Tilt (24 page)

I know she won’t accept.

Mikayla

Apologies Are Useless

To my dad.

I mean, okay, I came in three

hours past my midnight curfew.

But Dylan’s Jeep got a flat, and

his spare was flat, too, and it

took us forever to fix them

especially since pretty much

everything is closed at twelve a.m.

To my mom.

Who I went off on when Dad

wouldn’t listen about the flats

and all. True, I mentioned her

state of dress—too slutty for forty,

with a thigh-high skirt and boob-

baring neckline. But I was angry.

And anyway, she deserved it.

To Dylan.

Who is really very tired of me

being grounded, and I can’t blame

him. This summer was supposed

to be fun, but we haven’t even

made it to Tahoe. The only thing

we’ve managed to do is have sex

a few absolutely amazing times.

I’ve Said I’m Sorry

So many times this summer, it’s starting

to sound like a ringtone. At this point,

no one believes it. Not even me. But I

think I found a way to escape the house

today. Mom is taking Trace and Brianna

to Wild Waters. It’s an absurdly disguised

plot to get Bri and Harley speaking again.

I know because I overheard Mom and Andrea

hatching their evil-moms plan. I could probably

go along, but I’d rather spend some stolen

hours with Dylan. Just not here, in case

Dad happens to come home. So, as Mom

squeezes into a little pink bikini and slips

a cover-up over her head, I ask, all innocently,

“Can I ride my bike? I need some exercise.”

Surely the Workout Nazi can’t say no to that.

She looks at me with a fair amount of

suspicion.
Bike riding and what else?

“Nothing else.” Wide-eyed and wounded.

“Jeez, Mom, if I don’t do something I’m

going to start school in size-twenty clothes.

Please?” That was pretty good, I think.

Okay. But don’t stay gone too long.

And don’t ride East Lake. Too dangerous.

I cross my heart, even though East Lake

Boulevard is the only way to get to Washoe

Lake State Park, where I’m meeting

Dylan. Reno and Wild Waters are in

the opposite direction, so I’ll wait until

after they’re gone. It doesn’t take long.

The doorbell rings and Mom calls,

Trace! Bri! Grab your stuff and let’s go.

I open the door for Andrea. God, I wish

I had a camera. The look on Bri’s face

is priceless.
What are
they
doing here?

she snaps.
I’m not going if
she’s
going.

Oh, yes you are,
says Mom, pushing

Bri toward the door.
This is getting old.

Andrea laughs and Trace smirks and

Bri’s body language shouts
whatever.

Out the window, I watch Bri shove

Trace into the backseat ahead of her

and right up against Harley, who is

hunkered against the far side of the seat,

refusing to acknowledge any of this

is happening. Kids. Sometimes I wish

I could go back a few years, to when

school was still fun and friendships

were easy and relationships with boys

were only inventions of imagination.

I Let Dylan Know I Can Escape

It will take him a while to get out here, so I sway

away from the rules again, check my email.

When I see the one that just arrived, I get a little

rush of excitement. It’s from Leon Driscoll, who

I found through his ex-wife on Facebook and

who just might be Mom’s biological uncle.

It says: HELLO, MIKAYLA. IT WAS A SURPRISE

TO HEAR FROM YOU. MY EX SHOULDN’T HAVE

GIVEN YOU MY NAME. BUT I’VE ALWAYS

BELIEVED MY BROTHER, PAUL, SHOULD

HAVE MADE HIMSELF AVAILABLE TO HIS CHILD,

SO I FORWARDED YOUR EMAIL TO HIM. IT IS

MY OPINION THAT HE IS, IN FACT, YOUR

GRANDFATHER. HOWEVER, THIS IS HIS RESPONSE:

“PLEASE INFORM HER THAT I HAVE NEVER

HAD SEX WITH ANYONE OTHER THAN

MY WIFE, SO I CAN’T POSSIBLY BE RELATED

TO HER.”
I’M SORRY HE SEEMS UNABLE

TO COWBOY UP AND TAKE RESPONSIBILITY

FOR SOMETHING THAT HAPPENED

FORTY YEARS AGO. VERY SORRY. BEST

I CAN DO IS GIVE YOU TWO THINGS.

I Ponder Those Two Things

As I pedal along the sweltering August

asphalt. The first was a photo of a man—

Mom’s father, despite his ridiculous

declaration. What kind of wimp-ass guy

claims he’s only slept with one woman—

the one he married
after
pumping enough

sperm into some other girl to get her pregnant?

That girl, in this case, is my grandmother,

Sarah Hill. Leon Driscoll’s second gift

was her name. This discovery should

feel like a victory. Instead, something

very close to shame has dug a hollow

in my gut. To the west, obsidian thunder-

heads claw over the mountain. Ozone

crackles and perfumes the air. It’s going to

storm something awful before the afternoon

is over. I am almost to the park entrance

when a pickup zips by, close enough to slip-

stream my bike. And he has the nerve

to honk as if it’s my fault he almost hit

me. Mom’s right. This road is dangerous.

And so is my mood. I flip the idiot off.

Like, already a mile or so away, he can

see me. Like he would care if he did.

I turn into the park, pedal over under

a stand of cottonwoods, sit in the grass

beneath them, cooling off in the lush

greenness. Dylan! I’ll see him soon.

I close my eyes, waiting. Kind of

dozing. Smelling barbecue and . . .

suntan lotion.
Hey, Mikayla.
Tyler.

His voice brings me upright. Damn.

Whatever he’s been doing to work

out, he should keep doing it.

He’s shirtless. And he is hot.

“Hey, Ty. What are you doing here?”

He Holds Up His Longboard

Skating. But it’s getting kinda hot

and I was just thinking about

taking a dip. Want to join me?

He half licks his lips and I wonder

if that means something besides

they’re feeling a little chapped.

“Nah. Dylan’s on his way. I told

him I’d meet him right here.”

I expect him to go dive into the lake.

Instead, he sits beside me, close

enough so I can smell his haze of

sweat, clinging sun-roasted skin.

I lie back in the grass again, and

he follows me, sighing at the cool.