Tilt

by Ellen Hopkins

  Disney gang for company. Maybe she is,

  in fact, happy. But Mom wears sadness

  like skin—tight and irreversible. Dad?

  I’d say he was born pissed, but if I dig

  way deep into memory, I can see him

  playing with me. Laughing with Mom.

  Now, all he wants is to be away from

  the home he works so hard to pay for.

  I slip through the front door. No balloons.

  No presents. No party. No surprise.

  Only silence. Happy birthday to me.

  Chad

  Surprises

  I hate surprises.

  Nothing good ever

  comes from them. There

  are

  little ones, like finding

  a spider all limp and wet in

  the bottom of your glass

  after you’ve gulped

  the

  soda. There are medium

  ones, like your buddy pulling

  up with a fag in his car and

  it’s obvious that the

  source of

  the smell inside is the blunt

  they’ve been sharing. Gay spit.

  Creepy. And then there are giant

  surprises, the ones that give you

  nightmares.

  Like when your mom moves

  a new guy into your house

  and the asshole wants to play

  substitute father.

  Harley

  I Can’t Believe

  Almost a month of summer

  is gone already. Fourth of July

  is in just a few days. Fireworks!

  Mom doesn’t know it yet,

  but we’re going to watch them

  with Dad and Cassie. And Chad.

  At least I hope he’ll come, too.

  I’m going to wear my new blue

  short shorts and red-and-white

  striped tank top. I can’t believe

  how good I look in them. If I

  keep up the dieting and exercise,

  by the time school starts I’ll be

  hot. Maybe I’ll even make

  the cheerleading squad, except

  I think you have to be stuck-up.

  I wonder if I was stuck-up,

  would Chad like me better?

  Seems Like Guys

  Go for the conceited girls.

  Don’t ask me why. Seems weird

  to me. It’s not just because they’re

  pretty. Some of them aren’t all that much

  to look at. Cassie says it’s the way they present

  themselves, like you’d have to be dense not to notice

  how incredible they are. Maybe I should practice thinking

  too much of myself. Maybe I already do. I mean, I know

  Chad is way out of my league. But still, this little part

  of me believes I can make him like me if I just can

  figure out how to please him. Losing weight is

  a good start. But there has to be something

  more. He’s nice enough when Cassie

  makes him do stuff with me. But

  otherwise, he barely notices I’m there.

  Dad says he’s sulky. I think he’s sultry.

  Mom says I need to quit obsessing. I think

  it’s better to be obsessed than to be depressed.

  Brianna says things happen in their own time. (Has

  she been listening to my mother?) I think pushing to get

  what you want can’t be so awful. I think it’s key to success.

  Maybe I’ll Talk to Gram

  About it. Mom and Bri and I are going

  camping with Gram and Gramps tonight.

  I’ve got awesome grandparents. I mean, they’re

  weird and all, but that’s why they’re awesome.

  I watch Bri carefully folding clothes, just

  to stuff them into a backpack. Talk about

  obsessive. “Are you OCD or something?

  All that stuff is gonna get messed up.”

  She smiles. I know. But at least it won’t

  be wrinkled when it gets messed up.

  “Don’t forget sunscreen. It’s gonna be

  hot at Prosser. Hopefully Gramps found

  a campsite in the trees. Closer to the water

  there isn’t any shade.” Bri nods, goes to

  the bathroom, returns with SPF 30.

  Hope this is strong enough. And I also

  hope there will be boys at the lake.

  My new swimsuit is really cute. See?

  She holds up a flouncy bikini,

  in a tropical print. “Really cute,”

  I agree. “I’m waiting to lose a few

  more pounds before I get a new one.”

  I’ve been meaning to tell you how

  great you look. Is it hard? Dieting?

  “Only when I smell french fries.

  It’s harder for Mom. She sneaks

  M&Ms and thinks I don’t notice.

  But she walks with me every morning.”

  Pretty soon you’ll be running, like

  my mom. Just don’t get crazy about it.

  “Don’t worry. That’s not gonna happen

  in a million years. Running is not my style.”

  Hey, you guys! It’s Trace, calling

  down the hall. Time to hit the road!

  Mom Plays Chauffeur

  For the hour drive to Truckee

  and beyond, to Prosser Reservoir.

  Bri and I sit in back, watching

  the landscape morph from high desert

  scrub to mountain evergreen.

  When I start talking about Chad,

  I notice how Mom turns up

  the volume on her soft rock station.

  I don’t care. That way she doesn’t

  hear me tell Bri, “I think he really

  likes me. At least, a little. I mean,

  he doesn’t completely ignore me.

  That’s a good sign, right?” Like

  either of us would have a clue.

  She shrugs. I think I’d have to

  see how he acts around you.

  “You could tell? How?” Maybe

  I’ll have to invite her over to Dad’s.

  Bri shrugs. I know how ridiculous

  Trace looks when he’s all hung

  up on a girl. And Mikki? When

  she even talks about Dylan,

  she goes zombie-eyed. Mom

  chuckles at that, so I guess she’s

  been listening after all. I have

  to make a quick Starbucks stop,

  she says. I promised Gramps

  I’d bring him some real coffee.

  No drive-through here, she runs

  inside, and I take the opportunity

  to tell Bri, “Next time I go to Dad’s,

  I’ll ask Cassie if you can come, too.”

  No use upsetting Mom. And no use

  asking Dad when Cassie’s in charge.

  Prosser Reservoir

  Is an exposed expanse of water—

  snowmelt, run down the Truckee River

  from Tahoe, then stored for Reno use.

  This being a holiday weekend, its shores

  are crowded with RVs and tents and boats.

  And people. Gramps was lucky to have

  found a spot beneath the big trees.

  Their shade, and the breeze whispers

  disturbing it, make the heat tolerable.

  It is midafternoon by the time we arrive

  and manage to track down my grandparents,

  who live a nomadic life in the big fifth-wheel

  trailer they tow around the country. Bri

  has been my friend since we were still

  in diapers, so she’s met them before.

  Good thing, or she might just disown

  me, seeing Gram in her mini muumuu,

  and Gramps, with his
long gray braid

  hanging most of the way down his naked

  back. Remnants of their hippie days.

  Mom doesn’t talk about it much, but

  before moving to Reno, she grew up on

  an Oregon commune. Not sure exactly

  what that is except a lot of people living

  together and pooling their stuff. Commie-

  style, Dad told me once, with plenty

  of sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll tossed in.

  Don’t know how accurate that was,

  and don’t really care. Gram and Gramps

  are awesome. We get out of the car

  and I run to give them hugs. It’s so

  good to see you! says Gram. Then

  she stands back. Let me look at you.

  Gramps actually whistles. Wowzers.

  What happened to you? Grew up

  and slimmed down. What a beauty!

  Beauty?

  Whatever, Gramps. Lots of gossip

  and settling in later, Bri and I slip

  on our swimsuits and sunscreen up.

  “We’re gonna take a dip before dinner,”

  I tell Mom. She’s busy yakking with

  Gram, but warns us to be careful,

  and back in an hour. The sun starts

  a slow slide behind the western hills.

  Guess we didn’t need to worry

  about the sunscreen, says Bri. Oh,

  well. At least we smell really good.

  True. Like coconut. But we’re also

  greasy. We hit a little beach covered

  with people. It’s a diverse crowd—too

  young to walk. Too old to swim.

  Too shy to take off their cover-ups.

  Too proud of their assets to hide

  them. I mean, some of these girls

  are showing off just about everything.

  So why are guys checking out Bri?

  Brianna

  Showing Off

  Is so not my style. Maybe

  that comes from too many

  years watching my sister

  exposing

  more than she should, all

  to win the attention of guys

  I wouldn’t want to look at me.

  Her taste leans way

  too much

  toward creepy. And then,

  there’s my mom, who loses

  weight and all of a sudden

  flaunts

  her assets like no mother

  should. I mean, she’s almost

  forty! Even if she has

  the inner

  desire to stay youthful

  and feel attractive, why

  must she dress less like

  a mom and more like a

  slut?

  Shane

  Three-Day Weekends Suck

  At least, summer three-day weekends.

  I like the ones that get me out of school

  for an extended period. But the long

  July Fourth weekend means two things.

  One—Alex has to work extra hours.

  And Dad doesn’t. He’s home, which

  is pretty much keeping me sequestered

  in my bedroom. I don’t even want to

  go to the kitchen. Running into Dad

  almost always leads to an argument.

  When I was little, we got along pretty

  well. But that was before I came out.

  Before his mother got smashed

  into the asphalt by a drunk driver.

  Before Shelby. After that, Dad gave

  up on just about everything except

  his career, which has become his entire focus.

  As for the rest—his home, his church,

  his wife, his kids—well, we really don’t

  exist, except maybe as thorns in his side.

  When I Really Stop

  And think about it,

  it makes me more

  sad than angry at him.

  Used to be he had

  faith, and it made

  him strong. Vibrant.

  When he lost God

  he lost the way to

  self-forgiveness and

  lacking that, he will

  remain broken. Crushed.

  Scrubbed of hope or

  dreams. Poor Dad,

  like many so-called

  Christians, believes

  I’m the one in need

  of salvation. But I never

  turned my back on faith,

  and I know God hasn’t

  written me off, either.

  He’s too damn tenacious.

  One of the Guys

  I was talking to online for a while—Jess—

  lives in some Bible Belt hellhole.

  Once, we started talking about jacking

  ourselves out of the closet. I told him

  my mom took a day or two to accept

  my declaration, but that my dad pretty

  much slammed the figurative door

  in my face. “He doesn’t want to talk

  about it,” I said. “Or talk to me at all.”

  Jess said, When I crumbled and “confessed

  my unnatural sin,” as my daddy called

  it, Mama claimed it was Satan

  who “put the homosexual inside of me,”

  and if I only prayed hard enough,

  God would most certainly cure me.

  Okay, Nevada Methodists have

  nothing on Mississippi Southern

  Baptists. Dad might think being gay

  is a sin, but he sees it more as a sign

  of human weakness, not Satanic

  interference. At least, I don’t think

  he does. I figure it’s between me

  and the Big Guy upstairs. We used

  to go to church a lot, and I never heard

  one word to make me think I’m some

  sort of abomination. If God is in fact

  responsible for creating me, He made

  me just how He wants me. And if He

  loves every bit of his handiwork, He loves

  me. And if all that is nothing more than

  mythology, what harm is there in

  believing the stories, anyway? When

  I pray—or meditate, or consider

  the universe, whatever you want to call

  it—I find comfort. Self-acceptance.

  Understanding, at least in some world.

  One Thing

  God might prefer I do without

  is porn. It presents a warped

  view of sex. That’s what I’ve

  realized post–plenty of viewing.

  Weirdly, after a while, porn actually

  gets kind of boring. Ditto jerking

  off. I think I’m ready to take

  the plunge and go for the real deal.

  With Alex. Because another thing

  I’ve decided through a lot of

  meditation, in fact, is that life

  is all about chances. You might

  be safer not taking any. But

  playing it totally safe means

  you’re only existing. Not living.

  I want to live. Want to emerge

  from the virtual hell of my room,

  into the heaven just outside my door.

  Okay, More Like

  Just outside my front door, as opposed

  to my bedroom door—the one that leads

  into the hallway that is currently

  a conduit into my parents’ own hell.

  They are fighting, a relatively rare thing,

  mostly because Dad isn’t around enough

  to make it common. Their voices keep

  lifting higher. Louder. Sharper. I tune in.

  Stop it! Just stop, Marissa. Every fucking

  time some new treatment comes along,

  you get your hopes up. I used to let you

  get mine up too, but not
anymore.

  Arguing about Shelby. Wonderful.

  Does Dad even get that if I can hear

  him, she can, too? I can tell Mom is

  trying to defuse his anger, talking about

  maintaining hope. But he is steadfast

  in his hopelessness. Look, even if that

  new drug turns out to be a cure,

  Shelby’s not a good candidate for

  treatment. You know that as well as

  I do. If it’s still experimental, they’ll

  look for kids with the best chances

  of improvement. They need poster

  children, to keep the funding coming.

  All true. But why destroy Mom’s hope?

  A short pause, and I hear her now.

  That’s not going to make things better.

  Oh, shit. I bet he’s drinking. I step

  into the hall, smell alcohol, hanging

  thick as incense. God, it’s not even ten a.m.

  Dad disappears into the kitchen. Mom

  follows as far as the doorway. Did you

  fucking hear me? I said—

  Enough!

  I slam my bedroom door behind

  me. “Everyone between here and

  Reno can hear you, Mom. If the two

  of you have to fight, can you keep

  it between you?” I move her to one

  side, look into the kitchen to see

  Dad pour a big, deep tumbler of amber

  liquid. Whiskey of some kind.

  “Seriously, Dad. Mom’s right. What’s

  wrong with you?” He mutters an inane

  reply about burdens too heavy to bear.

  “Yeah, well, life pretty much sucks

  and then you d—” Stop, man. Don’t

  make it any more real than it already is.

  I move closer to Mom. “What’s the point

  of arguing? He wants to wallow.”

  I don’t understand why he—

  “Not so hard to figure out. It’s all

  about guilt.” I pull her into the living

  room, lower my voice. “He’s a coward,

  and he hates being one. That’s all.”

  In a Ten-Second Span

  She goes from being taut with anger

  to whipping-cream-soft from sadness.

  I wish I could see her happy for once.

  Would it make her happy to know

  I think I’ve fallen in love? “Hey, Mom.

  Guess what. I met someone, and . . .”