Tricks. Part 19

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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l? 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 s.e.x really isn't very good.

I jerk my hands off his legs, wobble to my feet. "F-f.u.c.k you! I c-c-can't believe tha'sh all I meant to you." One more gulp and I repeat, "f.u.c.k you!"

I Stumble Out the Door Go in search of Paige. I have to get the h.e.l.l out of here! My heart knocks in my chest. My face is on fire-with booze and embarra.s.sment.

How could I have believed he loved me? How could I have given my love to such an a.s.shole? "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 pa.s.s Skylar, staring at me with-f.u.c.k 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 a.s.suming 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 cla.s.s, and to cop the credit, which is a requirement for graduation, I'll have to do summer school. Then our n.a.z.i PE teacher started yelling at the back of the pack running laps to Move your lazy buns. d.a.m.n, 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 a.s.s out here and run with us? See how fast you can go."

The b.i.t.c.h 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 b.u.mmed 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?

Deja Vu Strikes Lightning. Without a doubt I know I need to play my cards just right. I want to yell, "Get the f.u.c.k 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 b.o.o.bs. 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 f.u.c.k 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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, was.h.i.+ng 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. f.u.c.k! 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. d.a.m.n, 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 f.u.c.king wack jobs.