Tilt by Ellen Hopkins
What the hell am I thinking? Even if
she was okay with me talking about
hooking up with a guy, she has other
stuff on her mind, as evidenced by
her empty-eyed stare. Still, she tries,
What? Sorry. I was a million miles away.
“I know. Never mind. It’s not important.”
She nods, returns her gaze to the window.
I back away, leave her lost in her worry.
As soon as I’m out of earshot, I call Alex.
He’s working. Incommunicado until
six. I leave him a message. “I’ve been
thinking about you. About us. Can we
get together tonight? I really need you.”
Alex
Messages
Are like secrets. Sometimes
you totally don’t want to hear
them. Don’t want to discern
the razor-edged meaning they
can
slice you with. Sometimes
the number attached to
a voice-mail warning will
make
your breath turn thick
as marshmallow because
you know a single sentence
could make you smile
or
break
your heart, and so you hesitate
to retrieve it. Some messages infuse
personal shadow with light.
Others will annihilate
your
day.
Mikayla
Ruining My Day
Seems to be my dad’s summer
hobby this year. Okay, maybe—
just maybe—I deserved getting
grounded again for sneaking
out. Or maybe—just maybe—
I deserved it for getting caught
sneaking out. On the other hand,
I’m just shy of eighteen. Pretty
soon my parents won’t be able
to control my every move. Maybe
Dad should consider that before
he tries to rein me in so tightly.
Anyway, it’s not like I’m out
robbing banks or stealing cars.
(Well, technically I guess I’m
stealing my own, since I’m not
allowed to drive it when I’m
grounded.) All I want is to see
Dylan. God, three days away
from him and I freaking climb
the walls. Tonight, at least, is
Fourth of July. My family’s new
tradition is to combine fireworks
with a minor league baseball game.
The Reno Aces play at a stadium
right on the Truckee River, and
they shoot off giant sky sparklers
post-play. Dad got his usual
seats behind home plate, but
general admission people can
sit on the grassy hills above
the outfield. Dylan is a GA kind
of guy. My cell has been confiscated,
and I had to give back Bri’s when
I got busted with it, so I’m on the land
line, jelling things with Dylan. “See
you around six.” Just as I’m about
to hang up, I notice the phone status:
conference call. “Bri? Is that you?”
But it is not my sister who answers
me. It’s my pain-in-the-ass brother.
Nope. Not Bri. Oh, shit. Trace’s
interference has caused me to
get busted more than once. And
now I can hear him call down
the stairs, toward the family room,
Hey, Dad. Did you know Dylan
is coming to the game with us?
That brat needs to die. Now what
do I do? The best defense is a solid
offense, right? The plan was not
for Dylan to come to the game
with us (as my brother knows).
But maybe if I say it was, it will
defuse what just might be
an ugly situation. One day soon,
Trace will be very, very sorry.
I Plaster On
My most innocent, contrite face
and go see what I can do. Dad catches
me coming down the stairs. What’s
this about Dylan? He is most definitely
not coming with us to the game tonight.
What would make you think he was?
“I want you and Mom to get to know
him. I thought it would be a good way
to do that. Maybe then you wouldn’t be
so suspicious of him—or of us. We love
each other, Dad. And you’d like him,
too, if you’d just give him a chance.”
If I didn’t care about trying to make
this work, I might have to smile at the way
anger creeps, red, all the way up my dad’s
neck, igniting his face. I have absolutely no
desire to spend my day off getting to know
your derelict druggie boyfriend. He is yelling,
so I respond in similar fashion. “Dylan
is not a derelict. How can you call him
that when you haven’t ever even met
him? You are completely unfair!”
Suddenly, Mom slams in through the door,
dripping sweat from her morning run.
What is going on? she huffs. Do you
two know any other way to communicate?
Play it up! “Dad says Dylan can’t
come to the game with us tonight.”
You’re still grounded! Dad screams.
Grounded means no proximity to your
boyfriend, who, just by the way, is
the reason you’re grounded in the first
place. Why is this even an argument?
He looks at Mom for support and she has to
give it. Honey, this was supposed to be
a family evening. Dylan probably has plans.
“He does! He planned on hanging out
with me. Please, Mom. I haven’t seen
him in weeks. . . .” Slight exaggeration,
but still. “He’ll buy his own ticket
and everything. Don’t you get it? I have
to see him. I . . . I . . . am in love with him.”
You don’t know the first thing about
love! Dad is totally freaking out, leaking
spit like a lunatic. And if you believe
Dylan is in love with you, you’re crazy.
“Shut up, Dad. You think you know
everything.” Who the hell does he think
he is? “Why are you so fucking mean?”
God, that felt good. Almost as good as
seeing the crazy mad look on Dad’s face
right now. But, of course, Mom brings me
back to reality. Convinces me to apologize.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said ‘fucking.’”
Bizarrely
That makes him laugh. I mean,
like lock-him-up-in-an-asylum
hysterical laughter. Mom asks
what’s so funny, and he says,
She just reminds me of me is all.
I once said something similar to my
dad. The main difference being,
he kicked my ass. I don’t guess
I feel the need to kick your ass,
Mikayla. But regarding Dylan
and the game, my answer is still
the same. And until you show us
a little respect, as far as I’m
concerned, you’re still grounded.
God! He pisses me off. I want to say
more, but he turns on one heel
and leaves the room. Mom tries
to soothe my raw-edged nerves
by telling me she’ll see what she
can do about ungrounding me.
She’s So Playable!
Which works out well for me
when we get to the game. Dad
and my jerk-off brother go for
hot dogs. I give Trace a look
that lets him know without
a doubt if he says a word
about me, I’ll shove that foot-
long down his throat whole.
We’re early enough that the team
is signing autographs. My weird
little baseball-loving sister begs
to stand in the signing line, so
Mom goes along. Which offers
the perfect opportunity to go
find Dylan, who is waiting for
me on the right field walkway.
He stands out from the crowd—
tall and strong-muscled in his
shorts and tank top. Suddenly
I really wish we were somewhere
a lot more private than a ball
game on Fourth of July. But,
as my grandma often says,
half a loaf is better than none.
Turns Out
All we’ll get is a couple of stale
crusts. I am in Dylan’s arms,
kissing him for the first time in
way too many days, when all of
a sudden he goes completely stiff.
Uh, looks like we’ve got company.
I peel myself off him, turn to find
Mom glaring at me. Shit. Damn.
My first thought is to grab Dylan,
push him through the crowd to
the nearest gate. But then what?
Mom’s familiar “come hither” head
bob turns me to concrete. Flee?
Screw that. I have nowhere to go
but home. “Sorry. I love you.”
I love you, too, he says, all mopey
and cute. I kiss him goodbye like
they do in the movies. Dirty movies.
Dylan
Dirty Movies
Are the best I’m gonna do
tonight. Again. I never thought
whacking off would get old, but
after you’ve had the real deal,
all warm and creamy,
calloused
skin, too cool with lotion,
can’t measure up. And once
you’ve experienced the low
growl of building passion,
dubbed
moans and groans get annoying
really fast. And after you’ve
tasted authentic nipples, all sweet
with strawberry shower gel,
fake
boobs, no matter how giant
and airbrushed, kind of seem
like letdowns. No, once you’ve
made love with your amazing
girlfriend, getting off solo is
bullshit.
Shane
Making Love
For the first time is probably scary
for everyone. I’m totally terrified.
It’s been two days since I told
Alex that I think I’m ready.
He insisted I wait, to be sure.
Tonight is the Fourth of July.
Independence Day might seem
like a strange occasion to celebrate
my growing dependence on
Alex. Sex will bind us even tighter.
That isn’t what frightens me.
Neither does leaping so far into
adulthood. No, what scares
me is actually doing it. The act.
I’ve seen it done plenty in movies.
But they always get straight down
to business. It never looks
what you might call romantic.
I want Alex and me to be all about
romance. So okay, we start with
a sweet, long kiss. Let the sweet
melt like brown sugar from heating
desire. But once the ol’ heart starts
the kettle drum beating, then what?
Do I rip off my clothes? Rip off
Alex’s clothes? Do I let him do
the ripping, or expect they’ll find
a way to fall off on their own?
I guess I’m overthinking things,
but the little details worry the hell
out of me. And then, there are
the big ones—the ones they show
in the movies that don’t look very
romantic. God, I’m so confused.
The Closest I’ve Come
To doing any of this was an “almost”
with Marlon Dufrena—a hulking dude
with hands the size of baseball mitts.
Hands that scared the crap out of me.
I was fourteen and he was twenty,
and I understood his interest had nothing
to do with romance. I also knew
there was something not quite right
about a guy that old wanting to get
off with me. But I was curious. Hungry
for knowledge and for identity.
He was mostly hungry for ejaculation.
There were no dinners. No concerts.
Definitely no kissing. Just those
awful hands, grasping. Pushing.
Pulling. Insisting, after I’d said no.
He was bigger. I was quicker.
One kick, well-placed, slowed him
down long enough for me to run.
After, I almost decided to try straight.
Of Course, Going Straight
When you’re totally, unabashedly
born perfectly gay isn’t possible.
As much as I wanted to hide in
my closet, uh . . . not going to happen.
Which explains my online outlet.
The only hands I had to contend
with were my own. I trusted them
completely. But, like any red-
blooded human being, I wanted to
fall in love. Finally, I figured out
that love and sex don’t have to be
intertwined. But maybe, just maybe,
they can be. I’m damn sure willing
to give it a try, so I’ll work on not
overthinking the details, give up
all thought of control, see where
love will carry me tonight. Alex.
Damn. Why you? Okay, I know
there’s no such thing as forever.
So what can we be, in the now?
While Waiting
For Alex to pick me up, I go see
what Mom’s up to. Pass Dad, snoring
on the couch. God, does being home
always have to equal being drunk
for him? His liver must be pickling.
I mean, it’s only seven, and as far as
I can tell, he’s been dead to the world
for about three hours. Okay, maybe
I shouldn’t talk about bad habits.
But at least mine don’t make me
emotionally sterile. Hmm. Interesting
thought. Wonder if his venom
is some feeble attempt to feel. I hear
Mom futzing around in the kitchen.
Dinner for one, with me going out
and Dad asleep and Shelby noshing
from tubes. I clomp past the almost
corpse of my father. No need to tiptoe.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, watching her slide
a Lean Pocket into the microwave.
“That doesn’t look too appetizing.”
She turns, offers a lukewarm smile.
You’re kidding, right? This is gourmet.
Said with a not-silent t at the end.
“You gonna watch the fireworks?”
Our deck overlooks downtown Reno,
where they lob them skyward from casino
rooftops. When I was littl
to have July Fourth parties here. Back
BS—Before Shelby, whose lungs can’t
handle the slightest whisper of pollen-
heavy evening breeze. “Not much wind
tonight. And it’s warm.” I leave the hint
hanging. Shelby should see fireworks
at least once before . . . “Oh. There’s Alex.”
I give her a quick hug, duck out the door.
It Is, in Fact
A perfect evening, the wind hushed as the sun sinks
low to the west. I suck in a deep breath of jasmine-
scented air to quiet the chatter of nerves. When I open
the passenger door, peek in to say, “Hey . . . ,” I am struck
for about the billionth time by Alex’s Irish beauty—
black coffee hair over unblemished white skin. And
when he smiles, his emerald eyes glow. Hey back
at you. Get in. Excitement shades his voice. I’ve got
a surprise for you. When I ask—ridiculously—what
it is, all he says is, If you want to smoke, light up now.
Of course I want to smoke. Weed is the only thing
that will calm the churn in my gut. I share the blunt
without hesitation. Swapping spit doesn’t worry
me anymore. I researched again. Found out
what I needed to know. We end up downtown.
Alex stops in front of Harrah’s valet, pulls
a small suitcase from his trunk, hands the attendant
his keys and a five-dollar bill. He looks at me
expectantly. Come on. Wait until you see this!
We take the elevator to the twelfth floor,
and he tugs me down the hall, into a room.
He stops long enough to kiss me sweetly, then
gushes, Our first time should be memorable.
Look. We’ll be able to see the fireworks!
The big windows face toward the city’s heart.
“But how did you manage to get a room here
on the Fourth of July?” Not an easy thing. “And
how did you ever afford this?” I shake my head.
My aunt Katie has worked here forever.
She pulled some strings. And all those extra
hours I was working? For you. For us.
He kisses me again. This time, the sweet
segues quickly to thrilling. His hands
wind into my hair in a most primal way.
My heart beats crazy fast. Blood whooshes
in my ears and I cry out, “I love you.”
I regret the words for about two seconds.