Of All the Stupid Things

by Alexandra Diaz

  Still, I run it by the girls at lunch.

  “So, tell me, why don’t boys return calls? Because it’s not just Nash, is it? I mean, I’ve heard other girls complain about it, right? Please tell me it’s not just me.”

  “Come on, Pink, of course it’s you,” Whitney Blaire teases. At least I hope she’s teasing.

  “It’s not you.” Tara sends Whitney Blaire a dirty look as she confirms. “Some guys are just like that. They forget.”

  “But everyone does that—girls too. I’ve gotten guys’ numbers and then forgotten to call them,” Whitney Blaire says as she drinks some of my chocolate milk.

  “Forgotten to call, or forgotten who they are?” Tara teases.

  “I know. I can be such a bitch sometimes.” Whitney Blaire laughs, but I can tell she’s proud of herself. “I should start taking pictures when I get a number. Then I’ll remember the next day which one is worth calling.”

  They are getting off track. I turn to Tara. “How often did Brent call you?”

  Tara shrugs. “I don’t know. Every day or so.”

  My eyes widen. “But it’s been five days since the lecture and still Nash hasn’t called me.”

  “Well, he’s a freak,” Whitney Blaire puts in.

  “Nash is not a freak! Do you think he’s a freak?” I look at Tara, who is glancing at another table.

  It takes her a second to reply. “Course not.”

  I look at the table that Tara was looking at. The girl that Whitney Blaire gossiped about is sitting with some of the school’s weirdos. Maybe that’s why Tara is staring at her, which is a bit unfair really. The new girl probably doesn’t know those kids are weird.

  I take a bite of the meat loaf and mashed potatoes. “So what do you think is up with Nash?”

  “He’s older. He could just be playing you,” Tara says. This time I catch her looking over at Brent. I want to do something to keep her from thinking about him, but I don’t know what. I’ve always felt he wasn’t right for Tara—too certain of his so-called charm—and am secretly glad she’s taking some time away from him. I’ll just have to keep talking and hope my problems need more immediate attention than hers.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “Nash always seems so happy to see me. I was starting to think he liked me as much as I like him, but maybe not. I wish there’s some way to find out what’s going on.”

  “Maybe there is.” Whitney Blaire grins.

  Tara takes her eyes off Brent and gives Whitney Blaire her full attention. “Don’t even. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it’s not going to work.”

  Whitney Blaire takes another sip of my chocolate milk. “But if it does, Pink will love us forever.”

  “What?” I say. “What are you talking about?”

  “Operation Spy on Nash.”

  I stop eating. The fork stays between my mouth and the plate. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t do it,” says Tara as she bites into her apple.

  “No, really, it’s perfect.” Whitney Blaire keeps drinking more of my chocolate milk. “We get you all dressed up in some kind of disguise, Pink, and then go down to Lay Bone Fromage—”

  “Le Bon Fromage,” I correct her.

  She rolls her eyes and continues. “And then you can, what’s the word, interrogate him. Flirt a bit, see what he’s like when you’re not around.”

  I squint at her. “How are you going to disguise me?”

  Even though Tara was originally against the idea, she now suggests, “You can go in drag.”

  “No, that’s just wrong.” I know she’s teasing, but I take things like that seriously. And she knows it. Which is probably why she said it to begin with. “And even if it weren’t, do you really think I can boob-bind these two monsters?” I point down.

  Tara turns away, but I still see her blush. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Nah, we need to keep you a girl so you can get close to him,” Whitney Blaire says, and I can almost see her brain scheming away.

  Even though part of me wants to know what Whitney Blaire is planning, it’s time to be realistic. “But what if he recognizes me? I’ll never be able to face him again. I’ll have to transfer to another school. Change my name and—”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll look so different, he won’t even think about it. First off, does Barbara still have her whale outfit?”

  I take a couple quick breaths. I don’t like where this is going, but I answer anyway. “You mean that maternity dress we used to use as a tent?”

  “Exactly. We stuff you with pillows and make you look fatter—”

  “Fatter?” I reach for what’s left of the chocolate milk. The straw makes the empty sound, but I still slurp a couple drops. “I know I’m rounder than you two sticks, but I’m not fat. Do you really think I’m fat?” I look from one to the other with the straw still in my mouth.

  “Course not, I didn’t mean it like that, I just—” Whitney Blaire starts, and then Tara cuts her off.

  “You’ve got these great curves and you really are a healthy weight for your body type, Pinkie.”

  Slowly, I set down the chocolate milk. “Really?”

  “Trust me.” She puts the remains of the apple core on a napkin. “Fitness and nutrition are two of the few subjects I know more about than you do.”

  Tara does have a point, and seeing as that was settled, Whitney Blaire continues with her plot. “Then we dye your boring brown hair something wild, like purple or green, straighten it, and put load of makeup on. Really, when I’m done with you, your own mother won’t recognize you.”

  My eyes widen. I’ve never thought about that. Mama, not recognize me? Is that really what it’ll be like when I see her again? Me jumping up and down, waving, and passing right by? No, I can’t let that happen.

  I look at Tara for some help, but she’s staring at the new girl again.

  “Whitney Blaire,” I begin, trying to think of a tactful way to refuse her help. “I don’t think, I mean, I don’t know if they’ll let me into Le Bon Fromage looking like that.”

  “You’re probably right.” She takes a breaded mushroom from my plate. “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something else. One way or another, we’ll figure out what’s behind that boy of yours.”

  “I think you should just drop the games,” Tara says. “And ask him straight up what’s going on. If you think you can trust him.”

  Of course I trust Nash, but I could never ask him straight up. Then again, I’m not too thrilled about Whitney Blaire’s spying idea either. I’ll just have to wait and see. I finish the last of the potatoes and glance around the cafeteria.

  The new girl is looking at us now. Tara doesn’t notice but Whitney Blaire does. The two stare at each other. I watch Whitney Blaire mouth “f off” and the girl mouths back “up yours.” Whitney Blaire crumples her chip bag and I know she’s imagining it’s the girl’s head. Maybe I won’t have to worry about embarrassing myself during Operation Spy on Nash now. I’d be surprised if Whitney Blaire even remembers the idea. She’s found someone to hate and that will keep her busy for a while.

  Whitney Blaire

  WHO DOES THAT SKANKY NEW KID THINK SHE IS? I SAW the looks she was giving Tara at lunch. Then she’d go stare at Brent. I think Tara noticed it. I caught her looking at the kid too, but I don’t think Tara knows the girl has her sights on Brent. I haven’t told Tara, but maybe I should. The girl doesn’t know who she’s messing with if she thinks she has a chance with him, not while he’s still kind of Tara’s. But I can tell she’s not going to back off easily. She didn’t listen when I silently told her to mind her own business. I’m going to keep an eye on her. I don’t trust her.

  Especially since I saw her talking to Chris Sanchez. I used to get along fine with Chris. He always said the craziest things. Very graphic and blunt. Made me laugh. He’s also the cheerleader with the best body. But he’s dealing with the enemy now. I know Andre jumped the gun with the whole Brent-and-Chris thing, but I al
so know Chris would do Brent given the chance. He’d do it, brag about it, and think nothing of it that Brent was seeing Tara. And if I’m right about Riley, which I know I am, she’d do the same thing and that makes her just as bad.

  Tara

  I STOP BY THE GYM AFTER SCHOOL FOR LIGHT TRAINING on the free weights. I take the long way to the RTC and pass by the gymnastics area. Although anyone who pays the entrance fee can use the whole gym, the gymnastics area is restricted to those with special permission. I could probably get in if I wanted to, but there’s no point. I could never do what they do. Maybe that’s why I like watching them.

  One class is tumbling on the mats. Some little girls are walking on the ground balance beams. A few older girls are standing around talking to their coach. I wait a couple of minutes. One girl breaks away from the group, rotating her shoulders. She chalks up her hands and then brushes off the excess on her thighs. I rest my forehead against the glass. She does this little skip hop before sprinting down the runway. A round-off onto the springboard leaves her back to the vault. Still, her hands land on the vault and suddenly she’s twisting and turning in the air. No sooner does that happen then she’s back on her feet, taking a step to the side to regain her balance. The coach starts waving his hands and the girl nods as she walks back to where she started. She chalks up again. Once more she sprints and does her round-off. There’s more power this time as she lands on the springboard, and after pushing off from the vault, she has more height as she flips in the air. When she comes down, she lands square on her feet. I clap. She looks pleased as she wipes her hands on her legs again. Her teammates and coach are nodding and clapping too. Then she looks through the large window and sees me watching from the gym above.

  I get away from the glass as quickly as I can and dart to the changing rooms. When I get there, my heart is beating as if I’ve already worked out.

  Shit.

  With her hair all pinned up, I had no idea it was her. There’s nothing wrong with watching the gymnasts—that’s why the window is there. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve now been caught twice staring at the same girl.

  Breathe. In and out. Drink some water. Focus on the weights, training, reps, sets.

  I go through my strength training and then my shower without thinking about anything other than the exercise. That’s the only way to do it. I have to stay focused. In control.

  I’m fully dressed and toweling my hair when the changing-room door slams. I freeze. It’s not the door; it always slams. It’s the fact that the girls are covered in pasty chalk and talking about how hard the damn vault is.

  I lower my head. I will not look at her again. I rummage through my bag and wonder if I can get out unseen.

  “Sorry,” says a voice. I want to hide. Without looking up, I know it’s her. “Can I get to the locker next to you?”

  “Uh, sure,” I mumble as I shift out of the way.

  I can feel her body heat next to mine. I should explain, apologize. “Look, I—”

  I give in and raise my eyes. Bits of hair are sticking up from the crown of her head. She has a sweet smile on her face. She doesn’t seem mad that I’ve been staring at her. In fact, she looks nice. I relax and say something else that’s on my mind.

  “That vault you did was great.”

  She smiles wider. “Thanks. It’s a killer. That’s one of the few times I’ve gotten it right. My name is Riley.” She holds out her hand. I shake it. It’s sweaty and chalky, but I don’t care. It’s a good handshake, strong and confident.

  “Hi. I’m Tara.”

  I finish putting everything in my bag, but I don’t want to leave. I look in the pockets for something to do. I find Brent’s old comb. I take my time running it through my wet hair. It’s too short to tangle, but at least it seems like I’m doing something.

  “So, did you just move here?” I ask.

  Riley nods as she pulls pin after pin out of her hair. Already she has about fifty in her hand. “Almost two weeks ago.”

  “And how do you like it?”

  Riley shrugs. “It’s okay. I’m really lucky to train with this new coach. The gym is the biggest perk.”

  I grin. It’s a good gym. I’m proud of it.

  “I guess it’ll get better once I start meeting some more people,” Riley continues.

  “I’ll introduce you to my friends.” I’m not usually sociable right off the bat, but I like Riley and I want her to like me. “We can meet by the front doors before the bell rings tomorrow.”

  Riley stops herself from making a face. “You’re friends with that girl Whitney, right?”

  I look at the comb. That’s right. How did I forget that Whitney Blaire basically declared her the Wicked Witch of the West? I was so busy trying to forget the times she caught me staring that I missed the fact that Whitney Blaire made me look at her in the first place. But then again, I would have noticed a girl like Riley.

  “Ah, I forgot you’ve met her.”

  “No, I haven’t. I ran into her,” Riley says. “Literally.”

  I don’t know what to say. I wasn’t there when Whitney Blaire and Riley first bumped into each other; I don’t know what happened between them. But I know Whitney Blaire and she does go overboard sometimes.

  “Maybe when you get to know her things will be different? She might be a bit of a drama queen, but when it comes down to it she’s a real friend.”

  Riley shrugs. “Well, maybe I can give Whitney another chance.”

  “Whitney Blaire,” I correct.

  Riley raises an eyebrow. “Are there other Whitneys around?”

  “No, she’s the only one. But we’ve always called her by her full name. Everyone has. It’s part of her image. Except for David, but that’s just the way he is.”

  Riley doesn’t say anything. Her hand is full of bobby pins and her hair is flowing over her body in soft waves. It looks even prettier up close than other times I’ve seen it. I actually have to ram my hands in my pockets because I want to touch it so bad.

  “Look, I’ll talk to Whitney Blaire beforehand and clear things up. And my other friend Pinkie is great, she gets along with everybody. Between those two, they can introduce you to loads of people. And if you’re up for a lunchtime game, we can organize something with Brent—”

  “You know what, I’m sorry. I forgot I’m busy tomorrow.” Then Riley grabs her towel and heads for the showers.

  I’m left there, with an old comb, wondering what I did wrong. She doesn’t look back, but she left a trail of lilacs behind her.

  Pinkie

  WITH NASH STILL NOT CALLING ME AND ALL MY FRIENDS doing their own activities, I’m feeling a bit lonely. Even Angela has plans today (which shows how desperate I am for company that I want to hang out with a ten-year-old). It’s too early to start homework and there’s nothing good on TV. The house is very quiet. Maybe a little too quiet. I don’t like it. I don’t feel safe in a quiet house by myself.

  I grab Mama’s letters from the shoe box and head out. Instantly I feel better. It’s the empty house that always does it. Too many memories. Too many thoughts about what happened the last time it was this quiet. And the days haven’t gotten too cold, so it’s a shame to stay indoors.

  I park on the road and walk through the gates. There are other people there, walking around and visiting family members or friends. I nod to them but don’t speak. I sit down at Mama’s side and start telling her everything that has happened. Some of the things I tell her are in the letters, but I know she would rather hear them directly from me.

  I tell her about Nash and how much I think she would like him. I tell her how I know that I came on too strong. I wonder if my breath had been bad even though I had brushed my teeth. I also think he is embarrassed about what happened after the lecture. Then I tell her how I’m afraid that he might think I’m too young for him, even though I don’t feel an age difference when we’re together.

  I tell her the stuff that I don’t tell Barbara because she’s t
oo old to understand. Mama listens when I say what’s going on with my friends and how it bothers me that Tara is not staying away from Brent and how Whitney Blaire is leading David on. I talk to her about school and about the colleges I’m starting to look at. She doesn’t judge me when I admit to playing hooky the other week. I ask her if there is any way I can turn back time and at least change that day I missed to an excused absence. Just so it’s not on my record.

  I often ask her if there’s a way to turn back time when I visit, even though it’s stupid. I like to think of it as a game we play. An impossible game. Because if I could turn back time, then maybe Mama would still be here.

  But she’s not. I have to settle for placing her letters in a hole under the marigolds. Then I cover the letters with dirt for Mama to read.

  Tara

  MOM GETS HOME JUST AS I’M TAKING THE CHICKEN OUT of the oven. I make room on the counter for the canvas grocery bags she brings in. It’s a tight squeeze with the two of us and Sherman romping around with excitement. Mom gives me a quick hug and then heads upstairs to change out of her work clothes. Sherman trots after her and suddenly there’s a lot more room in the kitchen.

  I put away the groceries but leave out the yogurt for the fruit salad. I take the broccoli and carrots out of the steamer and divide them onto two plates. Mom returns later in a paint-covered T-shirt, cutoffs, bare feet, and no bra. Her long auburn hair falls in loose curls. I’ve always wished I looked more like Mom. Instead I’ve got Dad’s thin, straight, dull hair. And his long face and strong thighs. And yet people ask if Mom and I are sisters. They’re probably being polite, because unfortunately there’s no resemblance.