Tilt

by Ellen Hopkins

  August. I have good friends,

  including my excellent BFF, Bri.

  Which leaves one thing missing.

  My dad. I hardly ever get to see

  him, even though he only lives

  fifty miles away in stupid Fallon.

  So This Weekend Visit

  Was a surprise. When Dad called,

  I swear I went all fan girl. (Can you

  go fan girl over your father? Dumb.)

  Hey there, Sugar, he said. I sure

  have missed you. Want to come

  out to the sticks for a couple of days?

  My heart started hammering and,

  for once, my smile turned real.

  After I said, “Sure,” I added, “Daddy.”

  I like to try and guilt-trip him that way,

  not that it works. As far as I can tell,

  he’s totally guilt free. The highway from

  Carson to Fallon is flat and plain.

  “I wish you didn’t live so far away

  so I could see you more often.”

  Dad keeps both hands on the steering

  wheel and his eyes on the road. Glad

  you said that. Looks like I’m moving

  back to Reno. Cass . . . uh . . . my new

  girl has a house there. And I landed

  a job at Terrible’s. So I’ll be closer.

  I’m all jumbled up. Happy, because

  he’s going to live closer. A little scared,

  because I don’t know what that means.

  And a lot jealous. Dad has a girlfriend,

  and this time it sounds serious. “You’re

  moving in with her? How long have

  you been seeing each other?” I ask, even

  though it doesn’t matter at all. I stare out

  the window as the power poles zip by

  and try not to scrunch my nose at

  Dad’s obnoxious cigarette-and-sweat

  smell. I guess it’s been about six months

  now. We met just before Christmas.

  You’ll like her. She’s funny and sweet

  and really cute. Not as cute as you, though.

  Usually

  I like when people say I’m cute.

  But not when it feels tacked on.

  And not when comparing me

  to someone else. And especially

  not when the someone doing

  the comparing is my dad,

  stacking my cuteness against

  his new, serious girlfriend’s.

  Anyway, cute is okay. But I’d

  rather be pretty. Beautiful.

  Hot. (Okay, not in my father’s

  opinion. That’s just gross.)

  I want boys to look at me like

  they look at Brianna. It’s hard

  having a best friend who draws

  everyone’s attention when you

  never do. I keep hoping some

  of Bri will rub off on me, but

  so far, no. Mom says I’m a late

  bloomer. But it’s summer already.

  Well, Officially

  Summer is still two weeks away.

  Maybe I’ll bloom by then.

  Dad turns off the highway, zigs and

  then zags and we pull onto a cracked

  cement driveway. He doesn’t live

  like a king, that’s for sure. The house

  is a prefab, and an old one. The beige

  siding is chipped and brown paint

  peels from the eaves like scabs

  leaving skin. Eww. Disgusting.

  Bent chain link surrounds a yard

  that looks like it once had grass.

  A few green patches remain midst

  the crusty brown stuff. “You should

  water the lawn once in a while.”

  But Dad is already out of the car

  and headed toward the house.

  He turns long enough to say,

  Grab your stuff and come on.

  Cassie is anxious to meet you.

  She Stands in the Doorway

  Tall and too thin and melon-boobed,

  with long wavy hair the color

  of fall scarlet maples. She

  isn’t cute. She’s pretty.

  She reaches for Dad

  and they’re kissing

  like people do in

  the movies. I

  can see their

  tongues

  moving

  from here.

  That part

  grosses me

  out. What’s

  worse is how it

  looks like they’re in

  love. It’s not fair. How

  can he love someone else

  when he can’t find enough love

  for me to keep me solidly in his life?

  Mom’s right. He is one selfish bastard.

  I Stuff All That Inside

  Find my phony grin and go to meet

  Dad’s new girl. As I get out of the car,

  they stop the tongue dance. Thank goodness.

  At least I don’t have to see it up close.

  Hi! (Her voice is all breathy.) You must

  be Harley. (Duh.) I’m Cassie. Well,

  really Cassandra, but Cassie for short.

  (Double duh.) She does have a nice

  smile, though. What do I say that

  she hasn’t already said? “Uh . . . hey.”

  Cassie pokes Dad’s shoulder. You

  didn’t tell me how gorgeous Harley is.

  Gorgeous. A bit over the top, but I

  have to admit it thaws me a little.

  Come on inside and meet my son.

  (Great. She probably wants me to babysit.)

  Cassie holds out her hand and I don’t

  know what else to do but take it. Her skin

  is softer than I expected and when her

  hair moves it smells like cinnamon over

  tobacco. She tugs me gently across

  the threshold. The place looks like a tornado

  blew through, depositing clothes and

  fast-food wrappers everywhere.

  Sorry about the mess. Your dad isn’t

  so good about picking up after himself.

  That will have to change when he moves

  in with me. Chad! Come say hi to Harley.

  It takes a few seconds, but eventually

  footsteps clomp down the hall. Heavy

  footsteps. Either he’s a really big little kid

  or Cassie is older than I thought. OMG!

  Chad is maybe sixteen, tall like his mom,

  and amazing, with hair the color of a shiny

  new penny and superdark eyes that check

  me out and make me feel all hot and weird.

  They Also Make Me Feel

  Not good enough. Like they’re

  measuring me and I’m sure to

  come up short, the way I always do.

  I struggle to find my best real

  smile and hiss an awkward, “H-hi.”

  Cassie notices my stupid stammer

  and crazy embarrassing blush.

  She slides her arm around my

  shoulder. Harley says she really

  wants to learn how to ace World

  of War. I told her you’re the best

  gamer I know. You’ll teach her, right?

  Now Chad smiles back at me.

  Why not? That little bedroom

  was getting claustrophobic.

  He goes to turn on the PlayStation

  and TV. Cassie winks and nudges

  me toward the sofa. The gaming begins.

  Chad

  Gaming

  Master the controller,

  conquer the rules and

  perhaps for the very first

  time in your life, you savor

  power. The learning curve

  teaches

  the value of patience.

  Practic
e. Self-restraint,

  when external discipline

  has too often forced

  you

  down on your knees.

  Virtual killing is safe passage

  to the pleasure of revenge

  when you don’t know

  how to

  get it any other way.

  And when you too often

  hear people shouting,

  “You’re a loser,” kicking

  cyber-butt convinces you

  that you can

  win.

  Mikayla

  No-Win Situation

  That’s pretty much where you find

  yourself when your uncle is the cop

  who busts you at a party, stoned

  out of your head. Okay, in a way

  you win, because he hauls your butt

  home instead of taking you to juvie.

  But in lieu of institutionalized

  lockup, you end up jailed at home.

  I should be at Tahoe with Dylan

  today. But, no. Dad grounded me

  with no set release date. I’m not

  even allowed to use my computer

  or cell phone. Cut off completely

  from the outside world, exiled to

  my stupid house, what am I supposed

  to do for entertainment? School

  would be better than this. I could

  pick a fight with Trace, but all that

  would do is irritate Mom, who I’m

  pretty sure has a hangover. Mom

  is my only ally here. She acted all

  put out about the party, but I could

  tell it was mostly for Dad’s benefit.

  She gave me a one-question quiz

  about my drug use (deny, deny, deny).

  Accepted my lame answer (win, win,

  win). And the only thing she said

  about my crooked clothes, smeared

  makeup and obvious sex perfume

  was to take a shower. Okay, she said

  it twice. So I’m pretty sure she knew.

  We’ve never had that mother-daughter

  heart-to-heart you imagine is coming.

  I guess, since they start teaching sex

  stuff in, like, fourth grade, she figures

  she doesn’t need to worry about details.

  Of course, Mom is so wrapped up in

  herself lately (not to mention pretty

  buzzed when she walked in on the scene),

  maybe she didn’t notice anything at all.

  God, I Miss Dylan

  Okay, it’s only been a couple

  of days, but it feels like forever.

  He’s everything, and all I can think

  about right now is how we made love

  that night. We had messed around

  lots of times before, but it had never

  seemed quite like this—much more

  about making each other feel good, less

  about just having sex. Maybe it was

  the Southern Comfort, or the weed

  (green and so stony!), or the two

  together. But when we took off our clothes

  in the back of his Wrangler, skin

  raked by cool claws of moonlight,

  insane, hot need grabbed hold

  of me. All I wanted was his mouth

  and tongue kissing me all over

  my body. I was wild for it, really.

  And that was very new. I think

  it kind of scared him, although

  he liked the things it made me do.

  Things you don’t learn. Things

  you just intuit, like you’re born

  to do them. Threads in the silk

  of womanhood. I feel like a woman

  now. It’s weird, because when you

  read about sex, or see it in movies,

  they work so hard to make it seem

  great that it sort of feels like fiction.

  But this was not playacting or words

  lifted off a page. This was real,

  and when we reached that ultimate

  peak, it was nothing I’d ever

  experienced before. We seriously

  both went, “Wow,” in unison.

  And then we both laughed. Together.

  Afterward, I wasn’t in a hurry to

  get dressed. Which explains why,

  when the cops showed up, I think

  Uncle Stan caught a glimpse of my boobs.

  If I Keep Reliving

  That night, I’m going to go apeshit.

  I’d watch TV, but Brianna has got

  some god-awful baseball game on.

  What kind of thirteen-year-old girl

  is in love with the San Francisco Giants?

  When they won the World Series,

  after all those dreadful years, I swear

  I thought she’d totally cry. She’s

  cheering now, so they must have scored.

  I guess I could read, but I don’t have

  a book I’m currently interested in.

  Looks like it’s solitaire or . . .

  My eyes settle on a magazine, lying

  on the kitchen table. On the cover

  is a collage of pictures—kids, adults. Families.

  The caption says: Technological Tools

  for Birth Family Searches. I flip to

  the article, which is all about how social

  networking is reuniting adoptees

  with their birth parents. Mom is adopted,

  and over the years, she has made half-

  hearted attempts to connect with

  the people who created her. Each

  time, she has come away disappointed.

  But I’m betting she never tried Facebook.

  As I read, she shuffles into the kitchen.

  Usually by now she’s run five miles

  and showered, which is why I’m thinking

  she had a little too much to drink last

  night. Whatever. Everyone needs to party

  once in a while. “Have you ever thought

  about trying this?” I hold out the magazine.

  “I mean, c’mon, Mom. No-brainer.”

  She skims the article. Shakes her head.

  I barely know how to update my status.

  I’d have no idea how to start.

  “You want to know where you came

  from, right?” She shrugs. Looks kind

  of confused. “I’ll help, Mom.” At least

  I won’t croak from boredom. “Tell me

  what you know about your birth parents.

  No names, right?” She shakes her head.

  Your grandma told me they were from

  Elko and my mother got pregnant

  in high school. Grandma, meaning

  Mom’s adopted mother, who kind of

  defined the word bitch. “So you were

  born in . . .” Some quick calculations

  net a scary fact. “God, Mom, you’re

  going to be forty.” In less than two

  months, my mother will officially be

  over the hill, no matter how good

  she looks for her age. Don’t remind me.

  I can almost see the Grim Reaper.

  So Not Funny!

  “Mom! Don’t say that!” The idea gives

  me goose bumps. “You are not allowed

  to die. Ever!” She reminds me of

  a lioness, with tawny skin and golden

  eyes. I wish I looked more like her

  and less like Dad, though I’m pretty

  sure I don’t have to worry about

  going bald and he definitely does.

  “Okay, I think I know what to do

  first. . . .” Mom lets me use my laptop

  to start my research. I’m looking

  for Elko High’s Facebook page when

  Dad barrels through the door, all pissy

&nbs
p; about one of his clients. Oh, shit. He sees

  me. Goes off. What the hell are you

  doing online? Shut that down.

  Mom Jumps to My Defense

  Which only makes him madder still.

  Now he’s yelling about how stupid

  Mom is to take a chance on hurting

  herself with another pointless search,

  and how she doesn’t need anyone

  but us to love her, anyway. I can see

  her struggle not to turn this into

  a major fight. Why should it be

  an argument at all? Mom defuses

  his anger a little, but as he stalks off,

  griping about his day, she tells me to log

  off. No use irritating your father more.

  “Fine! But it’s so not fair. Why does

  he have to be such a jerk?” Her eyes

  go all sympathetic, so I ask, “Can I call

  Dylan? Just to say hello?” She almost

  says no, but when I prod her with

  a question about remembering love,

  she capitulates. I’m feeling smug.

  Until I notice my brother eavesdropping.

  Trace

  Smug

  That’s the expression stamped

  into my sister’s face. But

  here’s the thing about

  feeling

  like you’ve got the world by

  the tail. Grab hold and tug,

  sometimes you get bitten. A

  superior

  intellect than my sister’s

  is at work here—my own.

  The information I’ve just learned

  might

  offer me some advantage

  in the future. Or, play the cards

  much differently, it could

  result in

  a shitload of current fun.

  Choosing the “now” might

  very well bring

  disappointment.

  But waiting for the “later”

  stokes my impatience.

  Decisions. Decisions.

  Shane

  I Hate Decisions

  Especially the little ones, like what to wear

  for a first date. Weird, in a way, to call it that.

  But that’s what it is—a boy date. Alex and I

  are finally going to meet in person. If we don’t

  hate each other at initial sight, we’ll have dinner

  and go to a concert. Okay, since he bought

  the tickets already, we’ll probably go even if

  we decide we can’t stand each other. Don’t think