Tilt

by Ellen Hopkins

  her deciding how much to tell me.

  “Jeez, Cassie, what is it? Did you see

  a zombie or something?” Three beats.

  And She Says

  Sort of. Except, more like a vampire—

  a bloodsucker that just won’t die.

  Look, this isn’t a story I share often.

  And I’d appreciate it if you don’t pass

  it on, especially not to your mom.

  She worries about you being around

  your dad enough as it is. She takes

  a deep breath, then plunges in. I was

  going to be a nurse. You didn’t know

  that, did you? I was studying at Western

  Nevada, making good grades and

  everything. And then I met this guy.

  Chad’s father, Damian. Typical bad

  boy. Drugs. Booze. Rotten temper.

  And I saw none of that. Not at first.

  I never finished nursing school. I got

  pregnant. Damian insisted I keep

  the baby. Swore he’d take care of us,

  and I had to believe him. I loved him.

  That was enough. For a while.

  She Turns onto McCarran Boulevard

  It’s the long way home, so

  I’m pretty sure there’s more.

  There is. We lived poor. And we lived

  rough. And Damian lived fast—crystal,

  crack, ecstasy. Anything he could get

  hold of. That made him mean. To me.

  To Chad, who was too little to know

  anything except Daddy hurt him.

  I was working one day—somebody

  had to. It was a crap casino waitress

  job, but it paid the bills, if not the drug

  tab. Anyway, Damian was supposed

  to be watching Chad, but he’d been

  on a bender, and was crashed out on

  the sofa. Chad was four. He decided

  he was hungry and was going to the store.

  So he took off walking. Alone. In a bad

  part of town. Luckily, the woman

  who found him was decent. She took

  him to her house. Called the cops.

  She pauses, catches her breath.

  But I have to know, “What happened?”

  By that time, I had come home,

  found him missing. After a frantic

  search, I called the cops, too.

  They brought him home, and when

  they tried to talk to Damian, he got

  all belligerent—first sign of a doper

  on the down. Next thing you know,

  he was swinging at one of them.

  They hauled him in, cooled him off

  for a couple of days, then let him

  out, awaiting trial. Somehow, in

  his demented mind, it was all my fault.

  She stops again, and I know it’s hard

  for her to relive it when she says,

  He beat me bloody. Broke bones. Teeth.

  Little Chad tried to stop him. Damian

  pushed him headfirst into the wall.

  We were both unconscious when he left.

  As the Story Goes

  A neighbor heard the ruckus.

  Called 911. The paramedics found

  Cassie shattered and Chad close to death,

  with a subdural hematoma—rampant bleeding

  in the skull, which squashes the brain. The two of

  them were in the hospital for days. Damian hid

  out with his brother in Red Rock. Then his

  brother’s wife saw the news reports and

  put in a covert call to Secret Witness.

  They threw every charge they could

  think of at him, including attempted

  murder. He got fifteen to twenty-five

  years. I was there when they sentenced

  him, and the look he give me clearly

  said, “When I get out, I’m coming for

  you.” Well, he’s out. That’s who I saw.

  Older. Grayer. But it was definitely

  him. I don’t know why I thought

  he’d be in for the max ride. But, no.

  Early release. It’s weird. But in

  my mind, he was dead. Stupid, huh?

  I’m Kind of Speechless

  But . . . “You don’t really think

  he’d try to hurt you, do you?

  I mean, he wouldn’t want to

  take a chance on going back

  to prison, right?” Jeez, I def

  can’t tell Mom, or no way

  would she let me come over

  to Dad’s anymore, even though

  I can’t believe this Damian dude

  is a danger to me. Or to Cassie.

  I don’t know. I would hope not,

  and I don’t want to live all paranoid.

  Two more burning questions.

  “Does Dad know? And does Chad

  remember what happened?”

  Could explain why he’s a little

  chill. I wouldn’t keep it from your

  Dad. And how could Chad forget?

  When We Get Back to Dad’s

  He is all cleaned up, ready to go

  out to dinner, and then dancing.

  Cassie doesn’t want to spoil

  his good mood, so she asks me

  not to say anything. I’ll tell

  him when the time is right.

  And please let me break

  the news to Chad, too, okay?

  I give her a hug and she goes

  to get ready. I hate secrets.

  Especially explosive ones.

  Ones that feel ready to blow.

  Dad and Cassie leave and Chad

  is watching an awful Austin Powers

  movie. I sit next to him, restless.

  In fact, I’m almost ready to spill

  when Bri calls my cell. Promise

  you won’t tell, is the first thing

  she says. I heard Mikki talking

  to Dylan. She’s pregnant.

  Dylan

  Pregnant

  The very concept strikes fear

  into the hearts of young people

  everywhere. In fact,

  it’s

  right at the top of my Do Not

  Tell Me This list, just above

  “You’ve got cancer and are

  not

  a candidate for chemo.”

  Un-freaking-believable!

  When Mik called to tell me

  what

  the two-blue-lines thing

  meant, I thought she was

  joking. Ginormous mistake—

  I

  laughed, and that made her

  cry. Not sad tears. Pissed tears.

  Then I asked her what she

  wanted

  to do, totally expecting her to

  say abortion. She said she wasn’t

  sure, and that’s not what I wanted

  to hear.

  Mikayla

  To Abort or Not to Abort

  I have asked myself that question,

  over and over, for the past few days.

  First I had to fight the shock of finding

  out I’m pregnant. I fought the idea,

  even beyond the two blue lines.

  But a second test confirmed it,

  and the morning sickness is very

  real. I am going to have a baby.

  Only, wait. Am I? Oh, God. Why

  now? If I do, I won’t get to finish

  my senior year. No graduation. No

  cap and gown. No senior prom.

  Prom. Right. I can just see it now.

  I waddle in, stomach big as a basketball.

  Dylan and I hit the dance floor and

  just as we start to slow dance,

  my water breaks. (Thanks, Teen Mom,

  for that fabulous picture.) Without

 
warning, my eyes burn and tears

  overflow and hormones may be

  to blame, but fear is the driving

  force. I don’t know what to do.

  Dylan isn’t much help. He says

  he’ll honor my decision but I know

  he wants me to get rid of it. When

  I called to tell him, his first reaction

  was to laugh. He thought I was joking.

  Who would joke about something

  like this? When it finally sank in

  that I was talking real, he sobered

  quickly. Okay. Well. It’s not the end

  of the world. We can fix it. Fix it.

  Like there’s a patch kit. His

  fix would involve ripping me

  wider. Digging the wound deeper.

  There are no bandages big enough

  for that. How did this happen?

  We always used condoms, except

  for once or twice. How could

  two careless times equal a baby?

  I Keep Thinking of It

  As a baby. I’ve got to stop doing that.

  Right now it’s just an embryo. Not

  even a fetus. At least, I don’t think so.

  An embryo becomes a fetus eight weeks

  after conception. Which time did I conceive?

  It doesn’t really matter, except if I decide

  to have an abortion, it will have to be soon.

  What happens to me if I do? If I don’t? What

  happens with Dylan, either way? How much

  pressure can love take before it pulverizes—

  marble, crushed into dust. I need him more

  than ever now. But ever since I told him,

  he’s unreachable. Even when he’s sitting

  right next to me. Like now. We are on

  a blanket, beneath a star-crusted sky,

  and it’s stifling. Not a blink of breeze

  to ruffle the late-August night. Dylan

  has been mostly silent. Sucked into thought.

  Now he reaches for my hand. I wish

  I could make it rain, he says softly.

  Okay, that is not what I expected

  him to say. Not even close. “Why?”

  Well, we need it. Don’t we? And if

  I could make it rain here right now,

  I would be all-powerful. I could . . .

  take things back. You know?

  I lean into him, and he gentles his arm

  around my shoulder. “We can’t take

  anything back. It’s where we go from

  here that means everything.”

  I leave it there. No decisions. Not

  tonight. No ultimatums, ever. What

  he really needs to know right now is,

  “I love you, Dylan. More than anything.

  This doesn’t change that. Nothing

  can. You are all-powerful to me.”

  That Makes Him Smile

  And this is the closest to okay

  I have felt for days. I scoot

  into his lap, straddle his legs.

  Can I reach him this way? I lock

  his eyes with mine. “Kiss me.”

  He hesitates, and I see a flash

  of doubt, so I cover his mouth

  with mine, and there is nothing

  tentative about the way I move

  my body, eel-like, against his.

  God, I’ve missed this amazing

  rush! I lift my shirt over my head,

  wait for him to take his off, too.

  And we are skin against skin

  in the sage-scented night and I

  am overwhelmed with love for

  him. He rolls me off him, onto

  my back, starts to unzip my shorts.

  But Now He Stops

  When We Finish

  The blanket beneath my head

  is soaked with tears. Because I know,

  as much as I want it not to be true,

  nothing will ever be exactly

  the same between us. We’ll grow

  closer. Or we’ll be ratcheted apart.

  We lie facing each other and

  he kisses me sweetly. Don’t cry.

  He licks the wet from my eyes,

  and the gesture is at once kind

  and sensual. I flip over, draw back

  into him, loving the way I fit so well

  in the harbor of his body. He sighs

  as he strokes my still-flat belly, high

  smallish breasts. I wish we could stay

  just like this forever. Warm. Secure.

  Indivisible. But I’m not safe now.

  And winter always comes. “I’m scared.”

  I know. I’m scared, too. We need

  to decide what to do, and then it

  will get better. I . . . I’ve asked

  around. An abortion costs about

  five hundred dollars. I’ve got more

  than that in my savings account.

  Abortion would be the easiest

  way out. But I keep thinking about

  Audrey. I can’t get her out of my head.

  How could I live with that kind

  of regret? “What if I can’t, Dylan?

  What if I decide I want to have it?”

  Every muscle in his body tenses.

  He grows corpse-stiff. It isn’t all

  your decision, is it? Don’t I get a say?

  I sit up, reach for my shirt. “Of

  course you do. But it’s my body.

  And it’s my . . . our . . . baby inside.”

  He Jolts Upright

  Don’t, Mikki! It’s not a baby.

  It’s just a little glob of cells.

  It never has to become a baby.

  “A little glob of cells? What

  is that? Internet research?”

  I should know. I did it, too.

  What did you expect? Total

  disinterest? Sweetheart, I’ve been

  stressing as much as you have.

  He reaches for me, but I yank

  away. “Really? I guess you’ve

  been throwing up every morning?

  Worrying about what to say to

  your mom and dad? Thinking

  about school, how friends will

  gossip, or even if you’ll have any

  friends if someone finds out?”

  Except for the throwing up, yes.

  He Is So Sincere

  That I smile. Almost feel sorry for him.

  But not as sorry as I feel for myself.

  “I’ve been over and over this a million

  times. I know the smartest thing would

  be to get rid of it. But I don’t think I can.

  I’ve seen the pictures, too. I know it

  doesn’t look anything like a baby yet.

  But it’s more than just a little glob

  of cells. It’s you and me, and it’s alive.”

  Sounds like you’ve made your decision.

  And that I don’t have a say at all. Get

  dressed. I’ll take you home. He is angry,

  and now so am I. “Dylan, your decision

  would be for some doctor to stick a tube

  up inside me and vacuum our little problem

  away, like dog hair and dust. I still might

  choose to do exactly that. I’ve got a couple

  of weeks. Either way, I need your support.”

  It’s a Silent Drive Home

  When we get there, he kisses

  me good night, just like always.

  Just like always, I say, “I love you.”

  And he tells me he loves me, too.

  The house is quiet. I tiptoe upstairs,

  use the bathroom, slip between crisp,

  cool sheets, scented like detergent.

  Clean. Like I can never be again.

  It is one of those nights when real

  sleep doesn’t come, j
ust that space

  beyond true awareness. That place

  where you wander through dreams,

  knowing you’re there. I know I’m here,

  waves licking my ankles, and somewhere

  beyond the breaks a baby is crying.

  Floating, for the moment. The choice

  is mine. Stand here and let it drown,

  or dive, swim like hell to save it.

  Dylan

  Drowning

  Can’t float. Forgot how to swim.

  Tired of treading water.

  Going down. Down.

  Down.

  I have never loved her more.

  Can’t imagine being without her.

  What will it take

  to

  make her see that we cannot

  possibly become “three”?

  What does she want from me—

  the

  promise of marriage?

  After witnessing my parents’

  freak show, that kind of

  hell

  is something I hope never

  to suffer. Anyway, we’re just kids.

  No diplomas. No jobs. No hope

  of

  winning the lottery. Even

  if our love could survive,

  how would we pay for

  diapers?

  Shane

  Paying

  For mistakes is a regular bitch,

  defining the word “mistake” as:

  error

  blunder

  slipup

  oversight

  gaffe.

  Or things you didn’t necessarily

  mean to do. But when there is

  intent, a clear objective to

  injure

  wound

  insult

  abuse

  harm

  or sin against someone,

  especially someone you’ve

  sworn to honor, cherish and

  protect, payback is likely to be

  devastating

  disturbing

  distressing

  damaging

  disastrous.

  My Parents

  Don’t think I know what’s going

  on. Don’t have a clue that it doesn’t

  exactly take over-keen observation

  to comprehend the less-than-abstract

  idea that Dad’s been fucking off on

  Mom for quite some time, and with

  one person, some Skye woman, who

  he works and travels with. In fact,