I’ve never had a taste for alcohol.
Too hard to get buzzed on
without getting busted.
Plus, I hate what it’s done
to my father. But screw it. This
is a special day. Vodka, right. You can’t
smell it as bad. I take a big gulp. Yech.
Still, I take another. And one
more. Enough. I don’t want
to get wasted. Just brave.
I don’t tell anyone I’m leaving, but
get into my car and head toward the freeway.
I want to go fast and I do, windows open
to let any idea of God out. Holy
shit. Ninety mph is flying.
Alex
Any Idea
Of Shane reconsidering,
at least right away, goes up
in figurative smoke when
he shows up at my door
wasted
and unannounced. My good
Catholic family is loudly sharing
our old-fashioned Friday fish
dinner and it takes a few
minutes
for us to recognize the doorbell.
I volunteer to answer it and
my first thought when I see
Shane is how did he get here? He
can’t
have driven over, right? Not in
this shape—hair wind-mussed,
eyes freaky wide, and smelling
like weed and booze. He must
be
out of his mind, and I won’t
let him in like this. I lead him
to my car, shove him inside,
praying the Shane I love can be
reclaimed.
Harley
Praying
Is something I’ve never done.
It’s as foreign to me as Somalia,
as is the concept of God. Gramps
was raised Jewish, and Gram
a Protestant, whatever that is.
Gram told me that when they met,
they embarked on a “search for
deeper meaning,” trying paganism
and Buddhism and Wicca, winding up
mostly agnostic. Mom never took
me to church, never tried to provide
me with faith. Dad, well, Dad pretty
much only believes in himself, plus
a small measure of Cassie thrown
in. So I think it’s really kind of weird
that Dad and Cassie will say, “I do”
in a church. What’s even weirder,
and a little creepy, is it’s the same
church where Shelby’s funeral was,
almost a month ago. Since then,
I turned fourteen. We celebrated
with a sleepover—me, Bri and a couple
of girls I’ve made friends with at Carson
High. I think Bri is a little hurt about
that, but she doesn’t go to Carson, and
I can’t walk around all by myself,
looking like a total loser. Serena is quiet
and smart. A lot like Bri, in fact. But
Chloe is just this side of crazy. She’ll
do anything for attention. And when
she gets it, I get it, too. For my birthday,
she brought an R-rated DVD. Lots of
nakedness and sex. Bri was humiliated,
not that she didn’t watch. Serena
pretended it was cool. Chloe whooped,
Uh-huh! That’s what I’m talking about.
I Have to Admit
A couple of scenes embarrassed
me, too. Is that what it takes to
be an adult? Later, I asked Bri,
“Do you think our parents do stuff
like that?” I really can’t picture
Mom naked and rubbing against
some naked man. Bri thought
a second. I guess they used to.
“Things are bad between them,
huh?” I probably shouldn’t know
half the stuff I do, including
her answer, They pretend it’s okay.
But we’d have to be stupid not
to know what’s going on. I think . . .
Her face kind of collapsed in on
itself. They’re talking about divorce.
I Hate How Relationships
Are so fragile. How they
crack
shatter
fall to pieces.
And the hammer is
time
distance
moving forward.
Why can’t people grow
closer
tighter
welded together?
Instead they go
looking
for the next
frail connection.
There must be a way to
stay
in love
no matter what.
Case in Point
My fickle mother.
Here she meets Robin,
who I really think she liked
a lot. But when he went back to
Vegas, where he lives, she cut things
off completely. I know it’s hard to maintain
a long-distance relationship, but why not
try to nurture a connection? They
hadn’t spoken since he left, and
he called the other night when
we were eating dinner. She
answered but was cold
as January. Freezing, frigid
cold. Seemed like she wasn’t
saying something she wanted to.
So maybe that’s part of the problem.
Lack of communication. Why can’t people
just open up and talk about what bothers them?
Now she’s dating one of Shelby’s doctors.
She says it’s not serious, and until it
is, she won’t bring him home for
a home-cooked introduction.
Is it me she doesn’t want to
disappoint? Or is it him?
I Don’t Want to Think
About it tonight, so I won’t.
Tonight I’m going out with Lucas,
just the two of us. He’s picking me up
as soon as Dad and Cassie leave.
They’re having a joint bachelor/
bachelorette party. Not sure what
that is, but if it involves strippers,
it could be interesting. Or gross.
Dad comes out of his room,
dressed up for a change—slacks
(who knew he had them?) and
a button-down shirt. “Wow. Snazzy.”
He smiles. I know, right? Your old
man still cleans up pretty good.
You don’t mind hanging out here
alone? Chad will be back later.
I shake my head. “No problem.
Plenty to keep me occupied.”
Hope he doesn’t find out just
how much. “You guys have fun.”
Now Cassie appears in a tight
pink dress that doesn’t hide a whole
lot. Okay, I’m ready. Don’t wait up.
We’ll probably be late. She takes
Dad’s hand and off they go.
I text Lucas that the coast is clear,
then go to the bathroom. A little
more makeup is required, now
that it won’t draw too much attention
from anyone but Lucas. I also change
into a skirt and clingy long-sleeved tee.
I’m going for the “wowza” look.
Not quite as sexy as Cassie, but
enough, I hope, to make Lucas never
want to let go of me. I’ll do just about
anything to keep him hanging on.
He Makes Me Wait
Almost an hour. I throw open
the passenger doo
r. “What took
so long?” But the “what” slams into
me like a booze-flavored wave.
Do you want to get in or not?
Oh God. I’ve made him mad.
“Of course I do. Sorry. It’s just
I should probably be back by eleven
and I want to be with you as much
as I can.” I plop down on the seat,
hike my skirt a bit, some weird
apology, for what I’m not sure.
That’s better, he says, pulling
me to him for a kiss. He tastes
of weed and alcohol, but I don’t
care, and I give him as good as
he gives me. His spare hand lands
on my exposed thigh, starts to creep.
I leave it there, but say, “Not here.
I think the neighbors are spies.”
He laughs, thank goodness.
Okay. Let’s go someplace private.
It isn’t far to a little turnout along
the river. Half of me wants to be here.
The other half is whispering,
“This isn’t good. This can’t be good.
You know what he’s after, right?”
Scenes from my birthday movie
start flashing in my head. And then
I hear Mom warning, “You’re not
ready for sex. You’re not old enough.”
And I wonder if I am. And I think, really,
I’m not. I’m still not that kind of girl.
Yet, I Let Him Kiss Me
And it’s the kind of kiss that makes
goose bumps break out all over my body.
He pulls me into his lap, licks down
my neck, to the curve of my shirt.
Take it off, he says, and as if he has
hypnotized me, I do exactly as I’m told.
Quickly, his hands work the hooks
of my bra and before I can even think
to say no, my entire upper body
is bared. That’s it, my pretty little girl.
He moves to kiss my nipples, and
though I want to say no, I can’t. It feels
good. Great. Amazing. Beneath my skirt,
I feel him grow hard against the thin
barrier of my panties. I like how that
feels, too. But I’m still not ready. “Stop.”
His mouth is around my nipple
and he mumbles, Why? All innocent.
Now his lips move an inch or so
higher and he starts to suck, softly
at first, then harder. It is crazy good
and it makes me moan but when
he tries to slide down my panties
I know I can’t. Not yet. “I . . . I have
my period.” It’s a lie, but he can’t
know that, and it’s better than saying
I’m too young. He stiffens. Stops.
Then he says, We can do something
else then. He lifts me up, undoes
his zipper and this is no movie
when he frees his erection and shows
me exactly how to use my mouth
to get him off. I wish I could say
I don’t like it. But somehow I do.
Lucas
Getting Off
Is easy. You don’t even need
two to make it happen. The proper
grip with a slippery fist, whoopee,
there it goes. But man does not live
by ejaculation alone. There’s
the
whole pursue-and-conquer
thing to consider, which is why
loose girls aren’t all that much
fun.
Okay, maybe I’m a bit warped
that way, but hard-to-get
turns me on. Besides, I kind
of like playing teacher, which
is
why I’m so patient with this
little girl, who will so be worth
the wait. Oh yes, I plan on
winning
a major jackpot, taking her all
the way for the very first time.
If that means patience, okay
by me. It’s only part of
the game.
Mikayla
Patience
That’s what Dr. Ortega says to have
now, at sixteen weeks pregnant.
Well into my second trimester, the risk
of miscarriage has largely passed and
my baby is approximately the size
of an avocado, with ears and toenails
and a beating heart. The heart part
is true. I’ve heard it. As for the rest,
I’ll have to take her word for it until
after my ultrasound. It’s a whole month
away. At twenty weeks, we can find out
if it’s a boy or a girl. Meanwhile, I have
some decisions to make. Mom and I are
going to talk to my counselor, Mr. Taylor.
We’re in the office, waiting. And, though
I’m not showing yet, I feel like everyone
knows why we’re here. The secretary
keeps giving me one of those looks
that says, Hello? Haven’t you heard
about birth control? I try to return
a look that yells, “What the fuck
business is it of yours?” But I fail
miserably, turn my eyes toward
the checkerboard linoleum floor.
How does she know, anyway? Aren’t
counselors supposed to keep stuff
like this quiet? I’m not showing yet.
At least, I don’t think I am. I stare
down at my belly. Push my shirt flat.
Nope. Not yet. So why do I suspect
that everyone passing through—teachers,
students, some who I know and many
I don’t, are completely aware of me
and why I’m here? My face goes hot.
I Am Semi-Saved
By Mr. Taylor’s appearance at his
door. Mikayla? Mrs. Carlisle? Please
come in. Suddenly, I want to run.
But I don’t. Instead, I follow Mom
inside his clean, starched office.
The man is totally anal. Even his desk
is clean. We settle into hard plastic
chairs, most certainly designed to deny
comfort. Tell me what I can do for you.
Mom looks at me and, okay, it’s my
place to speak up. But I’ve lost my voice.
Lost my confidence. This confession
is all about judgment. Mom speaks
for me. Um . . . well . . . Then, straight
out, Mikayla is pregnant. We need to
know what options she has regarding
her schooling. She wants to graduate,
of course. She turns to me. Right?
Now they’re both staring at me.
“Well, of course I want to graduate.
Why would that have changed?”
Mr. Taylor’s jaw stiffens. Ahem.
Well . . . uh . . . congratulations
or sorry, depending. He shuffles
the two pieces of paper on his desk.
Ahem. You do have options. You can
stay in school as long as it’s viable.
He studies me with creeping eyes.
When are you due? When I tell him
mid-March, he nods. We have a good
virtual academy available. Really,
the question becomes when to move
you into it. I’m not sure how you feel
about everyone here knowing you’re
pregnant. If you don’t care, I’d suggest
moving at the semester break. If you do . . .
Do I Care?
I still don’t know, and I’ve thought
about it a lot.
“I . . . I haven’t figured
that out yet. I have time to decide.”
Some time, Mr. Taylor replies. But
it will go faster than you think.
I assume Dylan Douglas is the father?
Now any sense of embarrassment
segues to anger. “Of course he is!
Why would you think anything else?”
Calm down, Mikayla. I’m not judging
you, and it wouldn’t be the first
time a fling resulted in unwanted
pregnancy. . . . His pause can only be
translated as, It is an unwanted
pregnancy, right? Which pisses me
off even more. “It was just a mistake,
and it’s Dylan’s baby, if that’s your
concern. Why is it important, anyway?”
Mom starts to interfere, but Mr.
Taylor lifts a hand. Look. I don’t
know where Dylan stands on this,
but the fact is, he might not want
the rest of the school to know
about the baby, either. He has a right—
“Bullshit! It’s my baby and my life
and, hey, if Dylan is concerned
about how his friends feel, well,
he should have thought about that
before he convinced me the rhythm
method would work fine one or two
times. What is it with men, always
cheerleading for the guys in this
situation? That’s totally fucked up!”
Mikayla Jean! huffs Mom, as if
she never heard me swear before.
You apologize to Mr. Taylor right now.
As If!
Mom glares at me, and Mr. T. looks
like “fuck” is a foreign four-letter word.
“Did I offend you? You know, I really
don’t care. And I don’t care who else
I might offend, either. This is a baby,
not some kind of a burden. And, while
it might have taken two of us to create
this baby, the only opinion that matters
here is mine. I’ll stay in school for now,
unless you want to suspend me for f-bomb
usage. If so, write me up. If not, I’ll see
you bright and early tomorrow morning.”
I don’t wait for an answer, but as I go,
I hear Mom apologize for me. I’m very
sorry. She’s a bit emotional. . . . Her voice,
and his response, fade into the ether.
When I Pass Through