Tilt

  that will happen, though. We’ve been Skyping,

  and every conversation has been salted

  with revealing factoids, peppered with laughter.

  A seasoned relationship, if a fairly short one.

  Ha ha. Anyway, what should I wear? He’ll be

  all Goth. So I guess I’ll settle for regular jeans

  and my Nirvana T-shirt. We’re going to see

  Stone Temple Pilots. I should get in the mood.

  I Shave

  Shower, using the gingerbread-scented

  soap Gram and Gramps gave me

  for Christmas. Another holiday, steeped

  in melancholy, with Shelby all dressed

  up in green velvet and Dad passed out

  drunk before dinner. Mom and I ate

  prepackaged turkey slices, Stove Top

  stuffing and canned corn while Shelby

  hummed along with carols. Tubes feed

  her. One day, I swear, I’ll host big, fancy

  feasts and have ceiling-high evergreens,

  decked out in colored glass ornaments,

  with tons of presents swirled under

  them. Everyone will be happy, and

  no one will be drunk or pissed or dying.

  But that won’t be this year or next,

  so I dry myself off, spike my hair

  and go dig up some clean underwear.

  By the Time

  I’ve located my folded laundry,

  beneath a pile of dirty stuff,

  nerves are jittering in my belly.

  I know I smell great. But is how

  I look good enough for someone

  like Alex? What if . . . ? Ah, screw

  it. This is the best I can do. Mom

  has taken Shelby to swim therapy

  and Dad is who-knows-where?

  I leave a simple note: Gone out

  with a friend. Stand by the window,

  waiting for Alex to pick me up,

  and as the clock approaches four,

  the nerve dance has quieted some.

  At least, until I see the dark-blue

  Honda cruise slowly into view,

  searching for the address. When

  it pulls against the curb, I almost

  want to puke. But that would give

  me nasty breath. Instead, I go say hi.

  What I Know About Him

  As I open the passenger door,

  bend to say hello, is this:

  He is almost eighteen and

  goes to Manogue, the local

  Catholic high school, where

  it’s even less copacetic

  to be gay than it is at

  Reno High. He’s on track

  to graduate a semester

  early and he’s grateful for

  that. He lives west of the city

  in Verdi, with both parents,

  three sisters and one brother,

  all of whom are straight.

  He likes big dogs, little cats,

  action movies and reality

  TV. His favorite foods are

  pizza, burritos and mangoes.

  Mangoes Make Me Itch

  So I don’t like them much, but

  I’m good with the rest of his likes.

  I wish we could have a dog, big

  or small, but pet dander and Shelby

  would be a disastrous combo.

  Alex knows all about my sister.

  I thought it might gross him out,

  but he was totally sympathetic.

  We won’t talk about her today,

  though. When I open the door

  and duck my head, our eyes connect

  for real. “Hey.” It’s all I can think

  to say. Stupid. My face flares.

  But he smiles. Get in. Wow, dude.

  Awesome digs. I’ve always liked

  Caughlin Ranch. Verdi is a hole.

  Most of it is a pretty nice hole,

  but it is a low-lying valley. Still,

  “A great view does not a decent

  home make. But it will do, I guess.”

  Not to mention, when the ice

  caps melt, y’all will keep your

  feet dry. One other thing about

  Alex. He moved here from Texas

  just three years ago. His voice

  still carries a hint of honeyed

  twang. It’s sexy as hell, in fact.

  Jeez, who knew I liked “cowboy”?

  I do know I like Alex, so I guess

  it isn’t hate at first sight, at least

  not on this end. I’m completely

  speechless, unusual for me.

  Alex breaks the cloying silence.

  The concert starts at seven. I hear

  the opening act is pretty good,

  so we should get there on time.

  It’s, like, a little after four.

  Dinner shouldn’t take more

  than an hour. What else does

  he have planned? “Sounds good.”

  Turns Out

  What he’s got in mind is talking.

  We drive to this little tucked-away

  park beside the Truckee River.

  It’s shaded by big old cottonwoods,

  and totally deserted. We sit in the car

  with the windows down, listening

  to the soft heave of slow-moving water.

  “I’ve lived in Reno forever, and have

  never been here. How did you find it?”

  My best girlfriend, Dianne, brought

  me here one time when I was feeling

  really down. I love this place.

  I get what he means by girlfriend.

  Lots of women like hanging with

  gay guys. I have a best girlfriend, too.

  This is the perfect location to toke

  a fatty. I know he smokes weed,

  want to share. “This shit is stony.”

  I torch the blunt, inhale deeply,

  and despite the dropped windows,

  skunk-flavored smoke envelops us.

  I hold out my offering, sure he’ll

  accept. Instead, he says, Smells good.

  Before I take it, I have to tell you

  something you won’t want to hear.

  But if you don’t, we can never share

  anything even approaching intimacy.

  He looks at me steadily, cat-green

  colored eyes filled with anxiety.

  I hold his gaze. “Sounds serious.”

  It is. He takes a deep breath. Starts

  to say something. Sucks it back in.

  Finally spits out, I have HIV.

  A pound of dread just tumbled into

  my gut. “What?” I watch the joint

  go out. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He Struggles

  To find the right words.

  Look. When we were just talking

  online, it didn’t matter, you know?

  But then I started to like you. To

  really like you a lot. I wanted us to

  be more than web buddies. For that

  to happen, I had to be honest with

  you. I lost my last boyfriend because

  I didn’t tell him soon enough and . . .

  His voice trails out the window.

  And I don’t want that to happen

  with you. I know HIV is scary. It

  scares the hell out of me. But I started

  antiretrovirals very early. It will be

  many, many years before the virus

  turns to AIDS, and with new drugs

  on the horizon, that might never be

  a concern. For now, it’s under control.

  He pulls himself up straight.

  Obviously, I don’t want you to become

  infected. Common sense will prevent that.

  You can’t get HIV from saliva, so swapping

  spit doesn’t
pose a danger. Blood and, um . . .

  semen do. I mean, we could, like, share

  a smoke or a drink or even a kiss without . . .

  Ah, God. I sound desperate, don’t I?

  I’m sorry. Just, so fucking sorry.

  The weight in my gut sinks deeper.

  Listen. You can tell me to screw myself

  if you want. But before you decide,

  let’s have dinner and go to the concert,

  okay? You can’t catch it like that for sure.

  Bitch-Slapped

  All the way down on my knees.

  What happened to a fun first date?

  Still, he’s right. You can’t contract

  HIV from sitting next to someone.

  I know because when I decided I was gay,

  I got myself tested, just in case my one

  close encounter was dirty. The doctor

  fed me the latest theories about infection.

  Never thought I’d actually have to put

  them to the test, however. Especially not

  the one about saliva. I realize Alex is waiting

  for me to say something. Anything.

  What the hell. He’s still hot, and science

  is only wrong once in a while. I torch

  the blunt, take a deep drag, offer it

  to him once again, this time with

  knowledge. He was right. He had

  to be honest with me up front. And

  since he’s being straight with me,

  I ask, “How did you get infected?”

  Alex

  Straight

  I

  never felt like that term

  applied to me, at least not

  once I realized there

  was

  another way to be. But homo, hetero

  or somewhere in between, no

  should mean absolutely not, and

  never

  did I say okay to my stepfather’s prick

  brother, Stu. I was ten when he came

  creeping. Claimed it was the way I shook

  my pretty ass. I might not have said

  anything

  about the bleeding or the chokehold

  welts around my neck—I wept over

  his promise to kill my sister if I told—

  but

  a blood test for mono turned up

  something we couldn’t ignore. Stu

  passed on his HIV to his completely

  queer,

  but up-until-then-virgin step-nephew,

  me. And I didn’t ask for it. Not at all.

  Harley

  I Didn’t Ask

  To come from a split family.

  Especially not one where the two

  halves are so totally pushed apart.

  I’m pretty sure Mom doesn’t

  think I should love my dad.

  But she’s the one who left him.

  Just because she stopped

  loving him, does that mean

  I should, too? Okay, I do kind

  of remember all the fights

  they had. I was in first grade

  when Mom decided she’d had

  enough. And then there were

  a lot of years where he hardly

  ever even called to say hello.

  He totally missed my birthday

  a couple of times, and yeah,

  that made me cry. So I sort of get

  why Mom is irritated with him

  wanting to step back into my life

  like none of that ever happened.

  She wants to protect me from

  getting hurt again and I’m cool

  with that. What I really can’t take,

  though, is having her come

  storming in and embarrass me

  in front of Chad. Of any boy,

  really, but especially him

  because he’s, like, the only

  guy even close to my age who

  has ever paid me the thinnest

  sliver of attention. Mom says

  I’m too young to worry about

  being one of the few geeky girls

  left in my class who have never

  been kissed. But I so do not agree.

  I’d Say

  It’s because I’m too fat—I pretty

  much resemble a pot-bellied piglet—

  but that can’t be it. Bri looks great

  in skinny jeans, and guys always

  check her out. But so far none

  of them have kissed her, not even

  at boy-girl parties because whenever

  we play Truth or Dare she always

  chooses truth. I always choose dare,

  but the wildest thing anyone has

  dared me to do to a boy was to lick

  his big toe. Everyone else was making

  out like crazy, though. Bri and I sat

  there watching, half-fascinated, half-

  grossed-out that people could tongue-jab

  so obviously in public. I don’t know

  what it makes me, but I really want

  to try it. And I really want guys to

  stare at me the way they stare at Bri.

  So even though I’m mad at Mom

  for pretty much yelling at me in

  front of Chad, I need her help.

  “How do I lose weight, Mom?”

  She could shed a few pounds, too,

  but I don’t say that, and I’m pretty

  sure she doesn’t think so. Fewer

  calories, more exercise. Too basic

  to work, right? I look into the skinny

  visor mirror. I think what I need

  are laxatives or diet pills, but I’m very

  sure she won’t go for that. Exercise?

  “Would you help me? Please?”

  She chances taking her eyes off

  the highway to give me a concerned

  look. Of course. But why are you

  worried about it, all of a sudden?

  I can’t tell her it’s about wanting

  Chad to like me, but I can admit,

  “I want to wear skinny jeans, like

  Brianna does. They’re the style.”

  Which Somehow Launches Us

  Into a whole conversation about

  Chad, anyway. It’s like she knew.

  I try not to mention too much

  about Dad and Cassie, because

  I can see how just saying their names

  and talking about Dad moving back

  to Reno makes her feel bad. I mostly

  think it’s awesome because when

  I go visit Dad, Chad will be there,

  too. And he’s just so cute and he’s

  really nice. And he doesn’t have

  a girlfriend. I didn’t ask him, of course.

  Cassie told me. I thought I was going

  to hate her, but she’s pretty sweet.

  I don’t mention that, either. “I’m on

  a diet as of today. Can we stop at the store

  and get healthy food? ’Cause you buy

  too much junk food, and you know me.

  I can’t say no to chips and soda.

  And I really think we ought to go

  organic because I read something

  about how additives can cause you

  to gain weight. . . .” I glance over

  at Mom, who’s nodding her head,

  but I’m not really sure she’s listening.

  I love Mom, but I swear sometimes

  she lives on another planet, or maybe

  a comet—all ice and gas and deserted

  except for her and me. Doesn’t she get

  lonely? I mean, I can’t always be there

  for her. “Hey, Mom?” I wait for the words

  to slice through the silence. “Don’t you ever

  get lonely? For a boyfriend, I mean.” After

  a long second or two, she responds, br />
  Harley, honey, for the most part men

  are more trouble than they’re worth.

  Lame

  Not only cliché, but it can’t be

  the truth, or why would every

  girl in the world (okay, except

  for lesbians) work so hard

  to attract guys? There must be

  something to all the hype.

  “But what about sex? Don’t

  you like it? Are you . . .”

  What’s the word I’m looking

  for? The one that means cold?

  Oh, yeah. “Are you frigid?”

  Ha. That got her attention!

  She kind of sputters. Wha-wha?

  Did your father tell you that?

  Because I am most definitely

  not frigid, missy! I like sex

  just fine, only not with some

  selfish prick who is all about

  pleasing himself and not worried

  at all about satisfying his partner!

  Way TMI!

  “Whoa! Wait a second, Mom.

  Dad never said anything like that.

  He doesn’t really talk about you.

  I was just wondering. And I’m sort

  of worried about you. Pretty much

  all you do is work.” Her shoulders

  slump and she sighs. That’s not

  exactly true. I go out once in a while.

  And I do lots of stuff with you.

  “Big whoop. Doing things with me

  or Brianna’s mom isn’t like hooking

  up with someone you’re in love with.”

  Believe it or not, it hasn’t been all

  that long. You don’t know everything,

  munchkin. And the problem with falling

  in love is falling back out of it again,

  usually because you’ve fallen in love

  with a lie. That happens as often as not.

  Munchkin!

  She hasn’t called me that since

  I was a little girl. I hated it then,

  and I hate it worse now. Why not

  just call me Oompa Loompa?

  I think about what she said

  and how bitter she sounded.

  What don’t I know? Has she

  fallen in love recently, and

  back out again? No. I’d know.

  She couldn’t keep something

  that big from me, right? Darn it.

  That’s going to bug me now.

  “Hey, Mom. If you did fall

  in love, you’d tell me, wouldn’t

  you?” She says of course, but