Identical by Ellen Hopkins

easy cruise mode.
    Actually, my parents are
    loaded. More ways than one.
    I really look at him for the first
    time. Handsome face, chiseled,
    strong. Works-out-in-the-gym
    body. Dark, longish hair, tied back.
    Simple black T-shirt and Levis,
    though clean, totally belie the Beamer.
    And what exactly did he mean
    by more ways than one?
    Might as well just ask. “Your
    parents get high? Do they deal?”
    Nah, they don’t deal. They indulge
    plenty, though. See, my dad is
    Chumash. When the casino was built,
    he made—how best to put this?—more
    than a tidy little sum on the deal.
    He and my mom now own quite an
    operation out Foxen Canyon Road.
    Cattle. Horses. Young vineyard.
    Who would have guessed?
    Certainly not me, not even
    after our little private party
    up there on Figueroa. Still…
    “So how about you? What do you do?
    Do you live with your parents?”
    A bunch more questions pop
    into my head, bubbling over
    like champagne, but the answers
    to those two might answer the rest.
    Shit, yeah. In a guest house,
    actually. Once our vines mature,
    I’ll play vintner. Right now,
    I’m apprenticing at another winery.
    Several questions answered indeed.
    Finally I notice we have in fact
    been driving along Foxen Canyon
    Road. Ty slows the BMW and we
    turn up a long driveway through
    rows and rows of immature grapes.
    We make a left before reaching
    the rather overbearing main house.
    Finally Ty crunches to a stop
    in the gravel. Here we are. Home
    sweet home. Hope you’re up
    for fun and games.

Fun, Ty-Style
    Begins with tall Jack Daniel’s
    and Cokes. As he mixes them,
    I wander around the “guest house,”
    thinking half the country would
    flip if they could live in a home
    like this. Two oversize bedrooms.
    Two bathrooms, one with a Jacuzzi
    tub. Beautiful kitchen, open to
    the leather-and-brass living room.
    With a flick of a switch, Ty lights
    the gas fireplace, which throws
    a gentle gleam across the hardwood
    floor. He gestures toward the rich
    burgundy leather sofa and goes
    into the bedroom. Blink of an eye,
    back he comes, holding a big wooden
    box. He sits close, opens the hand-
    carved oak, reveals the cache inside.

This Is Something New
    My uncle has connections you
    wouldn’t believe, says Ty.
    He pulls out a baggie, a quarter
    full of some crumbly brown substance.
    When he cracks the bag, the perfume
    that escapes smells like heaven.
    Opiated hash. Ever tried it?
    I shake my head no, but Ty
    is quick to remedy that, filling
    a small pipe bowl with a miniature
    ball of opium-laced hashish.
    He takes the first toke, and now
    heaven’s on fire, and smoking.
    Still holding his hit, Ty cautions
    around it, Little tokes, now.
    Don’t want to cough this stuff out.
    Hold it as long as you can.
    Slowly I inhale a taste sweeter
    than any before. Greedy me
    wants more, but I remember
    his warning. The smoke expands
    in my lungs, and I’m glad I didn’t
    take more. I hold it until I just have
    to let go. When I finally do,
    my head is tingling all over.
    Ty looks at me, measuring.
    Having fun yet? ’Course you are.
    And sweetheart, this is just the start.
    We’ve still got games to play.

Games, Ty-Style
    Don’t even begin until we’re well
    into the fun. Drinking. Smoking.
    Feeling the creep of the poppy,
    all along my spine, skull to tailbone.
    I know the high is mostly hash,
    not so different from regular
    cannabis (though even tastier).
    But the opium topper provides
    a whole new set of rushes. Body
    rushes, like little shivers. Head
    rushes, like turning in circles,
    round and round, don’t fall down.
    Shall we move the party
    into the bedroom? Ty reaches
    over, kisses me. Hard. Harder.
    My heart screams in my chest.
    His teeth rake my bottom
    lip, move down over my chin,
    down my neck. Not too hard.
    Not really. But hard enough.
    Should I have worn garlic
    and a silver cross? I laugh
    out loud at the thought, and
    I realize how fucked up I am.
    Ty stands, holds out his hand,
    but I am so messed