Bluff Page 8

  __________

  Somehow I manage to be running late to the first football game of the year.

  Simultaneously, I drive and place an oversized red bow on the top of my head. Not sure who started the big bow trend, but I look in the rearview mirror and confirm it’s ridiculous. The bow is as big as a football. Why are we wearing footballs on the top of our heads? Bows. Who needs ‘em?

  __________

  “Daddy, Kailey said her mom makes her hair bows with a hot glue gun.”

  Dad looked at me. “Hair bows?”

  “Yeah, those big ones with the ribbons and jewels and feathery things.”

  “Oh.” Dad flipped the channel. He flipped some more. “Why? Do you want hair bows?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess. But I don’t know how to make them.”

  He cranked back in his recliner. “I’m sure it can’t be that hard. It’s just a hair bow.”

  “Yeah.” I knew in my head Dad couldn’t make what I had in mind. He stopped on a fishing show just as they were reeling in a big one. I explained, “They’re about this big, and a jewel holds them together in the middle.”

  He was entranced by the bass.

  “Dad?”

  “Oh, yeah, honey, hair bows . . . draw me a picture and I’ll give it my best shot.”

  __________

  The parking lot fills quickly, and I inch my little car between two SUVs, one of which is halfway into my parking space too. I crack my door open to realize there’s no way I’m getting out, slam my door back, then crawl to the passenger side to avoid reparking. Before I open the door, I look up to the heavens and say, “Dear God, please don’t let any casino people recognize me. I’ll be better. I promise. Amen.” I get out of the car, tie my shoes, and run toward the field.

  “You’re late.” Cassidy is already on my case.

  “I know that.” I look for Miss Mound, but she’s not around.

  “Let me guess. Casino?” She says just a little too loudly. I look to make sure no one heard then squint my eyes at her sending the, “What-the-hell-are-you-thinking?” message.

  I go down in the splits to start stretching with the rest of them, and keep my face down toward my knee, looking up through the corner of my eye.

  Please.

  Please. Please. Please. Don’t let anyone recognize me.

  I look down each row of bleachers as they start to fill with kids, grandparents, teenagers, and moms and dads—all dressed in red and black. An old guy in overalls makes my heart stop, but after my eyes adjust and zone in, I decide he’s not a poker player.

  If only this were a day game, I could wear sunglasses. The big ones. No one would be able to recognize me then. I think of a million ways to hide my face as we line up to run through and practice our halftime routine. As we wait for the music to start, I look down at my shoes and pretend my foot itches.

  The music starts. A hip-hop song that’s so loud it sounds like the speaker could crack any second.

  “Five. Six. Sev-en. Eight.” Miss Mound comes from behind us and lets her presence be known.

  Like a little kid, I take the, “If-I-don’t-look-they-can’t-see-me” approach. I go through the entire routine without looking into the stands. But my mind spins a million ways I’ll be recognized. A cocktail waitress attending her brother’s game. A poker player visiting his alma mater. A truck driver pulling over for a hot dog.

  I’m screwed.

  I go through the motions. Then, it’s time. The stands are full. The football players come out. We grab our pom-poms and do our thing on the sideline. The football players line up down the field, black jerseys, silver numbers. Number 42, Caleb Vanhoose, comes back for a drink. I notice. He takes his time and looks into the stands, and I pray he doesn’t have an Uncle Charlie that knows what it means to have an inside straight. He looks at me, oddly, and I panic that somehow he’s received a telepathic message that I’m a poker player.

  He smiles.

  Eyebrows raised, I smile back.

  Cassidy’s on it.

  “What was that? Did you see the way he looked at you? Wow!”

  “I don’t think he was looking at me.” I adjust my skirt and bend down to tie a shoe that doesn’t need to be tied.

  “Ummm, yes he was,” she says.

  At halftime, we run to take our places on the field. I barely smile, thinking a big smile will only draw attention. We stand there, waiting for music. We stand there longer, waiting for music. Is this really happening? Play the damn music! I frantically scan the stands, praying this isn’t a bust. We are motionless, pom pons at our hips, waiting for something . . . anything to happen. I start on row one, and strain to look at every single spectator.

  Row one . . . I’m safe. Row two . . . Row three . . .

  I get halfway through the crowd when the music starts.

  Then I see Nate.

  Chapter 18

  At home, I lie in bed and pull the covers over my head. I tell Dad I’m not feeling well.

  A few minutes later, he brings me a bowl of chicken noodle soup and sets it on my nightstand.

  “Thanks, Dad. I’m not really hungry though.”

  He feels my forehead.

  “I’ll leave it here in case you get hungry, honey. You sure you don’t need me to take off work tonight?”

  I rest my arm over my head. “I’m sure, Dad. I think I’m just run-down or something.”

  “Well, get some rest. Call me if you need me.” He buttons his work vest and walks out my door.

  My phone rings. Of course, it’s Cassidy.

  I get it over with.

  “Hello.”

  “Where did you disappear to? I thought you just went to the bathroom.”

  “I did.”

  “Did you fall in and end up in the ocean? What the hell, Chelsea? You can’t just keep disappearing.”

  “What’d Miss Mound say?”

  “Where are you, Chelsea? Answer my question!”

  “I’m home.”

  “Miss Mound was wondering too. The whole squad was wondering.” She took a deep breath, in a put-out kind of way. “You’re home?”

  I roll over.

  “I’m in bed. I think I’m getting sick. My stomach hur—”

  “Enough already!” She cuts me off. “You’re not sick! What is going on with you, Chelsea?! Caleb Vanhoose asked me where you were after the game and I didn’t even know what to say!”

  “I saw Nate in the crowd.” Caleb Vanhoose, huh?

  “Who?”

  “Nate. From the casino. He was with a girl.”

  “The casino guy? ARE YOU CRAZY? Who cares who that guy is with, Chelsea! You have no business flirting around with him anyway! Did he see you?”

  “I don’t think so. I hope not. He’s never seen me play poker looking like a wrapped gift with that bow on my head. Hopefully he didn’t recognize me.”

  “Chelsea, do you realize how much trouble you’d be in if you were caught? You’d go to jail, Chelsea. Or he’d go to jail. This is getting ridiculous.”

  We sit in silence.

  I decide to appease her.

  “You’re right. I’m done with it. I’m done with the poker. I’m done with flirting with Nate. I’m done.”

  She replies, “Well good. Welcome back to reality.” We sit on the line in silence for a few seconds. She breaks the silence. “Chelsea, you know if you ever need a loan that I can help you out.”

  I think of the stack of bills and start to cry. She has no idea.

  “I do. I need a loan, Cassidy. Just fifty bucks to get me through the weekend.” Tears stream down my face, and my nose starts to run. “I’m afraid we’ll lose our electricity. I can’t let Dad know. He has no idea how much money all this cheer stuff . . .” I cry. “I don’t know why I thought I could pull this off.
” I can’t stop crying.

  Cassidy listens for a few seconds. She doesn’t know what to say. Finally, she comes up with, “I’m on my way.”

  After a lot of tears and a little laughter, Cassidy opens up her Coach bag, and digs for her wallet. I want to stop her, but I need the money. Even if it’s just Cass, I’m still humiliated.

  She lays a $100 bill on my nightstand.

  “I don’t need that much.” I sit up.

  “Take it. You can pay me back after you find a job or something. It’s not that big of a deal.” She walks toward the door and zips up her purse.

  The money sits on the nightstand.

  “Thanks. This helps. A lot.” I slide back down into my covers. “You have no idea how much this helps. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. I promise.”

  “Get well soon.” She replies as she walks out the front door.

  I stare at the money for a long time.

  I think of a lot of things: Dad working at the convenience store, my new boots that sit in my closet, the growing stack of bills, and empty refrigerator.

  I think of Nate and a girl.

  I want to push any thought of Nate out of my mind, so I get up and start opening mail.

  Gas. Plus late fee.

  Telephone and cable. Time to stop cable service, again.

  I climb back into bed.

  Flip through the channels.

  Look over at the $100 bill.

  Flip through the channels.

  And look at the money again.

  Chapter 19

  I’m confident Nate’s not working when I pull in. He’s probably sharing pizza and a pitcher of beer with his date right now, but when I walk through the doors, I look for him anyway.

  It’s not that crowded, for a weekend night, I think to myself. There’s a country band playing in the corner—people sitting around playing slot machines while they listen to a guy trying to sound like George Strait. Key word: trying.

  There’s no waiting list for the poker room. A guy in a suit points me back to table seven, and in no time I’m back in business.

  I join the table during a dealer change, so players are making small talk and pulling out their phones. I look around and relax knowing that 100 percent for sure there’s no Nate.

  For it not to be crowded, it smells extra smoky tonight. One would think that I would be building some sort of immunity to the smell of smoke . . . maybe get used to it by now . . . but I fight the urge to pull my t-shirt over my nose and mouth to serve as a filter . . . it’s bad. Way bad.

  I know the routine. I place my $100 on the table and wait for chips.

  I’m comforted when the Sunday-school-looking teacher from the other night gets up to move next to me. She sits down, squeezes her shawl with one hand, and straightens her chips with the other. She smells unlike a typical granny; it’s a clean and fresh smell. A bath spray . . . berries or something of that sort. Her smell is like an oxygen line in this smoke infestation. As she straightens her stacks, I decide that this is a woman who takes care of herself. Her hands are old, yet moisturized. Her skin is the best it could possibly be for a woman her age—milky and wrinkled, but in a beautiful way. There’s no wedding ring, and this makes my mind wander. Was she married? Does she have kids that check in on her? Did her husband of a million years pass suddenly? There are players here to pay the mortgage, and there are players here for entertainment. She’s here for entertainment, no question. And this hurts my heart for reasons I can’t figure out. I want to be her friend. I want to make sure she has “people.”

  “Havin’ a good night?” I ask as I nod down to her stack of chips.

  She giggles. “Oh, honey. It depends what you consider a good night.” She giggles again.

  “It looks good to me.”

  “Easy come . . . easy go. You know how this game works.” She punctuates, again, with a giggle.

  The dealer, a tall, thin guy with a ponytail and wire rim glasses, twists to pop his back, then stretches from one side to the other. He sits down on his personal donut cushion and says, “Let’s get this party started, shall we?”

  A beer bottle is raised and a “Hellllll yeah!” comes from a guy in a cowboy hat that has obviously started his party hours ago.

  I look at each of them. But mostly, I look at their chips. I need their chips. In a really big way.

  The dealer pops his back one last time, and then shuffles the cards. He claps his hands once, shows his palms to the security cameras in the ceiling, then says, “Good luck, everyone.”

  I pat Granny on the back, lean over and whisper, “Watch out, boys.”

  “Girl power!” She whispers back.

  On the opposite end of the table, an old, chunky lady with yellow hair and black roots picks up a troll doll and kisses it. She sets it back on the table next to her, and I can’t help but wonder if that technique has worked for her in the past.

  The cards find their way to my hands, and I get the warm fuzzies before I even take a look.

  Girl power. Yes, indeed. “I raise six dollars.”

  Granny, to my left, folds.

  My hand—a king and queen—has done it for me in the past, and I begin to study the players that have wagered to join me.

  The betting makes its way around the table, but comes to a halt with the drunk guy. It’s obvious that this isn’t the first time the dealer has dealt with this joker. “Joe. Are you in?!”

  Joe dramatically scratches his head, squints at his cards, and says (loud enough for the people at the next table to hear) “Does a bar have beer?! Hell, yeah, I’m in!” He’s cracked himself up.

  No one else is amused, to say the least.

  Joe throws his chips in and one goes rolling over to our side of the table.

  The dealer takes notice and stares down Joe.

  “We’ll consider that your warning, big guy.”

  “Warning?! Hell, what’d I do? You mean to tell me . . .” (Pause while Joe collects his thoughts.) “That a guy can’t . . .” (Pause while Joe blinks slowly and . . . continues to . . . collect his thoughts.) “That a guy can’t splash the pot every once in a while?”

  The dealer spends no energy on this. He’s moving on.

  Cards are dealt. I’m in good shape. I send him a telepathic sympathy note.

  Joe, I’m sorry for your misfortune of drinking too much and letting me win your money tonight.

  Bets are moving around the table, and the troll doll lady catches me off guard. “I’m all in.”

  Where the hell did that come from?

  Is she bluffing?

  She picks up the troll doll and holds it next to her heart, face out.

  This is . . . weird.

  The troll doll is staring me down.

  I clasp my hands together and take a deep breath.

  I roll my head to pop my neck.

  Three of a kind. Queens are what I have . . . Granny did say ‘girl power’ before the hand. They are queens. Queens are girls . . . I’m rationalizing every possibility to stay in this hand.

  She’s frozen with the troll doll. I stare her down for thirty seconds, at least.

  She pulls the troll doll from her chest, smooths its hair, and then brings it back to her chest. Bingo.

  “I call.” At least half the money I came with I push to the center of the table. I push thoughts of Cassidy out of my mind and convince myself that she wouldn’t get it. She doesn’t understand my situation. She’s never had to worry about money. She’d be doing this too if she were in my position. $100 is like ten to her. I’m just earning interest on her money. She would be doing this too.

  Troll doll is brought to the lady’s lips, and she kisses it a few times for good luck.

  What is she playing for? Does she want a new pair of hot-pink, strappy heels? A new shade of lipstick? Or is
it down to the wire and she needs gas money to get to her job at the outlet mall?

  Other than the drunk guy closing his eyes for a power nap, everyone at the table is ready to see the results.

  The dealer says, “Let’s see ‘em.”

  I can hardly breathe. This has to be the equivalent of running a 5K. I picture Dad and me sitting in the dark eating by candlelight after they’ve shut off our electricity.

  I’m slow to turn my cards over as I watch the lady stand, place the troll doll on her stack of chips (he’s been freed), and reveal her hand.

  THANK YOU. THANK YOU. THANK YOU, JESUS. It’s just two pair.

  Sunday school teacher gives me a pat on the back and mumbles under breath, “That’s what she gets for believing in a troll doll. Those things give me the creeps.”

  “No kidding.” I smile but can’t look at the lady that I just beat. I hope it was just lipstick she was playing for.

  I hope she can still get to work.

  Before I can even get my chips stacked, we’re on to the next hand. I finally get the nerve to look across the table, and she’s tucking the troll doll away in her purse. It’s as if he’s being punished. He’s being replaced. A bigger, better, blue-haired troll doll is placed on top of her dwindling stack of chips, then she takes a look at her cards.

  When Sunday school teacher asks me to go share a plate of nachos with her I can’t say no—hole in my stomach aside. There’s something I like about her. Like one of those people you automatically connect with. I leave my poker chips on the table and walk across the casino to a small strip of fast food joints, a mini-version of a food court in the mall. When we make our way to the register of Taco Time she’s greeted by a kid wearing a hairnet who looks, maybe fourteen.

  “Hey, Miss Stella.” He’s a bit confused, like I’ve disrupted their regular routine.

  Stella plops her purse on the counter and smiles.

  “How’s my favorite chef?” she asks. It’s a one-man band, Taco Time. It appears he does the order taking, the cashiering, and the cooking too.

  “Doin’ okay. Doin’ okay, Miss Stella.”