Tilt

by Ellen Hopkins

  I’ve never had a taste for alcohol.

  Too hard to get buzzed on

  without getting busted.

  Plus, I hate what it’s done

  to my father. But screw it. This

  is a special day. Vodka, right. You can’t

  smell it as bad. I take a big gulp. Yech.

  Still, I take another. And one

  more. Enough. I don’t want

  to get wasted. Just brave.

  I don’t tell anyone I’m leaving, but

  get into my car and head toward the freeway.

  I want to go fast and I do, windows open

  to let any idea of God out. Holy

  shit. Ninety mph is flying.

  Alex

  Any Idea

  Of Shane reconsidering,

  at least right away, goes up

  in figurative smoke when

  he shows up at my door

  wasted

  and unannounced. My good

  Catholic family is loudly sharing

  our old-fashioned Friday fish

  dinner and it takes a few

  minutes

  for us to recognize the doorbell.

  I volunteer to answer it and

  my first thought when I see

  Shane is how did he get here? He

  can’t

  have driven over, right? Not in

  this shape—hair wind-mussed,

  eyes freaky wide, and smelling

  like weed and booze. He must

  be

  out of his mind, and I won’t

  let him in like this. I lead him

  to my car, shove him inside,

  praying the Shane I love can be

  reclaimed.

  Harley

  Praying

  Is something I’ve never done.

  It’s as foreign to me as Somalia,

  as is the concept of God. Gramps

  was raised Jewish, and Gram

  a Protestant, whatever that is.

  Gram told me that when they met,

  they embarked on a “search for

  deeper meaning,” trying paganism

  and Buddhism and Wicca, winding up

  mostly agnostic. Mom never took

  me to church, never tried to provide

  me with faith. Dad, well, Dad pretty

  much only believes in himself, plus

  a small measure of Cassie thrown

  in. So I think it’s really kind of weird

  that Dad and Cassie will say, “I do”

  in a church. What’s even weirder,

  and a little creepy, is it’s the same

  church where Shelby’s funeral was,

  almost a month ago. Since then,

  I turned fourteen. We celebrated

  with a sleepover—me, Bri and a couple

  of girls I’ve made friends with at Carson

  High. I think Bri is a little hurt about

  that, but she doesn’t go to Carson, and

  I can’t walk around all by myself,

  looking like a total loser. Serena is quiet

  and smart. A lot like Bri, in fact. But

  Chloe is just this side of crazy. She’ll

  do anything for attention. And when

  she gets it, I get it, too. For my birthday,

  she brought an R-rated DVD. Lots of

  nakedness and sex. Bri was humiliated,

  not that she didn’t watch. Serena

  pretended it was cool. Chloe whooped,

  Uh-huh! That’s what I’m talking about.

  I Have to Admit

  A couple of scenes embarrassed

  me, too. Is that what it takes to

  be an adult? Later, I asked Bri,

  “Do you think our parents do stuff

  like that?” I really can’t picture

  Mom naked and rubbing against

  some naked man. Bri thought

  a second. I guess they used to.

  “Things are bad between them,

  huh?” I probably shouldn’t know

  half the stuff I do, including

  her answer, They pretend it’s okay.

  But we’d have to be stupid not

  to know what’s going on. I think . . .

  Her face kind of collapsed in on

  itself. They’re talking about divorce.

  I Hate How Relationships

  Are so fragile. How they

  crack

  shatter

  fall to pieces.

  And the hammer is

  time

  distance

  moving forward.

  Why can’t people grow

  closer

  tighter

  welded together?

  Instead they go

  looking

  for the next

  frail connection.

  There must be a way to

  stay

  in love

  no matter what.

  Case in Point

  My fickle mother.

  Here she meets Robin,

  who I really think she liked

  a lot. But when he went back to

  Vegas, where he lives, she cut things

  off completely. I know it’s hard to maintain

  a long-distance relationship, but why not

  try to nurture a connection? They

  hadn’t spoken since he left, and

  he called the other night when

  we were eating dinner. She

  answered but was cold

  as January. Freezing, frigid

  cold. Seemed like she wasn’t

  saying something she wanted to.

  So maybe that’s part of the problem.

  Lack of communication. Why can’t people

  just open up and talk about what bothers them?

  Now she’s dating one of Shelby’s doctors.

  She says it’s not serious, and until it

  is, she won’t bring him home for

  a home-cooked introduction.

  Is it me she doesn’t want to

  disappoint? Or is it him?

  I Don’t Want to Think

  About it tonight, so I won’t.

  Tonight I’m going out with Lucas,

  just the two of us. He’s picking me up

  as soon as Dad and Cassie leave.

  They’re having a joint bachelor/

  bachelorette party. Not sure what

  that is, but if it involves strippers,

  it could be interesting. Or gross.

  Dad comes out of his room,

  dressed up for a change—slacks

  (who knew he had them?) and

  a button-down shirt. “Wow. Snazzy.”

  He smiles. I know, right? Your old

  man still cleans up pretty good.

  You don’t mind hanging out here

  alone? Chad will be back later.

  I shake my head. “No problem.

  Plenty to keep me occupied.”

  Hope he doesn’t find out just

  how much. “You guys have fun.”

  Now Cassie appears in a tight

  pink dress that doesn’t hide a whole

  lot. Okay, I’m ready. Don’t wait up.

  We’ll probably be late. She takes

  Dad’s hand and off they go.

  I text Lucas that the coast is clear,

  then go to the bathroom. A little

  more makeup is required, now

  that it won’t draw too much attention

  from anyone but Lucas. I also change

  into a skirt and clingy long-sleeved tee.

  I’m going for the “wowza” look.

  Not quite as sexy as Cassie, but

  enough, I hope, to make Lucas never

  want to let go of me. I’ll do just about

  anything to keep him hanging on.

  He Makes Me Wait

  Almost an hour. I throw open

  the passenger doo
r. “What took

  so long?” But the “what” slams into

  me like a booze-flavored wave.

  Do you want to get in or not?

  Oh God. I’ve made him mad.

  “Of course I do. Sorry. It’s just

  I should probably be back by eleven

  and I want to be with you as much

  as I can.” I plop down on the seat,

  hike my skirt a bit, some weird

  apology, for what I’m not sure.

  That’s better, he says, pulling

  me to him for a kiss. He tastes

  of weed and alcohol, but I don’t

  care, and I give him as good as

  he gives me. His spare hand lands

  on my exposed thigh, starts to creep.

  I leave it there, but say, “Not here.

  I think the neighbors are spies.”

  He laughs, thank goodness.

  Okay. Let’s go someplace private.

  It isn’t far to a little turnout along

  the river. Half of me wants to be here.

  The other half is whispering,

  “This isn’t good. This can’t be good.

  You know what he’s after, right?”

  Scenes from my birthday movie

  start flashing in my head. And then

  I hear Mom warning, “You’re not

  ready for sex. You’re not old enough.”

  And I wonder if I am. And I think, really,

  I’m not. I’m still not that kind of girl.

  Yet, I Let Him Kiss Me

  And it’s the kind of kiss that makes

  goose bumps break out all over my body.

  He pulls me into his lap, licks down

  my neck, to the curve of my shirt.

  Take it off, he says, and as if he has

  hypnotized me, I do exactly as I’m told.

  Quickly, his hands work the hooks

  of my bra and before I can even think

  to say no, my entire upper body

  is bared. That’s it, my pretty little girl.

  He moves to kiss my nipples, and

  though I want to say no, I can’t. It feels

  good. Great. Amazing. Beneath my skirt,

  I feel him grow hard against the thin

  barrier of my panties. I like how that

  feels, too. But I’m still not ready. “Stop.”

  His mouth is around my nipple

  and he mumbles, Why? All innocent.

  Now his lips move an inch or so

  higher and he starts to suck, softly

  at first, then harder. It is crazy good

  and it makes me moan but when

  he tries to slide down my panties

  I know I can’t. Not yet. “I . . . I have

  my period.” It’s a lie, but he can’t

  know that, and it’s better than saying

  I’m too young. He stiffens. Stops.

  Then he says, We can do something

  else then. He lifts me up, undoes

  his zipper and this is no movie

  when he frees his erection and shows

  me exactly how to use my mouth

  to get him off. I wish I could say

  I don’t like it. But somehow I do.

  Lucas

  Getting Off

  Is easy. You don’t even need

  two to make it happen. The proper

  grip with a slippery fist, whoopee,

  there it goes. But man does not live

  by ejaculation alone. There’s

  the

  whole pursue-and-conquer

  thing to consider, which is why

  loose girls aren’t all that much

  fun.

  Okay, maybe I’m a bit warped

  that way, but hard-to-get

  turns me on. Besides, I kind

  of like playing teacher, which

  is

  why I’m so patient with this

  little girl, who will so be worth

  the wait. Oh yes, I plan on

  winning

  a major jackpot, taking her all

  the way for the very first time.

  If that means patience, okay

  by me. It’s only part of

  the game.

  Mikayla

  Patience

  That’s what Dr. Ortega says to have

  now, at sixteen weeks pregnant.

  Well into my second trimester, the risk

  of miscarriage has largely passed and

  my baby is approximately the size

  of an avocado, with ears and toenails

  and a beating heart. The heart part

  is true. I’ve heard it. As for the rest,

  I’ll have to take her word for it until

  after my ultrasound. It’s a whole month

  away. At twenty weeks, we can find out

  if it’s a boy or a girl. Meanwhile, I have

  some decisions to make. Mom and I are

  going to talk to my counselor, Mr. Taylor.

  We’re in the office, waiting. And, though

  I’m not showing yet, I feel like everyone

  knows why we’re here. The secretary

  keeps giving me one of those looks

  that says, Hello? Haven’t you heard

  about birth control? I try to return

  a look that yells, “What the fuck

  business is it of yours?” But I fail

  miserably, turn my eyes toward

  the checkerboard linoleum floor.

  How does she know, anyway? Aren’t

  counselors supposed to keep stuff

  like this quiet? I’m not showing yet.

  At least, I don’t think I am. I stare

  down at my belly. Push my shirt flat.

  Nope. Not yet. So why do I suspect

  that everyone passing through—teachers,

  students, some who I know and many

  I don’t, are completely aware of me

  and why I’m here? My face goes hot.

  I Am Semi-Saved

  By Mr. Taylor’s appearance at his

  door. Mikayla? Mrs. Carlisle? Please

  come in. Suddenly, I want to run.

  But I don’t. Instead, I follow Mom

  inside his clean, starched office.

  The man is totally anal. Even his desk

  is clean. We settle into hard plastic

  chairs, most certainly designed to deny

  comfort. Tell me what I can do for you.

  Mom looks at me and, okay, it’s my

  place to speak up. But I’ve lost my voice.

  Lost my confidence. This confession

  is all about judgment. Mom speaks

  for me. Um . . . well . . . Then, straight

  out, Mikayla is pregnant. We need to

  know what options she has regarding

  her schooling. She wants to graduate,

  of course. She turns to me. Right?

  Now they’re both staring at me.

  “Well, of course I want to graduate.

  Why would that have changed?”

  Mr. Taylor’s jaw stiffens. Ahem.

  Well . . . uh . . . congratulations

  or sorry, depending. He shuffles

  the two pieces of paper on his desk.

  Ahem. You do have options. You can

  stay in school as long as it’s viable.

  He studies me with creeping eyes.

  When are you due? When I tell him

  mid-March, he nods. We have a good

  virtual academy available. Really,

  the question becomes when to move

  you into it. I’m not sure how you feel

  about everyone here knowing you’re

  pregnant. If you don’t care, I’d suggest

  moving at the semester break. If you do . . .

  Do I Care?

  I still don’t know, and I’ve thought

  about it a lot.
“I . . . I haven’t figured

  that out yet. I have time to decide.”

  Some time, Mr. Taylor replies. But

  it will go faster than you think.

  I assume Dylan Douglas is the father?

  Now any sense of embarrassment

  segues to anger. “Of course he is!

  Why would you think anything else?”

  Calm down, Mikayla. I’m not judging

  you, and it wouldn’t be the first

  time a fling resulted in unwanted

  pregnancy. . . . His pause can only be

  translated as, It is an unwanted

  pregnancy, right? Which pisses me

  off even more. “It was just a mistake,

  and it’s Dylan’s baby, if that’s your

  concern. Why is it important, anyway?”

  Mom starts to interfere, but Mr.

  Taylor lifts a hand. Look. I don’t

  know where Dylan stands on this,

  but the fact is, he might not want

  the rest of the school to know

  about the baby, either. He has a right—

  “Bullshit! It’s my baby and my life

  and, hey, if Dylan is concerned

  about how his friends feel, well,

  he should have thought about that

  before he convinced me the rhythm

  method would work fine one or two

  times. What is it with men, always

  cheerleading for the guys in this

  situation? That’s totally fucked up!”

  Mikayla Jean! huffs Mom, as if

  she never heard me swear before.

  You apologize to Mr. Taylor right now.

  As If!

  Mom glares at me, and Mr. T. looks

  like “fuck” is a foreign four-letter word.

  “Did I offend you? You know, I really

  don’t care. And I don’t care who else

  I might offend, either. This is a baby,

  not some kind of a burden. And, while

  it might have taken two of us to create

  this baby, the only opinion that matters

  here is mine. I’ll stay in school for now,

  unless you want to suspend me for f-bomb

  usage. If so, write me up. If not, I’ll see

  you bright and early tomorrow morning.”

  I don’t wait for an answer, but as I go,

  I hear Mom apologize for me. I’m very

  sorry. She’s a bit emotional. . . . Her voice,

  and his response, fade into the ether.

  When I Pass Through