Tilt (22 page)

each other and to each other.

And at the pinnacle, his final

I love you
was a scream into

the face of the night. Afterward,

we lay there, knotted together.

Then he said,
I wish we could

stay exactly like this forever.

Forever

Three syllables. Piercing me.

Daggers. And suddenly I was pissed.

Okay, in retrospect, it makes no sense,

but last night, anger surged, hot.

I rolled away, slipped into my jeans.

“We should go before we get busted.”

What’s wrong? What did I say?

His voice was small. Hurt. He watched

me slide my T-shirt over my head.

“Nothing. It’s just me. I’m weird,

you know.” As he started to dress,

I added, “I think maybe I’m bipolar.”

I tried to keep it light as he drove me

home. But when he asked if I wanted

to go to Tahoe today, I found an excuse

to say no. Which doesn’t exactly explain

why I’m in the backseat of Lucas’s stinking

car toking with his brother Clay, Kurt

the turd, and Tobias, the odd. Dopers

are strange, which says something about

me. Lucas turns up Caughlin Parkway. “Dude.

This is kinda close to home. Don’t speed,

okay?” He slows, but not much. We’re

cruising maybe ten over the limit, skunk

smoke streaming.
Look at that,
says

Clay, who’s riding shotgun. Now Lucas

slows a whole lot more. What’s

the big deal? I lift up in my seat to

see. Oh my God. It’s Mom, pushing

Shelby in her stander. Clay sticks

his head out the window.
Holy shit.

Check out the retard. Or maybe it’s

an alien from the planet Ugly-As-Uranus.

Hey, do aliens dig weed?
He exhales

a big drag out the window. Lucas punches

it and I duck down, but not before I see

Mom’s certain recognition. I think

I hear her yell my name, but we’re gone.

Everyone’s Laughing

Everyone except me. “What the hell

is so damn funny?” My right hand lashes

out, almost involuntarily, pops the back

of that fucktard Clay’s head. Probably not

a great idea. I’m not small, but he’s got

fifteen pounds of pure muscle on me.

He whips around.
What’s your mother-

fucking problem? You looking to die?

“You could try. But I swear it won’t be

easy.” I push really hard not to sound

gay. Don’t think it worked, though.

Listen here, you queerbait. I’ll kick

your ass and not feel a thing. Pull over,

he commands, and Lucas does as he’s told.

Suddenly, everyone is out of the car.

Kurt and Tobias stand back, but Lucas

holds on to his front-row seat. I take my

best defensive stance. “You think talking

crap about some poor crippled kid

makes you tough? Dude, you’re nothing

but a shit-leaking asshole.” Bam!

His fist connects with my left eye.

Ooh. That’s gonna be ugly. I reply, but

he ducks and I barely graze his cheek.

Nice. Just like a girl.
But before

he can gloat too much, I send another

one, a roundhouse to the gut.
Omph!

goes his air. Which only pisses him off.

He comes up swinging and I do my

best, but he’s good with his hands

and now my nose is dripping thick, red

snot and my upper lip splits wide when

my teeth drill through. Then, strangely,

he draws back. Asks,
What was it to you?

Blood gushing, I admit, “That alien was

my little sister. She’s not ugly, jerkwad.”

Believe It or Not

That ends it.
Let’s go,
says Clay, and

his parting look is nothing but sympathetic.

Something there, but I’m not sure what.

They jump in the car, leave me geysering

crimson on the sidewalk. Home is only

a few blocks away, though. I feel beaten.

Bloodied. Uglified. But vindicated.

I limp home, wishing I would have said

yes to Tahoe. I need an Alex fix.

I take four or five heavy steps beyond

the front door and Mom comes rushing

down the hallway.
Shane! What in the hell—

Now she sees me, in all my dignified

glory. I tell her I’m fine. Swear I stuck

up for my sister, not an alien but an angel.

By the time I get to, “I think I might need stitches,”

Mom is my mommy. She may have forgotten

my birthday. But today she remembers me.

Clay

Wish I Could Forget

My mother. Our mother—

mine and Lucas’s and our

little sister, Jenny Leigh’s.

How Mom looked just fine

some

mornings before she died.

Like the cancer had up

and skittered off in the night.

If that had been fact,

things

would be different now.

Dad wouldn’t be a pitiful

drunk. Jenny Leigh would

still be someone

you

want to know, not an eighth-

grade slut. Lucas would have

a heart, and I’d be college-bound,

like Mom wanted. But you

can’t

gamble on college when you

know construction pays.

Pipe dreams of law school

are something I’ll just have to

forget.

Harley

It Pays

To be patient. That’s what Mom

always says when I ask her why

she doesn’t have a boyfriend.

I’m waiting for the right guy,

she says.
Someone really special.

But for now, you’re all I need.

I kind of like that she thinks so,

but I’m afraid she’s missing out

on something everyone needs—

someone to gather you in, hold

you close. Someone to make

every day a little brighter.

On Fourth of July, when Chad

took off with his friend and left

me alone, I asked Mom how

to make him like me. She told

me to be patient, too.
You can’t

make someone like you. It has

to happen organically. Maybe

Chad isn’t the right guy for you.

She doesn’t understand how

much I like him. I might even

love him. I can barely breathe

when I’m close to him, and when

he smiles, my stomach does flips

until it starts to ache. Sometimes

he touches me—our legs brush

or our fingers collide. Once in

a while, he’ll rest his arm on my

shoulder, and then I totally die.