Tilt (28 page)

eavesdropping

from the top of the stairs.

Somehow, the people below

never seem to know I’m here.

Amazing, how nonchalant they

can be

about secrets. Or maybe Mom

doesn’t care that I know about

her friend’s latest hookup, come

unhooked. I guess I do feel

bad

for Andrea. She has always

been nice to me, and a second

mom to Bri. She’s close to over

the hill. Probably not easy

for

a lady her age to connect

with someone who’s not

a creepster. Middle-aged

dating has got to be hard on

a person.

Mikayla

Dating

Is such a weak word.

“Going out” is an awkward

phrase, too. Neither defines

my relationship with Dylan.

We aren’t exactly engaged,

but we are something like

promised to each other. That’s

what the ring I’m wearing says.

“Promised.” He gave it to me

after the biggest fight we’ve

ever had, that day at Washoe

Lake. When Dylan pulled up

and saw me with Ty, he flipped.

Not that I had done one single

thing wrong. He just assumed

the worst. And how dare he?

Dylan was the one who had been

sneaking around. Not me.

We kissed and made up days

ago. But it still makes me mad.

I would not party without him,

especially not at an old boyfriend’s

house. He swears nothing happened

with Kristy, and I mostly believe

him. But there was something

like guilt in his eyes. I would ask

Ty if he knows anything more,

but Dylan would be pissed

and I love him too much to risk

another blowup. Anyway, I’m not

grounded at the moment. Tonight,

Dylan and I will make up for lost

evenings like last night, waylaid

by Mom’s fortieth birthday party.

She said I could invite Dylan,

but he’s scared of my parents.

Don’t really blame him—he’s not

their favorite person. But even if

he was, I’m kind of glad he didn’t

come. It was a strange evening.

For One Thing

It was supposed to be a surprise

party. Obviously, since Mom said

Dylan could come, she knew about it.

Brianna and Harley planned it.

So I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise

that it wasn’t a surprise. Relentless

giggling is a surefire sign. Mom

faked it pretty well. But I think

the biggest shock was that Grandma

and Grandpa Carlisle came over.

They sort of put up with Mom,

but it’s clear that they don’t really

consider her family. When my

grandmother bothers to talk

to Mom at all, the condescension

reeks. No one thinks I’ve noticed

it, but how could I not? So I was

as startled as everyone else when

the doorbell rang, and there

stood the elder Carlisles, birthday

orchid in hand. Grandma knows

Mom is death to houseplants.

But Grandma was nice enough last

night. She even tried karaoke—

the Beatles’ “Yesterday.” Who

knew she could sing? Who

knew she knew the Beatles?

Mom sang, too. “Material Girl,”

by Madonna. Not bad. But she

seemed distant. Barely there

at all, like she so wanted to be

somewhere else. And not just

because of my grandparents.

She doesn’t think I’ve noticed

that, either. But something is up

with Mom. Something disquieting.

Case in Point

Her almost non-reaction to

Paul Driscoll totally denying

the sperm donation that resulted

in a little baby Mom. I showed

her Leon Driscoll’s email and,

though I could see she was, like,

punched in the gut, all she said

was,
I never expected anything

else. But thanks for trying, Mik.

And when I told her I wasn’t

done trying, that there is some-

one out there named Sarah Hill,

all she said was,
Don’t worry

about it. You and Trace and Bri

are all the family I need.
Which

pretty much mimicked Dad’s

take on the whole birth parent

search thing. And then, rather

than think things over, she made

a phone call and took off for

the evening, stumbling back home

very, very late. Yet another thing

she doesn’t think I notice—later

and later evenings. More and more

often. Drunker and drunker when

she finally wanders in. Yet, somehow,

she is up early to run the next day.

I think she deserves a nod from

the
Guinness Book of World Records

for “Distance Run on a Hangover.”

Do I worry about her? Definitely.

Will I discuss it with her? No freaking

way. Because she’s my mother, forty

years old and able to make decisions

for herself. But I really have to wonder.

Why hasn’t my father noticed?

I Think About These Things

Lounging in bed late this morning.

Karaoke and cake kept us up late.

I don’t hear a lot of movement in

the house. And it’s weird, but I’m

still tired, despite eight hours of

sleep. Tired, and a little nauseous.

Hey, Bri and Harley made the cake.

Who knows if the eggs were good?

Eggs. Yuck. The very thought makes

my stomach turn. In fact, I think . . .

I throw back the covers, sprint

for the bathroom. Barely make it

to the toilet before I have to let fly.

Stomach cramping, I heave. Heave.

Heave until there’s nothing left

to do but lay my head against

the chill porcelain, half hoping

it’s relatively clean. Pretty sure

it’s not. And that totally makes

me want to heave again. Except

there’s nothing left but those awful

cramps and I don’t think I can heave

those out. Food poisoning? Flu?

Cold sweat erupts on my forehead.

And, though it’s way warm in here,

I shiver. Tiny spasms assault me,

and with each tremor, fear builds

inside me. No. I must be wrong.

There are lots of reasons to puke

in the morning. But my period

is overdue. At one week, I didn’t

even think about it. At two, I figured

I miscounted. At three, I decided

I’m never really that regular, anyway.

But now, I’m over a month late.

And I’m really very afraid of why.

I Shower Away

The sweat and vomit.

Towel off, still shaking.

Brush my teeth. Mouthwash.

Body spray. Deodorant. Wrap