Tricks. Part 1

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 G.o.d.

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 G.o.d. But much, much worse than that, he's completely wrong for my parents.

See, My Papa Is a h.e.l.lfire-and-brimstone-preaching a.s.sembly of G.o.d minister, and Mama is his not-nearly-as-sweet-as-she-seems right-hand woman, and by almighty G.o.d, 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 relations.h.i.+p with G.o.d.

At the time, I was only half in love with Andrew and thought I needed definitions. "What, exactly, is your relations.h.i.+p with our Heavenly Father?"

He gently touched my cheek, smiled.

First off, I don't think G.o.d is a guy.

Some Old Testamentwriting fart made that up to keep his old lady in line. He paused, then added, Why would G.o.d need a p.e.c.k.e.r, anyway?

Yes, he enjoyed the horrified look on my face. More laughter settled into those amazing eyes, creasing them at the corners. So s.e.xy!

Anyway, I relate to G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+vered 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sion. 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.