Tilt

she says, trying not to blow any

  of it out. I don’t know if it’s good

  or not. But whether it’s the weed or

  the beer or the combination, I am

  definitely woozy. Do people really

  like feeling this way? In the back,

  Chloe and Kurt seem to have hit

  it off. They’re sitting really close,

  and she’s laughing at some dumb

  joke he’s just spouted. Then they get

  really quiet and I think they must

  be kissing, not that I want to get all

  voyeuristic or anything. I’m glad

  when Lucas parks the car in an upscale

  neighborhood where, I’m sure, the candy

  is plentiful. “Hey. What are we putting

  our candy in? Did you bring a bag

  or a pillowcase or something?”

  The Question

  Makes Lucas and Kurt bust up.

  We’ll be collecting pillowcases

  from, um, some volunteers, says Kurt.

  I have no idea what he means

  until we get out of the car. Chloe

  and I follow the guys, who scope

  out the action on the street. They

  wait for the kids with parents along

  to go by. But when they spot a group

  of older kids walking unaccompanied,

  they motion for us to hide behind

  a tall, unlit hedge. As the kids

  pass by, the guys jump and yell, Boo!

  It scares the bejesus out of them.

  Then the boys swipe their candy and run.

  Nothing else to do but run, too.

  It was mean, but it isn’t the worst

  trick Lucas and Kurt play tonight.

  Chloe

  The Worst Trick

  The guys play tonight

  isn’t stealing candy from

  middle schoolers. That’s

  funny,

  really, especially the way

  those kids yell to come back,

  like we would. What’s sort of

  unfunny

  is smashing jack-o’-lanterns

  on pretty front porches and

  squishing chocolate bars into

  Depends,

  and leaving them on the front

  seats of unlocked cars. Still,

  we laugh and go along. But

  on

  the far side of funny is when

  Harley says she’s going to be

  sick, and Lucas asks Kurt, Is

  your

  phone handy? And when

  she falls on her knees and

  pukes up her guts, it’s in full

  view

  of an active camera.

  Mikayla

  Funny

  How fast word spreads

  when the word that’s spreading

  is “pregnant.” I told one friend

  and by the next day pretty much

  the whole school knew. Okay,

  maybe that’s a slight exaggeration.

  Let’s just say by the next day,

  people who used to admire me

  seemed to be looking down on me

  or avoiding eye contact completely.

  There were some notable exceptions.

  Audrey marched straight up, gave

  me a big ol’ hug. I know it’s hard.

  But you’re doing the right thing. I wish

  I would have been as strong as you.

  She’s the only person who has told

  me I’m doing the right thing. It’s good

  to know someone is in my corner.

  Still, I wasn’t happy about Emily

  opening her mouth. I caught

  her at lunch. “Why did you tell?”

  You didn’t say it was a secret,

  and I only told Margot. She’s got

  a big mouth. I’m sorry, I guess.

  “A huge mouth, apparently. But

  whatevs.” It was going to happen

  eventually. I’ve got to get used to it.

  And it might not have been so bad

  except I had to bump into Kristy.

  I expected smugness. I got sympathy.

  Hey. I heard about the baby,

  she said, examining me for signs.

  I’m sorry about Dylan. He’s a pussy.

  Don’t know if that means they’re

  together or not. And, really, what does

  it matter? But I had to say something.

  And What Slipped Out

  Of my mouth was, “Yeah, he

  totally is.” And in that moment,

  it hit me. Yeah, he totally is.

  Weeks of hurt exploded in a flash

  of nuclear anger—a mushroom

  cloud stamped with the word “pussy.”

  He’s nothing more than a fucking

  pussy, and who needs one of those

  for a father? Not my baby, for sure.

  Except, it’s still our baby. And why

  should he be able to deny that? No

  freaking way. He can’t. He won’t.

  Goddamn it, what happened to my

  clear-cut life? Goals. Forward

  movement. Being in love. Swamped

  with love. Six months ago I would

  have laughed in the face of anyone

  who claimed my love for Dylan—and

  his reciprocal devotion—was all

  in my mind. It was real. It is real.

  I love him now more than ever.

  Even if he is a pussy. Even if

  he is screwing Kristy. He can’t love

  her. And how can he possibly not

  love me? Just because there’s

  a baby—half him, half me?

  How do I convince him to come

  back? How can I make him see

  that the two of us can only be

  better when we become three?

  I tried seducing him. It worked—

  for fifteen or twenty minutes. I tried

  cajoling him, which only got his back up.

  I go for my ultrasound this afternoon.

  Will seeing a picture of our—his—

  baby make him understand the stakes?

  I Sit Alone

  In the waiting room. Other women

  are also here solo, reading magazines

  or checking their phones. The lucky

  ones wait with their men, most

  of whom look excited to be included.

  They hold their partners’ hands,

  bounce them on their knees, as if

  those hands are promises of what

  will be in the aftermath of what has

  already been. Some of the ladies

  look ready to pop. Will I really get

  that big? Have a giant balloon belly?

  Right now, it’s just a little pooch,

  but it is noticeable and it’s growing.

  A nurse comes to the door. Mikayla?

  I get up and follow her, excitement

  building. I’m going to see my baby.

  We go into a small room and the nurse

  says, There’s a hospital gown.

  Put it on, open in the front. You

  can keep your undergarments

  on. I’ll be back in a few minutes.

  She closes the door and I do as

  instructed, really wishing I could

  go pee. They made me drink four

  glasses of water. A full bladder

  is supposed to make baby viewing

  easier. I get back up on the padded

  table, just as a knock comes on the door.

  The tech pokes his head in. All ready?

  “Sure.” The guy is kind of cute, and

  I’m most of the way naked, which

  makes me a little uncomfortable,

  even if he has seen it lots of times

  before. The nurse returns and
watches

  as the tech rubs a cold gel substance

  on my belly. Okay, he says. This device

  is called a transducer. It sends sound

  waves into your body, where they reflect

  off internal structures, including your baby.

  He moves the transducer around

  my tummy, tells me to hold my breath

  several times. Now the sound waves

  reflect back to the transducer, which

  creates an on-screen image of your baby.

  Look at all those fingers and toes. Ten

  of each, I’d say. And . . . do you want

  to know if it’s a boy or a girl?

  “Yes. Please.” It comes out a whisper

  and when he says it’s a girl, I start to cry.

  Something About Knowing

  She’s a girl—that I can use the word

  “she” and contemplate pink dresses—

  makes everything completely real.

  Dr. Ortega comes in to discuss what

  the ultrasound shows—a healthy

  little girl with all her parts in all

  the right places. And while I keep

  nodding my head, I’m only half

  listening. I keep looking at the printout

  they gave me of my daughter in

  utero at twenty-one weeks. I think

  she looks like a girl, and imagine

  what she’ll look like when she’s born.

  Will she have dark hair like Dylan’s?

  Blue eyes like mine? Will she have

  perfect pitch and sing soprano, or

  will she pitch a perfect softball?

  She moves inside me—a dragonfly.

  I Get Dressed

  Take a totally necessary pee.

  Clutching the grainy photograph

  of my baby, I am about to leave

  when someone says, Hello.

  Mikayla, right? It’s Mrs. Trask.

  I’ve only seen her a couple of times.

  The last was at her daughter’s wake.

  She is thin. Pale. Drawn. “Oh, hello.

  Yes, I’m Mikayla. How are you?”

  She shrugs. Okay. It’s been a hard

  few weeks, but it’s getting a little

  better. I miss her terribly, of course.

  I can’t even imagine having such

  a sick child, let alone dealing with

  her death. “I’m so sorry about Shelby.”

  Thank you. And . . . For the first time,

  she notices my condition. Looks

  like congratulations are in order?

  That makes me smile. “Depends

  on who you’re asking. I just had

  my ultrasound. It’s—she’s—a girl.”

  I offer the printout like it’s great

  treasure and she takes it the same

  way. She is a girl. Wow. This reminds

  me of when I got Shelby’s ultrasound

  results. I so wanted a little girl,

  and I was nervous she’d be a boy.

  I tried for eleven years . . . She sputters

  a little, but continues, It was the happiest

  day of my life. Her eyes fill with tears,

  and she wipes them with one hand,

  returns the photo with the other. Well,

  congratulations. To you. And whoever.

  I Drive Home

  Caught in a tornado

  of confusion. Life

  isn’t fair. Why me?

  Why did I get pregnant

  with a baby girl no one

  wants? I mean, I think

  I want her, but maybe

  I don’t. Not if I have to

  raise her alone. Why me,

  when women like Mrs.

  Trask try for years to

  get pregnant. Hope for

  years to have a little girl.

  And then they succeed,

  only to lose that daughter

  to a fatal illness? Total

  suckage. I’m having a girl.

  I have the pic to prove

  it. But who can I share

  it with? No one cares

  but me. Not even her

  daddy. Not my friends.

  Not my parents or my

  grandparents. Life isn’t fair.

  Kristy

  Life Isn’t Fair

  I

  have Dylan back. But look

  at the circumstances. It wasn’t

  because he came to his senses,

  decided what he felt for Mikayla

  was more lust than love. He still

  wanted

  her when he dumped her. The only

  reason he left was because

  he knocked her up and, despite

  his demands, she refused to take

  the easy way out. I never expected

  to

  respect her. If circumstances

  were different, I might even like

  her, and learning the truth

  has made me like Dylan a lot less.

  It would be so much easier if I could

  gloat.

  Instead, on an almost cellular

  level, I kind of want to get even

  for her. “Pussy” doesn’t cover it.

  Dylan is a major asshole.

  Shane

  Ducking for Cover

  Lately, that’s what it feels like

  I’m doing. Hiding out. Getting by.

  Just barely. I’m faking my way

  through school. Most of my teachers

  don’t care. They’re just hanging in there

  long enough to qualify for a pension.

  But one or two have noticed

  how I show up for class physically,

  though I’m not really present at all.

  Ms. Luther, my creative writing

  teacher, keeps using the D word.

  D, for depression. I suppose that has

  a lot to do with the poetry I keep

  handing in. On time. As assigned.

  The problem is, she lets us choose

  what we want to write about. Death

  figures prominently in mine. Death,

  externally, and death internally.

  And Also Death as a Character

  This is one of the poems she liked:

  Death waits impatiently

  outside my door. We are betrothed

  and he wants to set a date.

  It will be a marriage of shadow

  and light, matrimony in sepia.

  Death waltzes on my lawn—

  a delicate dance meant for two.

  But I’m not sure of the steps,

  and I don’t want to look like a fool.

  So I watch from behind the glass.

  Death calls to me in breathless

  whispers. Coaxing. Coaxing.

  His voice is soothing, and when

  he hums, his song is a lullaby.

  I close my eyes. And listen.

  She Gave Me an A

  On that one. But then she called me in

  for a private talk. When I got there,

  copies of my poems were on her desk.

  I’m mandated by law to report what I see

  as a possible—probable—problem.

  Beyond that, I like you, Shane, and

  I just want to make sure you’re okay.

  Yeah, yeah, I know she meant well.

  That she’s worried about me. But somehow

  it just pisses me off. So, now I’m sitting

  here, seething, waiting for my counselor,

  Mr. Albert, to call me into his office. Apparently,

  I’m not the only student with issues.

  I’ve been here close to an hour. Finally,

  the door opens. Out comes one problem

  kid. And now it’s my turn. Come in, Shane.

  I’d really like to wipe that phony

  smile from h
is face. Maybe with acid.

  Except then he’d look like the Joker

  or Two-Face or something. He motions

  for me to sit in the big overstuffed

  chair. Looks like I’m in here for

  the long haul. He pulls a short stack

  of papers from his desk. Leafs through.

  This is some interesting poetry,

  Shane. Pretty good, but there seems

  to be a common theme here. Do you

  want to talk about it? He heaves a sigh.

  “Not really.” I think I’ve disappointed

  him. But what does he want me to say?

  He sighs again. Sometimes talking

  about what’s bothering you can help.

  A Slow Burn

  Creeps out of my collar, up my neck.

  My ears must be the color of cranberries.

  “What’s bothering me is that my little

  sister died. She was only four. Now,

  how can talking about that help?

  No amount of talk can bring her back.”

  Mr. Albert swallows and his Adam’s

  apple dips really low. I’m sorry about

  your sister. He thinks a second, then

  adds, Did you know that the death

  of a loved one can result in depression?

  It’s really very common. And treatable.

  Great. Now they’ll want to lock me

  away in some crazy ward. “Look.

  I’m sad about Shelby. Sad, and angry.

  But I’m not depressed and I don’t

  need treatment. All I need is time, and

  for people to quit worrying about me.”

  He’s not quite ready to let it drop.

  Okay, so tell me. Are you eating?

  Sleeping? Do you hang out with

  your friends? Or are you keeping

  to yourself? Your schoolwork has

  slipped a little. Trouble concentrating?

  Jeez, man. Is he spying on me?

  I try to joke my way out. “My

  mom’s cooking sucks and sleep

  is overrated. Look, Mr. A., I swear

  I’m okay. I’ll study harder and bring

  my grades up. Thanks for caring, though.”

  In my opinion, you are displaying

  classic symptoms of depression.

  I’m going to call your parents and

  give them the names of a couple

  of good therapists. Now he smiles.

  Just don’t shoot the messenger.

  If I Only Had a Gun

  But I don’t and I wouldn’t want