Tilt

  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?