Tricks. Part 6

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, br.i.m.m.i.n.g stars and 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 G.o.d?

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 b.u.mps 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 b.u.t.t Off

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

What's a Sat.u.r.day 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, finis.h.i.+ng 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 in 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 pate? 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 Ma.s.s with him in the morning.

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

He blames G.o.d 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 Ma.s.s 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"

s.e.xual desires. Wonder if he suspects otherwise.

I'm relatively sure he knows I have no plans to fulfill my Ma.s.s obligation tonight or any night. I've pretty much given up on the idea of salvation. Catholicism and h.o.m.os.e.xuality only go hand in hand in the highest church circles.

Not Much Doubt I'm d.a.m.ned anyway, so I swing the old Chevy toward the freeway, Louisville, and Loren. My heart pumps wildly in antic.i.p.ation.

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.