Tilt

by Ellen Hopkins

  question, and one that will be

  asked by more people than Dad.

  Dylan totally is the baby’s father.

  I’ve done my homework, too.

  Dad is right. Dylan can’t just

  decide he’s completely out of

  the picture. Even if he never sees

  his daughter, he has to help take

  care of her financially. The question

  really is: Will I make him step up?

  But what if he did see her, and what

  if he fell in love with her? Would

  he remember falling in love with me,

  and would he love me again?

  March is too far away to find out.

  I haven’t even had the chance

  to tell him we’re having a girl.

  He avoids me at school, and he

  won’t take my calls, and I’m not

  about to deliver that news via

  voice mail. But he can’t keep away

  from me forever. One way or

  another, Dylan Douglas will see

  the ultrasound pics of his baby

  girl. And today will be the day.

  Mom Always Says

  When I set my mind on something

  I am a force to be reckoned with.

  Today I will be gravity—subtle,

  but powerful and undeniable.

  I see Dylan walking with friends

  a few times, and once with Kristy.

  But I need to find him alone, and

  it finally happens right before fifth

  period. He’s at his locker pulling

  out books. My approach is silent.

  “Hey.” I keep my voice gentle,

  and when he looks at me, I’m sure

  there’s a hint of love in his eyes.

  “I wanted to show you something.”

  I don’t want to be late for trig.

  His tone is harsh. What is it?

  Carefully, I extract the printout

  from my notebook. “Our daughter.”

  He studies it for a second, then shakes

  his head, as if to clear it of confusion.

  I don’t know what you want me

  to say, Mikki. It barely even looks

  like a baby. And it doesn’t change

  a thing. I’ve got to go now.

  “Please, Dylan. You’re her daddy.

  She’s going to need you in her life.”

  I touch his hand. “I need you in my life.

  But she is what’s important.” He jerks

  his arm away. Not to me, she’s not.

  Now, leave me the fuck alone, Mikki.

  He slams his locker and practically

  runs down the hallway. My eyes sting

  acid tears. “I am so going to make you pay!”

  The words echo in the empty corridor.

  My Last Class

  Of the day is home ec.

  A no-brainer elective.

  I know how to cook.

  But sometimes you need

  an extra few credits.

  In the Thanksgiving spirit,

  we are experimenting with

  stuffing. I hope next week

  you’ll volunteer to make

  something a little different

  for your family’s holiday

  meal, says Mrs. Brennan.

  And I hope every single one

  of you has something special

  to be grateful for. She gives

  me a knowing glance, and

  I’m halfway to giving her

  something special to suspend

  me for when someone comes

  up behind me, lays a hand

  on my shoulder. We haven’t

  talked in a while. Maybe we

  should. Tyler. I turn and look

  up into his eyes. I don’t know

  if you want to. But I’d like to.

  No one has been this nice

  to me in weeks, and even

  though there is a prohibition

  against male/female touching

  on campus, I slide my arms

  around him. Lay my ear

  against his heartbeat. And cry.

  A soak-through-the-shirt-all-

  the-way-to-the-chest-hair

  kind of tears. Mrs. Brennan

  doesn’t say a word and neither

  does Ty, or anyone else here.

  They just let me weep into

  the onion-celery-sausage-

  sage-scented air. Thanksgiving.

  I Think I’m Having

  An out-of-body experience.

  I am not holding myself upright.

  Ty is. Ty, who I’ve known for

  years. Ty, who has dated friends.

  And enemies. Ty, who has never

  touched me before, at least not

  in any significant way. Yet, at this

  moment, he supports my weight.

  The weight of my muscles, bones.

  The weight of my psyche, which

  hangs heavily. The slight weight

  of my baby. The weight of my weight.

  That Weight

  Is oppressive. And yet, knowing

  somebody cares enough to prop me

  up makes me believe I can come out

  okay on the other side. Just maybe.

  I tell him I’m sorry.

  He says not to worry.

  I beg him to understand.

  He promises to do his best.

  And, considering how many people

  make promises they can’t keep,

  doing his best is all I can ask for.

  Plus, in the haven of his arms

  I find some slender ray

  of hope that on the far

  horizon a ghost girl lingers.

  Mikayla Jean Carlisle,

  as worthy as she ever was of fairy-tale

  love. And why did that train of thought

  even wind up on the same page

  with me, anchored in Tyler’s harbor?

  Tyler

  Fairy-Tale Love

  Isn’t something to aspire to.

  At least, not if you dig down

  beyond Disneyfied retellings.

  Original

  versions are pretty sick. Take

  Sleeping Beauty. The cartoon

  portrays Prince Charming’s love

  as pure, but as first written,

  sin

  drives a randy married king

  to rape a comatose beauty,

  leaving her pregnant with twins.

  When the queen finds out, she

  is

  rightly quite pissed, and orders

  the castle chef to cook the kids

  for dinner. Instead, he tells

  the king, who decides

  a

  nubile, fertile fox is preferable

  to a murderous hag. Guess who

  winds up roasted, sliced and

  given

  a prominent place on the table?

  Shane

  There Are a Dozen Place Settings

  On our Thanksgiving table.

  That, in itself, is remarkable.

  The guest list is kind of crazy:

  Mom and Dad

  Gram and Gramps

  Aunt Andrea and Dr. Malik

  Steve and Cassandra

  Harley, Chad and me

  (Plus Shelby!)

  It was Gram’s idea to include her.

  An outsider could not understand

  the meaning of that gesture. Shelby:

  Never nibbled turkey skin

  Never tasted pecan pie

  (Did their magical perfumes

  mean anything at all to a nose

  completely uninfluenced

  by a food-virgin tongue?)

  I wish, just one time, I would have

  touched some tiny taste of ambrosia

  to her lips, some forbidden pleasure:


  New York cheesecake

  Crème brûlée

  Pineapple sorbet

  Hot fudge sundae

  (With vanilla bean Häagen-Dazs

  and homemade whipped cream)

  And I wish, on more than one occasion,

  she could have sat upright at our dining

  room table, one of a family of four. Shelby:

  Comfortable in a velvet chair

  Holding her own silver fork

  Over one of Mom’s good china plates

  Wiping her mouth with a linen napkin

  Talking about her favorite Disney show

  (Or taking a drive with me)

  I Fantasize About That

  As the very much still alive

  (at least in most ways) rest of the guest

  list sits down to dinner. Even without

  Shelby, it’s a very strange cast of players.

  All of whom pretend it’s not. All

  of whom, for whatever reasons, are grateful

  to be able to pretend it’s not. And that,

  for my own reasons, includes me.

  The dialogue, stilted at first, begins

  to pick up speed as the food arrives.

  Gram (putting bowls on the table):

  Sorry Alex couldn’t join us. How is he?

  “He’s feeling better, but thought he should

  spend Thanksgiving with his family.”

  Gramps (spooning candied yams):

  Hey, now. We’re his extended family.

  Cassandra (passing the cranberry

  sauce): Yay for extended families!

  Steve (slugging fine wine): Yes.

  Thanks very much for the invite.

  Chad (eyeing Dad’s turkey slicing):

  Ditto. Real food for a change.

  Mom (quickly to avert a retort):

  Everything set for your wedding?

  Cassie (overjoyed): I hope so! Only

  a week away. You are all coming?

  Mom and Dad exchange curious

  glances with Gram and Gramps.

  I ask the question they’re afraid to.

  “Were we invited?” Pretty sure not.

  Harley (panicked): Oh my God.

  Didn’t I mail your invitations?

  Aunt Andrea: Harley! How could . . . ?

  The doctor puts his hand on her arm.

  Cassie: You didn’t? But you prom—

  Chad (guffawing): Way to go, Harl!

  It Is Dad Who Comes to the Rescue

  He bangs down the carving knife,

  like a judge wielding his gavel. Okay,

  everyone, let’s fill our plates and say

  grace. We will all be at the wedding.

  The relief, at least on the far end

  of the table, is palpable. The food

  goes around at dizzying speed, a blur

  of, as Chad called it, real food.

  Now Dad motions for everyone

  to link hands. Heavenly Father.

  Bless this table and all who sit here

  surrounded by your presence.

  Allow us to abandon our mourning

  in favor of coming celebration.

  Forgive our mistakes and please

  let those who have been hurt by them

  find the grace to forgive them, too.

  We are thankful for this bounty,

  each other, and you. In Christ’s

  name we pray. Amen. Echoed amens.

  Waves of Food

  And drifts of conversation make me

  a little woozy. No one seems to notice

  that I pick at my food, much like

  Cassandra does. She probably wants

  to make sure she can fit in her size-skinny

  wedding dress, which I will,

  apparently, see if Dad has his way.

  Eventually nothing much besides

  gravy is left on the dinner plates.

  Gentlemen, says Gramps. Why

  don’t we clear so the ladies can

  bring out the pie. I’ve had a peek.

  Hope you all saved lots of room.

  There are a few groans and several

  yums and with all the guys helping,

  the dirties disappear quickly. I stash

  a few bites of leftover turkey for Gaga,

  who I had to leave shut up in my room.

  Earlier, I caught her on the counter

  sniffing the cooling fowl. Feline!

  I take it to her, a peace offering, and

  by the time I get back to the table,

  it is covered with pies. Lemon. Cherry.

  Pecan. Apple. And the requisite pumpkin.

  The girls are busy cutting and taking

  orders. I ask for a small slice of cherry.

  Soon, everyone has a piece, even

  Cassandra, who managed the thinnest

  wedge of apple I have ever seen.

  Now Gramps says, I think the chefs

  of this fabulous feast deserve a toast.

  He pops a bottle of champagne,

  then another. Mom and Dad find

  crystal flutes in the hutch, Steve

  helps fill them. Gramps glances

  around the table. How about the kids?

  Generously (foolishly?), the parents

  nod okay. Interestingly enough, it

  is Harley who grabs a glass first.

  Chad and I follow, and everyone

  raises a toast to Mom and Gram

  and Andrea, who brought the veggies

  and the lemon pie. I sip the sparkly

  slowly. No use calling attention

  to myself. Besides, in my room I have

  something stronger stashed for later.

  It’s Really Sort of Surprising

  That my parents haven’t missed

  the alcohol that keeps vanishing

  from the kitchen cabinet. To be

  sure, there was a lot—bottles bought

  and bottles gifted over the years.

  I keep pulling them forward,

  but sooner or later you’d think

  someone would notice. Maybe

  they will. And maybe that’s what

  I’m hoping for, that Mom or Dad

  will notice and care enough to say

  something. Tonight was nice, I guess.

  But you have to wonder where

  this small sense of family retreats

  to when it isn’t a holiday. I’m sure

  part of the problem used to be Shelby.

  Doesn’t seem fair that it took her

  dying to bring us closer again.

  Post Pie

  The guests retire to the living

  room. Gramps opens the piano

  and this time decides to sing

  amped-up Christmas carols.

  The season is almost upon us,

  he says. But before we begin,

  Leah and I have an announcement.

  He looks at Gram, who says, We

  made an offer on a little house

  and five acres in Pleasant Valley.

  It’s a short sale and they’re anxious.

  We hope to be in before Christmas.

  It’s a sweet little place, adds Gramps.

  We like it because it’s halfway between

  Reno and Carson. Equidistant to our

  girls and our brilliant grandkids.

  “Brilliant, huh? I don’t know for

  sure, Harley,” I say, “but I think

  he’s fishing for help with the moving.”

  Gramps smiles. Not only brilliant,

  but intuitive. Andrea, pick a song.

  She Asks for “White Christmas”

  And, though Gramps does his best

  to rock it out, it’s hard to get past

  sounding too much like Bing Crosby.

  I move stealthily toward the back

  of the room. “I’m going to check

  on Gaga,” I
explain to no one at all.

  I am halfway down the hall when

  footsteps fall in behind me. Who’s

  Gaga? asks Harley, with Chad in tow.

  Damn. Almost got away. “She’s my

  kitten.” Oops. Mistake. I should

  have said my vicious Rottweiler.

  Really? I didn’t know you had a cat.

  I thought . . . Oh. Well, can we meet

  her? I’m not much for caroling.

  What can I do but let them in?

  Gaga is in her usual pillow palace,

  purring and burping up turkey.

  Harley plops down beside her.

  Oh, she’s so adorable. Where

  did you get her? I want a kitten!

  I tell her Alex could probably

  pull one out from under a sagebrush

  for her. And that reminds me,

  “I need to call my boyfriend. Put

  on some music if you want.” Chad

  goes over to my iPod dock as I reach

  for my cell. I dial Alex, who answers

  right away, but can’t talk, except

  to say, I love you. See you tomorrow?

  After my too-quick goodbye, I notice

  a text from Lucas. Probably wants to

  sell me some weed. But, no. It’s a pic.

  Of a naked girl. Look familiar?

  On closer inspection, she does. Oh,

  my God. “Uh, Harley. Is this you?”

  Chad

  Naked Girl Pics

  Delivered randomly

  to my cell phone are generally

  fine by me. Oh yes,

  I

  got this one, too, at pretty

  much the same time, which

  means it’s a blanket send, I

  think.

  Last I heard, Harley and Lucas

  were still a thing, which disturbs

  me deeply. What does

  she

  see in him? I did try to warn

  her that he is not the nicest

  guy, and that he obviously

  has

  an agenda. She told me not

  to worry, that she understands

  his motivation, but that it’s not

  a problem

  because she’s got a handle

  on things. I’d say she totally

  underestimated him.

  Harley

  What Is His Problem?

  How could Lucas do this to me?

  Not only did he get me to take

  those pictures, but he actually

  sent one of them to people I know?

  Including my cousin and almost