Tilt Page 10

  Maybe cuter than Robert Pattinson.

  Faces Washed and Teeth Brushed

  We head outside. Usually, I sleep on

  the couch, but tonight Bri and I are camping

  under a big maple tree in the backyard.

  We scoot into sleeping bags, looking

  up at the big canopy of branches.

  When the breeze blows the leaves,

  I can see stars. We talk for a while.

  Then she drifts off—silent, but for

  the steady in-out of her breathing. I listen

  to her soft snore, and the occasional

  growl of a passing car—who is

  driving around at two a.m.? I close

  my eyes. The next thing I know,

  it’s morning, and late morning,

  by the sun’s height in the sky.

  “Bri?” She’s not here, so I go inside

  to find her sitting next to Chad on

  the sofa. And just as I come through

  the door, she turns her face into

  his, and the two of them are kissing.

  Brianna

  Kissing

  I can’t believe it, but that’s

  what I’m doing—kissing

  a boy for the very

  first

  time. I know it’s wrong

  that it’s this guy, but when

  he looked at me with

  hunger

  in his eyes—hungry for me!—

  kissing him seemed like

  the right thing to do.

  And

  my inner voice doesn’t say

  one word as I close my eyes,

  lean into him. But

  then,

  when it all turns into a wet,

  sloppy mess, my conscience

  laughs out loud at my

  disappointment.

  And now, hearing my best

  friend gasp, I yank away

  and toss a Hail Mary

  apology

  I know she won’t accept.

  Mikayla

  Apologies Are Useless

  To my dad.

  I mean, okay, I came in three

  hours past my midnight curfew.

  But Dylan’s Jeep got a flat, and

  his spare was flat, too, and it

  took us forever to fix them

  especially since pretty much

  everything is closed at twelve a.m.

  To my mom.

  Who I went off on when Dad

  wouldn’t listen about the flats

  and all. True, I mentioned her

  state of dress—too slutty for forty,

  with a thigh-high skirt and boob-

  baring neckline. But I was angry.

  And anyway, she deserved it.

  To Dylan.

  Who is really very tired of me

  being grounded, and I can’t blame

  him. This summer was supposed

  to be fun, but we haven’t even

  made it to Tahoe. The only thing

  we’ve managed to do is have sex

  a few absolutely amazing times.

  I’ve Said I’m Sorry

  So many times this summer, it’s starting

  to sound like a ringtone. At this point,

  no one believes it. Not even me. But I

  think I found a way to escape the house

  today. Mom is taking Trace and Brianna

  to Wild Waters. It’s an absurdly disguised

  plot to get Bri and Harley speaking again.

  I know because I overheard Mom and Andrea

  hatching their evil-moms plan. I could probably

  go along, but I’d rather spend some stolen

  hours with Dylan. Just not here, in case

  Dad happens to come home. So, as Mom

  squeezes into a little pink bikini and slips

  a cover-up over her head, I ask, all innocently,

  “Can I ride my bike? I need some exercise.”

  Surely the Workout Nazi can’t say no to that.

  She looks at me with a fair amount of

  suspicion. Bike riding and what else?

  “Nothing else.” Wide-eyed and wounded.

  “Jeez, Mom, if I don’t do something I’m

  going to start school in size-twenty clothes.

  Please?” That was pretty good, I think.

  Okay. But don’t stay gone too long.

  And don’t ride East Lake. Too dangerous.

  I cross my heart, even though East Lake

  Boulevard is the only way to get to Washoe

  Lake State Park, where I’m meeting

  Dylan. Reno and Wild Waters are in

  the opposite direction, so I’ll wait until

  after they’re gone. It doesn’t take long.

  The doorbell rings and Mom calls,

  Trace! Bri! Grab your stuff and let’s go.

  I open the door for Andrea. God, I wish

  I had a camera. The look on Bri’s face

  is priceless. What are they doing here?

  she snaps. I’m not going if she’s going.

  Oh, yes you are, says Mom, pushing

  Bri toward the door. This is getting old.

  Andrea laughs and Trace smirks and

  Bri’s body language shouts whatever.

  Out the window, I watch Bri shove

  Trace into the backseat ahead of her

  and right up against Harley, who is

  hunkered against the far side of the seat,

  refusing to acknowledge any of this

  is happening. Kids. Sometimes I wish

  I could go back a few years, to when

  school was still fun and friendships

  were easy and relationships with boys

  were only inventions of imagination.

  I Let Dylan Know I Can Escape

  It will take him a while to get out here, so I sway

  away from the rules again, check my email.

  When I see the one that just arrived, I get a little

  rush of excitement. It’s from Leon Driscoll, who

  I found through his ex-wife on Facebook and

  who just might be Mom’s biological uncle.

  It says: HELLO, MIKAYLA. IT WAS A SURPRISE

  TO HEAR FROM YOU. MY EX SHOULDN’T HAVE

  GIVEN YOU MY NAME. BUT I’VE ALWAYS

  BELIEVED MY BROTHER, PAUL, SHOULD

  HAVE MADE HIMSELF AVAILABLE TO HIS CHILD,

  SO I FORWARDED YOUR EMAIL TO HIM. IT IS

  MY OPINION THAT HE IS, IN FACT, YOUR

  GRANDFATHER. HOWEVER, THIS IS HIS RESPONSE:

  “PLEASE INFORM HER THAT I HAVE NEVER

  HAD SEX WITH ANYONE OTHER THAN

  MY WIFE, SO I CAN’T POSSIBLY BE RELATED

  TO HER.” I’M SORRY HE SEEMS UNABLE

  TO COWBOY UP AND TAKE RESPONSIBILITY

  FOR SOMETHING THAT HAPPENED

  FORTY YEARS AGO. VERY SORRY. BEST

  I CAN DO IS GIVE YOU TWO THINGS.

  I Ponder Those Two Things

  As I pedal along the sweltering August

  asphalt. The first was a photo of a man—

  Mom’s father, despite his ridiculous

  declaration. What kind of wimp-ass guy

  claims he’s only slept with one woman—

  the one he married after pumping enough

  sperm into some other girl to get her pregnant?

  That girl, in this case, is my grandmother,

  Sarah Hill. Leon Driscoll’s second gift

  was her name. This discovery should

  feel like a victory. Instead, something

  very close to shame has dug a hollow

  in my gut. To the west, obsidian thunder-

  heads claw over the mountain. Ozone

  crackles and perfumes the air. It’s going to

  storm something awful before the afternoon

  is over. I am almost to the park entrance

&n
bsp; when a pickup zips by, close enough to slip-

  stream my bike. And he has the nerve

  to honk as if it’s my fault he almost hit

  me. Mom’s right. This road is dangerous.

  And so is my mood. I flip the idiot off.

  Like, already a mile or so away, he can

  see me. Like he would care if he did.

  I turn into the park, pedal over under

  a stand of cottonwoods, sit in the grass

  beneath them, cooling off in the lush

  greenness. Dylan! I’ll see him soon.

  I close my eyes, waiting. Kind of

  dozing. Smelling barbecue and . . .

  suntan lotion. Hey, Mikayla. Tyler.

  His voice brings me upright. Damn.

  Whatever he’s been doing to work

  out, he should keep doing it.

  He’s shirtless. And he is hot.

  “Hey, Ty. What are you doing here?”

  He Holds Up His Longboard

  Skating. But it’s getting kinda hot

  and I was just thinking about

  taking a dip. Want to join me?

  He half licks his lips and I wonder

  if that means something besides

  they’re feeling a little chapped.

  “Nah. Dylan’s on his way. I told

  him I’d meet him right here.”

  I expect him to go dive into the lake.

  Instead, he sits beside me, close

  enough so I can smell his haze of

  sweat, clinging sun-roasted skin.

  I lie back in the grass again, and

  he follows me, sighing at the cool.

  “Sorry about you and Em,” I say.

  “I never thought you’d break up.”

  He turns onto his side, leans up

  slightly over me. Like they say, shit

  happens. Anyway, you can’t keep

  someone who doesn’t want to stay.

  I Consider That

  Disagree. I’d fight to keep Dylan.

  But I probably shouldn’t say so.

  “I guess not. So, how are you

  and Caitlin doing?” I suspect

  his answer before he tells me,

  There is no me and Caitlin.

  I’m flying solo for now. How

  about you and Dylan? Last time

  I saw him he was griping about

  you being so unavailable.

  I sit up. “Really? When did you

  see him?” Ty sits up, too, looks me

  in the eye. A couple of nights

  ago, at Kristy Lopez’s party.

  Kristy Lopez is Dylan’s old girl-

  friend. And wait just one damn

  second. “Dylan went to a party

  without me?” No way. He wouldn’t.

  That was my very first question

  when I saw him—where’s Mikki?

  He said you were on house arrest.

  Again. And that he wasn’t going

  to sit at home alone anymore,

  waiting for your tight-ass parents

  to let you off restriction while

  the summer kept ticking away.

  Of course, he was pretty buzzed

  by then. All worked up, really.

  Of course he was. I can’t believe

  he’d go out without me. That’s bad.

  What’s really bad is partying

  at Kristy’s. That is unforgivable.

  I’m Not Really the Jealous Type

  But right this second, the evil

  buzz inside my brain is a hive

  of tiny green-eyed monsters

  hissing Kristy, Kristy, Kristy.

  Stop it, Mikayla. Dylan would

  never cheat on you. Not with

  Kristy, or anyone else. But

  why did he go to that party?

  Tyler must have noticed how

  my face flushed, even though

  I’m solidly in the shade. Sorry.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.

  “No. It’s okay. Dylan should

  have told me, is all.” Why hadn’t

  he? The answer is ridiculously

  obvious. He didn’t want me to know.

  Which makes me wonder what

  else he’s hiding. Before I can consider

  it more, the guy in question squeals

  into a parking space right in front of us.

  Dylan

  Uh, Question

  What the fuck is Tyler doing

  here, sitting so close to Mikki?

  A big ol’ switchblade of

  jealousy

  takes a stab at me. He doesn’t

  think I see the way he looks

  at her, but I don’t miss a thing,

  and

  there is always a blink of longing

  in his eyes, friend of mine or no.

  Then again, it’s possible

  guilt

  is at play here. The other night,

  Kristy flirted mercilessly and I

  didn’t exactly chase her away. What

  could

  that mean? Nothing. That’s what.

  One glimpse of my Mik, and

  I know my heart could never

  be linked

  with anyone’s but hers. But now I see

  the look on her face. What did he tell

  her? How much does she know?

  Shane

  Distraction

  Is not what I need right now.

  Alex is letting me drive his car.

  I need to practice parallel parking.

  Once I get this down, all I have

  to do is talk Dad into going to the

  DMV with me. “All” I have to do.

  “Stop talking to me for a minute,

  okay? You’re distracting me, and—”

  Bump! The back tire finds the curb.

  Alex laughs. Sorry. Try again,

  and cut the wheel a little harder.

  Then I want to hear about the concert.

  I pull forward and even with

  the Prius parked in front of

  the space I’m aiming for. And just

  as I start to turn the steering wheel,

  Alex says, By the way. Have I told

  you that little scar on your lip is hot?

  “If you don’t stop talking, I’ll

  never get this right. Do I have

  to make you get out of the car?”

  Ooh. Survive one little fight,

  and now you’re a tough guy?

  Cool. I kind of like tough guys.

  That cracks me up completely.

  But somehow I manage to slide

  in next to the curb, pretty much

  spot on. “Let me try a couple

  more times. In silence, okay?”

  I kind of get the hang of it before

  putting the Honda in drive and

  aiming it toward the freeway.

  I want to practice merging, too.

  And once I do, Alex reminds me,

  Now can I hear about Bob Dylan?

  He’s kinda getting up there, isn’t he?

  So Is His Audience

  At least, some of them. “The concert

  was pretty great, really. More for

  entertainment value than the music.

  There were, like, hundreds of old hippies. . . .”

  Including my gram and gramps, but he

  already knows that. “I mean, like, guys

  with long, gray hair and beards, smoking

  weed. It was weird.” I’m pretty sure Gramps

  took a hit or two off a blunt going

  around, although he tried to hide it

  from Harley and me. I don’t share that,

  either. “And then Dylan comes onstage,

  and his voice is all scratchy and everything.

  This one obnoxious drunk dude sitting in

  front of me kept yelling, �
�That’s not Bob

  Dylan,’ until finally security hauled him off.”

  Gram told him to shut up and when he refused,

  she went in search of a uniform. “And then,

  there was my cousin, Harley. She’s only

  thirteen. And boy, was she vamped

  out in a really short skirt and really

  tall heels and a really tight tank top

  that made her boobs look really big.

  I’ve never seen her dressed like that

  before. She was even wearing makeup.”

  Heavy makeup. Not quite trampy,

  but close. “Some of those old guys

  were checking her out. Perverts.”

  Takes one to know one, sweetie.

  I really like your grandparents,

  by the way. Wish mine were more

  like them. They hate me being queer.

  “Mine are pretty cool, okay. Wish

  they’d stick around more. Mom

  could use their support.” They took

  off for California. They’ll be back in

  a couple of weeks. But then, who

  knows? “Okay, parallel parking?

  Check. Freeway merging? Check.

  Now if I can just get that parent signature . . .”

  The Last Time I Asked

  Things didn’t go so well. I give

  Alex the highlights now:

  Me: “I’ve been old enough for

  over a month.” Forgotten birthday.

  Dad: You can have it. When I find

  the time to take you to the DMV.

  Me: “You never have time for me.

  And you pretty much suck as a dad.”

  Dad: You’re not exactly my idea

  of a noteworthy son, either.

  At which point, Mom jumped in,

  trying to avert catastrophe. She said

  she’d try to take me. I told her to chill.

  She worries too much already.

  Me: “All you have to do, Dad, is sign

  the papers. I can use Alex’s car.”

  Dad: Alex. Perfect. Said as he poured

  himself another drink at ten a.m.

  I watched the Irish whiskey glurg

  into his coffee. Couldn’t let it go.

  Me: “No wonder you don’t want

  to take me to the DMV. You’d get busted

  for drunk driving. Do you drink

  at work too, Dad?” Which somehow

  segued to him beating me down

  over my sexual orientation.

  Dad: Do you screw your boyfriend

  at school? How one thing led to