Read Tricks by Ellen Hopkins for free with a 30 day free trial. Read unlimited* books and audiobooks on the web, iPad, iPhone and Android. Ellen Hopkins is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of thirteen young adult novels, as well as the adult Ellen Hopkins Author cover image of Tricks . Discover ideas about Books For Teens. Tricks by Ellen Hopkins (Grades 9 & up). Five troubled teenagers fall into prostitution as they search for freedom, safety.
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Ellen Hopkins: Tricks (Tricks, #1) Read/Download PDF Epub Online. Tricks. byEllen Hopkins. Publication date Topics Novels in verse, Family problems Borrow this book to access EPUB and PDF files. Editorial Reviews. From School Library Journal. Grade 9 Up—Five teens desperately seek to find their way through the darkness in Hopkins's latest epic novel in.
They're from different walks of life--some are rich; some are poor; some are from nuclear families; others are not. Regardless of upbringing, they share common needs: love, acceptance, safety, and family. Eden has a secret love affair and is the daughter of a hellfire-and-brimstone preaching father; Seth, aching over the death of his mother, is a gay farm kid and hides his sexuality from his father; Whitney is good-looking and smart, but lives in the shadow of her "better" older sister and her critical mother and semi-absent father; Ginger lives in poverty with her drug-using, sexually deviant, and abusive mother; and Cody, suffering the loss of his stepfather, shoulders his mother's emotional and financial needs.
All five are betrayed or "tricked" by someone they love and turn down brutal paths in which they experience even deeper deception. What will they do to be loved? To survive? Can they return home? Their stories begin in alternating vignettes and interweave into one explosive Las Vegas ending. An adopted child, she studied ballet, jazz, tap, hula, and modern dancing and also rode horses. Her love of writing began in elementary school at the age of nine when she published a poem in the Palm Springs Desert Sun.
After high school, she attended the University of California, Santa Barbara, and studied journalism. She has written short stories and poetry and worked as a freelance journalist, scriptwriter, editor, and instructor. Her works delve into difficult subjects such as drugs, physical and emotional abuse, sexuality, family relationships, identity, suicide, religion, and prostitution.
A sequel to Crank and Glass--Fallout--is scheduled for release in , and Perfect should be released in She lives with her family in Carson City, Nevada. The idea for Tricks came from reading that the average age of a teen female prostitute in the United States is twelve. After discovering this statistic, Hopkins wanted to write a story illustrating how teens engage in prostitution for different reasons. In what ways are their lives alike?
How are they different? Why does each fall so deeply and so easily in love? Two of the five central characters come from intact, traditional families; two have lost a parent; and another lives with her mother and grandmother. Some argue a traditional family is the "best" environment in which to raise a family, yet all five teens end up selling themselves. What elements are needed for a healthy family environment?
Tricks is written in verse.
In what way does this style enable Hopkins to explore characters' thoughts? Identify one passage for each main character in which the character's thoughts are revealed.
What does the passage tell us about the character? What effect does verse writing have on the reader? How does it contribute to the overall story? Choose any relationship and explain what draws the two together. Use passages to support your thoughts. One might argue that the five central characters are "emotional infants. How do those feelings change toward the middle and the end of the story and why?
Of the five stories, which are you drawn to the most? Hopkins uses plot and setting to weave the five stories together. Not Wrong for Me No, not at all. Andrew is pretty much perfect. Our daughters will find husbands within their faith. Andrew is spiritual, yes. But religious? Religion is for followers, he told me once. Followers and puppets. At my stricken look, he became not quite apologetic. At the time, I was only half in love with Andrew and thought I needed definitions.
Some Old Testament—writing fart made that up to keep his old lady in line. He paused, then added, Why would God need a pecker, anyway? Yes, he enjoyed the horrified look on my face. More laughter settled into those amazing eyes, creasing them at the corners.
So sexy! Anyway, I relate to God in a very personal way. I see His hand everywhere—in red sunrises and orange sunsets; in rain, falling o n thirsty fields; in how a newborn lamb finds his mama in the herd. I thank God for these things. And for you. After that, I was a lot more than halfway in love with Andrew. The Funny Thing Is We actually met at a revival, where nearly everyone was babbling in tongues, or getting a healthy dose of Holy Spirit healing.
Instead he found me, sitting in the very back row, half grinning at the goings-on. He slid into an empty seat beside me. Come here often? Andrew was the best-looking guy to ever sit next to me, let alone actually say something to me.
A good ten seconds passed before I realized he had asked a question. See the short guy up there? He looked back and forth, Papa to me. His consternation surprised me. Why would you think so? He shook his head. I leaned closer to him, and for the first time inhaled his characteristic scent— clean and somehow green, like the alfalfa fields I later learned he helps work for cash.
I dropped my voice very low. But there was more that evening—instant connection, to a guy who on the surface was very different from me. And yet, we both knew instinctively that we needed something from each other. A steady trickle, building to a cascade. If Andrew Was the poser type, things would probably be easier. Not without a ring. Did you have to come to this thing? It seems kind of, um.
I smiled. That sums it up pretty well, I guess. Andrew laughed warmly. So why do you come, then? Pure entertainment? I shrugged. I shivered at the nip in the air, or at the sudden magnetic pull I felt toward this perfect stranger.
Without a second thought, Andrew took off his leather jacket, eased it around my shoulders. Cool tonight, he observed. All the signs point to a hard winter. He was standing very close to me.
I sank into that earthy green aura, looked up into his eyes. They happen every day.
And I think we both knew that one just might have. Probably because most of the guys here at Boise High know who my father is. But Andrew went to Borah High, clear across town, and he graduated last year. Yes, she and his rancher dad make an odd couple. Love is like that. Guess where his progressive theories came from. That makes him nineteen, all the more reason we have to keep our relationship discreet.
That horrible thought has crossed my mind more than once in the four months since Andrew decided to take a chance on me. After a while, we held hands as we ducked in between the old cottonwoods, grown skeletal with autumn. And then one day Andrew stopped. He pleated me into his arms, burrowed his face in my hair, inhaled.
Smells like rain, he said. My heart quickstepped. He wanted to kiss me. That scared me. His lips brushed my forehead, the pulse in my right temple. Will I burn if I kiss you? But it will be worth it. It was cold that morning, maybe thirty degrees.
It was the kiss in the dream you never want to wake up from—sultry, fueled by desire, and yet somehow innocent, because brand-new, budding love was the heart of our passion.
Andrew lifted me gently in his sinewy arms, spun me in small circles, lips still welded to mine. And when we finally stopped, I knew my life had irrevocably changed. Word gets around. Around one corner. He spots me and even from here, I can see his face light up. Glance left. No one I know. No familiar faces or cars. And you are the source of that, right? To escape, I regularly stashed myself in the closet, comforted by curtains of cotton.
Avoided wool, which encouraged my itching the ever-present rashes on my arms, legs. My skin reacted to secrets, lies, and taunts by wanting to break out.
I think I was maybe five when I decided that. I was the little boy who liked art projects and ant farm tending better than riding bikes or playing army rangers. Not easy, coming from a long line of farmers and factory workers.
My dream is liberal arts, a New Agey university. Berkeley, maybe. Or, even better, San Francisco. Not with Mom Gone She was the one who supported my escape plan. You reach for your dreams, she said. Factory work is killing us all. Factory work may have jump-started it, but it was cancer that took my mom, one year and three months ago. She loved me, sure, with all her heart.
Wanted me to be happy, with all her heart. But when it came to sex, she was all Catholic in her thinking. Sex was for making babies, and only after marriage. She was just sixteen and her boyfriend hauled his butt out of town, all the way to an army base in Georgia. Mom got off the phone with Aunt Josie, clucking like a hen. Who would have believed our pretty little Liz would grow up to be such a whore?
I thought that was harsh, and told her so. I knew better than to argue with Mom, but if she felt that strongly about unmarried sex, no way could I ever let her know about me, suffer the disgrace that would have followed.
How in the hell are the two things related? And Anyway If God were inclined to punish someone just for being the way he created them, it would be punishment enough to insert that innocent soul inside the womb of a native Indianan. These cornfields and gravel roads are no place for someone like me. Bible says God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve, and no damn bleeding-heart liberal gonna tell me different.
Most definitely not this bleeding-heart liberal. Or have become. Because of who I am, all the way inside, the biggest part of me, the part I need to hide. Father Howard knew. Took advantage, too. I am too. It is spring, a time of hope, locked in the rich loam we till and plant. The main ingredient in American ethanol, the fuel of the future, and so it fuels our dreams.
The big John Deere has little trouble tugging the tiller, turning the soil, readying it for seed. Submission, yes, and almost as ancient as the submission of one beast, throat up to another. One human, facedown to another. And always, always another, hungering.