Bluff Page 5

  I survey the table, and I don’t think I’ve ever played any of these people before.

  While I trade my eighty dollars for some poker chips I become completely intrigued with this lady at the table who could pass for Dolly Parton’s twin sister. Bleached white hair—not a strand out of place—clown-like makeup, red nails longer than her fingers, and an obvious push-up bra working double duty. Her skin is creamy white, and I take a third look just to make sure it’s not really Dolly.

  The old farts at my table are hypnotized by her glittery cleavage, and I’m thinking this may work to my advantage. The cowboy at the table isn’t even trying to be nonchalant, he only looks away to glance at his cards. Cards, boobs. Boobs, boobs, cards. Boobs, boobs, boobs, then, not to sacrifice his boob-watching time, he tosses in his cards and tells the boobs, “I fold.”

  I take down the first pot, and even though it’s a small win, my heart rate slightly increases. I straighten my stacks of chips, and I can feel it.

  I’m in the zone.

  Five hands into it, and I’ve got everyone figured out.

  Dolly’s too conservative and unsure to bluff. If she’s in, I’m out.

  Cowboy takes off his hat and scratches his forehead when he’s got a winning hand.

  Guy in red shirt is a nervous wreck. He’s probably never played before.

  Guy in hoodie is drunk and overconfident.

  Guy on oxygen is my competition, proceed with caution.

  It has all the makings of a profitable night.

  Chapter 10

  I get up from the table when I’m at my best, and cash in for $392 more than what I came with.

  I’m relieved. I’m ecstatic.

  But mostly, I’m exhausted.

  I walk toward the exit and what I first believe to be a bright light shining through the glass doors reveals itself as sunlight, and I panic.

  What time is it?

  There’s no way.

  No. Way.

  I turn back and look around to find a clock on the wall, but there’s none.

  Against the wall there’s a buffet line that looks to be full of pancakes and eggs and steam with a line of white and silver-haired people waiting to fill their plates.

  No way.

  It’s breakfast time? I don’t smell breakfast. I smell cigarettes. I dig in my purse, find my phone, and learn that it’s 7:15 a.m.

  SHIT.

  I squint at the bright beams of light as I jog to my car.

  SHIT.

  7:15 + 30 minute drive = 7:45.

  Saturday morning.

  Dad sleeps in sometimes. Not most of the time. Sometimes. Only sometimes.

  SHIT. SHIT. SHIT.

  I hope he—

  “Hey there!”

  I look over the top of a few cars to find the voice. It’s bright and I can’t see, but the person with the voice starts walking toward me.

  “Hey!” someone says again.

  It’s not until he’s three feet away that I realize that it’s Nate. NATE. Cute Mafia Guy. NATE.

  He takes one more step closer to me, and we’re face-to-face.

  Soap. He smells like soap. The cleanest smelling soap you can ever imagine. He’s combed, pressed, and ready for the day. He’s all morning. The parking lot goes on with its pulling in and backing out business as I stand here with Nate.

  “Oh, hey.” I can’t look at him.

  I’m gross. I slide my tongue across my teeth and feel grime. My hair under my cap stinks. My clothes are just a notch above pajamas.

  “Party all night, sleep all day, huh?” He laughs.

  I want to disappear but still be able to see him.

  “Oh, you know . . . just making a little extra dough.” That was nerdy.

  He tilts his head to look under the bill of my cap. Please don’t let me have eye boogers.

  He grabs at the bill of my hat and says, “You be careful out here, Chandra.” He remembers my name.

  I don’t know my name. But he remembers it.

  I’m weak. Suddenly very, very weak.

  “I will. Thanks.”

  I want to say more to him, but I can’t think of anything.

  He buttons his sports coat and says, “Well, I better get in to work. See ya again soon?”

  “Yeah.” I look up at him. “I’ll be back.”

  “Well, good. See ya later.”

  Just give me a moment while I inhale your soap smell and stare at your dimples.

  “Alright, see ya. Have a good day at work.”

  “Hey thanks. Bye.” More dimples.

  “Bye.” I laugh.

  “Bye.” He laughs.

  We stand still for a few seconds, then I pull my hat down on my head and walk away to look for my car. “Bye,” I say one last time.

  I look at my phone. 7:22.

  It takes me five minutes to find my car. I’m darting between cars left and right, and I’m hoping—really hoping—that Nate doesn’t have a parking lot surveillance monitor. How embarrassing. How embarrassing!

  When I finally get to my car, I have a weird feeling because the last time I was here it was dark. I’m still weak from the whole Nate encounter, and I’ve got a gambler’s high because of my winnings. I feel like a little girl that’s been to a slumber party and stayed up all night eating cotton candy and cupcakes with sprinkles. I have to get home.

  Fast.

  I had to go to the store to get pads.

  Cassidy is having boy problems; she needed me.

  We were out of milk. (Are we out of milk?)

  I was mailing bills.

  Just needed some fresh air.

  I had a cheer meeting at school.

  We had to get sized for our cheer jackets.

  I was making posters for the cross country team.

  I pick the best one.

  I stop on my way home and buy a gallon of milk.

  As I open the door to go in the house, Dad is getting out of bed. I know this because of his bedhead and sleepy eyes when we meet.

  “Hey, Dad.” We pass in the living room, which takes all of five steps to walk the entire room.

  Me being fully dressed this early on a Saturday morning is definitely not the norm, so I’m quick to get to the kitchen to make sure we are, indeed, out of milk.

  My lucky streak is over.

  Half of the gallon is still there.

  “Where’d you go?” He calls over the couch.

  “To get some milk.”

  “We have milk.”

  I hesitate for a second.

  “It’s expired.” I grab the carton and start dumping it down the sink. Chug. Chug. Chug.

  My dad sits on the couch, turns around, and squints his eyes at me.

  “Are you sure? I just bought that a few days ago.”

  The stamped date says September 13.

  “It says September 8th, Dad. Today’s the 9th.” I stuff the empty carton in the trash can and push it down toward the bottom, making sure the date is face-down. He walks in the kitchen, and sees me place the new carton of milk in the refrigerator. If I hadn’t stopped to get the milk, I would have made it home in time. But, who knew? I had to do it. I had to have the milk as my scapegoat.

  “Chelsea, are you okay?” Dad starts to make his coffee.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I just noticed you haven’t been hanging out with your friends as much . . . I never see Cass around anymore. You guys aren’t fighting over boys or anything, are you?”

  I think about his words.

  He’s right about Cass not being around.

  “No, Dad. Don’t be silly. We’ve both just had a lot going on, that’s all.” I start to make myself a bowl of Cheerios.

  “Hmm. Well. Alright. Just don’t let so
me jerk come between you two.”

  “Dad, we’re not, seriously.” I half laugh.

  I kick my tennis shoes off and sit on the couch, tucking my feet underneath me.

  Dad flips on the TV, and we watch the Pioneer Woman make a bacon and potato casserole, but we both know it’s for entertainment purposes only—no way will we ever go through all the trouble of this recipe.

  Ree Drummond.

  So homemakerish.

  So motherly.

  So jovial.

  I eat a second bowl of cheerios. Start the dishwasher. Put a load of laundry in.

  And go down for a morning nap.

  It’s when Dad starts getting ready for his night shift that I wake up. I find my phone and realize it’s already seven thirty in the evening. Two missed calls and one message from Cassidy.

  Did I really sleep all day?

  My room feels fuzzy. Dust particles float around in the last minutes of daylight. I roll to my back and stare at my popcorn ceiling, not knowing what to do with myself.

  I stretch around under the covers, and then check the time again.

  Curious what’s going on in the outside world, I play her message.

  “Chels? Where are ya? I was getting worried. You better hurry up; we only have an hour left . . . Call me.”

  What is she talking about? An hour left? There’s no practice today.

  I don’t get it.

  I get my planner and flip to September.

  CAR WASH. A fundraiser.

  Great.

  Just great.

  I call to tell her that I’m sick.

  “Sick? Like stomach sick or a cold sick?” she asks.

  “I think it’s just allergies or something,” I say. “I feel better now. I just needed some rest.”

  “Oh.” She pauses, and then the words start spilling out of her mouth. “Chels, are you okay? Are you depressed or something? You never miss things.” She pauses again. “I mean you’ve been so different lately.”

  “I’m fine.” I say automatically. “I’ve just got a lot going on.”

  “Like what?”

  “What do you mean, like what? School . . . cheer . . . looking for a job . . . laundry.” She’s clueless. Her clothes magically appear in her drawers pressed and neatly folded. She has fresh vacuum streaks in her carpet and a vase of fresh flowers on her nightstand.

  “Chels, I get it. I’m not the enemy here.”

  “What’d you tell Ms. Mound?” I’m hopeful for a good cover.

  “I didn’t tell her anything. I didn’t even know anything to tell.” She thinks for a few seconds and adds, “That seems to be the norm these days.”

  “Whatever, Cassidy.” I’m not in the mood for a lecture. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Yeah, me either.”

  “See ya.”

  “Bye.” We hang up.

  I sit up on my bed, grab my purse, and count my money from the night before. Wow. That really happened.

  Chapter 11

  I’ve never had $472 before. Ever. Choreography fees? Check!

  I count the money three more times before I leave my bedroom. Dad is packing his sack lunch that he’ll be eating around one in the morning.

  “How’s my favorite girl?” He says as he rolls the top of his brown bag.

  “Tired.”

  “Tired? You’ve slept most the day. You must be growin’ again.” He’s been saying this to me as long as I can remember.

  “I feel like I’m fighting off a cold.”

  “Yeah, you sound stopped up. You better drink some orange juice.”

  “I will, Dad.” It dawns on me. It’s the casino’s cigarette smoke that has wreaked havoc. I have a smoker’s cough. Suddenly my lungs feel black.

  “Do you have any plans tonight? Movies or anything?” He reaches to his back pocket and takes out his wallet. He offers, knowing I won’t take it.

  “Nah. I’m just going to stay home tonight. I don’t need any money.” Wait, what am I doing tonight? After hugs and a kiss on the forehead, Dad leaves for work.

  I feel out of place.

  I have no one to call.

  I’m wide awake.

  I have $472.

  What’s a girl to do with all of that?

  __________

  “Chandra, your 1-2 no limit table is available, Chaaan-dra.”

  I’m standing three feet away from the guy who speaks into a microphone. I don’t recognize him, but he acts all personal with everyone as if he’s been doing this his whole life.

  The room’s crowded. I can tell it’s a Saturday night. Double the cocktail waitresses, double the noise, double the smoke. The background music seems louder than usual.

  I’m hopeful that Nate may still be working. A fourteen-hour shift wouldn’t be totally out of the question. I sit down at my table, one in the corner. My back’s against the wall, and everyone is nice and cozy. I look around the room for a suit.

  “YOU SORRY SACK OF SHIT!” A player stands up and yells. He flings his cards across the table and a kid in a baseball cap—who appears to be even younger than me—starts scooping up a heap of chips. The hand’s loser, a guy with five o’clock shadow, slams his chair into the table and causes the lady next to him to jump.

  Immediately, there are three suit guys at our table—none of whom happen to be Nate—grabbing onto his elbows and escorting him out. The dealer holds the deck of cards in his hand and stares at the chaos until it’s no longer in view.

  The dealer I recognize. He looks at me, smiles for one second, then says, “Welcome to the game.”

  I look away at the commotion.

  “Thanks.”

  A whole discussion starts about how the casino should just ban the guy from ever coming back . . . It’s not the first time . . . He usually throws something . . . Has ruined the felt on the table by throwing a full Bloody Mary before . . .

  Dad would freak if he knew I was here. Completely FREAK.

  I get $200 worth of chips from the dealer. The Black Eyed Peas song, “Tonight’s Gonna Be a Good Night,” is playing, and I think to myself, Let’s hope so.

  I take some inconspicuous deep breaths and pop my neck to try and relax while the cards are dealt around. Meanwhile, the lunatic player’s seat is being filled by the sweetest looking granny you’ve ever seen. She’s wearing pearls and a floral dress, and I’d place her as a Sunday school teacher before a poker player.

  Tonight’s the night!

  Let’s live it up!

  The Black Eyed Peas are encouraging me to bet. I look at my cards, jack/queen, and take another deep breath.

  I call the first bet. I feel at home. Here it goes.

  Everyone stays, and the pot is looking to be a good one.

  The community cards are dealt, and my heart about beats through my chest when two more queens come up. I’m short of breath.

  Calm down, don’t blow this. I tell my brain.

  My hands don’t get the message. They’re shaking worse than the granny’s at the table, only her shaky hands probably have something to do with meds.

  The bet’s to me.

  I’m a nervous freakin’ wreck.

  I sound like a teenage boy going through puberty when I ask, “What’s the limit?”

  Everyone laughs.

  The dealer explains, “You’re at a no-limit table, Miss. You can bet every chip in your stack if you want.”

  I feel my face turn red.

  I look at the cards again to make sure the three queens are still there.

  The pot is huge.

  I need a new pair of jeans . . . and boots.

  I remember the phrase from TV, and say, “I’m all in.”

  It’s an out-of-body experience.

  The dealer cocks h
is head and raises his eyebrows like, are you sure about this? “Little lady’s all in.” He scoots my chips to the middle of the table and stacks and counts. “$200 to call.”

  Three of them exhale, making a sshhh noise. They stare me down as if I’m disrupting their mojo.

  My brain repeatedly asks, Did I really just throw in $200 for one bet?

  People are shifting in their chairs.

  Sweet, granny Sunday school teacher has already folded—out of turn, at that.

  However, the rest aren’t scared.

  Five.

  People.

  Call.

  Me.

  And there’s $1000 in the middle up for grabs.

  My pores open and release beads of sweat.

  My vision blurs. Green table felt, colored poker chips, and the dealer’s hands blend together and look like a melting photograph.

  Vomit percolates in my pipes. This can’t be happening. Don’t pass out.

  $1000 in the middle. A thousand freakin’ dollars in the middle!

  One opponent stands. One clasps his hands above his head, tilts his head back, and exhales toward the ceiling looking for a poker God, I assume.

  Are they trying to bully me? Are they all in cahoots?

  Surely $1000 pots don’t happen on a regular basis. This is incredible.

  I realize that not one of them has looked at me since my bet. They can’t make eye contact with me. That’s a good thing.

  My thumbnail finds my teeth and I go to town.

  Workers start gathering at our table and whisper to themselves.

  Nate’s here.

  Shit, not now.

  Nate’s here?

  I’m every emotion all at once to the hundredth degree. It’s like flicking a spinner and wondering what the hell it’s going to land on, but it’s taking five minutes in slow motion to do so.

  What cards do these people hold in their hands?

  The river. The last card of the hand gives me a full house. Good enough?

  Chapter 12

  The dealing is over. Everyone checks, no more betting, then three of the players reveal their hands. One player turns his face down; he knows he’s not a winner.

  My eyes and brain connect intensively. I can’t see their hands fast enough. Straight. Straight. Two pair; he didn’t make his full house.