GOOD. ALWAYS THOUGHT
I WAS STREETWISE, BUT I
NEVER REALIZED JUST HOW
DIRTY THOSE SIDEWALKS
CAN BE, SPECIALLY FOR KIDS
EVEN YOUNGER THAN U AND
ME. PEOPLE WANT TO CLOSE
THEIR EYES TO WHAT’S GOING
ON JUST OUTSIDE THEIR DOORS
OR ONE BLOCK OVER. HEH. NOT
LIKE I’M TELLING U SOMETHING
U DON’T ALREADY KNOW.
DO ME A FAVOR? TELL ME
SOMETHING I DON’T KNOW.
LOVE YOU. TALK TO ME!
I leave it there, with the less-
than-subtle plea to stay connected,
if only virtually. Despite it all,
how can she toss “us” away so
easily? Did she totally forget me?
I guess this is the downside
to loving someone. When they cut
you loose, pretend like you don’t
even exist, how do you say goodbye?
I Tuck My Cell
Into my pocket, go on inside.
It’s Saturday—no homework, so
most of the girls are busy doing
crafts, which House of Hope
sells online to help finance
their programs. Next Thursday
is Thanksgiving. The cornucopias,
scarecrow wall hangings, and pumpkin
and turkey candles were finished
in September. We’ve been working
on Christmas decorations since
I’ve been here. I’m not really
the crafty type, but pasting sequins
on glass ornaments is easy enough,
and it’s better than hanging out
in my room. I slip into a chair
next to Brielle, one of the few girls
I’ve bothered to get to know. I’m leaving
soon, so have done my best to avoid
making friends. But there’s something
special about her, and you can’t
always silence attraction. “You’ve
got glue stuck to your head.” It clings
to the burnished copper waves
like ice. Brielle tosses her hair
back over her shoulders, looks
at me with striking gray-blue eyes.
Good thing it’s Elmer’s, huh?
But remind me to wash it before
I try and brush it. Hard enough
to keep my ends from splitting.
Her ends are perfect. Her hair
is definitely a vanity, but that’s
not a bad thing. Every girl here
struggles with self-confidence,
which is how pimps and other
masters of violation maintain
control—by beating it out of us,
verbally and/or physically.
“Are you kidding? I’d kill for hair
like yours. If I try to grow mine
out, I kind of resemble one of those
dogs with fur like a mop, which
is why I keep it cut short.”
She laughs, and I love the way
it sounds. Gentle. Sweet. Pure.
I think those dogs are cute, but
I happen to like your hair short.
The Chime
Of her laughter touches a place
inside me. Half of me wants to
hug her. The other half tells me
to run before I get hurt again.
But I’m just so, so lonely. I need
to feel like somebody cares,
and not because they’re related
to me, which, with the obvious
exception of my mother, means
they pretty much have to care.
Of course, I’m probably totally
wrong to think Brielle might be
interested in hooking up with me.
I’ve caught her staring a few times,
and when I smile at her, she always
smiles back. Is that meaningful?
We both turn our attention to glue
and sequins and ribbon and beads,
but as we work, I slide my leg
over so it’s barely touching hers.
Nonchalantly, of course. Game
on. Her move. It comes swiftly.
She tucks her shin behind my calf,
shimmies it softly up and down.
Exquisite little shivers trill
through my body. Man, it’s been
a while since I’ve experienced
anything even close to this.
When I first got together with Alex,
I questioned whether it was sexual
identity or just the need to be held
tenderly by someone. I think I just
found the answer, cleared up
any sense of confusion. I still can’t
be sure it doesn’t have a lot to do
with the way I’ve been mistreated
by men, and maybe one day I’ll change
my mind, so for now I’ll just consider
myself bi, leaning toward women.
Right now I find myself leaning
toward the girl on my right. “Want
to take a walk later?” I ask, sure
despite our tangled legs that she’ll
say no. “It’s gorgeous outside.”
No. The word deflates my happy
bubble. But then she qualifies,
Not later. Let’s go right now.
I’m feeling claustrophobic anyway.
We Put Away
Our craft supplies, clean the table.
There aren’t a whole lot of rules
here at House of Hope, but respect
for others is required, and this qualifies.
We can take off if we want; the doors
are unlocked during the day and
only bolted at night against danger
outside them. Brielle and I sign out,
so the staff understands we’re gone.
Should we not return, the proper
authority will be informed,
but very few girls who leave
don’t come back. For most, there’s
nowhere better to go. Right now,
a test-the-waters stroll is in order.
“See? Isn’t it great today? I think
November must be the best month
in Vegas. Still warm, but not melt-
your-makeup hot.” We start along
the sidewalk, and before very long
Brielle reaches for my hand.
Our fingers link, and we don’t care
who sees. Do you wear makeup?
I’ve never noticed it before.
“I used to wear it all the time, but
there’s no reason to here, you know?
Besides, it reminds me of a place
in my life I’d rather not revisit.”
We are beyond sight of the House
of Hope windows. Brielle stops,
turns so we’re facing each other.
I understand. I’ve got one of those
places, too. But I think it’s good
to talk about it. My grandpa always
used to say that keeping secrets
chews you up from the inside out.
I’ll tell you about my place if you
tell me about yours. But first . . .
Her kiss, like her gentle demeanor,
is so different from Alex’s—soft,
sweet. Tempting. It doesn’t last long—
not close to long enough—but we are
very aware of traffic, some of it
slowing to gawk. One guy even beeps
and yells encouragement. Brielle
pulls away, face slightly red. Sorry.
Hope that was okay. I just wanted
you to know how I feel. Was it okay?
I Love That She’s Worried
/>
I love that she cares enough to ask
permission rather than expecting
me to respond the way my body
most definitely has. “It was more
than okay. It’s been a long time
since I’ve kissed anyone. The last
person I was with quit kissing me
before she tore us apart. Thank you.”
She shakes her head, and her eyes
insist she does not understand.
“Thank you for showing me
there is still beauty in the world.
All I’ve seen for most of my life
is ugliness. So, okay. Let’s walk
and I’ll share my story with you.”
We tour the neighborhood, finally
come to a park with shade trees
and a playground that seem out
of place in Las Vegas. By the time
we settle at a picnic table, sitting
very close, and comfortable that way,
Brielle knows the circumstances
of my arrival at House of Hope. When
I finish, she boosts herself up on
the table, facing me and putting
my eyes level with the full curves
of her breasts. She leans forward
until her eyes are even with mine.
God, that so sucks. I can’t believe
your mom is that evil. And I’m
sorry your girlfriend left you like
that. She kisses me again, and this
time there’s no one watching,
no reason not to escalate into
the red zone, all the way to
breathless. “Holy crap. You’re hot.”
She smiles. Ditto. So, fine. Guess
it’s my turn for confession. I didn’t
know my dad, either. But my mom,
she was pretty cool. She worked hard
to take care of me, but then she got
sick. I was fifteen when she died,
and they sent me to foster. The first house
was okay, pretty nice, really, but they
decided they didn’t want to take care
of teens so I got moved. I don’t know
how people like Rick and Claudia
manage to pass background checks.
The Rest of Her Story
Is about what I expected. Seems
Rick had quite a thing for teenage
girls. When he got too friendly,
Brielle told him she was a lesbian.
One night he decided to “fix her
little problem,” and to help convince
her he brought a gun into her room,
forced it into her mouth and gave
her the choice. Suck the thirty-eight,
or suck him. Then he proceeded
to do his best to “turn her.” Acutely
aware that the pistol was nearby,
Brielle didn’t fight, but she ran
away later that night and was on
the street for a couple of days
when a proactive cop picked her
up before one of Vegas’s numerous
pimps could. Her caseworker
believed her tale, and she ended up
at House of Hope, better off than
many girls in similar situations.
Unlike me, she’ll be here at least
a year, until she turns eighteen.
Which complicates things.
A Poem by Micah Lerner
Complications
Rarely have I allowed
myself to tumble
for someone, but it
appears I’ve taken a
hard
stumble, and finding my feet
again is proving difficult.
It’s not that I don’t want
the experience, but
time
is a luxury I have no way
to indulge, and why
did it have to be this guy
I was destined
to fall
for? I mean, Seth’s kept
by the very man who gave
me a chance to jump-start
my career, here
in
a place where dreams too
often die, sucked dry
of hope by a city that
celebrates sin in favor of
love.
Seth
I Didn’t Expect
To fall in love again, and definitely
not here in Vegas, here in David’s care,
here where I must be careful not to
expose that fact to anyone. Not even
Micah. Not yet. I mean, he has to suspect,
and if I dared trust my feelings, I’d swear
he’s in love with me, too. When we’re
together, the outside world melts away,
and it’s just the two of us there. Despite
our different backgrounds, we have so
much in common, from our taste in movies
and books, to our favorite cuisines.
And where our opinions differ, we’re willing
to compromise. For instance, I’ll put up
with Broadway music and he’ll take a listen
to country. Not sure we’ve totally swayed
each other, but we do agree broadening
horizons isn’t a bad thing. He makes me
feel—dare I say it out loud?—hopeful.
Like there’s a real future available to me.
Of Course, As Soon as I Think
That way, the reality of my situation
slaps me upside the head. To have
a real future with Micah would mean
deserting David, which could very
well lead to problems for Micah, unless
David was willing to let me go, and who
knows when he might get sick of me?
But then I’d need a place to live, which
would require an income. And if I were
to commit to Micah, I’d have to leave
escorting behind. What else can I do?
I didn’t even graduate high school.
I suppose a minimum wage something
would be possible, but I’m used to living
well. I’m sure I could get my GED, but
then what? College? Paid for how, and
to study what? I’m just a gay hick farm
boy loser. So who am I fooling? There’s
no hope of escape for me. For now,
I’ll just pretend to believe in possibilities.
It’s Thanksgiving
And I’m helping out at YouCenter,
which is hosting a big turkey dinner
this afternoon for kids with nowhere
else to go. David doesn’t especially
care about the holiday, other than
the fact that most people spend it
with their families, rather than in
casino showrooms. Hell, even Have
Ur Cake expects a slow evening.
Guess L-tryptophan and pumpkin pie
bloat aren’t especially conducive to
the desire for paid sex. Tomorrow,
Black Friday, johns will probably be
looking for deals. Meanwhile, kitchen
work is mostly keeping my mind off
my future. I’ve always enjoyed cooking,
though I’ve never attempted anything like
an entire Thanksgiving dinner. Good
thing Charlie’s here to help. “This stuffing
smells incredible,” I tell her. “My mom
makes plain old cornbread with onions.
I bet the sausage really spices it up.”
Sausage. The word entices a memory—
Dad and me joking about venison
sausage and haute cuisine. Wonder
who’s sharing Dad’s table tonight.
Wonder
if I should try calling him
one more time. Charlie stops humming.
Sausage, my dear, makes the stuffing.
That, and fresh rosemary. Of course,
I prefer it cooked inside the bird,
but I would have had to be here by
six a.m. to make that happen. Baked
in a casserole will just have to do.
“Is your mom a great cook? Where
did you learn your way around a kitchen?”
She snorts. My mom is the frozen
food queen. No, my grandpa taught
me. But I love it. In fact, I’ve been
thinking about a culinary arts degree.
“You mean like go to school to learn
to cook? But you already know how.”
I don’t know everything. Besides,
you can also take restaurant
management, which basically
gives you a business degree.
With the right credentials, you can
make bank, especially if you get hired
by a big casino or something. I’m
not going to be a doctor or a lawyer.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t want
to earn a good income. Why not
make it doing something I love to
do anyway? She slides the big pan
of stuffing into the oven, closes
the door with a satisfied smile.
Huh. I like to cook. “Is a culinary
arts degree, like, major expensive?”
Depends. Le Cordon Bleu is pricey.
But College of Southern Nevada isn’t.
Think Outside the Box
Mom used to tell me that. Still,
she probably would’ve laughed
at the notion that a person might
be able to make a decent career
out of cooking, and Dad would
have chuckled right along with her.
I’m sure a short-order cook’s paycheck
couldn’t approach what I make on
a single night escorting. But what
about overseeing a five-star kitchen?
Definitely something to think about,
especially if things get serious between
Micah and me. And if not that, at least
I’m thinking outside the box, rather
than flinging myself into a big pond
of pity. Funny how when I think about
home any culture I managed to absorb
from Carl and David dissolves and rural
Indiana takes over. Home. Back home.
Home sweet home. No place like home.
Around Two P.M.
People start trickling in, knowing
dinner is supposed to be served at three.