Tilt by Ellen Hopkins
“Careful? I will, Mom. I remember
everything you’ve told me about sex
and why I should wait. I don’t plan
to have sex with Lucas. I’m too young,
and anyway, he and I just met. You
have to fall in love to have sex, right?”
Actually, you don’t. A lot of people
who aren’t in love have sex. But I
promise it’s a lot better with someone
you love. I’m glad you understand that.
I haven’t even considered sex.
Kissing is as far as I’ve fantasized
about going. Now I’ve done that,
though. When will I want to do more?
“More”
Is pretty much everywhere
as Mom and I walk around
the cook-off, checking out
craft booths, listening to music
and, of course, munching ribs.
It’s like I never really noticed
how guys slip their arms around
their girls’ shoulders, then let
their hands wander, or how some
girls even encourage that.
It’s like I totally missed how
some girls walk their fingers
up their boyfriends’ thighs,
all the way to where they must
be touching very personal body
parts, or how that makes those
guys kiss them—not romantically,
but more kind of crazy. It’s hot!
And I’m glad Mom doesn’t notice
me noticing, or thinking it’s hot.
Mom Isn’t Noticing Much
She’s here, but not.
Talk about distracted!
Finally, I have to ask, “Hey,
Mom. Are you okay?”
She looks at me with dopey
eyes. Sorry. Lots on my mind
right now, I guess. Is it okay
if we go soon? I should get
back to Aunt Missy’s. She thinks
a minute, then says, Maybe
I could drop you off at your
dad’s? Something strange
is going on. But, like, what?
“Dad and Cassie aren’t home.
They’re shopping for rings
and stuff. What’s up, anyway?”
Shelby’s gotten very sick, so Mom
and I have been trying to help
Missy take care of her. She thinks
for a minute, then makes a call.
Jace? It’s Andrea. Can I drop
Harley off? I want to get back
to Marissa’s. Three beats. Really?
That would be great. Twenty minutes?
“Let me guess. I’m going back
to Bri’s for the night?” Hey,
wonder if we can figure out
a way to see Lucas and Kurt.
And maybe tomorrow, too,
depending on how things
go. She collects her purse.
You don’t mind, do you?
“Nope. It’s okay.” On the short
walk to the car, the wheels in
my brain are turning. I don’t
want to call Lucas. Too forward.
I bet I can find him on Facebook.
I can’t use my account. Mom
checks up on me there. But Mrs.
Carlisle never snoops. We’ll use Bri’s.
Bri’s Dad Agreed
To meet us halfway so Mom doesn’t
have to drive all the way to Washoe
Valley. By the time we reach South
Meadows, they’re already there.
Mr. Carlisle gets out of his car, comes
over to ours. The look on his face
is a mixture of concern and—what?
Compassion, maybe. As I open
the car door, he gives Mom a gentle
smile. You okay? He waits for her
small shrug. Let me know if you need
anything. I’m just a phone call away.
What the heck is going on? I join
Bri in the cushy leather backseat
of her dad’s awesome Audi. Before
I seal myself in, I catch the end
of something Mom is saying.
. . . help with the arrangements.
Wonder What They’re Arranging
Guess I’ll find out sooner or later.
Meanwhile, I’ve got my own
arrangements to worry about.
When we get to Bri’s, we go straight
to her room, turn on her computer
and bring up Facebook. It doesn’t take
long to find Lucas’s page. I message
him: “Last night was fun. Hope you
had fun, too. Looks like I’m spending
the weekend with Brianna. If you can
come out to Washoe Valley, it would
be great to see you. Kurt, too.” I think
that’s good enough. Oh, except I give
him my cell number again. “Call any time.”
Now, I guess, it’s a waiting game. Patience
isn’t my best thing. Hope it doesn’t take long.
Lucas
The Waiting Game
Must be played correctly
to get the desired results.
Call too quickly, the
anxious
state you’re hoping for
won’t have time to build.
But wait too long, most
girls
will get annoyed,
give up on you. Of course,
the younger ones
are
usually more patient,
and the longer you extend
the play, the
easier
it is to win the game.
I think it’s time to put
round two in motion.
Mikayla
Two Small Carry-Ons
That’s all Mom and I are taking
to Vegas. It’s just an overnight
trip—nineteen hours start to finish.
Dad drops us at the Southwest
check-in. Take care of your mom,
he tells me. Like anyone could.
Then he says to her, Keep your
head, and don’t expect too much.
Lecture, lecture, lecture. God!
But she takes it well. No worries.
I’ve got things pretty much in
perspective. She must. She doesn’t
seem nervous or worried at all.
I’m a wreck. If this goes wrong,
I’d have to say it’s totally my fault.
Okay. That airport cop is giving
me the evil eye, says Dad. Better
go. Love you. Mom says she loves
him too, and gives him a kiss.
She must be mad about him
lecturing her. Despite the mutual
declaration, there didn’t seem
to be a whole lot of love in that
kiss. Which makes me wonder
if I’ll ever kiss Dylan and not be
overwhelmed with love. I trail
Mom through security. Notice how
the cute TSA guy totally checks
her out. Bet he’d like to give her
a pat-down. And why does he ignore
me completely? Am I giving off
pregnant vibes? Why do I care?
Safely beyond the metal detector,
Mom says, We’ve got an hour
before our flight. Want some
lunch? Lunch? Is she cracked?
I Decline
But she’s determined to leave
me sitting here alone by the gate.
Back in a few. If you change
your mind, I’ll be at the bar.
I get it now. She’s not hungry.
She’s “thirsty.” “Think that’s a good
idea? You don?
when you meet her, do you?”
I seriously think she’s an alcoholic.
She must be reading my mind,
because she half shouts, First of all . . .
Heads turn our direction. She lowers
her voice. I don’t plan to get drunk.
And I don’t think you have the right
to tell me how to live my life, or how
to meet my mother. I’m a grown-up, Mikayla.
Act like it, then. “Maybe you are.
But sometimes lately, I wonder.”
I Expect an Angry Retort
Instead, she smiles. Sometimes
I wonder too. Anyway, being
a grown-up isn’t all that much
fun. You might consider that
before you decide to become one
at seventeen. And off she goes.
I want to javelin insults at her.
She and Dad don’t seem to think
we hear them when they fight.
But no door in the world is thick
enough to insulate their vicious talk.
The other night I heard Dad scream
at Mom about fucking off on him.
He never uses that word, or at least
he never had before. I don’t know
if Mom is messing around, but I do
know she’s different. And I’m scared
that might mean they’ll get divorced.
Are All Relationships Cursed?
Must they all sputter to a bad end,
dismal failures? I’ve read that it’s
not human nature to stay faithful.
That people are little more than
animals with libidos incapable
of single-mate satisfaction. But
that can’t be right. I don’t need
anyone but Dylan. And I’m sure
he feels the same way about me.
Or at least, he did. He’s been
cool lately. But that’s because of
the baby, not because he’s seeing
someone else. Right? Suddenly,
inside my head, I hear Kristy’s
plugged-nose voice asking Dylan
if he was going to the lake today.
He promised he wouldn’t. Vowed
he wouldn’t. What good are vows if
the vowers don’t take them seriously?
God, Dylan, please don’t go.
Mom Gets Back
Just as they call our flight. We line
up like kids going to recess. Mom
stands behind me, leaking warm breath
tinted with tomato juice and vodka.
Bloody Marys for lunch is my guess.
And now, for no reason I can fathom,
she says, Anytime you want to talk,
I’m here for you, okay? We shuffle
down the Jetway, onto the plane. Talk?
About what? Relationships? Infidelity?
Stinking Tahoe barbecues? I’m actually
relieved when, ten minutes past takeoff,
Mom slips into uneasy sleep. Her head
tips to one side. A small moan escapes,
and her arms and legs twitch slightly.
Dreaming. I hate to think about what.
Las Vegas Is Insane
The taxi drives slowly along
the strip. The driver couldn’t
hurry if he wanted to. Saturday
traffic is ridiculous, and so are
the crowds cruising sidewalks,
casino to casino. “God, Mom.
Disgusting.” Billboards and
signboards and giant outside
televisions advertise bodies.
Come view them. Come screw
them. Flesh, everywhere you
look. Boobs. Butts. Girls. Guys.
We pull into the Venetian, where
Mom has booked our room. It’s
fabulous. Beautiful. Fake Italy.
Marble. Pillars. Crystal. Chandeliers.
Our room is a suite. “God, Mom . . .
A sunken living room, and did
you see the bathroom? Can we
stay an extra day?” Our house
is nice and all, but this is amazing.
Mom goes to call Sarah Hill, and
it hits me why we’re here. I tuck
all the craziness inside. I’ll save
it for another day. A different day.
As We Wait
For them to get here, Mom finally
looks nervous. It doesn’t take long,
thank goodness, or she’d be a wreck.
When they knock, she jumps a little.
Oh my God. There’s no doubt that
Sarah is Mom’s mother. The resemblance
is crazy, right down to her shaking
hands, one of which lights gently
on Mom’s cheek. I was afraid
this day might never come. I’m happy
we can know each other. She and Mom
stand there, searching for something
in each other’s eyes. Tia—Aunt Tia—
comes straight into the living room
without a word. She glances at me
and I see that she’s afraid. Of what,
I’m not sure. But I try to break the ice.
“Hi. I’m Mikayla. Awesome to meet you.”
It’s an Awkward Few Seconds
Of silence. But then Mom breaks
the inertia. Come on, she tells Sarah.
Your granddaughter can’t wait to meet
you. And we have some catching up to do.
And now there’s a wave of motion.
Hugs and greetings and sitting
and smiling, all of us doing our best
to relax in a very uncomfortable
situation. I bet Mom wants a Bloody
Mary. I bet Tia wants one, too. She’s got
an edge. Looking at her really closely,
she’s not a whole lot older than I am.
Midtwenties, maybe. And pretty. Not
as pretty as Mom, but almost. Even
though they don’t look that much alike,
they both look like Sarah. Especially
their eyes, which are almost turquoise.
Weird, what genetics can accomplish.
Now the Catching Up Begins
What they learn about us:
Dad is a high-powered lawyer
who keeps us well in a house
on a hill in northern Nevada.
Mom’s a loser. Okay, housewife
with three kids, workout queen
and wannabe romance writer.
I am a high school senior.
Dating an amazing guy.
(We omit the pregnant part.)
What we learn about them:
Sarah’s a preschool teacher,
twice divorced and dating
a “hot electrician.” Turns
out she fancies herself a poet.
Tia’s a social worker, married
to a prison guard. She’s a good
Christian who loves sports.
And (yikes!) is writing a novel.
Overdosing on Small Talk
I kind of space out—fall
asleep with my eyes open.
They’re talking about writing.
Poetry. Short stories. E-book
versus print publishing.
Blah, blah, blah. What I really
want to know right now is,
“Wasn’t it hard to give a baby
up for adoption?” How can
you give a piece of you away?
Sarah doesn’t blink. Not at
first. No one encouraged me
to keep her, and I just couldn’t
see doing it on my own.
Okay, I get that she didn’t
have a support system. Still,
“You said not at first. What
about later?” Did you miss her?
Later I regretted my decision.
She turns toward Mom. I’m sorry
I wasn’t stronger. The whole truth.
Tia
The Whole Truth
Is like a big old spoonful
of cough syrup. Hard to
gag down, but necessary.
I had absolutely
no
clue that I had a sister
somewhere. You’d think
Mom would want me
to have that kind of
information,
if only to avoid a surprise
of this magnitude. I came
here, convinced it was
a scam, and it still
might be,
but what’s become crystal
clear is that she and I
are related. What I don’t
know is if that’s good or
a really bad thing.
Shane
Bad Things
Happen to good people.
Isn’t that what they say?
What I’m confused about
is why. Hey, all-powerful Dude
in the sky! Why? I asked
Mom why God let Shelby live
at all, if this was the most
He was going to allow her.
I can’t speak for God, she said.
But I have thought long and hard
about this. Shelby has given us
a glimpse of human perfection,
because inside that flawed
body is a spirit untouched
by greed or artifice or hatred.
Shelby is the essence of love.
And so maybe the reason for
her short time here is to show
us how we might love better.
My first thought was “sermon.”
But later I noticed Dad join
Mom on the deck, watching
the city light up against
a falling curtain of night.
He put his arm around her
shoulder. Said something
I couldn’t hear. And then
they kissed. Gently at first,
then with passion, something
I thought was long dead to them.
So maybe Mom was right.
Maybe Shelby’s mission
was to teach us to love better.
It Is Early Morning
The light through the glass
is pallid. Weak, and yet enough