Of All the Stupid Things

by Alexandra Diaz

“There’s got to be a key somewhere.” She starts looking around, under the flowerpots and some stones. I lift up the doormat. There’s a semi-rusted key there. I try it in the lock, and after wiggling it a bit the door opens.

  I grab Whitney Blaire’s hand. I don’t want to go in alone.

  “Tara?” I call out from the doorway. I quickly remember to close the door so the dog doesn’t get out, but then I realize that the dog wasn’t sleeping; there isn’t a dog or anyone in the house. There’s a bowl in the sink, its contents cemented to the sides. The blender is also in the sink, filled up with dirty water. The film on top is starting to mold. It smells like rotten bananas and milk.

  “No one’s here.” Whitney Blaire points out what I already know. “They’ve been gone for days.”

  “But where?” I ask. “Tara would have mentioned if she and her mom were going away, especially since they never go anywhere. Maybe someone died and they rushed off for the funeral? But they obviously thought they would be back soon, or they would have at least rinsed out the blender. She loves that blender. She wouldn’t let mold grow on it.”

  “Breathe, Pink,” Whitney Blaire orders.

  I take several deep breaths and release them slowly.

  A mischievous grin spreads across Whitney Blaire’s face. “C’mon, let’s look around.”

  “Whitney Blaire, we really shouldn’t. We’re breaking and entering.” I wring my hands as I frantically look around.

  Whitney Blaire raises her eyebrows. “What if I find them upstairs?”

  I gulp. I hadn’t wanted to think that! But someone has to make sure. Whitney Blaire is already halfway up the stairs. I let her go up by herself. I stay in the kitchen where it’s safe, though I’m not sure about that. Maybe they’ve been kidnapped and are being held for ransom. I know it does sometimes happen in real life. But that doesn’t make sense. Kidnappers go for rich people, don’t they? I don’t know what Mrs. Hopkins earns, but I know it’s not much. I don’t see any blood, so they weren’t abducted. I remind myself that the dog is missing too. Nobody bothers taking a dog hostage, do they?

  I look around for something that might give us some clues and notice the answering machine blinking. I hesitate. Somehow, listening to the messages seems more intrusive than entering the house. I don’t want to, but I’m freaking out. It’s for Tara’s sake, I tell myself.

  I press PLAY. “Hi Tara, it’s me, Pin—” I skip my own message and go on to the next one.

  “C’mon, Tara baby, don’t be like this. What we’ve got is something special. I need you, you’re my everything. Call me.”

  I want to delete Brent’s message, but I know that’s not right. I just hope Tara isn’t desperate enough to try and get him back. Maybe that’s it. Maybe Tara wants to go back with him and Mrs. Hopkins has taken her away to help clear her mind. I imagine for a second Tara handcuffed to a hotel bed while Mrs. Hopkins keeps the phone out of reach. Then I tell myself to get real. That would be my torture, not Tara’s. Tara doesn’t care enough about phones to be bothered if she can’t call someone.

  Another message from me and then the next two let Mrs. Hopkins know she has been preapproved to lower her monthly payments by 33 percent. There’s one from a neighbor asking to borrow a candy-making cookbook; I think it’s the wrong number. Some woman named Joan left her new address. A few more messages from me (had I really left that many?), and then finally one that says something important.

  “Linda, it’s Marilyn Dawli. Human Resources informed me that they received a call from you saying that you are taking a few days off. While I understand these are unplanned circumstances, please note that this is not acceptable behavior. Being that it is not a medical emergency and you did not give prior notification, this falls under unexcused absences. Although we are not in any position to dismiss you, please bear in mind that we will discuss this behavior upon your return. If you feel the need to contact me, my number is…” I skip to the next one, but there is nothing else important, just more messages from me. (Was I really that obsessive that I had to leave seven messages? At the time I thought it showed concern, but when I listen to them on the machine they seem so desperate.)

  I feel bad listening to Mrs. Hopkins’s private messages, but at least it calms me down to know that they weren’t kidnapped and didn’t disappear into thin air. Mrs. Hopkins had at least called to say that she wasn’t going to work, so that seems to be all right. I delete four of my messages (three is a good number, right?), but then I leave Tara a new message telling her to call me as soon as she gets in. I mean, I really am worried and I don’t want Tara to think that I didn’t think about her while she was gone.

  I call Whitney Blaire down. I hear her close a cupboard door and I know she was snooping in the medicine cabinet. (I don’t know why she bothered. There’re only herbal balms, Chinese tinctures, and homeopathic remedies in there.)

  “Nothing up here,” she says when she makes her way down the stairs.

  “I think they got called out of town suddenly. I left a message for Tara to call when they get in.”

  We take a final look around before I lead the way out. I lock the door and put the key back under the mat.

  I start driving toward town when a familiar car passes me going the other direction.

  “That’s them, that’s them.” I point.

  Whitney Blaire looks behind her. “Quick, turn around.”

  I look for somewhere to pull into but there’s not even an intersection. “I can’t yet.”

  Whitney Blaire suddenly reaches over and yanks the steering wheel up. I scream as the car spins. I slam on the brakes and the car jerks to a stop and then stalls. It takes me a few moments to realize we’re okay, the car is okay, but we’re right in the middle of the road. Still in shock, I inch our way to the shoulder. I sound like an asthmatic as my breath comes out in bursts.

  “Whitney. Louise. Blaire. Don’t you ever do that to me again.”

  She gives me an innocent look, but her eyes are shining with excitement. “What? At least we’re in the right direction now.”

  “Never. Again.” I stare at her long and hard so she knows I’m serious.

  She crosses her heart like we did in elementary to promise. “Sorry. Never again.”

  I take a few more seconds to subdue the massive amount of adrenaline racing through my body before starting off back to Tara’s.

  They’re still in the car when we park on the street in front of the house. They turn to look at us and slowly start getting out of the car. With some of the adrenaline still pumping, I burst toward them.

  The dog leaps out of the car and right away I notice he’s the only one that’s happy. Both Tara and Mrs. Hopkins look like they haven’t slept in days. Their clothes are dirty and smell like they have been wearing them for a long time. I wrap Tara in a hug. She hugs me back. Through her coat, I can feel her back muscles and her spine. I pull away. It isn’t my imagination. Tara has lost weight, and from the looks of it, so has Mrs. Hopkins. I don’t stop myself from hugging her too.

  Part of me thinks Whitney Blaire and I should leave. Something awful has happened to them and they probably want to be on their own after being away from home for so many days. But I’m not sure whether they’ll be okay alone.

  “Thank you, Pinkie, that is very nice of you.” Mrs. Hopkins returns the hug and kisses my forehead.

  Whitney Blaire puts an arm around Tara in a half hug, which Tara returns in the same way. “So, where’ve you been?”

  “Are you okay?” I ask, looking from Tara to her mom. “We’ve been so worried.”

  “Let’s go inside. I could do with a strong cup of tea.”

  “Here, I’ll help you with the bags, Mrs. Hopkins.” I take the plastic bags from her hands. Glancing in them, I see an empty toothbrush packet, a small bag of dog food, and a Burger King wrapper. I must be seeing things, because unless Burger King has gone healthy, Tara and her mom would never eat there. I don’t want to be rude and take a closer look into the
bags, so I convince myself I’m just seeing things. I give one bag to Whitney Blaire to carry and right away she takes a peek inside. Tara and Mrs. Hopkins don’t even notice. With my empty hand, I squeeze Tara’s hand. She turns to me and tries to smile. It doesn’t work. She still hasn’t said a word.

  “Thank you, girls,” Mrs. Hopkins says when we get into the house, legally this time, through the front door, and set down the bags. “Tara, you want to put the kettle on?”

  Tara does that while Whitney Blaire and I just stand around waiting.

  “We ran into Tara’s father while we were hiking,” Mrs. Hopkins explains.

  I gasp. “Oh, Mrs. Hopkins, that must have been horrible.”

  “It was. And Pinkie, if you insist on not calling me Linda, I would appreciate it if you used my maiden name from now on. De Paul.”

  “Yes, Ms. De Paul.”

  She nods, then looks from Whitney Blaire and me to Tara, who has her back to us while waiting for the kettle to boil. “Thank you, girls, for being here. Tara can use good friends right now.”

  Tara

  I WANT THEM TO LEAVE. I WANT THEM TO GO SO THAT I can be alone. I’ve barely run in the last few days; my body feels anemic. I need to get it back into shape. But I can’t. Mom is telling Whitney Blaire and Pinkie everything that happened in the last few days. She mentions how good it is that they are here to support me during this hard time.

  But I don’t need them. I just want to be alone.

  But I can’t.

  So I sit down at the kitchen table with my tea and bear it. Whitney Blaire puts three spoons of raw sugar in her tea but doesn’t drink any of it. Pinkie finishes hers quickly and at one point during the story puts the kettle back on the stove. When it whistles, she pours Mom a new cup. Mom is still talking. Going on about how we spent the last few days sulking in a motel, which we had to smuggle Sherman in and out of because we couldn’t afford the extra pet fee. Then she tells them about going to the government offices to see how she can officially file for a divorce without his signature or proof that he’s legally married in another country.

  “But Ms. De Paul,” Pinkie says, “there has to be a way. Why don’t you talk to Whitney Blaire’s father? He must know of some loophole you can work around.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Whitney Blaire nods. “Father isn’t a divorce lawyer, but he can still offer advice.”

  Mom rubs Whitney Blaire’s shoulder. “That’s very kind, but on the way home I thought up a new plan.”

  Mom stands up and goes upstairs. I want to join her. I want to go to my room and close the door. I want to run out the back door and keep on running. I want to be anywhere but here with Whitney Blaire sending sympathetic looks my way and Pinkie with her arm around me. But I stay where I am and nurse my cold tea.

  Mom comes down holding a piece of paper. Whitney Blaire sits up to see what it is.

  “This is a copy of my marriage certificate,” Mom explains. She goes to the burner and turns it on. The gas flame catches the paper and sets it alight. Mom turns off the burner and rotates the paper as it burns. She walks to the sink and holds it until the last second. It falls into the sink, sizzling as it meets water. Instead of scooping out the ashes, Mom turns on the tap. She lets it run until everything goes down the drain.

  “There,” she says. “I’m divorced.”

  The phone rings and everyone except Whitney Blaire jumps. No one moves to answer it, although I can tell Pinkie is really fighting with herself not to. The answering machine clicks on.

  “Tara, it’s Riley…”

  I’m out of my seat in an instant. At last, I can get away.

  PART TWO

  Tara

  SINCE MOM AND I SAW DAD AND HIS NEW FAMILY BY the lake almost two weeks ago, I’ve been avoiding my friends. I tell them I need to focus more than ever on my training, which is true. The marathon is just under a month away, and with my inconsistent training I don’t know how I will ever run twenty-six miles. But really, I just don’t want to be around Pinkie and Whitney Blaire at the moment.

  Pinkie is being more overprotective than normal, which just makes me want to push her away more. I know she means well, but it’s getting to be too much. She’s trying to get me to call her every morning at five thirty before my run and tell her exactly where I’m going and how long I think it will take. Then she wants another call to make sure I make it home; she won’t even wait to see me at school. I’m not having it. I guess she thinks that with all that’s happened in the last weeks, I’m emotionally disturbed and maybe even suicidal. I am not emotionally disturbed. Who cares that my ex-boyfriend is a horny bastard and my dad is a two-faced jackass? I don’t need them. I have more important things in my life going for me. I’m totally fine and in control. And I’m not suicidal.

  But Pinkie still nags me to be careful crossing streets and has suddenly become this fitness guru, reminding me to take vitamins and keep hydrated. I know she likes keeping her chicks in order, but I’m ready to leave the nest.

  And Whitney Blaire, forget it. I am avoiding her too, but for different reasons. Riley told me about their fight and I think Whitney Blaire’s being more shallow and jealous than usual. Every time she passes Riley in the hallways, she claws the air, hisses, or calls her some version of “whore.” It’s like being in junior high again. I usually don’t remember that I’m almost a year older, but by the way she’s acting, I feel decades beyond her.

  So now I’m spending most of my time with Riley. She’s eighteen and a jock, and she doesn’t ask me how I am holding up every time I see her. Although I’d be lying if I say I need an excuse to be with her. I don’t know what it is, but she makes me happy and nervous in a good way. When I’m with Riley, I don’t think about everything that’s happened.

  She’s been giving me rides on and off this week, so I’m not surprised when she pulls up after school in her fancy car.

  “Fruit smoothies with energy boosts?” Riley flicks her hair out of her face.

  I had told Pinkie a few minutes ago, when she offered me a ride, that I was busy getting more sponsors. Now, I can’t think of anyone to approach. “Sure, why not.”

  Riley smiles and nods for me to get into her car. It’s the coldest day so far, nearly 35 degrees, but the sun is out and Riley has the top down. I sprint to the car and vault over the side without opening the door. Riley floors the gas and we peel off laughing. She takes the turns sharper and faster than normal. Part of me thinks I should ask her to slow down. The other part is enjoying it. After all, this is Riley. And when I’m with her, I feel safe.

  I turn to look at her and see her hair streaming out behind her. It doesn’t matter how many times we’ve hung out, she always looks amazing with all that beautiful hair.

  Riley glances my way as she drives. I can’t see her eyes because of the sunglasses, but I know they are smiling.

  “What are you thinking?” she asks.

  I’m imagining how amazing she would look doing a routine on the uneven bars with her hair flying behind her like a superhero. But I can’t tell her that. I turn away instead and say the first thing I can think of. “The sky’s so blue, it’s such a nice day.”

  Riley smiles even more. We’re at a red light and she gives me her full attention. “Yes, it’s very nice.”

  I can feel her eyes on me, not the sky, as she says it. Keeping my face away, I hope she can’t see me blush. I don’t even know why I’m blushing. We’re talking about the weather. It’s supposed to be the neutral boring subject. But I’m blushing as if she had complimented me.

  We don’t say anything else. At some point Riley starts whistling along with the radio. She’s still driving fast. She slides into a parking spot between two trucks and then slams on the brakes, leaving only a couple of inches between her car and the post. She closes the top by pressing a button and then turns to me. “Ready?”

  We walk to the juice bar in silence. Before we get to the door, Riley suddenly grabs my arm and pulls me away.

&nb
sp; “Don’t look now. Your little friend’s over there with her boy toy.”

  Of course I turn around. Sure enough, Whitney Blaire is across the street with David. They are walking away eating ice cream, or probably frozen yogurt with extra fat-free caramel sauce in Whitney Blaire’s case. She’s pretending to laugh at whatever David’s saying, but I can tell her attention is on something else. I turn my head a bit to see what she’s looking at. There are a couple college guys goofing off in a parking lot right in front of her, and I bet anything that’s what Whitney Blaire’s really laughing at.

  “She’s such a seductress.” Riley reads my mind, though I wasn’t thinking it so bluntly.

  “I feel sorry for David,” I say. “He’s a nice guy.”

  Riley puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head. “I don’t know what he sees in her. Sure she’s pretty, but she only pays attention to the poor boy when there isn’t anyone better around to seduce.”

  This time I come to Whitney Blaire’s defense. “She might be a flirt, but she’s still a virgin.”

  “Maybe that’s what she’s told you, but really watch her. She’s ready to jump on anything good looking that comes her way.”

  I watch her pass the college boys. Although her back’s to me, I see her shift her head to the side as she checks them out. The boys stop what they’re doing to look at her. Then she shakes her head like she always does when she’s secretly laughing and amused, and keeps walking. Her head shifts again and this time I see a man jogging while pushing a stroller. Although he’s far away, I can tell he’s in his forties, and has the older man/James Bond appeal. Whitney Blaire stops and makes a point of leaning over to admire the baby. Whitney Blaire hates babies. It’s all show, but neither the dad nor David seem to notice her real motives. Every guy she passes, young or old, gets checked out. Then she turns the corner and I can’t see her anymore. How could I have known her for so long and have never noticed this about her?

  Riley continues talking. “I wouldn’t be surprised if half the guys at school have gotten a piece of her.”