Tilt (37 page)

you have to do it a few times to

catch a buzz.
Chad the psychic

takes another drag.
But once you

do, you’ll never go back to straight.

“You mean, you’ll just stay high?”

His frosty-eyed glare informs me

that was an idiotic thing to ask.

Disgust weighs his sigh.
No. What

I mean is that you’ll
want
to just

stay high. Wish I always could.

To make the bad crap disappear.

He has experienced more than I.

So why do I take another puff?

Five Puffs Later

The cigarette is a tiny stump Chad

calls a roach. Each inhale got easier,

as if my throat and lungs decided

resistance was futile. I’m not sure,

but I might even feel a little fuzzy

around the edges. At the very least,

I feel a little braver. Brave enough

to walk arm-touching-arm with Chad

as we head back toward camp, soaking

up the warm August night. He doesn’t

seem to mind, so I grow even bolder.

“Do you think I’m ugly or something?”

That seems to amuse him. He snorts.

No. Why?
He keeps walking, so I put

a hand on his arm to stop him. “Why

haven’t you ever tried to kiss me?”

It just wouldn’t be the right thing

to do. You’re like my little sister.

Chad

The Right Thing

Has never exactly been

my thing. But once in a while

something like moral fiber

threads through me, weaves

a web

around my heart. She would

be so easy. Look at the way

she tried to please me, back

there in the woods. But a rush

of affection

overtook me suddenly. I care

about her. Not that I’d confess

it. I even feel a little guilty

about the weed. How

can

I reconcile this feeling with

what I’ve always thought about

love—that it’s really either bullshit

or lust in disguise? You can’t

fix

a shattered glass with superglue.

I’d say the odds are slim that

a makeshift family can repair

a broken

childhood.

Mikayla

Childhood

I think childhood is something

you really don’t appreciate until

it’s been taken from you. When

you’re really little, it’s all you know.

There is good and bad, and hopefully

the former outweighs the latter.

But since adulthood looks so very

far away, there’s no reason to worry

about it. As you get older, you start

to think about certain freedoms

attached to growing up. Riding

your bike solo to the store. Going

skating or to the movies with just

your friends, no parents allowed.

Sleepovers first without, then with

Truth or Dare. Still, for most, there

is an innocence in that, reflective

of lingering childhood. Then, new goal:

that magic number sixteen. Driving

can take you many places—both toward

and away from the heart of family.

Mostly, you want to come home. But

then you start considering eighteen.

No more parental intrusion. You can

be on your own. Except, I’m pretty

sure, it isn’t as great as it seems.

I haven’t celebrated that birthday.

Have a whole year left in high school.

But one little mistake (no, a major mistake)

has stolen my childhood from me.

You can’t be a parent and still be

a child, except if you limit that term

strictly to age. Childhood is supposed

to be about fun. Pretty sure I’m not

going to have a whole lot of that

for quite some time to come.

I’ve Researched

Until my eyes blurred and my head

ached. Everything. Abortion. Adoption.

Teenage motherhood. I’ve read case

studies. Statistics. Personal stories.

I really don’t think I could be more

informed. Yet I still can’t seem to make

a decision. The fetus is now an embryo,

which doesn’t deny a surgical solution.

But psychologically, it makes that idea

so much harder. I can’t sleep. Still can’t

eat much without losing it all first thing

in the morning. They say eating crackers

in bed before you move your head from

the pillow is supposed to help. But all

that does is make me puke Saltines.

Morning sickness is supposed to go

away by the start of the second trimester.

So, one way or the other, I’ll get over it.

Meanwhile, I’ll Keep Puking

That’s how my mom found me

last week. When she knocked on

the bathroom door, I tried to flush

the evidence, wash the stench

from my mouth. She already

knew. I looked like crap, that’s

for sure, but I didn’t think

she’d say,
So, it’s true.

I started to deny it. “What’s

true?” If she knew, I thought,

she’d be angry. But her eyes held

only certainty. “Who . . . who told you?”

My legs got all shaky. When I

started to fall, she caught me,

tried to still my quaking body.

Doesn’t matter. What’s important

is that you don’t make any hasty

decisions. How far along are you?

Do you have any idea?
I nodded

against her elevated heartbeat.

“I’ve missed two periods. At first

I thought no way. . . .” I told her about

the two two-blue-line tests. Halfway

through my confession, I started

to cry. Stupid. Tears. I hate being

weak. “Dylan says he’ll pay for an

abortion. But I don’t know if I can do

that. But I don’t know what else to do. . . .”

What she said was not what I wanted

to hear.
I know the idea of an abortion

is distasteful. But you’re only seventeen.

Having a baby would . . . impact your life.

Distasteful! Impact my life? I gave

her a hard shove. “No shit! Jesus,

Mom. I’m pregnant, not stupid.

I’ve thought and thought about this.

Abortion is more than distasteful.

It’s kind of murder. This is up to me,

not you. And anyway, when did you

decide to play mother again?”

Totally Overboard

But, you know, I have a good excuse.

And the fact is, she has been absent

lately. Writers’ groups and extremely

late nights out with friends. Sounds

like a regular midlife crisis to me. But

what do I know about turning forty?

Clicking the dial to eighteen is way

too much for me. Especially pregnant.

Argh! Today, for a change, I’m hungry.

Maybe close to starving. Not sure if

that shift is good or bad. Next thing

you know I’ll weigh two hundred pounds.