Tilt (7 page)

Chad is maybe sixteen, tall like his mom,

and amazing, with hair the color of a shiny

new penny and superdark eyes that check

me out and make me feel all hot and weird.

They Also Make Me Feel

Not good enough. Like they’re

measuring me and I’m sure to

come up short, the way I always do.

I struggle to find my best real

smile and hiss an awkward, “H-hi.”

Cassie notices my stupid stammer

and crazy embarrassing blush.

She slides her arm around my

shoulder.
Harley says she really

wants to learn how to ace World

of War. I told her you’re the best

gamer I know. You’ll teach her, right?

Now Chad smiles back at me.

Why not? That little bedroom

was getting claustrophobic.

He goes to turn on the PlayStation

and TV. Cassie winks and nudges

me toward the sofa. The gaming begins.

Chad

Gaming

Master the controller,

conquer the rules and

perhaps for the very first

time in your life, you savor

power. The learning curve

teaches

the value of patience.

Practice. Self-restraint,

when external discipline

has too often forced

you

down on your knees.

Virtual killing is safe passage

to the pleasure of revenge

when you don’t know

how to

get it any other way.

And when you too often

hear people shouting,

“You’re a loser,” kicking

cyber-butt convinces you

that you can

win.

Mikayla

No-Win Situation

That’s pretty much where you find

yourself when your uncle is the cop

who busts you at a party, stoned

out of your head. Okay, in a way

you win, because he hauls your butt

home instead of taking you to juvie.

But in lieu of institutionalized

lockup, you end up jailed at home.

I should be at Tahoe with Dylan

today. But, no. Dad grounded me

with no set release date. I’m not

even allowed to use my computer

or cell phone. Cut off completely

from the outside world, exiled to

my stupid house, what am I supposed

to do for entertainment? School

would be better than this. I could

pick a fight with Trace, but all that

would do is irritate Mom, who I’m

pretty sure has a hangover. Mom

is my only ally here. She acted all

put out about the party, but I could

tell it was mostly for Dad’s benefit.

She gave me a one-question quiz

about my drug use (deny, deny, deny).

Accepted my lame answer (win, win,

win). And the only thing she said

about my crooked clothes, smeared

makeup and obvious sex perfume

was to take a shower. Okay, she said

it twice. So I’m pretty sure she knew.

We’ve never had that mother-daughter

heart-to-heart you imagine is coming.

I guess, since they start teaching sex

stuff in, like, fourth grade, she figures

she doesn’t need to worry about details.

Of course, Mom is so wrapped up in

herself lately (not to mention pretty

buzzed when she walked in on the scene),

maybe she didn’t notice anything at all.

God, I Miss Dylan

Okay, it’s only been a couple

of days, but it feels like forever.

He’s everything, and all I can think

about right now is how we made love

that night. We had messed around

lots of times before, but it had never

seemed quite like this—much more

about making each other feel good, less

about just having sex. Maybe it was

the Southern Comfort, or the weed

(green and so stony!), or the two

together. But when we took off our clothes

in the back of his Wrangler, skin

raked by cool claws of moonlight,

insane, hot need grabbed hold

of me. All I wanted was his mouth

and tongue kissing me all over

my body. I was wild for it, really.

And that was very new. I think

it kind of scared him, although

he liked the things it made me do.

Things you don’t learn. Things

you just intuit, like you’re born

to do them. Threads in the silk

of womanhood. I feel like a woman

now. It’s weird, because when you

read about sex, or see it in movies,

they work so hard to make it seem

great that it sort of feels like fiction.

But this was not playacting or words

lifted off a page. This was real,

and when we reached that ultimate

peak, it was nothing I’d ever

experienced before. We seriously

both went, “Wow,” in unison.

And then we both laughed. Together.

Afterward, I wasn’t in a hurry to

get dressed. Which explains why,

when the cops showed up, I think

Uncle Stan caught a glimpse of my boobs.

If I Keep Reliving

That night, I’m going to go apeshit.

I’d watch TV, but Brianna has got

some god-awful baseball game on.

What kind of thirteen-year-old girl

is in love with the San Francisco Giants?

When they won the World Series,

after all those dreadful years, I swear

I thought she’d totally cry. She’s

cheering now, so they must have scored.

I guess I could read, but I don’t have

a book I’m currently interested in.

Looks like it’s solitaire or . . .

My eyes settle on a magazine, lying

on the kitchen table. On the cover

is a collage of pictures—kids, adults. Families.

The caption says:
Technological Tools

for Birth Family Searches.
I flip to

the article, which is all about how social

networking is reuniting adoptees

with their birth parents. Mom is adopted,

and over the years, she has made half-

hearted attempts to connect with

the people who created her. Each

time, she has come away disappointed.

But I’m betting she never tried Facebook.

As I read, she shuffles into the kitchen.

Usually by now she’s run five miles

and showered, which is why I’m thinking

she had a little too much to drink last

night. Whatever. Everyone needs to party

once in a while. “Have you ever thought

about trying this?” I hold out the magazine.