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he warns.
They’ve sedated her.

Her face is the color of parchment,

and her eyes are empty. She leans against

Uncle Chris, who clenches and unclenches

his left fist. I’ve never seen him show

emotion, not even at Shelby’s funeral. His

right hand clutches Aunt Marissa’s like if

he let it go she might leave him, too. “Sit

down, Mom,” I tell her. She looks unsteady

but she shakes her head.
I want

to talk to Gram.
Gram, who paces

from the far wall to the door, poking

her head out every time she reaches it.

I sit next to Gramps. “Where’s Alex?

He knows, doesn’t he?” He must.

He knows. I guess Shane called

him to say goodbye. Which is why

they think it was a suicide attempt.

Alex called Chris, who found Shane,

unconscious in the travel trailer. It

smelled like gas, but he had taken pills,

too. Antidepressants, Jägermeister and

carbon monoxide can be lethal all by

themselves. Combine them. . . 
He shakes

his head.
They pumped his stomach,

put him on oxygen. They’re not sure if

he’ll make it, or if he’ll be okay if he does.

Alex must be freaking out. “So, where

is Alex? Why isn’t he here?”

He’s here. He went down to the chapel.

He said he hasn’t prayed in a while, but. . . 

Alex

But Maybe It’s Time

To try prayer again.

Gay and Catholic are hard

to reconcile. Figure in

molestation and HIV,

I

gave up on God a long time

ago. Then I found Shane, who

offered not only love, but real

hope

that there might be something

beyond this life. Even for me.

So here’s the thing,

God.

I’m asking for a really big favor.

Maybe one I don’t deserve.

But Shane does. He reopened

my heart to you. So if it

is

your will, please, please send

him back to us. We need his light—

your light, shining through him.

And if you’re feeling especially

generous,

please give him back whole.

Mikayla

I’m Feeling Good

About my decision. The Trask house

is huge. Beautiful. She’ll have a big

room. Plenty of toys. Pretty clothes.

Nice things. Lots of attention. Love.

I’m feeling awful about my decision.

Every time she moves inside me

tonight, it’s like she’s asking,
Why,

Mama? Why do you want to give me away?

In theory, getting to see her every

now and again will allow me peace

of mind. But what if knowing she’s

that close only makes me want

to see her more? I hate being torn

like this. Hate Dylan for making

me fall in love with him. Hate

my parents for glomming onto

this solution, going on and on about

what’s best for me, best for the baby,

when what they’re really concerned

about is what’s best for them.

A Big Part of Me

Feels like “my” decision has more

to do with them than it does with me.

When the Trasks walked us out to

our car, Mrs. Trask hugged Mom,

as if
she
was the one giving up her baby.

Then Dad shook Mr. Trask’s hand.

Like they were closing a business deal

or something.
My colleague will be in touch,

Dad said.
We need to spell out the details

on paper.
Go, Dad. Let’s sign the contract.

I’m not sure if my current reticence

has more to do with all that than the simple

idea that I might be making a mistake.

Why can’t this just be easy? Is it ever?

Exhausted

By the mental wrestling match,

I fall back on my bed, look

over the rising hill of my belly.

Will it ever return to flat terrain,

or will a small knoll always remain,

no matter how many crunches I do—

a reminder of sweet summer love

turned sour? Where is Dylan tonight?

Has he, for even the smallest fraction

of a second, thought about me

tonight at all? Does he ever feel regret?

Just a minute ago, I hated him. Why

am I filled with such love for him

now? How long does it take to fall

back out of love? How much time

to blunt the sharp stab of pain?

How many girls must I see him

with before I don’t care anymore?

Outside

Snow falls softly from the night

sky. Beautiful. Beautiful, and

early this year. It brings hope

of a white Christmas. Here

in northern Nevada, the chances

of late-December snow are what

some people (especially tourists)

might call a crapshoot. Growing

up, I would send wish lists to Santa,

and they always included snow,

carpeting the ground, frosting

windows and falling while we opened

our presents. When it happened,

I knew he was real because who

but Santa could create such magic?

But on off years, I wondered

what I had done to displease

him. Funny, how things work.

Why snow this year?

Bone Weary

Still, I can’t sleep. Might as well

study. Trigonometry. Radical.

What will I ever need this shit

for, and why did I sign up for it?

Not like I need it to graduate,

or to get into UNR. That’s where