Author: Ellen Hopkins
Category: Literature
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/ellen-hopkins/page,10,39433-tilt.html
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