Of All the Stupid Things

by Alexandra Diaz

  “So, I thought I’d let you know,” he says. “There’s a lecture at seven o’clock tomorrow tonight at the civic center on Emerging Democracy in Islamic Countries. Dr. Wang Hall is brilliant and I have been looking forward to hearing him speak for a long time. If you’re not doing anything, I recommend you go. If anything, just to get a new perspective.”

  Everyone kind of shrugs and starts getting their things together. David pauses to wait for me but I tell him to go ahead. I take my time putting my notebook in my bag. I check to make sure I have my phone, my keys, my wallet, my breath strips, and then I double-check to make sure they’re still there. It’s only once I’m certain I have everything that I head to the door.

  Nash walks over and hugs me like he did the others. “So, are you coming to hear Dr. Wang Hall tomorrow?”

  “Definitely,” I say, even though I hadn’t thought much of it before. But what if that sounded overeager? I have to say something else. I don’t want him to think I’m boring and have no life. “Well, that is if I get all my homework done in time.”

  Nash grins. “Well, I hope you can make it.”

  “Me too.” I smile back. We stay there looking at each other, not sure what to say or do. I move a strand of hair out of my face and then fumble to get my bag. “Right, so, see you later.” I give him a half wave and get myself out of the room before I start acting very much more stupider.

  Tara

  MY TIMES HAVE BEEN OFF THESE LAST FEW DAYS. MAYBE because I’m still recovering from the twenty-mile exertion earlier this week. I decide to take a day off running and go to the gym to use the pool instead. The gym is like a second home for me. Mom teaches a yoga class there every Saturday on top of her regular job. It doesn’t pay much but it gets us into the gym free. I only need to wave at the guys at the front desk as I walk by.

  Like some magnetic force, my eyes land on Brent as he heads to the RTC, the Resistance Training Center. Through the glass surrounding the room, I watch him jerk his chin up and smile at Lola, the fifty-something-year-old with green hair working behind the counter. She rolls her eyes at him and with her stale cigarette breath comments that if only she were thirty years younger. I’m too far away to actually hear Lola say this, but that’s what she told him when I first met Brent six months ago.

  I was on the treadmill that day when he walked into the RTC. Although my back was to him, I could see him clearly in the mirror in front of me. I knew him vaguely from school, but then again it was hard not to.

  I remember my surprise when he opened the door for some Down syndrome kids. Instead of averting his eyes to not look at them, Brent held out his hand and high-fived each one that passed by. One little girl with thick glasses couldn’t coordinate her hand well enough to slap Brent’s. He bent down and held his hand just a couple inches from hers. She slapped it hard. Brent held out his other hand. She slapped again, and he gave her a thumbs-up.

  He straightened up to find Lola watching him with a pen in her mouth. Slowly she turned back to her magazine and spoke to him as if he were looking at her from the glossy pages.

  “What is it with you and women, Staple?” she demanded.

  Brent blushed and shrugged away her comment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. They’re good kids, that’s all.”

  Lola snorted and flicked over to the next page.

  Half amused, Brent shook his head as he took off his windbreaker and straightened his tight white T-shirt.

  I reduced my speed.

  Lola, eyes still on the magazine, took the pen out of her mouth and shook it at him. “You better watch it, young man. If I wasn’t thirty years too old for you…”

  Brent laughed embarrassedly. “I don’t believe you’re thirty years older than me, Lola.”

  Lola huffed. “See, there you go again, you charmer you. But you’re right. It’s more like thirty-five, but what’s five years?”

  Brent shook his head again as he smiled wider. My pace reduced to almost walking speed.

  “Well, you sure don’t look it.”

  Lola whacked him on the shoulder with her magazine. “Lay off, will you? Give an old lady a break. I gotta get back to work.” And with that Lola grabbed her cigarettes and lighter and went outside.

  I notched up my speed but kept an eye on Brent in the mirror as he headed for the free weights. Whitney Blaire called him the ultimate hottie and said she’d do anything to be seen with him. When I asked why she didn’t go after him, she laughed and said he wasn’t her type. She was right, though: Brent was hot. Seventeen, but looked twenty, amazing shoulder-length brown hair, bright green eyes, a sexy smile, and a body that wasn’t bulky but was so muscular there wasn’t an inch of fat on him. I noticed that bit as I watched him from across the room.

  After finishing the miles, I headed over to the mats. I was rounding off something like twenty push-ups (the real ones, not those sissy girly ones on the knees) when I looked up. About thirty feet away, Brent was watching me with a weight resting against his chest. He smiled that sexy smile as our eyes met. Setting the weight back on the rack, he sat up.

  I got to my feet and casually headed toward the free weights.

  “Terri, is it?” he asked when I got closer.

  “Tara,” I corrected and shook his hand, hard. He shook it again, testing my grip, and smiled more.

  “Tara,” he said. “You mind spotting me on some heavier weights?”

  And like that we were a couple. There was a comfort level with him that I hadn’t felt in a long time, hadn’t let myself feel—not since Dad. But with Brent, it felt right, natural; I trusted him. When I wasn’t with the girls, I was with Brent. We knew that training came first, but we got around that rule by doing it together. After a five-and-a-half-year absence from soccer, he got me to play goalie while he tried to bend a shot past me. Then three or four times a week he’d run with me early in the morning, five to eight miles depending on my schedule. There aren’t many guys who would regularly run long distances just because they liked the company. And he wasn’t intimidated that I was stronger than half the guys in school. In fact it turned him on.

  Maybe that’s why it seems at least possible that there was something between him and Sanchez. Sanchez has that broad muscular body that is often only seen in enhanced photographs. If Brent were interested in guys, Sanchez would be his type. But Brent has never given any indication of going for guys. Or cheating. Not that I have noticed, at least.

  And no one at school has ever mentioned anything about Brent swinging both ways. Not now, not before. I feel like someone played a cruel joke on me, just to make the thoughts haunt me at night. Part of me argues that I should take Brent back because the incident really wasn’t true. That said, knowing the rumor is false still doesn’t change the images swimming in my head.

  My attention returns when Brent spots me watching him through the glass. He raises his eyebrows and jerks up his chin as he smiles. I nod back and hurry to the pool. I try to focus, but Brent’s smile stays with me as I swim 100 meters, 200 meters, 500 meters. But it’s only at about 700 meters that the idea of Brent also smiling at Sanchez starts to fade.

  Pinkie

  TONIGHT IS IT. I’M (KIND OF) GOING OUT WITH NASH. AT least I hope so. I hope he can still make it. I hope he doesn’t suddenly get called in to work and feel like he has to cover someone’s shift, because he’s that kind of nice guy who would help out anyone who asked for it and because he’s saving up and could really use an extra night’s tips. I call him to see if he wants me to bring a tape recorder to the lecture just in case he does have to work so he can hear it later on and not miss out on Dr. Wang Hall’s very important discussion on emerging democracy. But Nash doesn’t answer and I don’t leave the message because I suddenly worry that if I do, that might make him think that he doesn’t have to attend the lecture at all and that’s the last thing I want to happen!

  I remind myself to breathe. Think calming thoughts. Or at least pretend to.

  Whitney Blai
re teases that she’s going to gate-crash the lecture, which I really hope she doesn’t since that would not make me look good in Nash’s eyes. On the other hand, I do try to get the girls to come with me since it would just be weird to go on my own. Tara says she needs to work on getting sponsorship for the marathon. Whitney Blaire, as soon as I say I want her to come, says if she wanted to listen to an old man lecture, she’d stay at home more often. Even David says he has more important things to do, like sister-proof his life. He also tells me to chill out, which is silly because I’m totally and completely calm.

  To prove it, I write a letter to Mama as soon as I get home. I tell her everything I know about Nash and then Google him to find out more (he never said he won the state spelling bee when he was twelve or that he lives close to Tara’s house). I mention the wink to Mama and ask her opinion of whether it was a wink or a twitch because after twenty-three hours, I’m no longer convinced it was a wink. I say everything that comes to mind about him, everything else I want to know, and everything I like about him. I ask her if I should change my last name when we get married. I hope Mama likes him, which she probably will, considering that she never speaks badly of anyone.

  When I’m done, I sign it and kiss the letter before putting it in the shoe box with the other letters to Mama. Then I head down for dinner. I haven’t even started my homework, but there’s no way I’m missing the lecture.

  After we’ve said grace, I mention the lecture. I don’t, however, specifically mention Nash.

  Daddy rolls his eyes as he serves the lasagna. “How interesting. You know, Mousie, you can just say you’re going off to a rock concert instead. It’s fine by me.”

  “Dino,” Barbara scolds Daddy. “You should be glad that you have such a good teenager. You won’t believe what some of the women in the PTA are going through with their teens. Besides, emerging democracy is a very important and controversial subject. Pinkie, have fun and take some good notes, but remember that you have school tomorrow so you shouldn’t be out too late.”

  I nod and keep eating. Even after eleven years, eight months, two weeks, and four days, Barbara is still determined to be the “good” stepmom. Her latest bedside read, something like Children Are from the Sun and Teenagers Are from Pluto, must have told her to be supportive of a teenager’s needs without being pushy. For the most part I get along fine with Barbara, but I can’t tell her the things I tell the girls or Mama. Maybe because Barbara is so old. Not as old as Whitney Blaire’s parents but still getting on. She’s two years older than Daddy, which means she’s too old for him. Not that Daddy is old, just normal mid-forties, but Barbara acts it while Daddy doesn’t.

  “Well,” says Daddy after Barbara finishes her lecture on teenage philosophy and psychology, “if you really do end up going to a rock concert, and get completely wasted—”

  “Are you encouraging our daughter to go behind our backs?” Barbara crosses her arms and pulls her shoulders back, which suddenly makes her look three times the size of a normal person.

  Daddy, however, doesn’t get intimidated. “No, I’m just saying, hypothetically, if it were to happen, you can always call and we’ll pick you up no matter what.”

  Barbara relaxes a bit, which means her size returns to just over six feet tall, and turns to me. “Well, yes, Pinkie, your safety is the most important thing, but better to not get yourself in a pickle where you feel you need rescuing.”

  I scoop up some peas and carrots. “It’s okay. I really am going to a lecture on emerging democracy.”

  “Good,” says Barbara, and with that they don’t ask any more questions.

  My half sister Angela is another thing. Straight after dinner, she shows up while I’m brushing my teeth and asks who else is going.

  “I don’t know,” I mumble.

  “But will Nash be there?”

  “He’s the one who told us about it.”

  “Can I come?” Angela asks.

  I spit out the toothpaste and look at her through the mirror. Ever since I had to babysit on a bowling evening and Nash insisted that I bring Angela along, she’s been desperate to join us again. “It’s a grown-up lecture with lots of old people. You won’t understand anything.”

  Angela places her hands on her hips. “My teacher says I have the comprehension level of a fifteen-year-old.”

  I don’t say anything. No one has ever told me I have a high comprehension level. Not in fifth grade, not ever. Does that mean that I don’t? Is this going to reflect on my college applications next year? Are universities going to think that I’m not advanced for my age? What about these AP classes I’m taking? They have to count for something, right?

  I take a deep breath. “Angela, this is a school trip. It’s only for people who are in the club.”

  “I’m sure Nash won’t mind and I really want to go.”

  “Why?”

  Angela blushes. “Well, Nash…”

  Now it’s my turn to blush. Is Angela saying she has a crush on Nash? And worse yet, am I jealous of my baby sister? “Nash is too old for you.”

  “He’s only ten years older than me, which in a few years will be nothing. Just like your mom and Daddy.”

  I drop the spool of dental floss. How does Angela know my mama’s age? I’ve never taken her to meet Mama. “Nash is eleven years older than you.”

  “Ten. I’m eleven next month.”

  I shake away the thought and head to my room for my things. Angela has always been prettier than me, with blue eyes and skinny legs. Even the brown hair we both have looks better on her than me. I don’t like thinking that in a few years she’ll be competition.

  My phone buzzes to let me know it’s time to head out. Angela tries one last time to convince me to let her come. She promises never to ask me for anything else again and tells me I’m the best sister in the whole wide world. Barbara finally butts in to say that Angela has to wind down and start getting ready for bed. I get a look of death from Angela since it’s obviously my fault that Barbara won’t let her go. I send my own look of thanks to Barbara.

  I get to the lecture eight minutes early and search the room. I was right. There’s no one under the age of fifty, let alone anyone from school. And no Nash. Maybe he’s here and I can’t see him? Is that him with the hat? No, that’s a bald seventy-year-old man. What about that guy over there talking to a group of people? No, that’s a woman. I double-check he’s not in the room and then go back outside. I pull out my phone. It’s turned on, I have it set to silent vibrate, and no, there are no missed calls or texts. Maybe he’s in the bathroom. Should I poke my head in (with my eyes closed, of course) and call his name to see if he’s there? But then they start flashing the lights to enter the room. I sit in the back and survey the crowd again. Still no one I recognize. Someone sits down next to me. I’m about to say the seat is taken when I realize it’s him.

  “Hey, I thought I’d be the only one,” I whisper.

  “Nah,” he whispers back and hugs me, leaving an arm around my shoulder. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  The lecture starts. I realize I forgot to bring something to take notes. Then again, I don’t even know if Dr. Wang Hall is speaking English. My mind is on Nash. He must have forgotten that his arm is around me. Or maybe it’s just a casual thing. I glance his way. His eyes stay on the speaker, but his arm gives me a squeeze. Was that a general “glad you’re here” squeeze or a “you’re a good squeeze” squeeze? I don’t move in case he suddenly realizes it was an “it was a mistake” squeeze.

  Halfway through, Nash takes hold of my hand, although his other arm stays around me. I look at him again. He looks at me too this time and winks. Tentatively I clasp his hand a bit tighter. He responds by rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand.

  Dr. Wang Hall finishes his speech with a small bow. Nash lets go of me for the first time and bursts onto his feet. A few other people stand up. I join them even though I hadn’t heard a single word.

  “The man is a genius,” Nash says.


  I nod and hope that’s good enough.

  “Shall we go?”

  “Yes,” I say quickly.

  He holds my hand again, as we walk slowly out to the cars. The days are getting colder, but I feel extremely warm with him next to me. We stop in front of his little two-door.

  “I’m glad no one else from school came,” he says. “It was really nice having you to myself.”

  He looks at me with that look that says any minute now he’s going to lean forward.

  My mind goes light speed. Did I brush my teeth? I think so, but what if it’s not fresh anymore? What if I’m not a good kisser? Am I even allowed to kiss a teacher? But he’s not a teacher. He’s Nash.

  His lips touch mine and my mind goes blank. I think I wrap my arms around him; I think at one point I put my hand on his face to see if it’s smooth, but if it is, I don’t remember. It’s all so tingly and nice, I don’t know what’s going on. I just go along with it.

  Too soon, he moves his lips away but his arms stay around me. “Sorry, it’s getting late. But can we do something over the weekend?”

  “Definitely.” I don’t have to give it any thought.

  “Awesome.” He kisses my nose and lets go. “I’ll call you.”

  “Great!”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye,” I say, and watch him drive away. My feet are rooted to the ground, but my head seems to have detached itself to float in the clouds. For a second I imagine what it would be like to call home and say I need rescuing. I’m sure I can’t remember the way back. Instead, I stay in the parking lot for twenty-three minutes—that’s how long it takes to get myself calm enough to drive home. Hopefully I won’t get lost.