Tilt (67 page)

moves, kicking and pushing

and turning somersaults

against the swelling balloon

of my belly, our connection

deepens. I’ve started to think

about names. Amanda. Jasmine.

Claire. I’m looking into Lamaze

classes. Mom says I’m nuts,

that they invented epidurals

for a very good reason. But I kind

of want to go natural if I can.

To give the baby the best possible

start. Because after that, who knows?

Dad Being a Lawyer

He insists that Dylan must take

responsibility for child support,

whether or not he wants to.

Once the baby is born, you must

establish paternity. Dylan can

volunteer to take the test, but if

he refuses you can get a court

order to make him. Dylan
is

the only possible father, right?

I should be insulted, I guess.

But on the other hand, it’s a fair

question, and one that will be

asked by more people than Dad.

Dylan totally is the baby’s father.

I’ve done my homework, too.

Dad is right. Dylan can’t just

decide he’s completely out of

the picture. Even if he never sees

his daughter, he has to help take

care of her financially. The question

really is: Will I make him step up?

But what if he did see her, and what

if he fell in love with her? Would

he remember falling in love with me,

and would he love me again?

March is too far away to find out.

I haven’t even had the chance

to tell him we’re having a girl.

He avoids me at school, and he

won’t take my calls, and I’m not

about to deliver that news via

voice mail. But he can’t keep away

from me forever. One way or

another, Dylan Douglas will see

the ultrasound pics of his baby

girl. And today will be the day.

Mom Always Says

When I set my mind on something

I am a force to be reckoned with.

Today I will be gravity—subtle,

but powerful and undeniable.

I see Dylan walking with friends

a few times, and once with Kristy.

But I need to find him alone, and

it finally happens right before fifth

period. He’s at his locker pulling

out books. My approach is silent.

“Hey.” I keep my voice gentle,

and when he looks at me, I’m sure

there’s a hint of love in his eyes.

“I wanted to show you something.”

I don’t want to be late for trig.

His tone is harsh.
What is it?

Carefully, I extract the printout

from my notebook. “Our daughter.”

He studies it for a second, then shakes

his head, as if to clear it of confusion.

I don’t know what you want me

to say, Mikki. It barely even looks

like a baby. And it doesn’t change

a thing. I’ve got to go now.

“Please, Dylan. You’re her daddy.

She’s going to need you in her life.”

I touch his hand. “I need you in my life.

But she is what’s important.” He jerks

his arm away.
Not to me, she’s not.

Now, leave me the fuck alone, Mikki.

He slams his locker and practically

runs down the hallway. My eyes sting

acid tears. “I am so going to make you pay!”

The words echo in the empty corridor.

My Last Class

Of the day is home ec.

A no-brainer elective.

I know how to cook.

But sometimes you need

an extra few credits.

In the Thanksgiving spirit,

we are experimenting with

stuffing.
I hope next week

you’ll volunteer to make

something a little different

for your family’s holiday

meal,
says Mrs. Brennan.

And I hope every single one

of you has something special

to be grateful for.
She gives

me a knowing glance, and

I’m halfway to giving her

something special to suspend

me for when someone comes

up behind me, lays a hand

on my shoulder.
We haven’t

talked in a while. Maybe we

should.
Tyler. I turn and look

up into his eyes.
I don’t know

if you want to. But I’d like to.

No one has been this nice

to me in weeks, and even

though there is a prohibition

against male/female touching

on campus, I slide my arms

around him. Lay my ear

against his heartbeat. And cry.

A soak-through-the-shirt-all-

the-way-to-the-chest-hair

kind of tears. Mrs. Brennan

doesn’t say a word and neither

does Ty, or anyone else here.

They just let me weep into

the onion-celery-sausage-

sage-scented air. Thanksgiving.

I Think I’m Having

An out-of-body experience.

I am not holding myself upright.

Ty is. Ty, who I’ve known for

years. Ty, who has dated friends.

And enemies. Ty, who has never

touched me before, at least not

in any significant way. Yet, at this

moment, he supports my weight.

The weight of my muscles, bones.

The weight of my psyche, which

hangs heavily. The slight weight

of my baby. The weight of my weight.

That Weight

Is oppressive. And yet, knowing

somebody cares enough to prop me

up makes me believe I can come out

okay on the other side. Just maybe.

I tell him I’m sorry.

He says not to worry.

I beg him to understand.

He promises to do his best.

And, considering how many people

make promises they can’t keep,

doing his best is all I can ask for.

Plus, in the haven of his arms

I find some slender ray

of hope that on the far

horizon a ghost girl lingers.

Mikayla Jean Carlisle,

as worthy as she ever was of fairy-tale

love. And why did that train of thought

even wind up on the same page

with me, anchored in Tyler’s harbor?

Tyler

Fairy-Tale Love

Isn’t something to aspire to.

At least, not if you dig down

beyond Disneyfied retellings.

Original

versions are pretty sick. Take

Sleeping Beauty. The cartoon

portrays Prince Charming’s love

as pure, but as first written,

sin

drives a randy married king

to rape a comatose beauty,

leaving her pregnant with twins.

When the queen finds out, she

is

rightly quite pissed, and orders

the castle chef to cook the kids

for dinner. Instead, he tells

the king, who decides

a

nubile, fertile fox is preferable