

The Only Thing

I've won at lately is a few games of chance. A hand or ten of poker.

And the Chiefs have been on a roll.

I've tried to keep the bets reasonable, but the problem with winning is, once you've got a bigger bankroll,

*
you want to make bigger bets. Got a whopper riding this week. Enough to let me skip a couple of "dates,"

if my luck holds. I have been smart
enough to pay my car insurance for six months, help Mom with

*
the power and phone. She thinks

I'm working at a temp service too.

Since they place you in jobs
temporarily, according to different
businesses' need, it provides the perfect excuse for sometimes

*
having money, sometimes not.

For being away from home odd
hours. And, since those jobs tend to be manual labor, Mom doesn't ask
why I so often plunge straight into the shower after coming through the door.

On a Positive Note

I've managed to make small credit
card payments. Not enough to pay down the principal, but enough to cover the interest, anyway. Only
one problem. As had to happen,

I couldn't keep intercepting the bills.

*

Mom called me into the kitchen. Cody, what are all these charges to Int-Gam,

Inc.? She stood there, hands on hips, waiting for my confession. How
could I tell her "Int-Gam, Inc." was Internet Gaming Incorporated,

*
and that I had been using the cards for months, losing money hand over fist? "I'm not sure, Mom," I lied, looking her straight in the eye.

"But just so you know, I found
those credit cards in Cory's things."

*

I can't believe what a liar I've become, and lying about Cory was a way low
blow. But she bought it. Why not?

Her youngest son is a criminal.

Not much of a stretch to think
that he might also be a thief.

Credit Cards

No longer being an option, sports bets
will have to be laid down through local bookies. Vince knows one or two. And there's always poker.

Hey, I've got a stake--a few hun
saved up. Anyway, I've got spending

*
cash, thanks to Lydia. Mostly it's from men. Thank God, I haven't had
too many experiences similar to the one with crew-cut Dan. I can't seem to excise
that night completely from my head.

I've questioned a lot of things about

*
myself before. The gambling. Booze.

Drugs. Lying. But, despite sleeping with men for money, I've never
questioned my sexuality. That's the core of any man, any person.

How can I be unsure of that, especially

*
considering the pain and humiliation?

Maybe Lydia was right, and we all
swing both ways to some degree. It's

all according to necessity she said.

Does that mean if every woman
disappeared, I'd actively crave men?

Not Craving Any

Of the guys at Vince's tonight.

I glance from face to face, chest to chest. Nope. Not a single twitch.

Maybe there's hope for me after all.

Now if Lady Luck will just decide to climb into my lap, hang out.

*

Hey, says Vince. Anyone bring
smoke? He looks straight at me, not expecting me to say yes. It's been weeks since I had enough
cash to score. My connection had
almost given up on me too.

*

I surprised him, and I surprise

Vince now. "Actually, yeah, I do."

I hand over a couple of big blunts, light another, pass it on. Only way to convince Vince to introduce me to his bookie friends is with generosity.

*

Meanwhile, it's poker. The key to winning this game is properly
assessing the competition. I know
most of the guys at the table--Vince, best player here, a regular bluff master, not afraid to lay down a major bet.

Justin is an elementary school janitor.

Can't afford to bet big. Never ups the ante.

Sitting down is Shaun, UNR freshman, innocent-looking, but knows how to bet.

Finally, there's Misty's boyfriend,

Chris. He's a total jerk, and wasted.

*

A fair bit of coke has been passed
around, but I'm guessing he's been smoking ice. Maybe even crashing, despite the cola. His mood is mean.

Fucking deal already, would
you? Haven't got all night.

*

Vince stares him down, trying to decide, no doubt, if he's going to have to deal with Chris some
way other than nicely. He starts with nice. Take it easy, man.

Where you have to be, anyway?

*

Chris grabs the cards, now in a pile in front of him. He sorts
them one way, then another, shoots
eyeball arrows around the table as if
we're all just waiting to give our
hands away. Got a date with Misty.

Fact Is

I've got a date with Misty. Well, not with her, exactly. We both have a date with some sexually confused
out-of-towner. Three-ways aren't
quite so bad. Misty isn't the brightest
girl. But she's got a killer body to focus

*
on. It's okay to be turned on by that.

The evening's little snort party will
help me out too. In fact, we might
even have fun. But, far as I know,

Chris isn't coming along. "You sure
you're hooking up with Misty tonight?"

*

The table falls silent. Not even a minimal buzz as Chris gives me an odd look. That's what I said.

Why? You know something

I don't? He throws three cards on the table. Waits for more.

*

And also for my answer. "Uh.

It's just I thought she had to work
tonight. You know. For Lydia."

I draw two cards. Dig way down for composure. Lady Luck is definitely
rock 'n' rolling with me. Full house.

Chris doesn't respond. For some
reason, that bothers me a lot. I look over at him and he's staring at me, head tipped as if listening to something
no one else can hear. Little
voices in his head? Schizo, too?

*

It's all lost on Vince, who draws
last. One card... C'mon, Lady, don't trade partners now! His face
gives nothing away. But when he bets, we all gulp in breaths.

He tosses some chips. A hundred.

*

Justin folds. Shaun considers quite a while, finally calls. Chris swears
softly, breaks out in a sweat, trying to figure out if Vince is bluffing, decides he must be. He calls. I call.

We show our cards. My full house

*
wins the pot! Six-fifty! Oh, yeah.

Lady and I are doing a full-on mosh
now. One thing I've managed to learn, "Thanks so much, gentlemen, but it's time for me to go." It is time, in fact. My date is in twenty minutes.

Hot Damn

I am feeling good. I stop at the bank, make two deposits. Into my account.

Into Mom's account. Not much, but enough to help out a little. I'd cancel
my three-way, but I promised I'd do
it. Lydia is expecting me to. And so is Misty. Who I really want to see
right now is Ronnie. First time in a long time I'm feeling the need for a long, healthy roll in the hay.

I give her a call, half expecting her to be out with somebody else.

*

But she answers immediately.

Hello? Oh God! The sound of her husky voice lifts me even
higher. Uh, hello? Is somebody
there? When I let her know it's
me, she is standoffish at first.

*

"You can be mad at me. I deserve
it. But Ronnie, I swear, I'm so sorry for pushing you away lately. Things
have been... uh, bad. We can talk about that later. I get off in an hour and a half. I know that's pretty late...."

Zero hesitation. No! Come over.

I'll stay up, however long it takes
you to get here. She pauses, and I
can imagine her voice growing
thick in her throat. Goddamn you,

Cody, she sputters. What took so long?

*

I haven't cried in a long while, not since I mostly got over Jack.

I pretty much thought my tear
machine was broken for good.

But no. I can barely choke out,

"I don't know. But I do know

*

I love you. See you in a little while."

I can't get her off my mind as I drive to the address Lydia gave me. I feel
awful. Feel wonderful. And for the first time in a long time, I feel
hopeful. A few more dates, a couple

*
of big wins, I'll get out of this
business for good. I'll find a real
job. Put money away. Help Mom
somehow. Stay in school, work my
ass off and get into college. Oh, there's the motel. First things first.

I'm a Little Late

Usually Misty waits for me and we
go in together. Guess she didn't want the guy to think we weren't coming.

I check the room number. Twice.

One time I knocked on the wrong
door. Was that guy ever surprised!

*

This time when I knock, Misty calls,

Come on in, baby. I do, find her already mostly naked. The guy, who's a totally forgettable middle-aged
nothing, is completely naked.

Jeez, man. I'm only five minutes late.

*

The dude, who isn't much down there either, despite it being at full
mast, turns his attention away from

Misty, focuses on me. What are you waiting for? Time is money, you know. Like it's going to take him

*
much time at all. But whatever. It is his money. And less time is better.

Misty distracts him with her yummy
boobs and I start to pull my T-shirt over my head. Suddenly the door explodes behind me. What the...?

Something--bear or bulldozer--
knocks me face forward to the floor, forcing my breath into the carpet.

Misty screams and Nothing Man
yells, What the fuck, as my right
kidney takes two massive punches.

*

My shirt is still over my head and

I can't see a damn thing as I fight for air. But I hear crack-crack-crack.

And the room goes silent, except for strained breathing, right above me. And then I hear... sobbing.

*

You fucking whore. It is Chris's voice.

You promised... no more... you
said... and you... he means me.

His boot takes out two ribs. Oh
my God. Is he going to kill me?

Jack! Didn't mean it. Don't want...

*

Snap! Lightning? White-hot. Electric.

Shattering. My back. Pieces. Bone.

Dark. Darker. Cut through the black, blinding light. What? Buzzing. What?

Suck air. Where? Can't... No, please.

Ronnie? Sorry. So sorry. Ron...

Light Floats

Just beyond my eyelids. I want to open them, see the light, but the darkness is comforting. Not
much here. Beyond the nothing

(nothing? Nothing. Nothing Man?), something. A hum. A whisper.

*

Wake up. Can you wake up for me?

Motion. All around me, movement.

Pressure. Wrapping me. Pressure.

Air. Saccharine air, pumping into my lungs, through... plastic.

Plastic? My eyelids stutter. Light!

*

Sunlight. I am outside. Can't move.

Tied? Strapped. Strapped to a gurney.

Parking lot. Red and blue lights.

Oh my God. I remember. I roll my head, see another gurney. "Misty?" A cloth
covers her face. "No." It is a whisper.

*

Best I can do. A second gurney
carries another still figure. Nothing

Man. Gone. Both of them gone.

But I am still here. "Thank you, Jack."

A paramedic asks what I said. "Phone,"

I tell him. "Call Mom. And Ronnie."

A Poem by Eden Streit Still Here

At least I think so, what's left of who

I used to be a shadow on the sidewalk

I look up, try to find a rainbow, but the only
thing there is a lone cloud, stretching thin and thinner, clear to almost not
there, across an upside-down sea.

I lower my gaze into a puddle, close my
eyes at what I see.

Don't want to believe
that ghost is me.

Eden I Am Less Than a Ghost

I am a corpse, sleepwalking the streets of Las Vegas. Sometimes I think

*

I should just head on out into the desert, lay down on a soft mattress of sand,

*
close my eyes against the diamond sun and circling black wings. And wait.

*

It might be preferable to this cement bed behind a 7-Eleven Dumpster.

*

There are lots of us living on the street.

They say Vegas is easier than Reno. Warmer.

*

There are shelters, I've been told, where
you can eat free. Shower sometimes. Sleep.

*

But I'm afraid of the questions. Too many
questions. So when my stomach offers up

*
its acid, when I can't stand the hollowness for another second, I sell one more slice

*
of my soul. One slice, twenty dollars. I've been here three weeks. Not much left of my soul.

As for My Body

It's battered, scraped, bruised. The Tears of Zion shift looks about a hundred years old.

*

I did spend a few bucks at the Salvation Army.

Bought a used skirt, two tank tops. Underwear.

*

I hate to think who used them, or why they gave
them away. But they only cost a dime apiece.

*

I stink, too. I've managed four or five showers, when the man of the hour wanted to spring for

*
a motel room. More often, it's the seat of his car.

Quick and easy, five minutes or less. No emotion.

*

No pain. And the weirdest thing is, I'm not the least bit embarrassed about doing it anymore.

*

That's the worst part. That, and when my brain
insists on remembering Andrew. Thinking

*
about how he held me, rained his love down all around me, brings devouring pain.

*

So I'll think instead about the coming night, where

I might peddle the remaining tatters of my soul.

Rush Hour

The freeways are bumper to bumper, so surface streets jam with commuters.

*

A few of the pushier girls go straight up to them at traffic lights, knock on

*
their windows. How about a date?

Most of the guys shake their heads.

*

Some of them look close to panic. Afraid
they might catch something through the glass?

*

But every now and again, one of them
opens the passenger door and the girl slips

*
inside. The car takes off, and minutes
later, comes back around, business done.

*

I watch a girl get out of an older Cadillac.

At least they had plenty of leg room.

*

She steps to the curb, stares me down with steel eyes. What are you looking at?

*

For some crazy reason, I shatter.

"N-nothing. I m-m-mean I d-don't know."

*

Her gaze softens. New to the biz, huh?

Well, sweetheart, this is a real bad place
for tears. Those guys are freaking sharks.

If they smell blood, they'll chew you up.

*

"I know. I'm sorry. It's just that you're the first person who's even talked to me

*
since I got here. I mean except to tell
me to suck harder, or..."

*

She cracks up, and so do I. Yeah, well,

I know exactly what you mean. Uh, don't

*
get me wrong, okay? Her nose scrunches
up. But you could really use soap and water.

*

"That bad, huh?" My face actually heats.

Doing disgusting things with gross men

*
doesn't embarrass me, but her observation, no doubt deserved, does? "I'm on the street."

*

She reaches into a pocket on her skirt, pulls out a thin fold of bills. Here's fifty

*
dollars. Get a room and some food.

And listen, from the looks of you, this
isn't the right business. Get smart. Call
home. You don't belong on the street.

*

I shake my head. "You worked for that, and I know what you had to do for it."

*

Everything about her hardens. I told
you to get smart. Take the money.

*

I don't know what you ran from, but living like this can't be better.

*

Funny, but my girlfriend, Ginger, keeps
telling me the same thing. I never wanted

*
to listen before. Maybe now I'd better.

Her nose wrinkles again. Call home.

*

But shower first. She turns abruptly.

Later she snorts over her shoulder.

Good Samaritan

The words pop into my head. That is the second time someone I didn't

*
know and will likely never see again
handed me money they couldn't afford

*
to give away. I don't understand. Why
me? Other words surface from a place

*
of deep indoctrination: Whatever they

do for the least of my children, they do

*
for me.... I wander along the overbaked
cement, sucked into a cerebral vortex.

*

When it finally spits me out again, I am on the sidewalk in front of a church. Guardian

*

Angel Cathedral. Catholic. I am struck by the beauty of the angular architecture,

*
and by the amazing artwork above my head--

Jesus, hands extended in welcome, to one and all.

*

I've never once walked beyond the doors of a Catholic church. But I am drawn inside

*
this one. I enter, a stranger to the faith.

To the God of this faith and every other.

Friday evening, no worshippers, I find cool
solace inside. I slide into a seat at the rear,

*
fold my hands. Close my eyes. Do I remember
how to pray? "God, you know I have done

*
terrible things. I don't want to do them anymore, and ask for your forgiveness. I am so sorry...."

*

My voice catches in my throat. Was I speaking
out loud? Just a little more. "Thank you

*
for good Samaritans. And please, God, please, if it's your will, show me the way out."

*

A sense of peace blankets me, and a gentle
voice whispers, How can I help you?

*

God? No. There is shallow breathing, too.

I open my eyes. A priest sits beside me.

*

He reminds me of Andrew--handsome, and fresh, with compassion in his eyes.

*

"I don't know how, Father, but I do need help."

Need his help, and God's help, to be saved.

A Poem by Seth Parnell No Way to Be Saved

No way to hit reverse, turn around, go back home.

No
chance at forgiveness.

The shale cliffs of redemption
have crumbled, surrendered to the sea.

How do you look
for
miracles when you
deny belief? How can
someone
formed of bone and sin
trust his weight to wings?

How does a man like me
find innocence again?

Seth I Don't Remember Innocence

Not, I guess, that I need to.

Nothing innocent about how I live now. Nothing
naive about being a toy.

That's what I am now. A toy.

*

But, hey, what are my options?

I thought about trying to go
home. Once I even swallowed
every ounce of pride, put in a phone call to Dad.

*

His raspy voice lifted
memories, good and not so.

Hello? Hello? Who the hell is this? Then he thought a sec. Seth? Is that you, boy?

*

Don't know if it was the "boy," or just remembering his words the night he sent me away, but I couldn't say a damn
thing. I slammed down
the receiver, retreated into a murky cave of depression.

It's a place I've visited
more and more lately.

The only thing that seems

*
to yank me away from there is working out. Sweating
poisons of body and soul.

Having Jared around to help
me sweat isn't so bad either.

*

In the few weeks since he started helping me, I can
see a vast improvement.

He agrees. Much better form.

Both your lifting, and your body.

*

He is really close, and the smell of his sweat beneath his leathery
fragrances reminds me of a tack
room. For some reason, it is desperately turning me on.

*

Despite my ballooning
attraction, I have yet to overtly
put any sort of moves on Jared.

He might be taken. And I am under ongoing ownership.

But no way can I lie back on this weight bench without that traitorous part of my body
totally giving me away.

I inhale like I can't find air.

*

You okay? he asks. His own
breath falls hot on my neck, and the stable smell becomes
almost overpowering. Tack.

Sweat. I remember something.

*

I was little. Playing at Grandma

Laura's. Hiding in the tack room.

Hiding with my cousin, Clay.

He touched me. There. And it felt good. So good. So... "Oh."

*

I turn to Jared. What the hell?

"I'm okay. Except..." God!

"I totally want you." There.

Said it. He can laugh at me now.

But he doesn't. He kisses me.

We Are Alone

In here. The workout room is always deserted midday.

Still, I might hesitate, but

Jared is in total control.

Come on. He leads me into

*
the sauna, but doesn't turn it on. Now our sweat scents
mingle and the combination is heady. There is no need for words as our bodies link.

*

He is strong. The first strong
man I've ever been with, and this time I don't give. It is new.

Frightening. Exhilarating.

But somehow I trust it to be

*
all right. And it is more than that. A piece of my puzzle
falls into place, a piece I didn't
know was missing. Fifteen
minutes to Seth, reinvented.

I'm Still Trying

To sort it all out in my head
when Carl gets home. Early for once, and with no company.

"Oh. Didn't expect you so soon.

I'll start dinner right now."

*

Don't bother. He goes into the living room, pours himself a drink. Does not pour one for me. So tell me. What
did you do today? The look on

*
his face explains way too much.

Something nasty bubbles up in my belly. But I'm not
ready to confess--not yet.

"I read. Swam. Worked out."

*

Sounds like a pretty easy day.

You have it easy here, don't
you, Seth? He doesn't wait for my reply. So why in the hell
did you want to go and blow it?

*

Okay, he knows. But how?

And what does that mean to me? And how much, exactly, does he know?

"What are you talking about?"

He advances, sipping his drink like he doesn't have a care.

You know exactly what I'm
talking about. Did I give you
permission to pick up some

*
guy in the workout room? Slip into the sauna for, shall
we say, an afternoon quickie?

Did you think I wouldn't keep
tabs on you? All you young fags

*
are alike. Simon's philandering
taught me a lesson--never trust a boy toy. And here in Vegas, there is no shortage of pretty
faggots, willing to do just about

*
anything to earn an extra dime.

That includes acting as bait.

I didn't expect Jared to follow through and actually do you, but whatever. I start to protest.

*

Carl holds up a hand. Shut
your mouth. You have twenty-four
hours to pack up and get the hell out of here. Be gone
when I get home tomorrow

He Will Not Allow

Explanations or arguments.

He's had his say and I am to leave. He doesn't give a damn
where or how. Won't even front a few bucks to send me on my way.

*

I wander into my room, turn on my computer--the computer.

It belongs to Carl. I've got

less than a day and zero capital to start completely over.

*

I have exactly one resource-- a better, buffer body than when

I arrived. I'll have to barter it more carefully. It's the only
one I have, after all. I go to

*

Craigslist, Las Vegas Personals.

Click on Men 4 Men, scan the ads.

Here's a Help Wanted ad for Have Ur

Cake Escorts. Just in case, I jot down the number. But what I'm

*
really looking for is another Carl.

There are a few possibilities.

Can't be too picky. I send
out several e-mail intros, wait
less than patiently for a response.

A Poem by Whitney Lang Less Than Patiently

The Lady waits. Pretty

China White demands

I listen, and hold her in my arms.

She is my only friend, my one ally against the low, throbbing
ache inside my brain, against the loneliness
my heart was not
prepared to hold.

Will it break beneath the obscene weight of him
not loving me? How is it possible I could
have been so very wrong
again?

Whitney No Love

In this world for me. No hope.

No future. Nothing but plodding through each day, not quite
surviving. I am not alive

*
except when I'm fresh off a plunge, that first rush after a hot shot.

Then, for scant minutes, life
rages through my veins, a river.

*

Bryn comes later and later each
day, if he comes at all. Sometimes

I wait, barely hanging on, wondering if he's back in Santa

*

Cruz, combing the mall for a new

Whitney. Then I get mad. Not only because my body is twisted with spasms of need, but also because I should

*
be there. Not him. I belong there--
used to belong there. Don't belong
there or anywhere like this. Waiting for maintenance. And so, I've come up
with a plan. Bryn isn't the only supplier in Vegas. Sometimes they hang out at strip clubs. And, I suspect, I can find
one who might be up for a trade.

*

I watch from a distance as a car
pulls up against the sidewalk, a block down the street from Skin Tight.

Don't know if the deal was set up before

*
or if this is a regular haunt for the guy who goes to the window, collects
some cash, and tosses something at the passenger. The deal is down in less

*
than thirty seconds. I can't be sure it was H without a little scamming of my own. The guy, who is pretty much a stereotypical Latino deal-meister,

*
turns back toward Skin Tight. I sidle
up, flash some thigh. "Hey, honey.

You looking for a little fun?" Already
broke one of Bryn's rules. But this guy

*
def isn't the heat. He is high himself, but not on junk. His pupils shout "crystal."

My heart sinks. I start to back away.

More reasons than one for rules, I guess.

The guy grabs my wrist, pulls me into him. Hey, now. Where you going?

You ain't a whore and a tease, are you? 'Cause that might make me mad.

*

I've gotten a whole lot better at reading
guys since my little choking incident.

This is not a guy I want to make mad.

"No, baby. Just a whore, and a good

*
one." Might as well play the game for money if the Lady isn't on the line.

But I'm not giving up on that yet.

"I was just hoping maybe you had

*
a little something in your pocket."

I run my knee up over his bulging
groin. "Something besides that, I mean, and something to take me down."

*

His turn to assess my eyes, looking for lies. What he finds is a junkie.

He shakes his head. Don't got no bonita, baby. But I could maybe get some.

*

That's the crystal talking. He wants to get off, not an easy thing, high on meth.

I hate doing guys on meth. Takes too
long. But hey, this was my deal.

We Agree on a Time

To meet, and a corner three blocks from my apartment, just in case

Lorenzo can't score. Not having
some crazed meth fiend thinking

*
he's getting laid with nothing
coming back the other way. After

Mr. Omaha, it was days before I'd
let a john come through my door.

*

Bryn was patient. For maybe one day.

After that he was all, Get over it already.

Odds are you'll meet up with a creep
once in a while. You had your once.

*

He promised to check in more often, to keep a better eye on me. But it hasn't
happened that way. Ginger has showed
more concern, and I don't even know her.

*

She knocks on my door at least
every other day. Just making sure
you're still breathing, she says.

Doesn't come in very often.

*

But that's okay. Not like we're best
friends or anything. Girls in the business
don't really have friends. Our lives are all about acquaintances.

I'm Supposed to Meet

My latest acquaintance soon. Don't
know if I can make it three blocks without a little help. Please, Lorenzo, score! I'm getting so low. It's only

*
been a few hours since my last visit with the Lady, but I'm shaking like it was yesterday. Just a small fix for now. If Lorenzo doesn't come through,

*
maybe Bryn will show. I only know

I've got to stop the knotting in my belly.

Ah! Better. Have to go while my brain
can still tell my feet to walk. Three blocks.

*

Lorenzo! Right on time. Fine quality in a dealer, right? Sexy. Look sexy.

Forget the schoolgirl part. This guy
isn't shopping for innocence. "Hey, doll.

*

Find what I'm looking for?" He smiles, takes my hand, slides it down into his pocket. Not one bag. Two. And, farther down, something else.

*

No problem. It's part of the deal.

My guy says dis stuff is pretty good.

You wanna pay for one and fuck for one, or what? We start to walk.

I have a little cash stashed. Don't tell

Bryn about my "extra" deals. A little
extra cash for a little extra service.

"Sounds good." Meth or no meth,

*
though, we have to go quick. I'm on

Bryn's clock already. "Before we start, show me the stuff." He does. It isn't
white or even brown. "What's this?"

*

You never seen black tar? Baby, it's the best. Believe me, those boys in Mexico know their shit. Now come over here. Take a taste of this.

*

I've heard of black tar Mexican.

Never tried it, but guess I'm gonna.

Ol' Lorenzo gets a ride around the world.

Doesn't take as long as I thought.

By the Time He Leaves

The Lady is singing a siren song to me. Might as well try the black, see if Lorenzo's acquaintanceship is worthy of long-term cultivation.

*

Two bags stashed, might as well take a real rocket ride. I cook a massive
spoon. Don't even bother to look for a vein more concealed than on my arm.

*

Five. Four. Three... Whoosh!

Incredible. Lorenzo, I love you, baby.

Rush! Waves of pleasure flood my brain.

It's a regular cerebral orgasm.

*

Wait. No. Too much. Down I go.

And oh, the noise. The noise inside my head. Pounding. Blowing.

Exploding like a hurricane.

*

Close my eyes against the wind.

Spinning in my brain. Air. Need air.

Suck it in. Thick. Can't breathe it in.

Damn stinking carpet. Again. Slow.

*

Slow. Slow. Heart. Beats. Slow.

Wind. Spins. Inside my head.

Don't like this. Bad wind. Hurricane.

Slow. Sleep. Slow. Sleep...

A Poem by Ginger Cordell Wind

Shuffles autumn feet across November sand, stirring grit like ice
chips. Crystal white.

It blows along deserted sidewalks, crusts
lonely avenues. Where
has she gone? Panicked,

I search for her in familiar places.

Restaurants. Theaters.

Alleyways adjacent the heart of the city. I call out her name. It returns, hollow, an echo.

Ginger Late Night Last Night

Three outcalls, one post-midnight.

It was a good night for tips, so Alex and I celebrated with fine Italian

*
dining and people watching on the strip. I slept in this morning, lay in our bed, still perfumed

*
with our lovemaking. We don't
do that so much now. I've missed
it. But more and more, Alex flinches

*
when I touch her. Not just me,

I think. But anyone. Everyone.

It took twenty minutes of gentle

*
kissing and easy massage to arouse her even slightly. And while she had
no problem pleasing me, nothing

*

I did could bring her all the way.

Sex for Alex is nothing but a job.

It isn't in my power to fix that.

*

It's strange, really. Strange and sad. When we first got here, it was me who shrank from touch.

Alex taught me the joy of skin against my own skin. She showed
me how to feel without fear.

*

Now she's the one afraid to feel.

I wish that I could change that.

But she's built a fortress around

*
her. A sand castle. It's bound to crumble. And when the sea
rushes in, I'm afraid she'll drown.

It's Almost Noon

By the time I yank myself out of bed. "Alex?" I call, but my
intuition tells me I'm alone.

*

I check the bathroom, wander into the living room. No Alex.

Damn, damn, damn. She can't be

*
out turning tricks already! What is wrong with her? We don't need the extra money. I don't get it.

*

I want to find her, drag her off the street or out of whatever
car she has gotten into. But Vegas

*
is a big city. Alex could be
anywhere. Still, she has a few
favorite places. I clean up,

*
get dressed, call a cab, head
out the door. Damn. What's
going on across the parking

*
lot? Looks like a garage sale.

Oh. Whitney. An ambulance
took her away a few days ago.

Guess the landlord decided
she's not coming back and neither is her sleazy pimp boyfriend.

*

A small knot of people stand around watching the landlord
haul her stuff out of the place.

*

Sounds like the creep is taking
offers. I go up to an older lady.

"Everything for sale, huh?"

*

The woman barely looks at me. Too busy checking out
bargains. She shrugs. Guess so.

*

Poor Whitney. How far
did you run this time?

"Why? Did she... is she...?"

*

The lady shrugs again. Don't

know. But hey, those junkies are the walking dead, anyway.

Junkies and Whores

Whitney and Alex. No life
force left behind the lenses.

The walking dead. Spot-on.

*

My cab arrives. Not a driver

I know. Where to? he demands, tapping the steering wheel like

*
he's got somewhere better to be. When I hesitate, he drops the flag. Where you want to go?

*

I'm not in the mood for snippy
cabbies. "Just drive down Las

Avenue. I'll tell you when to turn."

*

It's my dime. I'll spend it how

I want to. I have him cruise in circles, in an area known for

*
its strip clubs and accompanying
activities. "Slow down. I might
want you to stop." Feels good to be

*
the one giving orders for a change.

I see several working girls. A few
guys. One or two in the "not sure"

category. There. That's her.

Right there in the plain light of day, hustling. "Stop here!"

*

He pulls to the curb, and I hand
him two twenties for a thirty-two-dollar
fare. He looks at me. Change?

*

"Goddamn straight." No tips for smart-assed cabbies. Off he drives in a huff. Good.

*

Alex doesn't notice me right
away. Too busy working a guy in ugly purple Bermuda shorts.

*

I tap her shoulder. "What's up, girlfriend? You're not thinking about doing this guy, are you?"

*

Alex jumps. Ginger! What the hell? She looks at Bermuda, who is seriously checking me out.

*

He licks his lips. Well, hello.

You're not really her "girlfriend," are you? Meaning, are you two,
like, lezbos? "Actually, I am her girlfriend. Why, you want to watch?" You effing pervert.

*

I can't believe how pissed

I am, or how submissive

Alex is acting. I expected more

*
of a reaction. Bermuda reacts for both of them. Hell yeah!

How much to do the two of you?

*

Don't say anything, Ginger!

Alex warns. Who the hell
died and made her boss?

*

If she can hustle guys, so can

I. This one won't get off cheap.

"Three hundred for all you can eat."

*

Right on. Bermuda reaches into his back pocket. But it isn't money he shows. Vegas vice. He flashes

*
a badge. You're under arrest for solicitation. Then, an afterthought.

How old are you, anyway?

A Poem by Cody Bennett Afterthoughts

Why can't an afterthought
be forethought?

Where does
hindsight
take you if you're
focusing behind you?

What important is gained
when the lesson
defies recollection?

When Alice stepped through the looking glass, did she see herself
backwards, or did the whole rabbit hole
experience
simply make her close her eyes?

Cody Don't Want to Open My Eyes

If I do, it will mean I admit I'm still
alive. Right now, I think, I could
choose to let go, say a silent good-bye, and join Jack on the Other Side.

Do I want to do that? Don't think so.

But what if it's better? Until I decide,

*

I lie here, churning in an anesthetic
sea, inhaling antiseptic air. I'm on my stomach, and want to turn over, but something won't let me. And when
whatever painkiller it is they've got
me on starts to wear off, my back catches

*
fire. While I wait for more, praying
they hurry, a tide of voices rushes in.

Whoosh:... he should have

regained consciousness by now...

Whoosh:... suspect was the girl's
boyfriend... haven't found him yet....

*

Whoosh:... know what the boy was doing there or his relationship...

Whoosh:... leave me, Cody. Don't
you dare make me lose you, too.

Whoosh:... Colts, fourteen; Chiefs, ten.

Figures. Goddamn loser Chiefs.

Eventually the Tide Recedes

One voice remains. Even if she wasn't
talking, a steady, downstream flow,

I'd know it was Mom by the hills of her hands. They stroke my face, gentle my hair from my forehead.

Carry me back to when I was little.

*

I don't know what you've gotten
yourself into, Cody boy.... just like when I was little... but you
can work your way out of it...

just like when... I don't know
if I can help you, but I'll try...

*

Work my way out. But it's such a long way out. I don't know if

I'm strong enough. Not even with your help, Mama. Easier to just say
good-bye. Your hands feel good, though. I love your hands....

*

There's a weird noise. A loud hum.

No! Cody! Footsteps. Running. Cody, you come back here right now!

More hands. Motion. I am on my back.

Shit! That hurts. Different hands.

Pressure. Something covers my nose.

Air. Sweet. Why is it sweet?

In and out of my lungs. Breathing for me. The hum changes to a steady
blip... blip... blip... Hey, just like in the TV shows. Blip... blip...

I know what that means. I'm still here.

*

Mama? Don't cry, Mama. Rub my hair
again. I'll stay for a while. Promise.

Goddamn! My back's on fire again.

But I can't say so. Can't open my eyes.

Can't promise I'll stay. That would
be lying. And I'm so, so tired of lies.

*

Voices. Decisions. Voices. I'm okay for now. One voice I haven't heard.

Ronnie, I understand. Hope you know

I'm sorry. You... are... are...

Mama's voice again. His pillow is wet.

Doctor, is he crying? Doesn't that mean...

*

Yes, Mama. For now. Don't know
how long I'll stay. If I come back,

I'll try my best to change. Mostly change.

Feels good when you rub my head,

Mama. Blip... blip... Odds are good

I'll come back to you, Mama....

A Poem by Eden Streit If I Come Back

If I come back to you now, can we be what we were before life's uncertain rhythms
tore us so far apart? If

I return
today, will your arms
gather me in, or will

I
be wrenched away, snatched by a riptide I
have
no power to resist?

If I find my way
to
you, one man standing in a crowd, will I even
know who you are?

Eden Off the Streets

Safely sheltered by the kind people here at Walk Straight, thanks to Father Gregory.

*

What is it with me and good Samaritans?

I never believed so many really existed,

*
never guessed that any of them would ever
reach out and yank me away from hell.

*

That's where I was. Hell isn't some fiery
pit "down there." It's right here on Earth,

*
in every dirty city, every yawning town.

Every glittery resort and every naked stretch

*
of desert where someone's life somersaults
out of control. Satan--Evil--doesn't have

*
horns or poke you with a pitchfork. His power
doesn't come from full moon sacrifices, and he

*
doesn't go out looking for new recruits. He
doesn't have to. All he has to do is wait.

Walk Straight

Is an amazing place, a rescue for teen
prostitutes who want to turn their lives

*
around. All they have to do is ask. I didn't
know to ask, but Father Gregory did.

*

It's run by an exceptional woman, he told me, an ex-prostitute herself.

*

When she got out, she wanted to help
other young people get off the streets.

*

You'll have a place to live, an education.

They'll help you decide how to shape

*
your future. If you have a pimp, they'll
encourage you to testify against him,

*
and they'll go to court with you so you
don't have to be afraid to put him away.

*

When I got here, they cleaned me up, fed me, had a doctor run some tests.

*

I'm not pregnant, didn't catch some
horrible disease. I was a little anemic,

*
but that will change with good nutrition.

I didn't eat nearly so well at Tears of Zion.

My Caseworker

Is named Sarah. She's really nice, but she does ask a lot of questions, some

*
of which I'm not prepared to answer.

Sarah: Where is your home, Ruthie?

*

Okay, so I haven't been completely
honest with them. I'm afraid if I give

*
them my real name, they'll find some
kind of all points bulletin out for me.

*

So I used my middle name--Ruth. Sarah
added the "ie" to make it "feel friendlier."

*

I didn't exactly lie when I answered,

"Las Vegas has been my home for a while."

*

Sarah: Okay, then. Can you tell me

how you ended up in "the business"?

*

More mostly truth. "I never wanted to.

I just didn't know any other way to survive."

*

Sarah: I understand. And what about your parents? Will you tell me about them?

*

"They're dead." That was not a lie.

My parents are dead. To me.

Boise, Idaho

Is a bittersweet memory, and Tears of Zion is a wake-up-shivering nightmare. My parents

*
are zombies, death-walking through both.

I would die before I'd go back, and I'll have

*
to tell Sarah all of that very soon. Because I did
find a way to get hold of Andrew. His mom is still

*
a professor at Boise State. And, duh, professors
have e-mail addresses. We have computer access

*
here at Walk Straight. I e-mailed her two days
ago. She got back to me yesterday.

*

Eden! Thank God you're okay. We've been so worried! Andrew has searched and

*
searched for you. He pestered your parents so much, I thought they'd have him arrested

*
again.... She gives a long story about the first time they had him arrested, and how

*
they and some of Papa's congregation
harassed Andrew until he had to have

*
his phone number changed. He'll be so relieved. How can he reach you?

I Insisted on E-mail

A phone call would mean somebody
knows and cares I'm here. I'm not

*
ready to confess that yet, not ready to think about talking to Pastor Streit

*
and his not-nearly-as-sweet-as-she-seems
right-hand woman. She will never be Mama

*
again. I don't know how much I will ever
be able to tell Andrew about the past few

*
months. I'm changed, and he'll know
that. But does he have to know why?

*

If he finds out I'm here, I guess he'll figure
out why. I go to the resource room,

*
open my Gmail. Oh my God. It's here.

Eden, he writes. I can't believe it's you.

*

Every prayer answered. When can

I see you? When are you coming home?

*

To the point. All Andrew, in cyberspace.

I type a to-the-point reply: "Not sure

*
when I'll come home. Lots to talk about.

Just know, now and always, I love you."

A Poem by Seth Parnell Home

Simple word. Four letters, two consonants, two vowels, one of them silent.

Home.

You wish you could walk through a familiar
door, shout out the word, in a simple two-word
sentence: "I'm home!"

But that door

Has been closed to you, slammed shut in your face, and
no
amount of pleading
will open it again. Two
consonants, two vowels.

One word without meaning
when you don't have a home.

Seth Always Believed

There would be a way back
home eventually. Figured
sooner or later, Dad would
come around, accept me for how I was born. Part Mom,

*
part him. But no. I did finally talk to him on the phone. For all of three minutes. You come to your senses? Asked the Lord for forgiveness?

*

"That's between him and me,

Dad. And anyway, I never had
much sense to begin with. I'm
still who I am, though, no more, no less. Want you to know I love you."

*

He didn't budge. Didn't
say okay, son, come on home. Didn't say I'm good with you, just how you are.

Didn't tell me he loves me.

I Also Messaged Loren

Found him on Facebook.

Seems everyone has one of those now. "Moved to Las Vegas with a friend," I wrote. "Things
didn't work out, so I'm looking

*
for another place." I hoped, of course, that he'd write back, confess how much he misses
me, ask me if maybe I'd like to give upstate New York a try.

*

I didn't hear back for quite
some time. So long, in fact, that

I was beginning to think he was going to ignore me completely.

Finally, though, I got a reply.

Seth. Great to hear from you.

Glad to know you wound up somewhere cosmopolitan.

I've got some news of my
own. Hope you'll be happy for

*
me when I tell you I hooked up with someone really
special. You'd like him,

I think. In fact, he reminds
me a whole lot of you....

Don't Know Where

I'll wind up in the future.

I have no way to leave Vegas.

Not for a while. So for now,

I'll stay here, living with David.

Met him through a friend of a chat

*
buddy, and so far, so good.

He choreographs major shows, and with over thirty years in the business, is something of a Sin City icon. His house has

*
ten bedrooms. You could call the decor garish, with marble
statues and white furniture.

Paparazzi hang around outside his parties, which are regular.

I have no more with David than I had with Carl, except for amenities. My life is still
not my own. But it may never
be. One thing I did take away

*
from Carl is to try and earn a little money of my own, save up a small nest egg. Have Ur

Cake Escorts is my way of doing
that. When David isn't looking.

A Poem by Whitney Lang When You Weren't Looking

The child became a woman, though she wasn't ready
to. Don't ask how or why.

Those questions are not the important ones.

Can't you
see you didn't
care
enough to notice?

How will you feel
if we have no
more
time together? I wonder
if you're sorry now about the way you locked your
heart, access denied to the beggar at your door.

She's nobody, only
me.

Whitney Almost Died

That's what they told me. Ninety
percent of me wishes they would
have let me go. Easier than battling the vicious onslaught of withdrawal.

*

Easier than coming to terms with who

I was when I almost died. I don't even
know that girl. She's an esoteric
someone, like a movie character

*
you can't quite recognize. Even with my head just about straight, she seems like a caricature--a cartoon
rendition of one of the living dead.

*

Throughout a week of intensive care,

I drifted in and out of the almost corpse, not quite warmed by hospital flannel.

Then there were several more days, mostly

*
conscious as they pumped sustenance into my veins. Sustenance and heroin
substitutes. Easing me off the Lady.

Pretending they didn't want me to hurt.

I Can't Tell You

Exactly how many days I hovered
somewhere between this world and another, or which was the scariest.

But the first face I saw, when I decided

*

I might as well open my eyes, didn't
belong to a doctor or a cop. Or Bryn.

I can't remember ever seeing it so full of compassion. Who was this woman?

*

Oh, Whitney, she said. I expected a How could you? but instead I heard,

Thank God you've come back to me.

To her? Did I come back to her?

*

Did I come back at all, and if I did, would I stay? The jury was still out.

Still is today, a month later. No matter.

That day, her concern surprised me.

*

Pleased me. Overwhelmed me, though

I'd never admit it in a trillion years.

I pretended indifference. "Nice to see
you, Mother, I guess. Why are you here?"

*

My snotty tone should have drawn a barb. But no. She came over to the bed, took my hand. I'm so sorry.

If I would have lost you forever,

I don't know what I would have done.

Please, Whitney, whatever your reasons for leaving, for... for... She actually
started to cry. We can work through this.

*

Daddy came in later. Angry.

And Kyra, on semester break.

She was upset that I might have
damaged her reputation. Whatever.

*

But it has been Mom chipping away at me, trying to convince me we can
maybe--maybe-----become a family
again. I don't know if I want that.

*

First I have to make it through rehab.

It's a pricey place, with a pretty staff and lots of mindless activities. The shrinks
even pretend to be nice while they're

*
picking at my brain. I tell them just
enough to make them believe
they're fixing me. I'm probably
unfixable. But hey, you never know.

A Poem by Ginger Cordell You Never Know

When a passing cloud
might meet another, and together unleash
lightning on thirsting ground.

One insignificant spark
strikes
bone-brittle tinder.

Buoyed by the quiet
breeze, an ember
smolders until evening wind blows, carries smoking wisps upon its wings into the forest, sighs into crackling
summer leaves until the canopy
burns.

So take note of every
passing cloud, because you never know.

Ginger Don't Know If It's the Same

Everywhere, but Vegas has
its very own teen prostitution
court, complete with a special

*
judge who says he believes
that underage hookers term, (my
term, not his) are the victims

*
of this particular crime. After
watching him deal with a long
lineup of young tramps (my term

*
again), I think up to a point, he's right. Pimps and johns are most definitely the criminals

*
here. The problem is that most of the girls in the courtroom, including

Alex and me, were willing victims.

*

Whatever. We are damn lucky to have a judge who cares even a little about what happens to any of us.

His choices for what to do with us are limited. Juvie. Group homes.

Treatment programs, for those

*
who need them. Hard-core
repeat offenders spend time in

Caliente, a lockup in mid-nowhere,

*

Nevada. And for the few
lucky ones with families who still care and will take

*
them, the chance to go home.

Turned out for once in my
life, I was one of the few.

*

When I called Gram, she freaked. Good freaked,

I mean. All the bad of what

*

I've done started spewing from my mouth. She shut me up right away. We can talk

about that later. Right now, tell me what I have to do to bring you home. She didn't

*
yell. Didn't cry. Not until she told me about Iris. She's
dying, Ginger. Advanced HIV.

Gram and the Kids

Really need me now. Iris, too.

She's wasting away. Docs
say she's got maybe a year.

*

I tried to get Alex to come
back to Barstow with me.

She's not budging an inch

*
from the group home her social
worker assigned her to. A group
home for pregnant teens. She said,

*

Me and the baby will be just
fine. The program will
me a job, help me learn how

*
to be a mom. She vows to be a better mother than her own.

I just hope she's better than mine.

*

I'll miss her, of course. She's been the biggest part of me for a very long time. But truth is,

*
the biggest part of me should
be me. Just have to find her.

Maybe she's even a writer.

A Poem by Cody Bennett Have to Find

The courage to leap the brink, let myself fall beyond the precipice
most people call
life.

I've grown tired of stumbling, skinning
my knees. If flight
is
possible without the sting of growing
wings, let me fly
away, above the madness, to a place where
there is nothing to gamble but another go-round.

And, win or lose, there is a chance at something after the penultimate decision.

Because life, and maybe
death, will always be a gamble after all.

[blank page]

Author's Note

I am often asked how I decide to write about a certain topic. This one was inspired by a statistic I came across. Did you know that the average age of a female prostitute in the United States is twelve years old? This book doesn't explore the base reason for that statistic--young children are imported into this country from places like Thailand and Africa to serve as child prostitutes. Other books do address that issue, and I may too, one day. But for the purposes of this book, the statistic piqued my interest in teen prostitution. Tricks looks at a handful of reasons that might drive a young adult to sell his or her body. Here, and in real life, almost always you can distill the reason to survival.

Prostitution is not a glamorous profession. Even high-priced call girls often end up addicted, abused, or worse. No one deserves the kind of mistreatment often perpetrated by "johns" and pimps. Whatever the reasons for resorting to prostitution, whatever has happened in someone's past, the future is theirs to shape. The first step is to find a way out.

If you or someone you know have reached that place, and are under the age of eighteen, there is help. A wonderful organization called Children of the Night will take you off the street and help you start over. All you have to do is ask. Their hotline number is 800-551-1300. But if you can't remember that, dial 911. Local law enforcement can put you in touch with them.

Table of Contents

Title
Dedication
Thanks
Tricks
Eden Some People
Not Wrong for Me
See, My Papa
You Get My Dilemma
The Funny Thing Is
It Was a Defining Moment
If Andrew
It Was Unfamiliar Turf
Day by Day
A Poem by Seth Parnell Possibilities
Seth As Far Back
Not with Mom Gone
And Anyway
So I Keep the Real Seth
Hunger
I'd Dated Girls, of Course
All Janet Could Say
Granted, One Possibility
A Poem by Whitney Lang Stumbling
Whitney Living in Someone's Shadow
It's Not So Bad
More and More Lately
Well, Not Exactly
That's Liable to Change
That Was Mostly a Lie
Okay, Very Likely
It Kind of Surprised Me
We Played That Saturday
A Man of Few Words
A Poem by Ginger Cordell Faces
Ginger SOP
A Door Slams
Thirty Seconds Is Up
"You"
Smacked Down
I Must Look
Guess That Explains
In the Next Room
I Don't Think
A Poem by Cody Bennett Not Damn Sure
Cody After Wichita
I Go with the Flow
Of Course
Get It?
Tonight Being Saturday Night
Is This a Trick?
I Watch Ronnie Leave
The Rest of the Hour
Now, at Least
Doctor?
It's Almost Seven
By the Time
A Poem by Eden Streit Being in Love
Eden Saturday Evening
No One Around
We Drive into the Foothills
There
I Get What He Means
I So Want to Be
We Should Head Back
We Drive Back into Town
I Walk Home Slowly
The House Is Quiet
My Hand, Disguised
I Turn on the Light
When I Hear
A Poem by Seth Parnell Losing It
Seth Worked My Farmer Butt Off
Other Than Large Male Deer
Plans
I Know
Dad Laughs Softly
Not Much Doubt
Up Until
Loren Didn't Laugh
Since That Day
By the Time
Something Thick
A Poem by Whitney Lang Scream
Whitney I Despise Shopping
We Both Know
Capitola Mall
Inside the Mall
Warped
Someone Should Tell
Shopping with Paige
I Still Have to Pee
Too Late
This Is Insane
A Poem by Ginger Cordell Reach
Ginger School Sucks
Actually, I've Kind of Connected
Alex and I
I Guess Nothing Says
Speaking of Kids
I Walk Up the Street
Mary Ann Stands Sobbing
I Tug My Eyes
I Am the Oldest
Hands Shaking
A Poem by Cody Bennett Smoke
Cody Nothing's Static
Three Weeks Ago
We Had Sex
Then Again
Vince and I Have Shared
Damn It, Jack
Jack Coughs
I Pick Him Up
It's a Short Drive
The Game Hasn't Started Yet
I Leave Vince's
A Poem by Eden Streit Once
Eden Spring Break
Papa Has Noticed
Needless to Say
Old Mrs. Beatty
As Soon as the Thought
Ironically
In the Back of My Mind
Nervous?
I Feel Zero
I Thought It Would Be
A Poem by Seth Parnell Nothing's Right
Seth Three Weeks
I'd Be Lying
He Accepts
Despite That
Loren Leads the Way
I Can't Help
I Guess I Might
Cold Becomes Clammy
Fringe
Would He Decide to Stay
I'm Doing a Fair Job
A Poem by Whitney Lang Circumstances
Whitney The Best Thing
Kyra's Home
Last Thing
After the Last Fiasco
I Did Shower
Lucas Makes Me Wait
What's in the Baggie
I Watch Lucas
I Don't Have to Ask Twice
Still Buzzed
I Wait for Him
A Poem by Ginger Cordell Bleed
Ginger You Would Think
It's Been a Month
She Has a New Boyfriend
On Another Day
When He Finished
All That Comes Back
Not Sure
A Nuclear Bomb
No One Has Ever
It's a Soft Kiss
A Poem by Cody Bennett Release
Cody Falling Apart
So Cory Drinks
A New Rush
Shit!
First Things First
Damn Lucky Dealer
Her House
The Tone of His Voice
I Try Not to Think
His Answer
Zero hesitation. Why the fuck
Headlines Turn the Corner
A Poem by Eden Streit Need
Six Months
With or Without Condoms
Can't Tell Her That Part
An Hour Later
A Quarter to Four
Five to Four
Heartbroken
Twenty Minutes Later
I Want to Stay
Mama Is Waiting
A Poem by Seth Parnell Demons
Seth I Never Realized
No Card
I Haven't Cried
Suddenly I'm Thirsty
Sunday, Late Afternoon
The Smile
Escort?
Carl Listens
Two Hours
A Poem by Whitney Lang Follow Me
Whitney So Basically
The Way Practically Falls
I Talk Paige
Lucas Was Supposed to Be
There's Plenty to Drink
Not Only That
First I Pour
Lucas Is Sitting on the Bed
I Stumble Out the Door
Now What?
Must Be Fate
A Poem by Ginger Cordell Directions
Ginger School Totally Blew Today
I Take My Time
Déjà vu Strikes
When He's Gone
The Door Slams Behind Me
I Love Alex
I Leave My Stuff
The Kids
When I Come Through the Door
The Half-Empty Bus
A Poem by Cody Bennett Flying
Cody Funerals Suck
If Funerals Suck
For the First Time
All Awesome Things
We Throw on Clothes
One by One
Why Do I Keep Saying That?
Also on the Dresser
Bud and Booze
The Pot Buzz
Stinking Royals
A Poem by Eden Streit My Future
Eden Demon Possessed
Father's Methods
Is He Thinking
Jerome Isn't Quite Finished
So When He Kisses
The Door Locks
Some Biblical Scholars
To Know That
A Dozen Questions
A Poem by Seth Panel What I Need
Seth Graduation Came and Went
Yeah, I Know
Thinking of Loren
I Go into the Cool
I'd Give Anything
Time
Meanwhile, I've Been Banished
Ba-bump!
I Contemplate the Meaning
A Poem by Whitney Lang Worth
Whitney Screw Lucas
That Night After Lucas's Party
We Drove Down to the Beach
Okay, His Syntax
The First Time He Told Me
We Haven't Made Love Yet
We'll Do the Shoot
Okay, It's Kind of Disturbing
My Summer
Mom's Home
A Poem by Ginger Cordell Move Carefully
Ginger They Call Vegas
The Reason
Her Neighbors
What She Forgot
Another Few Weeks
Seven Fifty, Minus Commission
Later, After Several Shots
A Poem by Cody Bennett Might as Well Laugh
Cody So Lady Luck
Saturday Is Ronnie's Birthday
I've Scrounged
That Phrase Again
It Won't Cover
Frederick Has a Secret Too
First Things First
Caller ID
A Poem by Eden Streit Assaulted
Eden Escape from Tears of Zion
After a Few Weeks
Plan A
Talk About Knocking
Plan C
Hope Begins to Fade
Brother Stephen
Thank the Good Lord
When He Returns
As He Pokes
When the Door Closes
A Poem by Seth Parnell Vegas
Seth Before We Came
Someone's Gay father
A Few Days Later
Culture Shock
Skin, Skin
If Vegas Is Hell
One Big Problem
Sure, There Are Posers
Which Brings Me Back
Or Where
The Next Time
Making Me
A Poem by Whitney Lang Sooner or Later
Whitney Free
We're Staying
Bryn Blows In
Bryn's Reaction
A Week After
I Also Worry
It's Almost Midnight
I Beg for a Buzz First
Within Seconds
A Poem by Ginger Cordell Staring
Ginger Our Own Place
She Pushed Hard Enough
When I Think About Iris
I Start to Pace
Which Means a Couple of Things
Her Back Is Toward Me
The Clothes Are Still Spinning
Early Evening
Is Every Girl
She Stumbles In
Alex Goes to Shower
A Poem by Cody Bennett Door
Cody Logic?
The Chiefs Kick Off
Her Answer
She Introduced Me
Sometimes Misty and I
I Pull into Valet
Two Quiet Knocks
Dan Has Done This Before
I Bite Down
I Leave, Emptied
A Poem by Eden Streit Shrinking
Eden They Say Freedom Isn't Free
Old Malibus
But It Isn't Jerome
At Fifty MPH
Where Is Andrew?
Eyes Burning
It Takes Three Tries
He Drops Me Off
A Poem by Seth Parnell Dreams Forfeited
Seth Any Farm Boy
So Here I Am, Midmorning
I Am Swimming in Sweat
Hang On
All Worked Out
Venison Is Not Easy to Find
Before I Can Answer
He Does Not Mean
I Have Never Considered
A Poem by Whitney Lang Don't Stop
Whitney Fighting "Night Time"
I'm Not Stupid
When Bryn's Key
I Try to Push Him Away
When I Surface
Skin Tight Men's Club
Why Did I Have to Go
I Swear Until This Moment
It Isn't Far
Air!
A Poem by Ginger Cordell I'll Stay
Ginger Sadness
Now Here's This Girl
I Expect Surprise
It's the Last Thing She Says
Tempting as It Might Be
Walt Was the First
I Wait for Her Now
A Poem by Cody Bennett Don't Know
Cody How Do I Find Myself Here?
That Includes Ronnie
The Only Thing
On a Positive Note
Credit Cards
Not Craving Any
Fact Is
Hot Damn
I'm a Little Late
Light Floats
A Poem by Eden Streit Still Here
Eden I Am Less Than a Ghost
As for My Body
Rush Hour
Good Samaritan
A Poem by Seth Parnell No Way to Be Saved
Seth I Don't Remember Innocence
We Are Alone
I'm Still Trying
He Will Not Allow
A Poem by Whitney Lang Less Than Patiently
Whitney No Love
We Agree on a Time
I'm Supposed to Meet
By the Time He Leaves
A Poem by Ginger Cordell Wind
Ginger Late Night Last Night
It's Almost Noon
Junkies and Whores
A Poem by Cody Bennett Afterthoughts
Cody Don't Want to Open My Eyes
Eventually the Tide Recedes
A Poem by Eden Streit If I Come Back
Eden Off the Streets
Walk Straight
My Caseworker
Boise, Idaho
I Insisted on E-mail
A Poem by Seth Parnell Home
Seth Always Believed
I Also Messaged Loren
Don't Know Where

A Poem by Whitney Lang When You Weren't Looking

Whitney Almost Died
I Can't Tell You
A Poem by Ginger Cordell You Never Know
Ginger Don't Know If It's the Same
Gram and the Kids
A Poem by Cody Bennett Have to Find
Author's Note