rolled. Except when he lights
it, it doesn’t smell like tobacco.
“Um. Is that marijuana?”
He takes a big puff. Holds
it in and says, around the smoke,
Really excellent weed. Want
some? He offers me the cigarette.
I shake my head. “No thanks.”
It’s not exactly a shock, I guess.
Wonder if the skunky smell
will attract skunks. Wonder if
it would scare away a bear.
You’ve never smoked weed?
You should. It makes all the bad
crap kind of disappear. You know?
Other than worrying about
bears, there isn’t a lot of bad
crap bothering me. But if I took
it, would it make him like me?
I Know It’s Stupid
I’ve got the information I need
to make a wiser choice. I’ve been
raised better, and understand I have
an alcoholic father. I am programmed
to say no. So why do I say, “Okay”?
I reach for the cigarette. But what
now? I’ve never smoked anything.
Never even tried. I watched Chad
inhale and hold it. I try a little puff.
Don’t want to cough and look
even dumber than I feel. Smoke
crawls across my tongue. Creeps
down my throat. Not much taste
at all. Good thing I didn’t suck in
more. This little taste wants out.
Chad notices my struggle. Don’t
let it out yet. That’s good shit.
Don’t waste it. Finally, I have no
choice but to release the tainted
air from my lungs. Now what?
Shouldn’t I feel dizzy? At least
a little blurry? I don’t feel a thing.
You might not feel much. Usually
you have to do it a few times to
catch a buzz. Chad the psychic
takes another drag. But once you
do, you’ll never go back to straight.
“You mean, you’ll just stay high?”
His frosty-eyed glare informs me
that was an idiotic thing to ask.
Disgust weighs his sigh. No. What
I mean is that you’ll want to just
stay high. Wish I always could.
To make the bad crap disappear.
He has experienced more than I.
So why do I take another puff?
Five Puffs Later
The cigarette is a tiny stump Chad
calls a roach. Each inhale got easier,
as if my throat and lungs decided
resistance was futile. I’m not sure,
but I might even feel a little fuzzy
around the edges. At the very least,
I feel a little braver. Brave enough
to walk arm-touching-arm with Chad
as we head back toward camp, soaking
up the warm August night. He doesn’t
seem to mind, so I grow even bolder.
“Do you think I’m ugly or something?”
That seems to amuse him. He snorts.
No. Why? He keeps walking, so I put
a hand on his arm to stop him. “Why
haven’t you ever tried to kiss me?”
It just wouldn’t be the right thing
to do. You’re like my little sister.
Chad
The Right Thing
Has never exactly been
my thing. But once in a while
something like moral fiber
threads through me, weaves
a web
around my heart. She would
be so easy. Look at the way
she tried to please me, back
there in the woods. But a rush
of affection
overtook me suddenly. I care
about her. Not that I’d confess
it. I even feel a little guilty
about the weed. How
can
I reconcile this feeling with
what I’ve always thought about
love—that it’s really either bullshit
or lust in disguise? You can’t
fix
a shattered glass with superglue.
I’d say the odds are slim that
a makeshift family can repair
a broken
childhood.
Mikayla
Childhood
I think childhood is something
you really don’t appreciate until
it’s been taken from you. When
you’re really little, it’s all you know.
There is good and bad, and hopefully
the former outweighs the latter.
But since adulthood looks so very
far away, there’s no reason to worry
about it. As you get older, you start
to think about certain freedoms
attached to growing up. Riding
your bike solo to the store. Going
skating or to the movies with just
your friends, no parents allowed.
Sleepovers first without, then with
Truth or Dare. Still, for most, there
is an innocence in that, reflective
of lingering childhood. Then, new goal:
that magic number sixteen. Driving
can take you many places—both toward
and away from the heart of family.
Mostly, you want to come home. But
then you start considering eighteen.
No more parental intrusion. You can
be on your own. Except, I’m pretty
sure, it isn’t as great as it seems.
I haven’t celebrated that birthday.
Have a whole year left in high school.
But one little mistake (no, a major mistake)
has stolen my childhood from me.
You can’t be a parent and still be
a child, except if you limit that term
strictly to age. Childhood is supposed
to be about fun. Pretty sure I’m not
going to have a whole lot of that
for quite some time to come.
I’ve Researched
Until my eyes blurred and my head
ached. Everything. Abortion. Adoption.
Teenage motherhood. I’ve read case
studies. Statistics. Personal stories.
I really don’t think I could be more
informed. Yet I still can’t seem to make
a decision. The fetus is now an embryo,
which doesn’t deny a surgical solution.
But psychologically, it makes that idea
so much harder. I can’t sleep. Still can’t
eat much without losing it all first thing
in the morning. They say eating crackers
in bed before you move your head from
the pillow is supposed to help. But all
that does is make me puke Saltines.
Morning sickness is supposed to go
away by the start of the second trimester.
So, one way or the other, I’ll get over it.
Meanwhile, I’ll Keep Puking
That’s how my mom found me
last week. When she knocked on
the bathroom door, I tried to flush
the evidence, wash the stench
from my mouth. She already
knew. I looked like crap, that’s
for sure, but I didn’t think
she’d say, So, it’s true.
I started to deny it. “What’s
true?” If she knew, I thought,
she’d be angry. But her eyes held
only certainty. “Who . . . who told you?”
My legs got all sha
ky. When I
started to fall, she caught me,
tried to still my quaking body.
Doesn’t matter. What’s important
is that you don’t make any hasty
decisions. How far along are you?
Do you have any idea? I nodded
against her elevated heartbeat.
“I’ve missed two periods. At first
I thought no way. . . .” I told her about
the two two-blue-line tests. Halfway
through my confession, I started
to cry. Stupid. Tears. I hate being
weak. “Dylan says he’ll pay for an
abortion. But I don’t know if I can do
that. But I don’t know what else to do. . . .”
What she said was not what I wanted
to hear. I know the idea of an abortion
is distasteful. But you’re only seventeen.
Having a baby would . . . impact your life.
Distasteful! Impact my life? I gave
her a hard shove. “No shit! Jesus,
Mom. I’m pregnant, not stupid.
I’ve thought and thought about this.
Abortion is more than distasteful.
It’s kind of murder. This is up to me,
not you. And anyway, when did you
decide to play mother again?”
Totally Overboard
But, you know, I have a good excuse.
And the fact is, she has been absent
lately. Writers’ groups and extremely
late nights out with friends. Sounds
like a regular midlife crisis to me. But
what do I know about turning forty?
Clicking the dial to eighteen is way
too much for me. Especially pregnant.
Argh! Today, for a change, I’m hungry.
Maybe close to starving. Not sure if
that shift is good or bad. Next thing
you know I’ll weigh two hundred pounds.
Whatever. I go to the kitchen, rummage
around in the fridge for something
that looks appetizing. What I’m craving
is fruit. But no sign of peaches or
strawberries or watermelon. Only
some lunch meat, a hunk of aging cheese
that has def seen better days. Yogurt.
Out of date. “Damn it, Mom. When
was the last time you went to the store?”
What’s wrong? It’s Bri, come to
fight me for the meager food supply.
I think there’s stuff in the freezer.
She watches me wade through
frozen waffles—crusted with ice.
Meatball sandwiches—upchuck food.
Frozen Chinese. Frozen Italian.
I start tossing stuff into the sink.
Into the trash. I empty the refrigerator.
Start on the freezer. Out of control,
but so what? “Not a single fucking
edible thing! Thanks for nothing.”
Bri’s eyes go wide and she yells,
Just because you’re pregnant
doesn’t mean you get to be a bitch!
She Knows!
Now Mom Notices
Trace
Stunned
What happened to my family
when I wasn’t looking? Too
busy playing video games,
and apparently paying
no
attention to the weirdness.
I pride myself on my ability
to grasp the tiniest details of
news
no one wants to share.
How, then, can my sister
be pregnant and thinking
about a procedure that
is
obviously not what she wants
to do? I could see that in
her eyes. That, and fear. It’s
good
that she’s afraid. But, hey,
Mom promised me drivers’
training if I keep quiet
about this unhappy
news
and don’t share it with Dad
for now. Booyah! Score.
Shane
First Week
Of my junior year, and everything
feels different. Incredible. I won’t
see Alex at school. He’s still at
Manogue, though he tried to talk
his parents into public school for
his last semester. They insisted
he finish out in college prep mode.
You’d think they would have jumped
at the idea. Catholic high school
college prep costs an arm and a leg,
or maybe even two of each. Oh, well.
Doesn’t matter. Alex and I are attached,
heart to heart. Last Sunday, he came
to the door, holding a teensy white kitten.
Look what I found. Someone dumped
her off in the sage next to my house.
I’d keep her, but we already have
three cats. Can you take her?
I almost said no. We’ve never
had pets. Too worried about Shelby
and dander. But I swear that kitten
looked me in the eye and begged,
“Please?” Okay, it was more like Mew,
but she aimed that little entreaty
straight at me. “I don’t have any
food or a doo-doo box, or anything.”
Alex grinned. I stopped by Petco
on the way over. He offered the kitten
to me like the best gift ever. As
soon as I touched her silky fur,
I was hooked. I’ve been hiding
Gaga in my room ever since.
It’s been two days. So far, so good.
It’s like she knows she has to be quiet.
New Boyfriend, New Kitten
New car. Well, it’s a used car,
but it’s new to me. Dad finally
helped me get my license. Then
he took me to the Kia dealer
and helped me pick out
a previously owned Sportage.
You want an all-wheel drive
around here, and Kias have
a great track record, he said.
The AWD is nice. But the car
is really sharp. Red. Black interior,
neat as a pin, except for a few
fast-food wrappers—all on me.
Even if it was a piece of junk,
though, it’s mine. If I had money
for gas, I could get in it and
just keep driving. Next summer,
I think I’ll do that. Take a road
trip somewhere I’ve only seen
in pictures. The Grand Canyon.
Disneyland. Seattle, maybe.
Wonder how Gaga would
like riding in a car. Wonder
if Alex and I will still be together
then. I can’t imagine us breaking
up. But his parents are pressuring
him to choose a college. Hopefully
Ivy League. I’ll be here, he’ll be
somewhere else. Nightmare. God!
I’ve got to quit overthinking things.
One day, one week, one month
at a time. Today I’ve got to think
about Algebra Two and chemistry.
Talk about a nightmare! I pull into
a student parking space, try to center
the Sportage as much as possible.
Door dings suck. Used to be I’d try
to maintain a low profile to avoid
the inevitable “there goes the gay
guy” looks. This year, I’ve found pride.
It’s Only Been a Couple of Days
Since school started up again.
But I think it’s working—shoulders
back, head tilted up so I
can look
people straight in the eye. Even jocks.
That could backfire. When a gay guy
locks eyes with a jock, things often
go badly. But hell. I’m taking a chance.
Sick of backing down from jackasses.
I smile and wave at peeps I know.
Chin tip the ones I don’t, who bother
to glance in my direction. A couple
look surprised. Others actually
chin tip back. Damn, keep this up,
I might wind up a jock, too. Heh.
Yeah, right. PE is the stuff bad
dreams are made of. I’ve already
fulfilled the requisite four semesters.
If I never smell locker-room sweat
again it will be much too soon.
Onward and upward, BO-free.
Algebra and Chem
Aren’t so bad. Both teachers are cool,
and Tara is in chemistry with me.
We sit in the back, passing notes.
HEY. WHEN DO I GET A RIDE IN
YOUR CAR? OR SHOULD I BE SCARED?
“AFTER SCHOOL? I’LL DRIVE YOU
HOME. AND BE VERY, VERY SCARED.”
Class is over and I’ve got one foot out
the door when my cell vibrates. It’s Gram,
who finally broke down and got her own cell
after years of refusing to own one.
Shane, honey . . . Tension edges her voice.
We’re taking Shelby into the ER.
Her color is awful and your mom’s
worried. I was hoping you could get hold
of your father. I tried calling him, but
can’t get past his voice mail. Your mom . . .
well, I think she needs his support.
Can you text him or something?
I Break a Small Sweat
This isn’t Shelb’s first trip to Emergency,
but something about this feels different.
I text Dad: CALL MOM OR GRAM RIGHT NOW.
PLEASE, DAD. SOMETHING’S GOING ON WITH
SHELBY. SOMETHING BAD. The bell rings
and I jump from my chair. “I have to go.”
I barely hear Tara call, What’s wrong?
No time to answer, no time for excuses,
I run to the parking lot, search for my car.
Where the hell did I park it? There it is. Now
I fumble the keys. Why am I so nervous?
Everything will be fine, right? Please, God.
Oh, shit. This isn’t because of Gaga, is it?
Some kind of reaction to kitten dander?