Tilt (49 page)

People are still coming in as

the music starts to play. I wave

to Bri, who just got here with

her family. As usual, her dad

and mom are miles apart, even

though they sit side by side.

If Mom Can’t See That

She’s totally blind, and she’s def

checking them out. When she turns

back around, she looks sad. But

everyone looks pretty sad, especially

when the minister starts to talk

about how Shelby is home now,

and whole in God’s arms. So weird,

thinking about how some energy inside

you might escape when your body

dies. That it might go someplace,

become something different. An angel.

A whole other person. I don’t know.

But I’m sure there’s nothing left inside

the Shelby-looking thing in the casket.

I’ve never seen a dead person before.

Now people get up to talk about her.

Gramps goes first. He calls her

a little blossom who nourished

us with the nectar of her laughter.

Our lives are enriched because of her.

Gramps is a poet. Who knew?

Now Gram says a few words,

and Mom does, too. And then

Shane’s boyfriend, Alex, stands.

I’ve only known the Trask family

a few months. But I am grateful

for the short time I had with Shelby.

She brought light into my life, and

wherever she is now, it is a brighter

place because she’s there. I miss you,

Shelbs, I . . .
But his throat knots

up. He can’t go on, so he returns

to his seat beside Shane, whose face

is in his hands. Almost everyone

here is crying, the one huge exception

being Aunt Marissa. She looks like a marble

statue—hard, white, unmoving. In fact,

she could be dead, too, except every now

and again she blinks dry eyes. Maybe you

only have to die
inside
to turn into a zombie.

After the Words

And Disney Channel music are finished,

the casket is closed. Shane, Alex, Gramps

and Uncle Chris carry it to the hearse

and we form a car parade to follow it to

the cemetery.
Will you please ride with

Gram and Marissa?
Mom asks me.
I want

to talk privately with Gramps.
She offers

no other explanation, leaving me totally

wondering, again, what’s up with her.

More too-adult-for-me-to-know-about

stuff, no doubt. But what can I do except

say, “Sure.” I sit in the back with Gram.

All of us wall ourselves up into invisible

boxes of silence. It’s a fifteen-minute

creep-along ride, and I steal a few to text

Lucas.
FUNERALS SUCK. CAN I C U

TOMORROW
? I have no idea how I’ll

sneak away, but I’ll think of something.

In the past week, we’ve seen each other

three times—the day after the rib cook-off,

when he and Kurt came out to Washoe Valley

and picked up Bri and me at the 7-Eleven; and

twice after school. I’m glad he has a car.

Each time, we found a private place to park.

He keeps trying to get me stoned, but

so far I’ve been good. What I’ve been bad

about is making out. He’s the best kisser

in the world. The last time I even let him

go to second base. Amazing! But the days

I don’t see him just seem so long. Especially

since they’ve been all about death. I need

a big injection of life. It will have to wait

for a while, though. Right now, I get out

of the car, follow the people procession

to the gravesite where what’s left of Shelby

will be left to decay beneath Nevada sand.

A Gentle Slant

Of September sun spotlights

the casket as they lower it

into the ground. At the cemetery’s

edges, the rabbit brush is blooming.

The air is thick with its pollen and

its bittersweet scent mixes with the perfume

of Gram’s citrusy shampoo. Together,

they smell like rotting oranges. The coffin

hits dirt with a soft
whump.
I watch

them pull the canvas straps out of the hole.

The minister says some final words,

invites us to take a single purple rose

from the vase beside the grave, toss

it inside.
Tink. Tink. Tink.
They hit

the casket lid. My ears go hypersensitive.

A jet landing. A dove moaning.

Sniffling. Distant traffic. A train passing

nearby. Music. A symphony of death.

After the Dirge

We go to party. The wake is at

my house. Whoopee. I think

it’s weird that people celebrate

dying. Is that something I’ll get

when I’m allowed to be grown-up?

Gram and Gramps spent all day

yesterday cooking. I ride home

with them, ahead of the rest, so we

can start putting food out on the long

table Mom borrowed. Everything,

from the tablecloth to the napkins

to the centerpiece flowers, is purple

and pink. Shelby’s favorite colors.

It was a nice ceremony,
says Gram.

Don’t you think so?
Gramps and I

mutter agreement. I mean, how nice

can a funeral be? People start arriving

within a half hour. Oh, good. There’s

Bri, with Trace, Mikayla and their dad.

Mrs. Carlisle isn’t with them. Not into wakes?

Bri and I Load Plates

Leave Trace and Mikayla surrounded

by talkative adults, go back into my room

to eat. I take the time to check my cell.

No text messages. No voice mails.

“Wonder what’s up with Lucas,” I mumble

around a bite of Gram’s homemade pizza.

Mm-mm-mmh,
is the best Bri can do.

Then she swallows. But before she can

comment on Lucas, she notices something

outside my window. I can see her eyes

following movement. It’s her dad and

my mom, on the patio. They are alone,

and caught up in some conversation.

Mom’s lips move and now he looks

kind of sad. He leans toward her,

but she steps away. Shakes her head.

Whatever he said, I see Mom’s clear

resolution. “What the heck is that about?”

Bri shakes her head.
I have no idea.

Brianna

I Have No Idea

What’s going on anymore.

Everything feels tenuous,

like standing at the ocean’s

edge, the licking waves

eroding

the sand from beneath

my feet. My best friend

is turning herself into

somebody new, steadfastly

changing,

and maybe not for the better.

My sister is clinging to

some weird fantasy, make-

believing she is

slipping

toward happily ever after.

And my parents have become

an unknown equation. Two,

divided by
x
, and the farther

apart

they push from each other,

the likelier they will never

bounce back.

Mikayla

Divided

That’s how I’ve felt ever since

I found out I was pregnant. Torn

in two, one half insisting on the easy

solution, the other on doing the right

thing. When I got home from Vegas

and told Dylan I had decided to keep

the baby, he gave me an ultimatum—

It’s me or it, Mik. I love you. But if

you keep it, you will lose me. And

don’t expect any help from me.

Each word struck like a jagged blade,

piercing skin, flesh and heart.

I can’t imagine life without Dylan,

and I changed my mind again. I totally