Tilt (8 page)

“I mean, c’mon, Mom. No-brainer.”

She skims the article. Shakes her head.

I barely know how to update my status.

I’d have no idea how to start.

“You want to know where you came

from, right?” She shrugs. Looks kind

of confused. “I’ll help, Mom.” At least

I won’t croak from boredom. “Tell me

what you know about your birth parents.

No names, right?” She shakes her head.

Your grandma told me they were from

Elko and my mother got pregnant

in high school.
Grandma, meaning

Mom’s adopted mother, who kind of

defined the word
bitch
. “So you were

born in . . .” Some quick calculations

net a scary fact. “God, Mom, you’re

going to be forty.” In less than two

months, my mother will officially be

over the hill, no matter how good

she looks for her age.
Don’t remind me.

I can almost see the Grim Reaper.

So Not Funny!

“Mom! Don’t say that!” The idea gives

me goose bumps. “You are not allowed

to die. Ever!” She reminds me of

a lioness, with tawny skin and golden

eyes. I wish I looked more like her

and less like Dad, though I’m pretty

sure I don’t have to worry about

going bald and he definitely does.

“Okay, I think I know what to do

first. . . .” Mom lets me use my laptop

to start my research. I’m looking

for Elko High’s Facebook page when

Dad barrels through the door, all pissy

about one of his clients. Oh, shit. He sees

me. Goes off.
What the hell are you

doing online? Shut that down.

Mom Jumps to My Defense

Which only makes him madder still.

Now he’s yelling about how stupid

Mom is to take a chance on hurting

herself with another pointless search,

and how she doesn’t need anyone

but us to love her, anyway. I can see

her struggle not to turn this into

a major fight. Why should it be

an argument at all? Mom defuses

his anger a little, but as he stalks off,

griping about his day, she tells me to log

off.
No use irritating your father more.

“Fine! But it’s so not fair. Why does

he have to be such a jerk?” Her eyes

go all sympathetic, so I ask, “Can I call

Dylan? Just to say hello?” She almost

says no, but when I prod her with

a question about remembering love,

she capitulates. I’m feeling smug.

Until I notice my brother eavesdropping.

Trace

Smug

That’s the expression stamped

into my sister’s face. But

here’s the thing about

feeling

like you’ve got the world by

the tail. Grab hold and tug,

sometimes you get bitten. A

superior

intellect than my sister’s

is at work here—my own.

The information I’ve just learned

might

offer me some advantage

in the future. Or, play the cards

much differently, it could

result in

a shitload of current fun.

Choosing the “now” might

very well bring

disappointment.

But waiting for the “later”

stokes my impatience.

Decisions. Decisions.

Shane

I Hate Decisions

Especially the little ones, like what to wear

for a first date. Weird, in a way, to call it that.

But that’s what it is—a boy date. Alex and I

are finally going to meet in person. If we don’t

hate each other at initial sight, we’ll have dinner

and go to a concert. Okay, since he bought

the tickets already, we’ll probably go even if

we decide we can’t stand each other. Don’t think

that will happen, though. We’ve been Skyping,

and every conversation has been salted

with revealing factoids, peppered with laughter.

A seasoned relationship, if a fairly short one.

Ha ha. Anyway, what
should
I wear? He’ll be

all Goth. So I guess I’ll settle for regular jeans

and my Nirvana T-shirt. We’re going to see

Stone Temple Pilots. I should get in the mood.

I Shave

Shower, using the gingerbread-scented

soap Gram and Gramps gave me

for Christmas. Another holiday, steeped

in melancholy, with Shelby all dressed

up in green velvet and Dad passed out

drunk before dinner. Mom and I ate

prepackaged turkey slices, Stove Top

stuffing and canned corn while Shelby

hummed along with carols. Tubes feed

her. One day, I swear, I’ll host big, fancy

feasts and have ceiling-high evergreens,

decked out in colored glass ornaments,

with tons of presents swirled under

them. Everyone will be happy, and

no one will be drunk or pissed or dying.

But that won’t be this year or next,

so I dry myself off, spike my hair

and go dig up some clean underwear.

By the Time

I’ve located my folded laundry,

beneath a pile of dirty stuff,

nerves are jittering in my belly.

I know I smell great. But is how

I look good enough for someone

like Alex? What if . . . ? Ah, screw

it. This is the best I can do. Mom

has taken Shelby to swim therapy

and Dad is who-knows-where?

I leave a simple note:
Gone out

with a friend.
Stand by the window,

waiting for Alex to pick me up,

and as the clock approaches four,

the nerve dance has quieted some.

At least, until I see the dark-blue

Honda cruise slowly into view,

searching for the address. When

it pulls against the curb, I almost

want to puke. But that would give

me nasty breath. Instead, I go say hi.

What I Know About Him

As I open the passenger door,

bend to say hello, is this:

He is almost eighteen and

goes to Manogue, the local

Catholic high school, where

it’s even less copacetic

to be gay than it is at

Reno High. He’s on track

to graduate a semester

early and he’s grateful for

that. He lives west of the city

in Verdi, with both parents,

three sisters and one brother,

all of whom are straight.

He likes big dogs, little cats,

action movies and reality

TV. His favorite foods are

pizza, burritos and mangoes.

Mangoes Make Me Itch

So I don’t like them much, but

I’m good with the rest of his likes.

I wish we could have a dog, big

or small, but pet dander and Shelby

would be a disastrous combo.

Alex knows all about my sister.

I thought it might gross him out,

but he was totally sympathetic.