“Tara?” Mom calls from the front door. She comes into the kitchen, sees Riley, and smiles.
“Mom, this is Riley,” I introduce them as I open the oven. “She’s staying for dinner.”
Mom gives her a hug. “So, you’re the gymnast. Tara talks about you all the time. I’m Linda. I was wondering whose car that was. I thought maybe Brent had gotten a new one.”
With a loud crash, the tray of sweet potatoes drops on the floor. Sherman wolfs one down before Mom grabs him by the collar. I pick up the tray. Riley gathers up the hot sweet potatoes and quickly pops them back. With the utmost care and attention, I place the tray on top of the cutting board. Slowly and carefully. Bit by bit, I pick off the debris from the skins. Then I remember to breathe deeply.
“No, Brent still has the same car,” I say. I shut the oven door and turn it off. I remove the oven mitts and press against the counter. I turn back to the potatoes. “But you won’t be seeing him around here anymore.”
Even with my back to Mom and Riley, I can tell they’re taking turns looking at each other and looking at me.
“I thought you were going to get back together.” Mom tries to place a hand on my shoulder but I move away. “Did something happen?”
I pace up and down the kitchen. Two steps and turn around. My arms tighten around my sides as I rock back and forth. “Yes, but it’s fine. I just need to get in shape. Focus on my miles. I’m fine. I don’t have time to date. It’s fine. Completely fine. It’s all for the best. Everything is fine. I really am fine.”
Mom wraps her arms around me. At first I try to break away, but Mom doesn’t let go and at last I give in. I squeeze my eyes shut as I keep as still as possible. I don’t make a sound; I don’t cry. I just let my mom hold me until it all goes away and I’m back in control.
At one point Sherman whimpers and paws my leg for attention. That’s when I remember Riley is there. She whispers to Sherman to come. I hear his nails against the floor and the sounds of Riley soothing him, comforting him, telling him it’s going to be okay.
I take a deep breath and let go. Mom rubs my back before dropping her hands to her side. Then Riley hugs me. Her hug is solid and strong, and feels like it comes from a much bigger person than she is. Whitney Blaire always gives one-arm half hugs like she didn’t want to get too close, and Pinkie’s hugs are comforting and squishy like squeezing a pillow. But Riley’s hug is different. When she holds me it feels safe…and nice. But maybe a little too nice.
I turn away and drink some of my sour lemonade. My heart is beating fast. I breathe out slowly. It’s okay, I tell myself.
When I look at the table, it’s set for the three of us. Mom had washed the sweet potatoes and put one on Riley’s plate with some quinoa and divided the other potato between the two of us.
“The salad looks beautiful,” Mom praises. Riley glances at me and grins.
We have just finished dinner (I can tell Riley didn’t like the quinoa, though she ate it all anyway) when the phone rings. Mom leans over from her chair and picks it up.
“Hello, Brent…No, I don’t think Tara is here right now.” Mom looks at me with her eyebrows raised. I get up and walk over. “Oh wait, here she is.”
She hands me the phone.
I take a deep breath. “Hello.”
“Ah baby—” he starts, but I cut him off.
“Brent, don’t call me ‘baby.’ And don’t call me ever again.” I slam the phone on the cradle. Mom and Riley glance at me. I don’t say anything, and neither to do they. I clear the table and start running the water into the sink. Riley comes over and dries while I wash. I vaguely notice Mom going out with Sherman as we finish cleaning up. It isn’t until we put everything away and wipe down the surfaces that someone finally breaks the silence.
“I better get going,” Riley says. “My parents will be wondering where I am.”
I point to the phone. “You can call them.”
Riley shakes her head. “It’s all right. I don’t want to worry them more.”
I wait for Riley to elaborate, but she doesn’t. Fair enough. I don’t need to question it. Just like she hadn’t questioned me.
Pinkie
NOBODY HAS SHOWN UP FOR OUR GIRLS’ NIGHT. STILL, I order a healthy pizza and a regular one as planned. I make sure we have some vegetables in the fridge in case Tara wants to add them to the pizza. Then I call back the greasy pizza company and ask if they can include some regular soda for Whitney Blaire. I know Whitney Blaire prefers diet, but there’s no way I’m feeding my friend something that is proven to cause cancer.
It is just after seven when Whitney Blaire knocks.
“Hey,” I say as she brushes by me to the kitchen. “I was just going to call you. Where’ve you been?”
She grabs the bowl of chips and starts munching. “The gym.”
I lick my lips. Whitney Blaire knows how much I hate it when she lies to me. And yet she still does it. I sigh and pretend I believe her. “Did you have fun?”
“Why would I?” She continues eating as she stares at the wall. I bring her a slice of pizza and can of soda. She doesn’t even look at what kind it is before she takes a big gulp.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Whitney Blaire suddenly starts poking around as if she’s searching for something. Don’t know what. Daddy and Barbara are at the neighbors’, and before we take over the living room Angela is watching one of her silly teen movies where the leads don’t even kiss.
“So, Tara isn’t here?” It’s a question but she says it more like a statement.
“I’m sure she’ll come any minute,” I say, even though it’s more optimistic than I feel.
“Stupid bitch,” Whitney Blaire mumbles as she shovels more food down.
I quickly grab the phone and give Tara’s house a call. Her mom answers.
“Hello, Mrs. Hopkins, it’s Pinkie. How are you?” I politely make small talk, even though all I want is to know about Tara. I can’t help it. It’s how Barbara raised me.
Mrs. Hopkins sighs. “We’ve been better, but I’ll let her tell you. I suppose you want to talk to Tara?”
“Yes, please,” I say eagerly. What’s going on? What’s wrong with Tara? Did she get hurt? Is she going to be okay? Maybe we should drive over there. Whitney Blaire has finished the chips and is working her way through the greasy pizza, and not just the slice I gave her.
“Sorry, Pinkie,” Mrs. Hopkins says as she returns. “But she’s gone to bed already. It’s been a hard day for her and we had Riley over for dinner as well. I’ll have her call you in the morning, okay?”
“Okay, thanks.” I hang up feeling more helpless than before. Whitney Blaire has stopped eating long enough to stare at me. Her look makes me squirm. “Tara’s asleep,” I mumble.
“What? It’s seven thirty on a Friday night. What’s she doing sleeping?”
I start wiping the crumbs from the counter. I decide not to tell her the whole truth. “Mrs. Hopkins said she’s had a bad day.”
Whitney Blaire throws her empty can in the garbage. But because her aim is bad, she doesn’t make it and a little bit of leftover soda splatters on the floor. “Bad day, my ass. I’ll give that bitch a bad day.”
“Hey, watch it,” I scold her. I don’t like it when she calls people bad names. It always makes me wonder if she’s ever called me the same thing. She’s never called Tara that, and I don’t see why she would now. Twice. Unless she was talking about someone else, but I don’t know who else that could be. “Shh. Angela might hear you.”
“Hear what?” Angela calls out from the living room. “Who’s a bitch?”
I send Whitney Blaire an evil look, which of course she ignores. She’s busy closing the cardboard lid of the pizza box. She places it against her hip and grabs the second can of soda.
“Take me home,” she demands.
I frown. Coming from Whitney Blaire, that statement means a lot. “What do you mean? What about our girls’ night? I rented five movies—well,
four for us and one for Angela, but I’m sure—”
“Are you going to take me or do I have to call a cab?” She gives me this look that makes me feel helpless and useless, and that hurts. Whitney Blaire has always had a way of twisting emotions to make me feel like the guilty party. I sigh and grab my keys, phone, and purse. As much as I love Whitney Blaire, there are times I wish Tara had left her up in that tree.
Our girls’ night ends up with me watching the cheesy teen movie for the millionth time with Angela. The healthy pizza really isn’t that bad if you dip the crust in some ranch dressing.
I keep the phone with me just in case, but no one (Tara, Whitney Blaire, and unfortunately not even Nash) calls. Maybe I’ll call him later. Right after the girl in the film doesn’t get kissed by the boy.
Tara
MOM IS DRINKING YERBA MATE TEA WHEN I GET UP EARLY on Sunday for my long run.
“Why don’t we hit the trails today?” she says. “We haven’t been to the national forest in years.”
I don’t saying anything and Mom continues. “Sherman is getting stir-crazy in this house. It’ll be good to get out.”
I look over at Sherman. He’s pretending to be asleep but his tail wags when his name is mentioned. I nod. “You’re right. He could use a day out.”
“Good. I’ll pack a picnic and we’ll make a day of it. Oh, and there’s a message from Pinkie. She called again last night.”
I’m not surprised. I haven’t talked to her for a couple days and her mother-hen radar must be going off. But on the other hand, I’m not in the mood to deal with her smothering. “I’ll call her later,” I say.
I go back to my room to grab a fleece and change my sneakers for a pair that are better for rough terrain. Back in the kitchen, I add an extra scoop of protein powder to my breakfast smoothie. Mom left an ounce of wheatgrass juice for me on the counter. I drink that down while the bananas whirl around in the blender. I pour the smoothie into a bowl and sprinkle some granola for a nice crunch. I finish eating just as Mom packs up the picnic (she made chicken and veggie wraps). We load up Sherman (who started lapping around the house when I pulled out the leash), grab the food, and head out.
The day is clear and brisk, my favorite running weather. It’s still rather early in the morning so there are few people on the road. We make the trip in just under two hours; I remember it taking much longer, but it has been a long time since we’ve been to the forest. Years, as Mom said.
Sherman jumps out of the back as soon as we open the door for him. He goes straight for the squirrels, chasing and barking at them to come down from the tree and play with him.
I look around as I start my warm-up stretches. The leaves are just starting to change colors. There are only a couple of vehicles in the parking lot: a beat-up cream pickup and what looks like a rented blue car. It’s good to have a change of scenery. Get away from the house and the town with its people. It’s like we’ve entered a different world; I’ve forgotten how nice it is.
“It’s a shame we haven’t come down in a while,” Mom reads my mind.
“Yes, it is.”
We watch Sherman for a few minutes. The only things he’s thinking about are the squirrels, and maybe the tree that’s keeping him from getting them, but he’s happy nonetheless. We don’t say anything. No point bringing up the past. Or the present.
“Right then,” Mom sighs. “What trail are you going to take?”
I look at the trail head. “I don’t remember the White Lakes trail being too steep and it’s about the right distance—fifteen miles.”
“Should we picnic at the lake then once you’re done?” Mom asks.
I meet her eyes. Other than our height, the hazel eyes are the only thing we have physically in common. I do want to eat by the lake, but I hadn’t wanted to suggest it. I didn’t think Mom would agree to it. “Sure, if you want to.”
Mom puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “It’s our favorite place. There’s no reason we should avoid it.”
“Okay.” I nod my head a few too many times. “I should be done by noon.”
“Be careful on the loose gravel,” Mom warns.
I nod again as I straighten up. “I will. Hold Sherman so he doesn’t follow me.”
I get my water bottle, set my stopwatch and pedometer, and take off. I keep my eye on the trail ahead so I’m able to avoid any rocks on the path. It’s beautiful this time of year. And peaceful. For the first time in weeks I feel my head clear completely and enjoy the surroundings.
The tall, thick trees envelop me as I run by. A couple times I turn a corner and surprise the squirrels and birds that are on the path. Once I come across two people with frame backpacks, but other than that, there’s no one along the trail. I feel like I’m alone, with nothing but the trees and the dirt pounding under my shoes, and it’s great. I feel like I can run forever. Not because I have to, but because I want to.
I don’t remember specifics of the trail but as I pass certain landmarks, memories come rushing back, and they’re not as painful as I would have thought. There’s the rock that looks like Pride Rock from The Lion King. I remember standing on top of it on all fours and roaring across the plains that seemed to stretch for miles around. Now the rock is barely a couple of feet above my head and what I thought were plains is just a campsite clearing. There’s the tree that was almost completely uprooted in a storm but stayed alive (and it still is). I remember balancing along the trunk and pretending that it was upright and that I was actually walking up a tree.
And then I pass the meadow that holds the clearest memory of him in the forest. We had planned to set camp there, but there had been a herd of deer grazing. He motioned to me to be quiet and we crouched down to watch them. I was probably around seven or eight and I wanted to go pet them, but he said if I moved I would scare them away. After a few minutes I got restless. I crept toward them anyway, staying close to the ground. I was just a few feet away when a fawn noticed me. It snorted and the whole herd perked up and bolted. I remember how I sprinted after them, trying to catch up with them, but they were gone within seconds. I got angry when he laughed at me. But then he promised to help me became fast enough to keep up with the deer.
I sigh and feel my pace slow down just a bit. He was so good at making promises; it was keeping them that he couldn’t be bothered with. It doesn’t bug me as much as it used to. Maybe I’m finally beginning to accept that I can’t change what he did to me, to us. And maybe, just maybe, I’m better off without him. And maybe without Brent as well.
I take the last mile to the lake easy, partly to cool down and partly to enjoy the last bit of my run. It went by fast. I don’t feel like I ran fifteen miles, but my watch and pedometer say I have. I’m tired, but not as tired as I should be after a fifteen-mile run. I slow down to a walk when I see a family at our favorite spot near an old tree. Then I stop completely to watch them. My heart beats faster than it had been a few minutes ago. I squeeze my water bottle hard. I know them. Well, at least one of them.
The mom is dark and pretty. She looks Native American. No, more like South American. She laughs as she watches the other two people. The little boy, about four, is a lighter version of his mom. He kicks a soccer ball to the man while the man pretends he can’t keep up with the ball. The man’s beard is graying but what’s left of his beard is still the same color as my hair. They look like a perfect family. Happy. But I’m sure it looked the same back when it’d been me kicking the soccer ball.
Sherman bounces up to me then, slobbering all over my running tights. I turn quickly to see Mom coming up another trail. I’m about to suggest to her that we eat somewhere else. But she’s already seen the family.
“Kenny?” Mom gasps as she leans against a tree for support.
The man turns and blinks at us. “Linda! And wait, is that Tara? I can’t believe it. How are you?”
I don’t answer. My lips are pressed together; the veins in my neck show how tense I am. I focus hard on taking deep bre
aths. I’m not losing control again.
The man jogs toward us. He slows to a walk and stops a few feet away from me. He reaches out to hug me. I move back a few steps. He looks at me and I stare right back at him.
He runs his fingers through his beard. “Wow, look at you, all grown up. I wouldn’t have recognized you. You all right? Life treating you good?”
I stay quiet. I stay still. Only my lungs move: in and out, in and out.
“Kenny, what are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming back.” Mom holds on to Sherman’s collar. He licks her. I move over to them and place my hand on his head, rubbing his ear. Sherman gives us a doggie smile that shows all his teeth. The man steps away.
“Well, Maria Rosa wanted to see the country.” He gestures to the woman. “And we couldn’t come all this way and not visit my favorite lake. But really, what are the odds that you would be here too?”
Mom’s arm wraps around her rib cage while the other hand continues holding Sherman. Through her jacket, I notice she didn’t even bother putting on a bra this morning. “What are the odds indeed.”
The woman and boy come over with curious looks. I stare at the boy. He hides behind his mom’s legs. I still don’t say anything, just continue petting Sherman.
The man looks from the woman and boy to Mom and me. “Ah, Linda, Tara, this is Maria Rosa and our son, José Antonio.”
I cringe when he says “our,” although I already knew. Then he turns to the woman and speaks to her. I understand enough Spanish to know he says: “This is Linda and my daughter, Tara.”
Pinkie
I HAVEN’T SEEN OR HEARD FROM TARA IN A FEW DAYS.
Yesterday David and I were busy all day with a church event. I left a message for Tara, and then called some classmates about homework assignments. When I got off the phone, Tara still hadn’t returned my call. But it was late and she was probably in bed already. I pretend not to worry.
Of All the Stupid Things Page 9