Tilt

  if it involves underage drinking,

  illegal substances and the possibility

  of sex. This is the first party of

  the summer. I plan on an all-nighter.

  Which means I can’t say I’m going

  out with Dylan. So I invented a sleep-

  over at Emily’s. “Hey, Mom,” I call

  toward her bedroom. “I’m leaving

  now.” I grab my backpack and keys,

  start toward the door. I’m almost there

  when my brother comes out of the kitchen,

  yacking down a sandwich. Emily’s,

  huh? Trace checks out my shorts,

  the scoop of my tank. God, man,

  you look like a Fourth Street hooker.

  “When were you on Fourth Street?

  Anyway, know what they call a guy

  who looks at his sister’s attributes

  like that? Pervert.” His face turns

  the color of ripe watermelon flesh.

  Ka-ching! Got him. Trace is fifteen

  and never been kissed. At least, I’m pretty

  sure he hasn’t been. It’s not like I follow him

  around, and it’s not like he’d go

  bragging about it if he had. Trace is

  the so-quiet-you-have-to-wonder-what-

  he’s-hiding type. Except, that is, when

  it comes to ragging on me. “Tell

  Mom I said bye, okay?” I escape into

  the gentle warmth of late afternoon

  June. The party won’t start until after

  dark. But I don’t have to wait that long

  to see Dylan. He’s picking me up at

  Em’s. I see it as a French vanilla lie.

  Not totally white. But close enough.

  Emily’s Parents Aren’t Home

  So I don’t bother with the doorbell. “Hello?”

  No response but a meow from Monster Cat.

  Ah, now I hear giggling behind her bedroom

  door. She’s either on the phone or not alone.

  I probably shouldn’t barge in. Tyler’s probably

  in there, too. Instead, I text Dylan. HEY, BABY.

  COME GET ME. Just as he says he’s on his way,

  Emily comes out of her room, adjusting clothes,

  hair mussed and makeup smeared. Good call.

  “I take it Ty’s here?” They’ve been going

  out for almost a year. Serious love.

  Uh, no, actually. It’s not Tyler. It’s Clay.

  The look she gives me is half challenge,

  half plea. Last time I looked, Clay happened

  to be going out with our mutual friend,

  Audrey. “Hey, I won’t tell.” But I can’t

  believe she’d cheat on Tyler. “Did you and

  Ty have a fight or something?”

  She smiles. Nothing like that. I just

  wanted to try something different is all.

  Something Different?

  God, I’m glad Dylan is everything

  I need. Two horn blasts tell me he’s outside,

  waiting. “Are you coming to the party later?”

  I don’t ask, “Are you coming with Tyler or Clay?”

  Probably. She grins. Depending.

  Whatever. All I really care about

  right now is Dylan. My pulse picks

  up speed as I hurry down the walk

  to his shiny green Jeep. He always

  keeps the Wrangler spotless. When

  he sees me, he gets out and waits,

  and his perfect smile spreads across

  his incredible face. God, he’s amazing—

  bronze skin beneath too-long blond

  hair that makes him look like a little boy.

  Well, except for the fact that he’s six

  foot two and buff as hell. He opens

  his arms. I give a little jump, and

  he’s holding me and we’re kissing.

  His lips are smooth and he tastes like

  peppermint. And I never want to stop.

  But he does. And he says, I love you.

  Three Words

  And everything bad in my life

  melts away. I look into the turquoise

  deep of his eyes. “I love you, too.”

  I tangle my hands into his hair,

  pull his face into mine for another

  kiss, this one hotter than the last.

  A passing car beeps going by.

  Dylan draws back, laughing.

  Maybe we should get a room?

  “Maybe.” We could probably

  get one inside. But then Dylan

  would find out about Clay.

  He and Tyler are friends.

  “Let’s get something to eat.

  Not good to drink on an empty

  stomach.” Experience has

  taught me that. Dylan agrees.

  But before he detaches himself

  totally from me, he slips a hand

  down the scoop of my tank.

  Can’t wait to kiss these, too.

  Dylan

  Can’t Wait

  To get her all alone,

  pull her nakedness into

  me, silk skin slick against

  my own, eliciting

  the proper reaction.

  She

  smells like summer

  wildflowers, as if

  they were woven into

  her hair and crushed

  by the weight of our love.

  Tastes

  like strawberry pie,

  thick drizzles of whipped

  cream melting down over

  luscious ripe fruit.

  I could lick her all day.

  Of

  all the girls to inhabit

  my dreams, she is the one

  I want to stay there,

  a shimmer of winter

  beneath the heat of

  summer.

  Shane

  Thank God It’s Summer

  I thought I’d never drag myself

  through the last few weeks of school.

  It wasn’t the work or the struggle

  to pull exceptional grades.

  It wasn’t even the gay-bashing.

  I got used to that in grade school,

  before I even knew for sure I was

  gay. Somehow, a few other people

  sensed it, like coyotes sniffing out

  a pack misfit. Something weak.

  Something that needs culling.

  Coyotes hunt in packs, and so do

  assholes. There’s safety in numbers,

  especially when attacking prey

  that’s bigger. I’m pretty big, and

  one-on-one I can hold my own,

  queer or no. But facing down

  a posse of pricks requires charisma.

  Intelligence. The ability to redirect

  negative energy toward something

  more deserving—the fast approach

  of a teacher, or a cheerleader’s barely-

  there skirt. I am an expert bad mojo

  shifter. But that has nothing to do

  with why I’m glad it’s summer.

  What’s Got My Tightie Whities

  All bunched up is my sixteenth birthday

  in two weeks. Give me a car, everything

  about my life will move into the plus column.

  I’m sick of bumming rides with my own pack

  of losers and freaks. Not that I mind the perks—

  a regular supply of weed and the occasional snort.

  But I need a reliable way out of this house,

  which reeks of rubbing alcohol and dirty diapers.

  The stink permeates everything, despite the incense

  I keep burning behind my bedroom door. Cherry.

  Vanilla. Sandalwood. A thick combination. None

  of it can disguise the smell of Shelby. My sister

 
is four, and though her doctor says it’s a miracle

  a kid with Type I SMA has lived this long, I don’t

  see it that way. She will never walk. Never even

  sit up on her own. Her muscles are wasting away.

  And the most vicious thing of all about spinal

  muscular atrophy is the disease lets her think.

  Lets her feel. Lets her attempt communication,

  though the best she can manage is pigeonlike coos.

  Trapped inside that useless body is a beautiful spirit,

  one that deserves to fly, untethered. Instead,

  it is earthbound, jailed by flesh. Fed by tubes.

  Lungs pumped free of snot. Miracle? In hell,

  maybe. Then again, this house is a lot like hell.

  My parents despise each other, but don’t dare

  divorce. I mean, what would the neighbors think?

  Mom is so hung up on caring for Shelby

  that she has lost all her friends. No one calls.

  No one comes over, not even Aunt Andrea.

  Dad spends all his time at work. And when

  he actually has to come home, he makes sure

  to get in very late and sleep in the guest room.

  He hardly ever talks to Mom. And when he

  wastes a few words on me, it’s almost always

  some snarky remark about queers. Dad hates

  me, too. At least Mom accepts who I am,

  or claims to. I don’t know if she’s really that

  open-minded, or just can’t stand the thought

  of losing her other kid. Shelby doesn’t have

  a lot more time here. Despite its omnipresent

  proximity, her death will devastate Mom.

  And So

  My desire for regular escape.

  My best friend, Tara, usually

  provides it. But her parents

  are touring Europe. Without her.

  So she’s spending the summer

  with her aunt Dee in San Francisco.

  Tara and I have been friends since

  before I outed, and she was the first

  person I told. Well, duh, was what

  she said. I’ve known that forever.

  “Really? How come you still hang

  out with me? I don’t embarrass you?”

  It’s who you are. And I love who

  you are. Just the way you are.

  Tara is a big reason I am proud

  of who I am. She’s smart. Pretty.

  If she can love me, other people

  can, too. Exactly the way I am.

  I Actually Met Tara

  In Sunday school. When I was a kid,

  Dad was a decent Christian. I’d say

  it’s funny his name is Christian, except

  his parents were hard-core Methodists,

  who named him that for a reason.

  Tara and I were drawn to each other

  right away, like we knew we were

  destined to be friends, even though

  we were only eight. That was B.S.,

  of course—Before Shelby. Mom

  was all about having a little girl,

  something I didn’t understand. All

  women want daughters, Tara counseled,

  as if she could know that in second grade.

  Don’t be jealous. You’ll always have me.

  Except for today. And there are things

  I want to tell her. Developments.

  I text her: INTERESTING STUFF GOING

  ON. CALL ME WHEN YOU GET UP, OKAY?

  I don’t say I think I’ve met someone great.

  I Want Her Opinion

  And I really want out of here.

  Later, I’ll call someone for a ride.

  Somewhere. Anywhere. For now,

  I’ll distract myself with some

  fine medicinal green and a little

  porn of the guy-on-guy variety.

  You can get anything you

  want online. It’s crazy, really.

  All you have to do is lie and say

  you’re eighteen. Well, you need

  a credit card, but I borrowed one

  of Dad’s once when he passed

  out, totally drunk, before lunch.

  That’s not a rare occurrence.

  This time, I managed to store

  the numbers from one of his Visa

  cards on my computer. Pretty

  sure it wasn’t one of his company

  expense account cards, or I’d

  have heard about it by now.

  Then again, maybe Dad has

  a porn allowance. Don’t most

  mega-corporation vice presidents?

  Whatever. So far, I’ve had no

  problem at all satisfying

  my sleaze curiosity. These

  guys have freaking amazing

  bodies, especially Mr. Top. God!

  If I ever have that kind of sex,

  I hope it’s with someone like him.

  Okay, kind of unrealistic, but

  still. So far, I haven’t had any

  kind of sex, with any kind of guy.

  Nothing but fantasy boinking.

  I’m saving myself for true love.

  And that’s never easy to find.

  Till Cupid Comes Calling

  I’ll make do with this. I finish

  off a fat blunt and am almost ready

  to finish myself off when I hear

  footsteps come down the hallway.

  Clip-clip. Clip-clip. They pause

  at my door. Shit. Not now, Mom.

  My window is cracked, but it reeks

  in here and I really don’t need grief.

  Shane! A fist volley tests the wood.

  Open up right this minute! I stay quiet.

  I’m not leaving until you open the door.

  Quiet. I know how to unlock it, you know.

  What the hell. If she insists on

  being privy to my every move,

  fine. I don’t even turn off the movie.

  “Yes, Mother? What can I do for you?”

  She blows through the door, stomps

  to my desk, double-takes the roach,

  still leaking a thin stream of stink.

  What, exactly, do you think you’re doing?

  It’s comical how she stands there,

  hands on hips, pretending to be

  tough. I try to hold the laughter

  back, but it snorts from my mouth.

  “I would think that’s obvious, Mom.

  I’m smoking weed and checking out

  a little guy-on-guy action.” She never

  even noticed! Her eyes go wide at

  Mr. Top drilling Mr. Bottom. God,

  Shane! She clicks the mouse and

  the screensaver pops up as she launches

  a rant about how am I paying for porn

  and pot and now she’s onto Grandma’s

  good china, which I remind her she

  never uses anyway. But when I joke

  about hooking her up with my connection,

  she rails about not smoking in the house

  and asks if I want to kill my sister.

  “No, Mom. I don’t want to kill her.”

  Deep breath. “But I wish God would.”

  Too Far

  I pushed too far. Mom’s face goes

  white and she folds up into herself.

  I know you don’t mean that

  is all she says, before leaving

  me listing in a wake of sadness.

  I wish I didn’t mean it. But I do.

  I love my sister. Wish her inner

  light could somehow make her whole.

  But her only chance at perfection

  is on the far side of death. And until

  that door opens for her, those of us left

  on this side can’t get on with living again.

  Instead, we stumbl
e through our days,

  barely connecting, and when we do,

  it’s often with misplaced anger.

  Happiness seems just out of view.

  I won’t find it here. But that doesn’t

  stop me from searching elsewhere.

  Lately I’ve Been Searching Online

  It’s not like I can reasonably look

  for a boyfriend at school. Same-sex

  hand-holding is frowned upon at Reno

  High. And while I don’t exactly

  hide my queerness, I don’t flaunt

  it, either. Anyway, if heteros can

  find love on the web, I don’t

  know why I can’t, too. I’ve cyber-

  met several, weeded out the total

  pervs and ding-your-warning-

  bell creepsters. That left a few

  possibilities, which I’ve narrowed

  down to one incredible boy.

  Alex is seventeen, smart as hell,

  and his webcam shows him Goth-hot.

  I hope when we meet in person

  that he likes me as much for real

  as he seems to like me online.

  Alex

  When We Finally Meet

  How much do I confess?

  Our bond is tenuous.

  Frail as a drift of moon-

  light on open sea.

  Would

  the truth crash us

  apart? Some secrets

  can’t be kept too long.

  No matter how hard

  you

  try to hide them, sooner

  or later, they scurry out

  from your cupboards,

  cockroaches on the

  run.

  No way to grow closer

  with deceit wedged

  between us. Should I tell?

  Or should I hide it

  away?

  Harley

  I Hide Hurt

  Behind a fake smile. I wear

  it all the time. Everyone says how

  I always look so cheerful.

  Shows what they know, I guess.

  Not that things are so bad.

  When I think of little kids starving

  in Africa, or old people freezing

  to death, my life seems pretty good.

  Mom’s got a decent job at DMV.

  There’s plenty of food in the fridge.

  I wear semi-nice clothes, and I’ve got

  stuff—a cell, an iPod, a laptop.

  School is okay, at least up till

  now. I start high school end of