Bluff

  Bluff

  Julie Dill

  Amberjack Publishing

  New York, New York

  Chapter 1

  While they talk about their upcoming trips to places like the Bahamas, I remember this is the last day that cheese is on sale. I pull a pen from my purse then write the word “cheese” on the palm of my hand so I won’t forget.

  Girls hang around in groups in the locker room as they stretch their legs, pull back their hair, and make small talk. Kennedy, a senior cheerleader, sees a plastic Maui souvenir keychain hanging from someone’s bag and gets excited.

  “Maui is the best, by far. The waves are huge and the tropical flowers everywhere make for great pictures. And basically the whole island smells like Bath and Body Works.”

  Another chimes in, “Yeah, I’ve been to Maui, but I still like the Keys best. The sand is softer. Whiter.”

  Cassidy makes eye contact with me. She knows I can’t participate in this conversation.

  Five of them, including Cassidy, compare sand textures and amenities of resorts I’ve never even heard of while I try to conceal my impromptu grocery list. Before someone can ask me about my favorite beach, I toss my bag in an unused locker then head out to the gym floor. Miss Mound sits in the bleachers and thumbs through paperwork. She looks up.

  “Hey, Chelsea.”

  “Hi, Miss Mound.” I sit down and go into the butterfly stretch. She goes back to organizing paperwork. Extending my legs in front of me, I reach for my toes then lie on my back and bend at the knees, cupping my hands behind my head. I stare into the rafters and think about beaches. The air. Is it different? The water. Is it cold? How does it feel to run your feet through sand? Do they really have little bar huts like they do in the movies?

  Fifteen other girls make their way out into the gym. The conversation has switched to favorite ski resorts. I crisscross my legs, look down, and open my hand to stare at the word “cheese.” Cassidy sits next to me and twists her thick, gorgeous, brown hair into a knot on the top of her head as Miss Mound turns on some hip-hop music to get things started.

  “Girls, let’s begin with kicks today.” This is our cue to get up and get into formation, and that’s exactly what we do. What am I doing here? And how will I be able to pull this off?

  __________

  I stop by the store on the way home and buy a generic bag of tortilla chips to go with the cheese. This will get us through the week, Dad and me. I pull into our oil-stained driveway and shift my five speed into park. Grabbing my backpack and grocery bag, I head to check the mail. On my way to the mailbox, I bend down and pull a weed the size of a small tree that’s been thriving in a cement crack for about a month now, and toss it on the lawn. I’ve been in charge of the mail for years, but each time I open the rusty lid, screeeeech, I get nervous about what may be inside. Because most of the time, along with pizza coupons, postcards, and miscellaneous junk, there are two little words in that stack somewhere: Amount Due.

  It’s not the first time. Probably not the last.

  The infamous cut-off notice. There’s the ten-day notice, then there’s the forty-eight-hour notice. Fortunately, this one is the former so I’ve got ten days to get this figured out. I step inside the house and read the fine print in hopes for a loophole:

  When the temperature is actually, or predicted to be, 101 degrees Fahrenheit heat index or higher on the day of disconnection or the nighttime low is predicted to be 20 degrees Fahrenheit or less, OG&E will suspend disconnection of service.

  Unfortunately, we’ve had the most beautiful fall weather—low eighties—so this won’t help us out.

  Although this is about the millionth time we’ve received a cut-off notice, we’ve actually only been cut off twice. Once in junior high. Once in elementary school—fourth grade picture day, to be exact.

  __________

  “Chelsea, did you forget it was picture day?” Ms. Foltz greeted me at the door. “Honey, your hair is dripping wet.”

  I hung my backpack on my hook. There was a plethora of curls, plastic headbands, and outfits with iron creases around. But me? Wet hair.

  Everyone, and I do mean everyone, looked like they stepped out of a television commercial. Picture order envelopes filled out by their moms pulled out of backpacks and folders, checks enclosed. Package A was the popular choice, they discovered, after everyone compared.

  I tucked in my shirt then trudged to my desk. I tried several times to complete the first math problem for morning work, but I couldn’t. Just couldn’t. I walked back to the classroom door where Ms. Foltz continued to greet each student, complimenting them each on their adorable outfits and “gorgeous” hairdos.

  “Ms. Foltz, may I use the restroom?”

  “Sure, Chelsea,” she responded, then looked over me to yet another adorable picture day kid. “Looook at you! All fancy-schmancy for picture day!”

  Walking to the bathroom, I was practically blinded by all of the shiny curls. I went straight to the mirror and started combing my hair with my fingers, as fast as possible, to try to add some life to the limp mess. I squatted down under the hand drier, pushed the big round button, and started drying my hair. I restarted it seven times. Seven cycles of drying, scrunching, and fluffing . . .

  I don’t think Dad even knew it was picture day. I had forgotten to tell him.

  Chapter 2

  I brainstorm ways to get money to pay the electric bill. There’s a little in my savings account, but Dad has always forbidden any withdrawals because the $100 that sits in there is earmarked “for college.” He has good intentions. Honestly, he does. But I’m not sure how a $100 college fund can magically turn into thousands in one short year. I mean really. How?

  It would take at least three weeks for me to receive a paycheck, and that’s if I started a new job, like, today. I could donate my plasma . . . but how much would I even make? Robbing a bank is probably out of the question, and there’s no chance of hitting the lottery when you’re too young to play it. It takes me all of six steps to get from the front door to the back, where I drop my backpack and stare out the window. Patchy grass, weeds, and missing fence panels . . . but nope, still no money tree out there.

  I walk into the living room and give Dad a little nudge on the couch to wake him up. “Dad, I’m home.”

  He opens his eyes, adjusts his pillow and says, “Hey, there’s my girl. How was school?” Same routine, same answer.

  “Good.”

  He grabs the remote, looks at the clock, and changes the channel.

  “You want some nachos?” I say as I pull out the cheese and chips. Communicating from the kitchen to the living room is not a difficult thing to do in our small house.

  “Nah. You go ahead.”

  I stick my plate in the microwave and make no mention of the cut-off notice. What good would it do? Heading to my room, I decide to call Cass, knowing she’ll make me feel better.

  “I don’t know why I ever thought I could pull this thing off. I should’ve never tried out. It was such a stupid idea. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to afford cheer this year. No way.”

  “Chelsea. Chill. You’ll make it work somehow. You always do. Look, you know I’ll help you as much as I can.”

  “I don’t want your help, Cass. Thank you, but just, no. What I want is for my dad to get motivated for once in his life.” I look to make sure my bedroom door is completely closed. “I mean, just for once, could he take care of things? It gets so old.”

  Cassidy’s mom is in the background telling her that dinner’s ready. She’s distracted for a second while she tells her mom how many tacos she wants. I picture her mom walking to their rich-people kitchen with gra
nite countertops and layering the meat, lettuce, cheese, and tomatoes on shells for Cassidy. I know their kitchen. Candles, fresh flowers, and a dinner table that’s set with designer placemats and heavy, polished silverware. She comes back on the line.

  “I get it, Chelsea.”

  I laugh.

  “No you don’t. You will never get it.”

  We sit on the line with awkward silence for a few minutes. The thing about Cassidy is she truly feels bad for the situation I’m in. She begged me to try out with her, and although my financial situation is not her fault, I know she feels responsible.

  “I’m sorry, Chels. I don’t know what to say except that I will help you. You know that. I never use all my lunch money, and I’ll just start giving you the change every day. We’ll make this work. Stop worrying so much.”

  I exhale slowly into the receiver.

  “I know,” I roll over on my bed. “Thanks.” It’s a nice gesture, but 1. Two dollars a day won’t dig me out of my hole, and 2. I’m not taking her money.

  That night I lounge around in bed and flip through the channels.

  After about twenty minutes of dozing, I come to and realize I’ve been watching an infomercial. A hair bun thingy that’s going to solve life’s problems for the busy, working mom of three kids. You just pull your hair up then pin the bun right on top and bam! Ready for work in no time!

  Pointing the remote toward my box TV, I channel surf for a good while then stop to watch a poker game being played in Las Vegas. The World Series, or something like that. It’s a heated battle between the final two players, and the commentators make it even more intense. The camera gives us a glimpse of the prize money—neat stacks of cash that look like they came straight from a bank vault. A blonde casino model picks up a bundle and the camera zooms in to show the audience the $100 denomination on the corner of the bill.

  This image stays in my head for three days straight.

  __________

  Although the casino is a half hour drive, mostly highway, it seems to take me all of five minutes to get there. I can see the flashing lights from the interstate and my car and heart accelerate simultaneously. When I take the exit, I wonder why they would build such a thing out in the middle of nowhere. There’s absolutely nothing else around but a single gas station across the street. A sign displaying a picture of their latest big winner, my guess is a truck driver, flashes the words, “I won $37,000!”

  I wheel in as if I know what I’m doing and drive around to take a look.

  The place is packed; there’s hardly an empty parking space in sight. An elderly couple walks arm-in-arm to their car, and they look as if they’re leaving a funeral. Obvious non-winners.

  I troll the parking lot and decide to park in back. I sit for a while and take in my surroundings. A security guard in a bright yellow shirt rides around on his bicycle. Why is there security in a parking lot? Do people break into cars out here? Or could he be looking for underage gamblers trying to sneak in?

  Breathe in. Hold it, hold it, hold it.

  Breathe out. Blow it out.

  I collect my thoughts for a few minutes and throw sunglasses on top of my head, figuring they will make me look a little more confident, somehow. That’s what grown-ups do, right?

  I stretch up to my rear view mirror and apply lip liner, add a touch more eyeliner in the corners of my eyes, and use my index finger to wipe my front teeth. I stare at myself in the mirror. Can I get in? Do I look eighteen? I get this idea that I should have bought a pack of cigarettes to give my age a boost. Because obviously anyone who is old enough to smoke would be old enough to get into a casino, right? I wouldn’t necessarily have to smoke them, but if I hold a pack as I walk in the poker room, it may just seal the deal that I’m eighteen.

  I dig my keys back out of my purse, start my car, and head to the gas station. If the gas station worker will sell me cigarettes, then I can walk into the casino with no questions asked. I turn the radio up, then off. Then back on again. I slip my compact car into the front space, and hope for the best.

  I take another deep breath, walk straight to the counter, and look at the cigarettes behind him. I have no idea what the names of any of them are, so I just point to a white box.

  “I’ll take a pack of those.”

  And without blinking he mumbles, “ID.”

  It wasn’t “Ma’am, may please see your ID?” or “Can I take a look at your ID?” It was a cold, hard, from the bottom of his fat belly, “ID.”

  I open my clutch as if I have one in there. I thumb through my things hoping my school ID isn’t exposed . . .

  “You know what? I’m so sorry. I left it at home. Is there any way you can just take my word on it this time? I’ll bring back my ID and show you tomorrow if I need to.”

  And without a word—without even making eye contact with me, he grabs the cigarettes back off the counter and returns them to their home on the shelf.

  “Sir, I can bring it back tomorrow, seriously. I’m old enough to smoke.” I’m at his mercy, and no doubt, he likes the power.

  Still wordless, besides the “ID,” he shows me who won by ringing up the slushy for the kid that stands behind me.

  “Gee, thanks.” I all but sprint to my car.

  I’m stressed, but I don’t let it stop me. After all, my dad shares the guy’s occupation, and I know my dad would never sell cigarettes to someone underage.

  Forget the cigs. Stupid idea anyway.

  And in one smooth, uninterrupted motion, before I even have time to think about it, I’m back in the casino parking lot, getting out of my car, and walking through the back entrance along with a half dozen other people.

  I have the urge to touch my forehead, my heart, and both shoulders, in a Catholic kind of way, and I’m not even Catholic. My heart’s pounding, and when I walk through the second set of glass doors, the smell of cigarette smoke takes my breath away. Literally. My eyes begin to water. I take a quick look and am surprised to see no one checking ID at the door. However, the feeling of everyone looking at me makes me a nervous wreck.

  The ringing of the slot machines is continuous, and I wonder how much these people are actually winning. After spotting the sign, I make a beeline for the restroom so I can regroup and get my bearings.

  I need deep breaths to calm down, but it is just next to impossible with the funk in the air. And the air just gets funkier when I walk into the bathroom.

  A lady two heads shorter than me walks out of her stall and goes straight to the mirrors and sink. I enter my stall, even though I don’t need to use it, and lay toilet paper down on the seat. I crouch down and sit there for a little bit, hoping she can’t hear my heart that’s beating out of my chest. I wait.

  Am I really doing this? Am I really going to go out there and try this?

  The lady scuffles around. She takes an extra long time to wash her hands, and I picture her fluffing her white beehive hairdo. I sit still on the toilet and listen, then angle my position to look under my stall door. Finally, her silver ballet slippers make an exit. I close my eyes.

  You are eighteen.

  You are eighteen.

  You are eighteen. I tell myself this until I believe it. Then I open my eyes.

  I flush. I wash. I reenter the floor.

  Lots of action here, in the middle of nowhere, Oklahoma.

  I walk around and slip in and out of rows of slot machines for a few minutes. While I familiarize myself with the place, I see a line of senior citizens waiting for a dinner buffet to open, a couple high-fiving to a modest win, and pictures of familiar faces like Vanna White inviting me to come play their slot machines. A center bar serves a few customers as they take swigs of draft beer and play an electronic something or another.

  Tucked neatly in a corner, I find the poker room. So I sit at a slot machine that’s near, dig around in my purse, and pr
etend to play. Slot machines are sheer luck, a risk I can’t take. Fortunately, I have a skill. Like an FBI agent, I watch every move in the room.

  The cocktail waitresses with their spilling cleavages don’t intimidate me. The dealers with their tacky white oxfords and bowties don’t scare me, nor do the players, mostly males, average age sixty-five. But there’s this stud in a suit wearing an earpiece who’s obviously not listening to music. Just like the casino movies, he’s watching for scammers and bad guys; I just know it. Standing with his back against the wall, arms crossed, he acts like he owns the place. He talks into a little mouthpiece, and I’m dying to know who he’s talking to and what it is they’re saying. Probably talking to the mob boss upstairs, and probably saying, “We gotta underage on the Money Bags slot machine. Move in. Let’s get ‘er.” I turn away, and then look out of the corner of my eye.

  A giant computerized waiting list hangs above the check-in desk, and all existing poker games are listed. IMMEDIATE SEATING flashes under the 3-6 limit game, and I wonder what that means. The man sporting a ‘stache at the front desk picks up the microphone, interrupting “Little Red Corvette” playing in the background.

  “Chuck, your 5-10 seat is now available. Chuck.” He places the microphone down on the desk.

  A cute little whippersnapper, I’d guess to be in his eighties, appears in no time. He takes off his glasses, cleans them with his shirt, and scoots to his place at a table. There’s a low buzz of conversation in the room, and the clicking of poker chips echoes from players fidgeting by stacking and restacking.

  I busy myself, once again, by digging randomly in my purse.

  You are eighteen. You are eighteen.

  I discretely look around—all around—turning my head slowly to locate cameras disguised in starburst décor. I’ve seen it on TV before. Casinos have hidden cameras everywhere, in ceiling tiles, plants, decorations; they’re all over the place. “Eye in the sky” is what they call it. I sit for a few more minutes inhaling and exhaling slowly. Finally, I silence my cell, close my purse, and walk straight up to the ‘stache guy. Over his shoulder I see a fuzzy blend of green felt tables, a cashier window in the back, and a reach-in refrigerator stocked with bottled water.