Tilt by Ellen Hopkins
August. I have good friends,
including my excellent BFF, Bri.
Which leaves one thing missing.
My dad. I hardly ever get to see
him, even though he only lives
fifty miles away in stupid Fallon.
So This Weekend Visit
Was a surprise. When Dad called,
I swear I went all fan girl. (Can you
go fan girl over your father? Dumb.)
Hey there, Sugar, he said. I sure
have missed you. Want to come
out to the sticks for a couple of days?
My heart started hammering and,
for once, my smile turned real.
After I said, “Sure,” I added, “Daddy.”
I like to try and guilt-trip him that way,
not that it works. As far as I can tell,
he’s totally guilt free. The highway from
Carson to Fallon is flat and plain.
“I wish you didn’t live so far away
so I could see you more often.”
Dad keeps both hands on the steering
wheel and his eyes on the road. Glad
you said that. Looks like I’m moving
back to Reno. Cass . . . uh . . . my new
girl has a house there. And I landed
a job at Terrible’s. So I’ll be closer.
I’m all jumbled up. Happy, because
he’s going to live closer. A little scared,
because I don’t know what that means.
And a lot jealous. Dad has a girlfriend,
and this time it sounds serious. “You’re
moving in with her? How long have
you been seeing each other?” I ask, even
though it doesn’t matter at all. I stare out
the window as the power poles zip by
and try not to scrunch my nose at
Dad’s obnoxious cigarette-and-sweat
smell. I guess it’s been about six months
now. We met just before Christmas.
You’ll like her. She’s funny and sweet
and really cute. Not as cute as you, though.
Usually
I like when people say I’m cute.
But not when it feels tacked on.
And not when comparing me
to someone else. And especially
not when the someone doing
the comparing is my dad,
stacking my cuteness against
his new, serious girlfriend’s.
Anyway, cute is okay. But I’d
rather be pretty. Beautiful.
Hot. (Okay, not in my father’s
opinion. That’s just gross.)
I want boys to look at me like
they look at Brianna. It’s hard
having a best friend who draws
everyone’s attention when you
never do. I keep hoping some
of Bri will rub off on me, but
so far, no. Mom says I’m a late
bloomer. But it’s summer already.
Well, Officially
Summer is still two weeks away.
Maybe I’ll bloom by then.
Dad turns off the highway, zigs and
then zags and we pull onto a cracked
cement driveway. He doesn’t live
like a king, that’s for sure. The house
is a prefab, and an old one. The beige
siding is chipped and brown paint
peels from the eaves like scabs
leaving skin. Eww. Disgusting.
Bent chain link surrounds a yard
that looks like it once had grass.
A few green patches remain midst
the crusty brown stuff. “You should
water the lawn once in a while.”
But Dad is already out of the car
and headed toward the house.
He turns long enough to say,
Grab your stuff and come on.
Cassie is anxious to meet you.
She Stands in the Doorway
Tall and too thin and melon-boobed,
with long wavy hair the color
of fall scarlet maples. She
isn’t cute. She’s pretty.
She reaches for Dad
and they’re kissing
like people do in
the movies. I
can see their
tongues
moving
from here.
That part
grosses me
out. What’s
worse is how it
looks like they’re in
love. It’s not fair. How
can he love someone else
when he can’t find enough love
for me to keep me solidly in his life?
Mom’s right. He is one selfish bastard.
I Stuff All That Inside
Find my phony grin and go to meet
Dad’s new girl. As I get out of the car,
they stop the tongue dance. Thank goodness.
At least I don’t have to see it up close.
Hi! (Her voice is all breathy.) You must
be Harley. (Duh.) I’m Cassie. Well,
really Cassandra, but Cassie for short.
(Double duh.) She does have a nice
smile, though. What do I say that
she hasn’t already said? “Uh . . . hey.”
Cassie pokes Dad’s shoulder. You
didn’t tell me how gorgeous Harley is.
Gorgeous. A bit over the top, but I
have to admit it thaws me a little.
Come on inside and meet my son.
(Great. She probably wants me to babysit.)
Cassie holds out her hand and I don’t
know what else to do but take it. Her skin
is softer than I expected and when her
hair moves it smells like cinnamon over
tobacco. She tugs me gently across
the threshold. The place looks like a tornado
blew through, depositing clothes and
fast-food wrappers everywhere.
Sorry about the mess. Your dad isn’t
so good about picking up after himself.
That will have to change when he moves
in with me. Chad! Come say hi to Harley.
It takes a few seconds, but eventually
footsteps clomp down the hall. Heavy
footsteps. Either he’s a really big little kid
or Cassie is older than I thought. OMG!
Chad is maybe sixteen, tall like his mom,
and amazing, with hair the color of a shiny
new penny and superdark eyes that check
me out and make me feel all hot and weird.
They Also Make Me Feel
Not good enough. Like they’re
measuring me and I’m sure to
come up short, the way I always do.
I struggle to find my best real
smile and hiss an awkward, “H-hi.”
Cassie notices my stupid stammer
and crazy embarrassing blush.
She slides her arm around my
shoulder. Harley says she really
wants to learn how to ace World
of War. I told her you’re the best
gamer I know. You’ll teach her, right?
Now Chad smiles back at me.
Why not? That little bedroom
was getting claustrophobic.
He goes to turn on the PlayStation
and TV. Cassie winks and nudges
me toward the sofa. The gaming begins.
Chad
Gaming
Master the controller,
conquer the rules and
perhaps for the very first
time in your life, you savor
power. The learning curve
teaches
the value of patience.
Practic
when external discipline
has too often forced
you
down on your knees.
Virtual killing is safe passage
to the pleasure of revenge
when you don’t know
how to
get it any other way.
And when you too often
hear people shouting,
“You’re a loser,” kicking
cyber-butt convinces you
that you can
win.
Mikayla
No-Win Situation
That’s pretty much where you find
yourself when your uncle is the cop
who busts you at a party, stoned
out of your head. Okay, in a way
you win, because he hauls your butt
home instead of taking you to juvie.
But in lieu of institutionalized
lockup, you end up jailed at home.
I should be at Tahoe with Dylan
today. But, no. Dad grounded me
with no set release date. I’m not
even allowed to use my computer
or cell phone. Cut off completely
from the outside world, exiled to
my stupid house, what am I supposed
to do for entertainment? School
would be better than this. I could
pick a fight with Trace, but all that
would do is irritate Mom, who I’m
pretty sure has a hangover. Mom
is my only ally here. She acted all
put out about the party, but I could
tell it was mostly for Dad’s benefit.
She gave me a one-question quiz
about my drug use (deny, deny, deny).
Accepted my lame answer (win, win,
win). And the only thing she said
about my crooked clothes, smeared
makeup and obvious sex perfume
was to take a shower. Okay, she said
it twice. So I’m pretty sure she knew.
We’ve never had that mother-daughter
heart-to-heart you imagine is coming.
I guess, since they start teaching sex
stuff in, like, fourth grade, she figures
she doesn’t need to worry about details.
Of course, Mom is so wrapped up in
herself lately (not to mention pretty
buzzed when she walked in on the scene),
maybe she didn’t notice anything at all.
God, I Miss Dylan
Okay, it’s only been a couple
of days, but it feels like forever.
He’s everything, and all I can think
about right now is how we made love
that night. We had messed around
lots of times before, but it had never
seemed quite like this—much more
about making each other feel good, less
about just having sex. Maybe it was
the Southern Comfort, or the weed
(green and so stony!), or the two
together. But when we took off our clothes
in the back of his Wrangler, skin
raked by cool claws of moonlight,
insane, hot need grabbed hold
of me. All I wanted was his mouth
and tongue kissing me all over
my body. I was wild for it, really.
And that was very new. I think
it kind of scared him, although
he liked the things it made me do.
Things you don’t learn. Things
you just intuit, like you’re born
to do them. Threads in the silk
of womanhood. I feel like a woman
now. It’s weird, because when you
read about sex, or see it in movies,
they work so hard to make it seem
great that it sort of feels like fiction.
But this was not playacting or words
lifted off a page. This was real,
and when we reached that ultimate
peak, it was nothing I’d ever
experienced before. We seriously
both went, “Wow,” in unison.
And then we both laughed. Together.
Afterward, I wasn’t in a hurry to
get dressed. Which explains why,
when the cops showed up, I think
Uncle Stan caught a glimpse of my boobs.
If I Keep Reliving
That night, I’m going to go apeshit.
I’d watch TV, but Brianna has got
some god-awful baseball game on.
What kind of thirteen-year-old girl
is in love with the San Francisco Giants?
When they won the World Series,
after all those dreadful years, I swear
I thought she’d totally cry. She’s
cheering now, so they must have scored.
I guess I could read, but I don’t have
a book I’m currently interested in.
Looks like it’s solitaire or . . .
My eyes settle on a magazine, lying
on the kitchen table. On the cover
is a collage of pictures—kids, adults. Families.
The caption says: Technological Tools
for Birth Family Searches. I flip to
the article, which is all about how social
networking is reuniting adoptees
with their birth parents. Mom is adopted,
and over the years, she has made half-
hearted attempts to connect with
the people who created her. Each
time, she has come away disappointed.
But I’m betting she never tried Facebook.
As I read, she shuffles into the kitchen.
Usually by now she’s run five miles
and showered, which is why I’m thinking
she had a little too much to drink last
night. Whatever. Everyone needs to party
once in a while. “Have you ever thought
about trying this?” I hold out the magazine.
“I mean, c’mon, Mom. No-brainer.”
She skims the article. Shakes her head.
I barely know how to update my status.
I’d have no idea how to start.
“You want to know where you came
from, right?” She shrugs. Looks kind
of confused. “I’ll help, Mom.” At least
I won’t croak from boredom. “Tell me
what you know about your birth parents.
No names, right?” She shakes her head.
Your grandma told me they were from
Elko and my mother got pregnant
in high school. Grandma, meaning
Mom’s adopted mother, who kind of
defined the word bitch. “So you were
born in . . .” Some quick calculations
net a scary fact. “God, Mom, you’re
going to be forty.” In less than two
months, my mother will officially be
over the hill, no matter how good
she looks for her age. Don’t remind me.
I can almost see the Grim Reaper.
So Not Funny!
“Mom! Don’t say that!” The idea gives
me goose bumps. “You are not allowed
to die. Ever!” She reminds me of
a lioness, with tawny skin and golden
eyes. I wish I looked more like her
and less like Dad, though I’m pretty
sure I don’t have to worry about
going bald and he definitely does.
“Okay, I think I know what to do
first. . . .” Mom lets me use my laptop
to start my research. I’m looking
for Elko High’s Facebook page when
Dad barrels through the door, all pissy
&nbs
me. Goes off. What the hell are you
doing online? Shut that down.
Mom Jumps to My Defense
Which only makes him madder still.
Now he’s yelling about how stupid
Mom is to take a chance on hurting
herself with another pointless search,
and how she doesn’t need anyone
but us to love her, anyway. I can see
her struggle not to turn this into
a major fight. Why should it be
an argument at all? Mom defuses
his anger a little, but as he stalks off,
griping about his day, she tells me to log
off. No use irritating your father more.
“Fine! But it’s so not fair. Why does
he have to be such a jerk?” Her eyes
go all sympathetic, so I ask, “Can I call
Dylan? Just to say hello?” She almost
says no, but when I prod her with
a question about remembering love,
she capitulates. I’m feeling smug.
Until I notice my brother eavesdropping.
Trace
Smug
That’s the expression stamped
into my sister’s face. But
here’s the thing about
feeling
like you’ve got the world by
the tail. Grab hold and tug,
sometimes you get bitten. A
superior
intellect than my sister’s
is at work here—my own.
The information I’ve just learned
might
offer me some advantage
in the future. Or, play the cards
much differently, it could
result in
a shitload of current fun.
Choosing the “now” might
very well bring
disappointment.
But waiting for the “later”
stokes my impatience.
Decisions. Decisions.
Shane
I Hate Decisions
Especially the little ones, like what to wear
for a first date. Weird, in a way, to call it that.
But that’s what it is—a boy date. Alex and I
are finally going to meet in person. If we don’t
hate each other at initial sight, we’ll have dinner
and go to a concert. Okay, since he bought
the tickets already, we’ll probably go even if
we decide we can’t stand each other. Don’t think