Of All the Stupid Things

by Alexandra Diaz

  She serves us both some brown rice and chicken. “Good day today?”

  “It was all right,” I answer. “School’s the same. And I went to the gym for some weight training.” I tell her about meeting Riley but leave out the part about me staring at her and my obsession with her hair. I don’t know how Mom would react to that. I don’t even know how I’m reacting to that. I just mention that Riley is a gymnast and new but doesn’t seem interested in meeting my friends.

  Mom cuts a piece of chicken. “It takes a while to get used to things when you’re new. She’s probably just a bit scared and shy.”

  I don’t think Riley is shy. She introduced herself to me. She wasn’t the one blushing when our eyes met. But then again, she hadn’t been the one caught staring. I put that thought aside and ask Mom about her day. She sighs and goes on about the usual office complaints and how she feels she can never do anything right. I only half listen. It isn’t that I don’t care; I do and I hate seeing Mom so miserable, but it is pretty much the same thing every night. Mom keeps talking and my thoughts go back to Riley and her hair.

  Once I finish dinner, I put down my plate for Sherman to clean and grab a couple bowls for yogurt and fruit salad. Mom is done complaining so I go back to my own subject. “I think I’d like to get to know Riley better. She seems really nice.”

  “She probably is and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”

  “What about Whitney Blaire?”

  Mom places her own plate on the floor for Sherman. “You have other friends besides Whitney Blaire and Pinkie. There’s no reason why Riley can’t be one of them.”

  “I know that, but…” I scoop the fruit into the bowls.

  Mom seems to understand what I can’t say. “Whitney Blaire might never like this girl, but see how it goes. Who knows, the four of you might really get along.” Mom reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  “I don’t know,” I say. Whitney Blaire is pretty stubborn. She’s a great friend but a horrible enemy. Although there have been a couple times I’ve seen her change friends and enemies around. “Maybe you’re right. I shouldn’t let Whitney Blaire keep me from getting to know Riley. Thanks, Mom.”

  She shrugs and half smiles as if to say that’s what moms are for. “Oh, I completely forgot. I picked up the mail.”

  “Is there—?” I start.

  “Yes. Something you’ve been waiting for.”

  I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until Mom hands me a fat envelope and I let the air out.

  I force a smile. “Great, it’s the race information.” I open it up and glance at the marathon booklet stating how the race day will work, ads for equipment, and tips on nutrition and avoiding an injury. It also includes lists of potential charities and how to best approach people for sponsorship. I was hoping the packet would come this week, but I can’t say that I was waiting for it. Not like the letter I really want. It’s been over a month since my seventeenth birthday in September, which means it’s been over a year since I last heard from my dad.

  Whitney Blaire

  I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. TARA HAS MADE FRIENDS WITH THAT stupid Riley kid. It’s horrible. It’s like Pink and I are no longer good enough for Tara because we’re not hard-core jocks. But really, what does Riley have that we don’t? Nothing. Riley’s not in the Honor Society like Pink and I’m much more fun to be with than her. Riley is just a nobody.

  Just yesterday Tara said she couldn’t hang out with Pink and me because she was going to the gym with Riley. What does she see in her? Pink and I, we’re Tara’s real friends. We have history. We were there when her father bailed years ago to Uruguay or Paraguay or something ending in “guay.” We helped her out when she was in crutches for weeks because of a sprained ankle. And we spent hours looking for her that day a few weeks ago when I stupidly mentioned the thing with Brent and Chris. Riley wouldn’t do any of that. I know she wants Brent for herself. She pretends she doesn’t by avoiding him, but I see her watching him and Tara whenever they’re talking. She stares and stares, watching their every move. If Brent touches Tara’s arm, I can see the smoke coming out of Riley’s nose. But when Tara talks to Riley, she’s all smiles. Damn hypocrite.

  Then Pink has to go and invite her to eat lunch with us. I almost take my tray somewhere else, but Pink convinces me to stay. “Come on, Whitney Blaire, let’s give her a chance. She’s new and doesn’t know many people. And Tara seems to think she’s nice. Ooh, and look, they have nachos today. I’ll go get us some.”

  I set my tray down. “With jalapeños.”

  Tara and Riley sit down a couple seconds later. I glare at her and she glares back. I know Tara had to convince her to sit with us too. But I got the better end of the deal. I don’t see nachos on her tray.

  Pink comes back with two tubs of nachos. “Sorry, they were out of jalapeños.”

  Figures. I take a chip and push it around the sauce. How am I supposed to eat them now? Without the jalapeños, the calories won’t burn away.

  “So,” Pink, the damn welcome committee, says, “how are you finding it here? Do you like it?”

  “It’s all right,” Riley answers.

  “That’s good,” Pink says. She eats one the nachos. No one says anything. Pink offers Riley the tub. Riley takes the biggest one with the most cheese. Greedy pig.

  I look at Tara. She’s eating her usual healthy weird shit. And for some reason she’s smiling. I eat a nacho and pretend I’m smiling.

  “So,” Pink starts again, “why did you move here?”

  Riley unwraps her sandwich. “My parents didn’t like who I was dating.”

  “Really? Parents really do that kind of stuff? Move to a whole new place just to keep you away from someone?” Pink asks.

  Riley nods. “Mine did. Though they were offered better jobs over here anyway, so I guess that helped the decision.”

  “And did it work?” Tara looks at her.

  Riley looks back at Tara. “We were going to break up anyway, so yes. But if that wasn’t the case, nothing would keep me from seeing whoever I want.”

  I stare at her, just waiting for her to sneak a glance at Brent; she’s practically saying she’ll do anything to get him. But her eyes stay on Tara. Sneaky. There has to be another way I can get her. Then I remember what she didn’t mention at the burger joint.

  “Why don’t you tell us about being on TV?” I suggest, thinking now she’ll be embarrassed.

  “You were on TV?” Pink gasps. I kick her under the table and she squeaks, which is worse than the gasp because it sounded like excitement. But at least it shut her up.

  Riley looks surprised and then shrugs. “It’s not that big a deal. I qualified for the national finals earlier this year and they showed me on the vault. I didn’t win the event, but I guess the national news thought I was competition.”

  Liar, stupid liar. Okay, so maybe she was on TV for some silly air-flippy thing, but what about the other stuff? The secret thing she hadn’t wanted to mention to Brent. Or had that just been a stupid act to create mystery and attract attention? That makes it worse.

  But I can’t think about it right now. The worse has gotten worse.

  David is at the table.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand.

  He looks down at his shoes. “Just wanted to say hi.”

  Riley suddenly becomes all smiles and holds out her hand. “Hi, I’m Riley. I’ve seen you around, but I don’t know your name.”

  David turns red and smiles like a dork. “It’s all right. I’ve seen you too. How’s it going?”

  “Great,” Riley answers as she slowly runs her hands through her hair, which of course is just an excuse to stick out her chest. “Ah, I’m really glad you came by. It’s good to finally meet you.”

  My eyes squint to narrow slits and my nose flares. I wonder how easy it would be to hide the evidence if I were to scalp her. But no matter. Even if I’m caught, I have access to the best lawyer in town. And no one messes with my father.


  “His name’s David,” Pink says, being her stupid overly friendly self. I kick her again but manage to hit the table instead. I scrunch up my face to keep from screaming. David blushes more and smiles bigger.

  “Oh right, sorry. Yeah, it’s David. Hi.” He rocks back and forth on his feet. Any minute now he’s going to wet himself.

  I pick up the nacho tub and throw it at Riley.

  “Lay off David and lay off Brent, you ho.” And I storm out of the cafeteria.

  That Riley is going down. And I’ll make sure it gets done.

  Pinkie

  I MATCH UP THE CORNERS PERFECTLY AS I FOLD THE napkins into triangles. It’s been well over a week since the lecture and I haven’t seen or heard anything from Nash. I’ve asked a couple of the other kids in the club, but they haven’t heard when we’re having our next meeting. I’ve driven by Le Bon Fromage a few times (okay, before and after school every day of last week). Sometimes his car is there and sometimes it isn’t. Which means he’s not working all the time, so he must have some free time to return calls. I’m so desperate to know what’s going on that Whitney Blaire’s spying idea is starting to sound good. But no, I won’t. What I really need is someone who knows what guys think.

  “Hey, Pink,” David says.

  “What?” I look up from the napkins. “Sorry, did you say something?”

  “I asked till what time we have to be here today.”

  “Three. Two if we clean up fast,” I answer quickly while my mind stays on Nash and his broken dialing finger. I finish with the napkins and move on to restocking the tea basket.

  Being youth leaders at our church means that David and I do anything anyone tells us to do before or after the service or at any charity event. Even though it’s a Saturday, we agreed to help for a special service. Whitney Blaire calls it slave labor, but it gets us in free to any of the youth events. Besides, colleges like to see a lot of volunteering and active members of the community on the applications.

  I look up, suddenly realizing the Nash answer might be right there in front of me.

  “David, can I ask you a guy question?” I reach into the big box of teas and refill the basket with Earl Grey and Passion. The church always runs out of Passion the quickest.

  “Sure, as long as it’s something you can say in church.”

  I roll my eyes as I try not to blush. Jeez, where had he come up with that idea? But the more I try not to think about what David had said without actually saying it, the more heat I can feel rising on my face. Argh! It’s the Passion herbal tea I drank earlier, I know it. “No, it’s nothing like that, it’s—”

  I quickly grab the bag of cookies and organize them on a plate: chocolate, vanilla, chocolate, vanilla. This is so stupid. I’m almost seventeen years old and I still blush like I’m Angela’s age whenever someone, especially a boy, makes any kind of joke like that. Besides, he’s not a real boy, just David. I’ve known him forever. Our mamas used to throw us in the tub together. Great, Pinkie, you just have to go and remember that. Now you’re blushing more than ever. I take a deep breath. It shouldn’t be any different than talking to Tara and Whitney Blaire, except he would know what guys think.

  “Okay, say there’s this girl,” I start, but I say it more to the cookies than David. “And she calls you a couple times. But you don’t call her back. Why not?”

  “You’re asking why I wouldn’t call a girl back?” He lifts up a glass to see if it’s clean. “Oh, I get it. You want to know why some guy hasn’t returned your call.”

  “No, not me,” I correct quickly. “It’s purely a hypothetical question, for a friend. Why don’t guys call girls back?”

  “I don’t know. Is she pretty?”

  “Normal, I guess.”

  “Maybe he lost the number.”

  “I leave it every time I call, and sometimes say it twice.”

  David looks at me with his eyebrows raised. “How many times have you called?”

  “A couple times.” I can feel David still staring at me. I fumble with the cookie bag. “Okay, I’ve called nine times, but I’ve only left three or four messages. And the last time I called him at work, but he didn’t come to the phone even though I didn’t say who I was.”

  David shakes his head. “Pink, you’ve got to give the boy a break. You’re scaring him away.”

  I think about Nash, the smartest person I know, being scared of a girl calling him. “Would getting lots of calls from a girl scare you?”

  “If it was Whitney, first I’d be psyched out of my mind, then I would think that someone was playing a sick joke. If it was anyone else, especially someone I didn’t like, then yeah, I think I’d be a bit weirded out, thinking that she was obsessed and desperate.”

  I let that sink in. I know I come across as a bit obsessive (but really it’s just me being genuinely concerned), and when I don’t hear back from people, I always imagine the worst. I don’t want to be this genuinely concerned, but it’s very easy to imagine people dead. Especially since people die all the time.

  But desperate? I’m desperate to know why he’s not calling, but I’m not desperate for him, am I? Is that what Nash thinks of me? Some desperate high schooler who thinks getting winked at and kissed in parking lots means something? Or maybe he thinks that I’ll think he’s desperate if he calls back quickly? Is that why it’s taking him so long?

  “Stupid.” I rearrange the cookies when I realize there are more vanilla ones than chocolate. Now the pattern goes chocolate, vanilla, vanilla, chocolate. “I think if you like someone and want to talk to him, you should. Why wait for a later time when some unwritten law says it’s okay to call? I mean, the other person should be flattered that you were thinking about him and that you didn’t want to wait another moment to talk to him.”

  David finishes setting up the cups and leans against the table. “Who’s this guy anyway? Maybe I’ve heard something or can ask around.”

  “Uh.” I slip a broken cookie into my mouth. “I don’t want to say.”

  “You’re not like Whitney with this weird denial thing for Brent, are you?”

  I almost choke on the cookie. “Eww, go—gosh no! Gross.”

  “All right then, just making sure. So who is it?” he insists as he helps himself to a cookie from the plate. I replace the one he took so that the pattern isn’t broken.

  “No really, I can’t.”

  “It’s Nash, isn’t it?”

  I don’t answer and I know that tells David everything.

  “But why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why Nash? Is it because he’s older?”

  “No, of course not,” I answer quickly. But then I realize that I’m not fooling either one of us. “Okay, maybe a little, but it’s mostly because he’s so amazing. He’s really smart and knows so many things. He’s funny, he gives great hugs.” And his kisses are out of this world, but David doesn’t need to know that.

  David shakes his head like he doesn’t believe me. Or doesn’t want to. “You can do better. Nash is a phony.”

  “He is not!” I say, and then wonder whether he really could be a phony.

  “He is. He gives us all this advice on how to get into universities and stuff, but look at him. He’s in his twenties and has never been to college. I bet he never applied to Yale or Oxford, or wherever he claims he’s going.”

  “Harvard. And of course he did! He’s just saving his money. He works so hard, you should see him.” Okay, I admit I’ve never seen him work, but that’s because Le Bon Fromage is a really expensive restaurant and they don’t let kids in without their parents. But he works hard for the Honor Society. It can’t be easy setting up and organizing all that information for our biweekly meetings.

  David tidies up the table, putting away the supplies we don’t need and throwing away the trash. “If he works as hard as he says he does, he could make it work at Harvard. They have scholarships, you know. Hasn’t he spent hours telling us about all sorts of grants, lo
ans, and internships you can apply for? So why hasn’t he done the same? I mean, he claims he’s smart enough. I say he’s chickenshit. Afraid that he won’t get in and then what? Have to admit to everyone that he couldn’t hack it.”

  I don’t know what to say about David’s comments. And I certainly don’t want to think about it, which of course only makes me think about it. No, it can’t be true. David is putting him down because he doesn’t like him. But I don’t know why David doesn’t like him. Everyone likes Nash. Or at least they should. “Are you saying this to be mean?” I ask.

  David looks like I’ve insulted him. “No, I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Part of me wants to point out all the things that are wrong with his theory. After all, Nash has almost perfect SAT scores, the acceptances to the best schools, but the minimum wage he earns and the high cost of living make college a distant dream. But I’ve never actually seen the results, the letters, or his wages. I know what he has said and what Google has told me. I can only go by the fact that the school hired him as the advisor to the Honor Society, so surely they must have checked his credentials. “David, I don’t want to fight with you.”

  “Fine. Who knows, I could be wrong.”

  “You are,” I confirm. I’m tempted to call Nash and ask him if he’s a phony. I don’t believe David, not at all, but I want to hear it from Nash. But I won’t call Nash, at least not today. I don’t want to seem desperate. Because I’m not. Desperate.

  Whitney Blaire

  I FEEL LIKE SHIT. IT’S 11:15 ON A FREAKING SATURDAY morning. For what feels like the last hour, my darling mother has been nagging me through the intercom to come downstairs. Why doesn’t she just let me sleep? What’s her problem? I’m not at her beck and call. I have my own life, even if that just means sleeping. She doesn’t control me.