Tilt

by Ellen Hopkins

  stepbrother? “Delete it! Now!

  Please?” On second thought,

  “Wait. Let me answer it.”

  I text him back: REALLY CUTE

  PIC. THANKS FOR SHARING. DID

  YOU KNOW THIS IS MY COUSIN?

  How many people did the jerk

  send this to? His whole address

  book? Must be, otherwise why

  would Shane have gotten it?

  Holy cow. Did he send it to girls,

  too? I’m fricking dying here.

  Wait. He’s friends with Chad.

  I glance over at him, and his

  expression tells me. “You, too?”

  He nods. Me, too. Sorry. Want

  me to kick his ass? He looks as

  embarrassed as I feel—all purple

  faced and fidgety. Poor guy.

  Poor guy? What about me?

  Unreasonably, laughter bubbles

  out around the sob stuck in

  my throat. Why am I laughing?

  Shane and Chad exchange

  terrified looks. “I’m crazy, aren’t

  I? But don’t worry. I won’t hurt

  you. Pretty sure I won’t, anyway.

  Lucas, on the other hand . . .

  well, if he turns up dead, you won’t

  testify against me, will you?” I need

  to call him. Make him explain.

  It’s Thanksgiving, but he seems

  to have an abundance of time

  on his hands. “I have to talk to him.

  Can you give me a few minutes?”

  Shane Nods at Chad

  Who follows him toward the door.

  When it opens, comforting scents spill

  in, and familiar voices, singing

  “Little Drummer Boy.” I could lie right

  here in Shane’s bed, close my eyes,

  fall asleep with Gaga purring in my ear.

  But that wouldn’t change things. So

  I go ahead and call Lucas, mostly hoping

  he doesn’t bother to pick up. He does.

  “Uh. . . hi.” Why do I want to chicken

  out? “Hey. What’s up with you sending

  those pics around? Did I do something?”

  He doesn’t even hesitate. No, babe.

  It’s just I’m so proud of you being mine.

  I wanted to show off my amazing girl.

  You’re not really mad at me, are you?

  He Wanted to Show Me Off!

  How can I possibly be mad about

  that? Except, “You know you sent

  them to some of my relatives, right?”

  People who’ve seen you naked before?

  “Uh, not really. Well, maybe when

  I was a baby or something.” Or worse,

  when I was a chubby little kid.

  They’re probably impressed then.

  At least Chad never saw me naked

  and fat. “It was pretty embarrassing,

  Lucas. Did you know Shane is my cousin?”

  Gay Shane? Huh. Well, he won’t care.

  “I care.” But I find myself caring less,

  which is really weird. “Promise not

  to do something like that again?”

  Okay. So, when can we get together?

  Just Like That

  I forgive him. Just like that,

  I feel good about him wanting

  to show me off. Just like that,

  I think of a way to see him.

  Even though it’s a holiday

  weekend, Mom has to work

  tomorrow. I’ll tell her I want

  to go home with Dad tonight.

  Hey, maybe she’ll even get

  lucky with Dr. Malik. Anthony.

  That’s what he said to call him.

  Sounds like it’s getting serious.

  It must be, because when I go

  back out to the living room,

  Mom is standing so close to

  Anthony there isn’t a hint of light

  between them. I don’t think

  she’s missed me at all. Gramps

  is singing “So This Is Christmas,”

  a fitting last song of the night.

  Mom’s All for My Plan

  Considering how much she used to hassle

  me about going over to Dad’s,

  I’d say that means

  something. But I don’t

  care. If she gets a little, maybe

  she’ll lighten up. And, more importantly,

  maybe she’ll be more understanding

  about me wanting to go out.

  Everyone packs up

  their dishes and bums

  leftovers and thanks Aunt Missy

  and Uncle Chris for their hospitality.

  It was a really nice Thanksgiving, despite

  the nasty cell phone surprise.

  We pile into Cassie’s

  burping Volvo. It’s a quiet

  ride, everyone fighting an overdose

  of L-tryptophan, champagne and sugar.

  When We Get to the House

  Dad and Cassie stay outside

  to smoke. Chad and I carry

  the stuff in from the car. Spare

  turkey, as Dad called it, and

  a plate of mixed pie slices.

  As we’re putting the food in

  the fridge, Chad says, What

  did Lucas have to say?

  I don’t think he’d understand

  the showing-me-off thing, or

  why it’s kind of okay. “He said

  it was a joke. And he apologized.”

  Harley, he huffs. I’d be very

  careful of that guy. He reminds

  me of my dad, who always said

  all the mean crap he pulled was

  a joke. Right up until the day he—

  “Lucas isn’t like that. He would never

  hurt me. But thanks for worrying.”

  That reminds me, though. “You haven’t

  heard from your father, have you?”

  Actually, I have. He showed up

  here one day. Said he wanted to

  get reacquainted. Even tried

  to say he was sorry. I told him

  to go fuck himself. Know what he

  said? That Mom had poisoned

  me toward him. That she lied.

  I remember the day we saw him

  at the mall. Will never forget

  the panic in her eyes. “She didn’t lie.”

  I know. When I was a kid, I had

  horrible nightmares. He was in

  every one of them. Eventually,

  they stopped, but lately they’ve

  come back again. I don’t want

  you to have nightmares, Harl.

  Please think about what I said.

  That’s the most sincere he’s ever

  sounded. “Thanks, Chad. But don’t

  worry. I can take care of myself.”

  I Don’t Exactly Have a Nightmare

  But I do dream

  that I am naked

  on a sea-drenched

  beach, my sun-licked

  skin all golden brown

  and ocean-beaded.

  Lucas is there, selling

  tickets. One dollar

  for a look-see, pay-

  per-view. I tell him

  I’m worth twenty times

  that. He laughs at me.

  But when I get mad,

  he comes over, brushes

  my hair off my face,

  runs his fingertips

  down along my body.

  The way I like him to.

  And, even though I still

  believe I’m worth twenty

  a pop, pay-per-view,

  I forgive him. And I give him. . .

  I Carry That with Me All Day

  Through Black Friday insanity.

  Cassie is the shopaholic queen.

&nbs
p; Fifty percent off anything sends

  her into the outer atmosphere.

  Black Friday must have been

  invented just for her. And I go along!

  Then home for football. And more

  football. Chad and my dad cheering

  and groaning on the couch. Together.

  It’s kind of a weird picture. But good,

  I guess, in a guy bonding sort of way.

  At least they have something in common.

  It is all so domestic, so boring, that by

  the time Lucas picks me up I practically

  run to the door, ignoring the look Chad

  gives me—the one that reminds me to be

  careful. I jump in the car. “Where are we

  going?” Not that I care, as long as it’s away

  from here. There’s something in Lucas’s

  smile that makes me wonder if I should

  have listened to Chad. But when he says,

  There’s a party at Ariel’s, I stash all doubt.

  Don’t know Ariel. But I’m ready to party.

  Turns Out

  Ariel is Kurt’s big sister. She lives

  in a little house in a dicey neighborhood.

  Also turns out Ariel is gone for the weekend,

  and the party consists of Kurt, Chloe, Lucas

  and me. The place is thick with smoke when

  we walk in the door, and Chloe’s eyes are almost

  as droopy as the love seat Lucas motions for me

  to sit on. I’ll get us something to drink. He pours

  a splash of Coke into tumblers of Bacardi

  151. We listen to music and swap Thanksgiving

  stories. We smoke. And I am halfway through

  my second drink when it hits me how hungry I am.

  I’ve been up since six a.m., fueled only by

  a small bowl of granola. But when I try to ask

  if there’s anything to eat, it comes out, “Istherany . . .”

  Which cracks everyone up. So, forget food.

  I drink instead. And suddenly the room kind

  of spins. It must show, because Lucas asks,

  Are you okay? Maybe you should lie down?

  He leads me into a bedroom and . . .

  Lucas

  Lead Her into the Bedroom

  Barely get her onto the bed

  when her lights snuff out.

  If I happened to be

  a gentleman,

  or maybe a little less drunk

  myself, the sight of her lying

  there, skirt pulled up over

  her thighs, panties teasing

  a major throbbing boner,

  would

  maybe not tempt me to take

  her this way. But she’s a sweet

  little piece of virgin meat, and

  I’ve waited patiently. The first

  turn

  belongs to me, and this is a

  prime chance to take it. I climb

  up beside her, tug off the baby

  blue lace, fling it

  away.

  Her breath is hot and her skin

  is hot, and between her legs

  it is wet and hot and the resistance

  lasts only a moment.

  Mikayla

  I Have Resisted

  Thinking about the possibility

  of a new relationship. For almost

  a year, Dylan was the only guy

  on my mind. He was an obsession.

  After I got pregnant, I believed

  he was a necessity, even after he turned

  his back, walked (no, ran) away.

  Once it became diamond clear

  that he wasn’t coming back, I was

  sure no one would want me. Not yet

  eighteen, I felt used, and used up.

  Worthless. Contemptible. Hollow.

  Suddenly, there is a flicker—a single

  candle—of hope that I can love

  and be loved beyond Dylan. Why

  Ty would choose to shine for me

  now is a total mystery. It’s not like

  he can’t get another girl—prettier,

  more popular, and a whole lot less

  preggo than me. Yet, here he is.

  I’ve Known Him

  For a long time. Since elementary

  school. We’ve hung out together, dated

  each other’s friends. Best friends, even.

  We’ve stood up for each other. Worried

  about each other. Obviously cared very

  much for each other. But we’ve never

  hooked up. Timing, I guess. Or maybe

  on some level we felt like our friendship

  might not survive a romance. So, why now?

  When I asked, he said simply,

  Because you need me now. And

  when I asked if he wouldn’t be

  afraid of what people thought,

  he said, If I was, what kind of person

  would that make me? I kissed him

  then. I couldn’t help it. And he

  kissed me back, so sweetly I knew

  he meant it when he said, I love you.

  It Was a Surreal Moment

  Because in that candid declaration,

  there was no promise. But there

  was limitless possibility, and that

  is better because promises fuel

  heartbreak. All around me, I see

  tattered commitments. Vows in shreds.

  And yet, this “maybe,” when I need

  it most, means everything to me.

  I have a future without Dylan.

  What’s less certain is whether or not

  a baby belongs there. This baby, anyway.

  What can I hope to give her?

  Christmas is coming and everywhere

  there are advertisements for toys

  and games and clothes and holiday

  things for children. Pseudo Santa

  surprises. Memories in the making.

  But how would she remember me

  if all I could give her were hand-

  me-downs beneath a Charlie Brown

  Christmas tree? She deserves more.

  Why is it so hard to admit that?

  Pride? Conceit? Selfishness?

  I’d like to think it has everything

  to do with watching Mom struggle

  with not knowing where she came from.

  The pain of searching for the connection

  most people take for granted. When

  I talked to Ty about it, he asked,

  Is she happier now that she knows?

  When I said I think maybe, he asked,

  Would her life really have been better

  if her birth mother had kept her,

  and tried to raise her all on her own?

  Tougher question. One I keep trying

  to answer. For Mom. And for my baby.

  One Thing I Do Know

  Is that I’m currently eating for two.

  And both of us are hungry right now.

  Thanksgiving leftovers are calling.

  As I pass by Mom’s room on my way

  to the kitchen, I notice the door isn’t all

  the way closed. She is talking on the phone.

  Vegas sounds really fun, but I can’t get

  away till after Christmas. It will probably

  be our last one together. I’m not looking

  forward to splitting holidays with Jace.

  Why do I have to hear these things?

  It’s not like I try to tune into conversations

  not meant for my ears. The last time,

  I happened to hear Mom and Andrea talking

  about me, and about poor Mrs. Trask,

  trying to replace little Shelby via in-vitro

  fertilization. That must have been what

  she was doing at Dr. Ortega’s that day.

  God, she looked so
sad, and yet she tried

  to be happy for me and. . .

  I am reaching for the mayonnaise

  when the proverbial lightbulb switches

  all the way to bright. Would she. . . ?

  Could I. . . ? If. . . Wow. Bread. Mayo.

  Turkey. Cranberry sauce. Making a sandwich

  is logical. Making a giant decision is emotional.

  Relief. Fear. Sadness. Joy. Not that anything,

  really, has been decided. But this is a possible

  answer. Possibilities, again. Chew, chew, swallow.

  Chew, chew, swallow. My stomach fills with food

  and butterflies. I finish the sandwich. Wash it

  down with water. Go knock on Mom’s door.

  It’s Such an Adult Idea

  Mom can hardly believe it came

  from me. But after all the initial

  “are you sure’s” (no) and “have you

  really thought about this’s” (not

  exactly), her relief is obvious.

  Her relief. Which is weird, but

  whatever. Guess she thought

  a grandchild would put a crimp

  in her lifestyle. The one she’s

  planning on after the holidays.

  It just might work out, Mikki.

  Should we talk to your dad first?

  “What for? He doesn’t want a baby

  around here any more than you do.”

  It’s not about not wanting her.

  It’s about what’s best for her.

  This could really be win-win, I think.

  But there would be legalities.

  “If we get that far, of course.

  But let’s talk to Mrs. Trask first.”

  Mom calls her friend, Andrea, who

  happens to have a sister who lost

  a little girl and wanted another and may

  jump at the chance to adopt the one

  growing inside me. Still a part of me.

  While we wait for the phone calls

  that will relay my offer, I go do some

  online research about open adoption.

  Had I done so first, I might not have

  considered it a viable option. So many

  stories, not all of them positive! Most

  of the negative ones regard jealousy.

  On both sides. Birth parents changing

  their minds. Court battles. Back child

  support. Yikes! Better get Dad involved.

  But there are good stories, too. Adopted

  kids who know the important details—

  who and where they came from, and