Traffick (21 page)

But kissing led to touching led to

the overwhelming need to explore

each other in the most personal ways.

And that means sneaking around,

something I hate. I'm an in-your-face,

this-is-me-take-it-or-leave-it kind

of person. I'd rather just let everyone

know that Brielle and I have connected

because this feels like we're living

a lie, and dishonesty sucks most of all.

Still, after dinner, rather than follow

the group down the hall to watch TV,

I go to my room, wait a few minutes

for the others to settle in, then I slink

the opposite direction, to Brielle.

She's waiting for me on her bed in

a fuzzy blue robe. She opens it, and

there is nothing underneath but

toasted-oat skin stretched over soft

flesh. She is all curves, a complete

contrast to Alex's taut, straight lines.

Turn off the light,
Brielle whispers.

Darkness shades the room, but

not completely. The moon is bright

through the window, offering just

enough illumination so we can see

each other's silhouettes. Brielle

coaxes me closer. I'm nervous,

but more about someone finding

out than about what we want to make

happen. I approach slowly, peeling

back my blouse and dropping

my skirt to the floor. “What about

your roommate? Should we worry?”

No need to rush,
she purrs.
Sonya

is cool, and I asked her to please

give me an hour alone in exchange

for some help with her algebra.

“Good. I do appreciate a smart

woman, not to mention excellent

planning. But I've got something

more exciting than algebra in mind.”

Beside her, open my arms, and

she settles into them like a warm

mist. Her lips seek mine, and our kiss

is sweet and gentle at first, but quickly

blossoms into passion. Brielle rolls

onto her back, urges me on top

of her, and the skin-to-skin contact

lifts the rich scent of cocoa butter.

“Mmm. You smell like chocolate.

Hot chocolate.” We giggle softly,

like little girls, though the response

of our bodies is all woman. With Alex,

I was never in control, something

that always bothered me. I take charge

now, and it's a feeling like no other

to give pleasure before asking for it

in kind. Emotion wells up, seeking

release along with the rise and fall

of her breasts. I don't dare admit

to having fallen in love, though,

not to her or to myself, so I find

other words, hope they convey

how very much I care: “You are

beautiful, do you know that?”

Unreasonably, her muscles contract

and grow tight.
Don't say that.

Don't lie to me. I'm ugly enough

to scare crows dead off a high wire.

My initial reaction is to laugh,

but I stifle it, knowing she means

what she said. “When was the last

time you looked in a mirror?”

She sighs.
Every time I look in

a mirror I see that girl—the one

my classmates made fun of. I can't

find anyone else there. Just her.

“That is so wrong. Whoever told

you that you were ugly was obviously

blind. I wish he—or she—could see

you now. You are amazing.”

I kiss her to prove it, and she relaxes

again. “That's better,” I soothe, then

spend thirty minutes convincing

her how wrong that person was.

Four or five times.

I try to keep my mind

solidly here with Brielle,

but comparisons seem

to be inevitable. Alex

made me take, take, take.

Brielle opens herself to

my giving. Truthfully,

I have always been on

the receiving end, whether

by invitation or because

I had no choice. This is so

new I might have no idea

how to enjoy it, except it's

instinctive. My own joy

comes from making Brielle

sigh with pleasure, and at

last cry out that yes, this

is right, and yes she feels

beautiful. And I love

that I can do that for her

when I couldn't manage it

for Alex. I am turned on,

alive, because I am powerful.

No time to revel in afterglow,

we slip back into our clothes

before Sonya can return to claim

her bed. “I wish we could sleep

together.” Thinking about it,

I've rarely slept alone. Before

I left Gram's, there was always

at least one sister tucked in beside

me. And then there was Alex,

who I loved to snuggle up against,

though as time went on, she pulled

away from me more and more.

That would be nice,
says Brielle.

But that will probably never

happen, and it makes me sad.

Why did we have to connect now?

“The natural cussedness of things,

that's what my gram used to say.

It's like the good stuff always hits

at the exact wrong time. Sucks.”

She comes over, slides her arms

around my neck, kisses me sweetly.

Are you really leaving day after

tomorrow? Why do you have to go?

I push her gently away, look

down toward the floor so I can't

see the sadness in her eyes. “Gram

needs me. And I have to figure

out who I am. I don't know who

that is, or who I want to become.

I only know who I was, and this place

is a constant reminder of yesterday's

Ginger, the one I have to leave

behind. I just wish I didn't have

to leave you, too. I never expected

to care about someone again.”

Brielle pushes closer, lifts a hand,

and her fingertips flutter against

my cheek.
I'll go you one better.

I never expected to care for anyone,

period. I've worked very hard to

avoid it, in fact, which is why

everyone thinks I'm cold. Maybe

I am, but it's because I'm afraid

of getting hurt. Love wasn't meant

for people like you and me. You

have to be strong and brave to fall

in love. And maybe a little stupid.

How to reply, we hear footsteps

outside the door. Brielle pops up

onto her bed and I hustle over

to the cracked vinyl chair near

the window, making sure my

clothing is straight and buttoned.

My butt is barely planted when

Sonya comes in, humming

a Maroon 5 song I recognize

from back when I still listened to

music. She stops when she sees me.

Considers. Smiles.
Oh. Hey, Ginger.

I don't really care if she suspects,

so I meet her expression head-on.

“Hi, Sonya. Thanks for giving us

a little space. We were just talking

about how you have to be brave

to fall in love, or maybe stupid.

What do you think?” I address

Sonya, but give Brielle a wink.

Sonya laughs.
I think you have

to be stupid to hook up in a place

like this. And if that leads to love,

well, you get what you deserve.

Because I'm not sure if she's being

serious or totally sarcastic or even

if she means it in a bad way or good.

However she spun it, it's accurate.

“Know what? You're right. Okay,

I'll let you two tackle that algebra.

I've got some reading to do.” I stand,

then turn to Brielle. “Gram says love

lives inside every one of us. We just

have to accept that it's there. Don't

believe it wasn't meant for you and

me. We deserve it more than most.”

Deserving and accepting are two

vastly different things, of course.

I go back to my room, digesting

the past hour. There was making

love, yes, and it was new and

satisfying, in a whole different

way. Surprising. Something

I want to experience again.

But I think there was a fair

amount of love, the emotion, too.

I wish I was better acquainted with

it. How do I know if I'm right?

If they're right about love?

Pretty sure there's no way

around trial and error, and

hopefully learning from

your mistakes when it comes

to things like listening to

the arguments of your heart.

Argh! I'm so totally absorbed

in thinking about what just

happened with Brielle that it takes

several minutes for the scene

in my own room to solidify.

When I go inside, I notice

Miranda's presence. See,

from the corner of my eye,

that she's sitting on her bed.

But it isn't until I turn to look at

her that it becomes apparent

she's in shock, her Latina face

the color of oatmeal. “What is it?”

She doesn't say anything, but

offers whatever she holds in her

hand. It turns out to be a printed

page, ripped from the local newspaper.

That's what the headline screams.

I skim the story, which shares

the grisly details in lurid

tabloid fashion:

Shayleece Reynolds just turned seventeen.

She should have been struggling with chemistry

and reading Jane Austen novels. Instead,

the former child prostitute was found beaten,

raped, and left to die in a remote stretch of desert

north of Las Vegas. In a highly publicized trial

last week, Ms. Reynolds testified against

Lawrence Reynolds, her pimp and alleged

biological father (court-ordered DNA testing

has yet to return results) for murdering her mother,

another prostitute. Ms. Reynolds disappeared

on her way to a dental appointment and was

reported missing by staff at Walk Straight,

a child prostitute rescue group home.

It is believed her death was retaliation for

her testimony, which resulted in Lawrence

Reynolds's conviction for first-degree murder

and pandering a child under the age of fourteen,

which in itself carries a life sentence in the state

of Nevada. This case highlights the growing problem

of trafficking children for sex in Las Vegas and

across the US. Just last year, an FBI task force . . .

“Where did you get this?”

I've never seen any of the girls

look at a paper. Few enough of them

keep up with anything newsy.

From Belinda. I was outside

reading when she drives up, stops,

and opens her window. She doesn't

say anything. Just throws the envelope

with this inside. I don't know how

she knows where I am, Ginger.

How did she find me?
The message

is clear: Keep your mouth shut.

Miranda is supposed to testify

against Papacito in a few weeks.

They've been building a case against

him and want to go to court before

the end of the year. “Did you tell

anyone?” She answers with a shake

of her head. “Why not? You have to!

They should take you somewhere safe.”

Where? If Papacito can find me

here, he can find me anywhere.

He'll kill me, just like that other

girl. I have to leave. I need to hide.

“No, Miranda. Where can you hide?

You can't go home. Papacito knows

Ricardo, and your family would be

in danger. You don't have anywhere

else to go, do you? Better to let

your caseworker know, so . . .”

Her head swivels side to side.

“Listen. If you don't tell, don't

follow through and testify, Papacito

will get out of jail and go right back

to working those girls. You don't

want that to happen, do you?”

She thinks it over, but not very

long.
Doesn't matter who goes

to jail, someone will make the girls

work. Today, Belinda, tomorrow . . . ?

Her eyes shimmer with frightened

tears. “Listen, I know you're scared.

I'd be scared too. But someone

has to make them stop—”

Not me! Why me? I'm just a kid.

I can't change it. I can't change

anything.
Rather than dissolve

as expected, she goes totally blank.

Only a single staff person here.

It's Bethany tonight. I'm afraid

to go looking for her and leave

Miranda alone, so I open the door,