Tilt (63 page)

“she” and contemplate pink dresses—

makes everything completely real.

Dr. Ortega comes in to discuss what

the ultrasound shows—a healthy

little girl with all her parts in all

the right places. And while I keep

nodding my head, I’m only half

listening. I keep looking at the printout

they gave me of my daughter
in

utero
at twenty-one weeks. I think

she looks like a girl, and imagine

what she’ll look like when she’s born.

Will she have dark hair like Dylan’s?

Blue eyes like mine? Will she have

perfect pitch and sing soprano, or

will she pitch a perfect softball?

She moves inside me—a dragonfly.

I Get Dressed

Take a totally necessary pee.

Clutching the grainy photograph

of my baby, I am about to leave

when someone says,
Hello.

Mikayla, right?
It’s Mrs. Trask.

I’ve only seen her a couple of times.

The last was at her daughter’s wake.

She is thin. Pale. Drawn. “Oh, hello.

Yes, I’m Mikayla. How are you?”

She shrugs.
Okay. It’s been a hard

few weeks, but it’s getting a little

better. I miss her terribly, of course.

I can’t even imagine having such

a sick child, let alone dealing with

her death. “I’m so sorry about Shelby.”

Thank you. And . . .
For the first time,

she notices my condition.
Looks

like congratulations are in order?

That makes me smile. “Depends

on who you’re asking. I just had

my ultrasound. It’s—she’s—a girl.”

I offer the printout like it’s great

treasure and she takes it the same

way.
She
is
a girl. Wow. This reminds

me of when I got Shelby’s ultrasound

results. I so wanted a little girl,

and I was nervous she’d be a boy.

I tried for eleven years . . .
She sputters

a little, but continues,
It was the happiest

day of my life.
Her eyes fill with tears,

and she wipes them with one hand,

returns the photo with the other.
Well,

congratulations. To you. And whoever.

I Drive Home

Caught in a tornado

of confusion. Life

isn’t fair. Why me?

Why did I get pregnant

with a baby girl no one

wants? I mean, I think

I want her, but maybe

I don’t. Not if I have to

raise her alone. Why me,

when women like Mrs.

Trask try for years to

get pregnant. Hope for

years to have a little girl.

And then they succeed,

only to lose that daughter

to a fatal illness? Total

suckage. I’m having a girl.

I have the pic to prove

it. But who can I share

it with? No one cares

but me. Not even her

daddy. Not my friends.

Not my parents or my

grandparents. Life isn’t fair.

Kristy

Life Isn’t Fair

I

have Dylan back. But look

at the circumstances. It wasn’t

because he came to his senses,

decided what he felt for Mikayla

was more lust than love. He still

wanted

her when he dumped her. The only

reason he left was because

he knocked her up and, despite

his demands, she refused to take

the easy way out. I never expected

to

respect her. If circumstances

were different, I might even like

her, and learning the truth

has made me like Dylan a lot less.

It would be so much easier if I could

gloat.

Instead, on an almost cellular

level, I kind of want to get even

for her. “Pussy” doesn’t cover it.

Dylan is a major asshole.

Shane

Ducking for Cover

Lately, that’s what it feels like

I’m doing. Hiding out. Getting by.

Just barely. I’m faking my way

through school. Most of my teachers

don’t care. They’re just hanging in there

long enough to qualify for a pension.

But one or two have noticed

how I show up for class physically,

though I’m not really present at all.

Ms. Luther, my creative writing

teacher, keeps using the
D
word.

D
, for depression. I suppose that has

a lot to do with the poetry I keep

handing in. On time. As assigned.

The problem is, she lets us choose

what we want to write about. Death

figures prominently in mine. Death,

externally, and death internally.

And Also Death as a Character

This is one of the poems she liked:

Death waits impatiently

outside my door. We are betrothed

and he wants to set a date.

It will be a marriage of shadow

and light, matrimony in sepia.

Death waltzes on my lawn—

a delicate dance meant for two.

But I’m not sure of the steps,

and I don’t want to look like a fool.

So I watch from behind the glass.

Death calls to me in breathless

whispers. Coaxing. Coaxing.

His voice is soothing, and when

he hums, his song is a lullaby.

I close my eyes. And listen.

She Gave Me an A

On that one. But then she called me in

for a private talk. When I got there,

copies of my poems were on her desk.

I’m mandated by law to report what I see

as a possible—probable—problem.

Beyond that, I like you, Shane, and

I just want to make sure you’re okay.

Yeah, yeah, I know she meant well.

That she’s
worried
about me. But somehow

it just pisses me off. So, now I’m sitting

here, seething, waiting for my counselor,