Of All the Stupid Things

by Alexandra Diaz

  Gator doesn’t say anything.

  I sigh. Never mind profits, it’s time for negotiation. “All right, forget the commission. You just round up your boys and be at my house at, say, nine o’clock?”

  “You’ll have food?”

  “Loads.”

  “Okay, I guess so.”

  “Great.” I give him my address and hang up. I look again at the people I have in my phone, starting from the top. Adora. I think I did a science project with her a couple years ago. Was she the punk goth or the didn’t-shave-under-her-arms hippie? Doesn’t matter.

  “Hello, you have reached Adora’s answering device. Imagine yourself free from the conflicts of the world as you leave a message. Enter a new realm of serenity for—”

  I hang up and go to the next person. Andre. He’s been a bit weird lately. I think he thinks I spread his fake Brent rumor, which I didn’t at all since he told me not to. Now I wish what he had told me had really been true. Would serve Tara right. “Andre, Whitney Blaire. There’s a party tonight at my house. Everyone is bringing some food. How ’bout you show up with a pizza?”

  Gator’s band sucks, but no one seems to care. The party’s going full swing as I walk around. People are laughing and dancing, drinking and having a regular grand old time. Good, good for them. Me too.

  I picked the lock of Mother’s liquor cabinet earlier and poured myself a gin and tonic like I’d seen her do so many times.

  It tasted like rubbing alcohol. I drained the first cup and filled it up again, this time adding some maraschino liqueur to it.

  I made sure the cabinet locked once I closed it. No sense in letting my whole high school into my parents’ good stuff.

  Now I’m nursing the second cup. Two gin and tonics and I’m having a ball, a real ball.

  “Whitney.” David comes up to me holding half a beer and drapes his arm on my shoulder. “This is some party. Did I tell you how great you look?”

  I smile. Let him say it however many times he wants. I know it’s true. Low-cut shirt and short skirt work wonders. Nice of him to notice, though. I smile some more, giving him the once-over. He’s taller than I remember, about an inch taller than me in heels. And he’s finally gotten a cool haircut. He has it all gelled and spiked. There’s even some stubble on his chin, making him look older. It looks good. He looks good. Damn good.

  “So you really think I look great?” I circle my arms around his neck. My fingers trace around his shirt collar.

  “Hell yeah!”

  “Yeah?” I slide up against him. I tilt my head to the side and look up at him.

  He presses against me as he reaches behind me to set the beer down. His arms go around my waist. “Yeah.”

  I pull him closer. I smell soap and aftershave on his neck as I kiss it. My mouth moves up to his. His arms tighten around me. My fingers dig into his hair. Damn. The boy can kiss!

  I run my hands down his chest. There’s definitely a nice body under there. A bit scrawny, but there’s potential. His hands stay on my bare waist, not letting them wander. I smile in mid-kiss. I know he wants more. I can feel it against my leg.

  I pull away slowly. Then I take one of his hands. I start leading him away from the kitchen. He follows. He doesn’t say anything. I head up the stairs.

  David stops. “Whitney, I—”

  I let go of his hand and turn to look at him. “What, you don’t want to?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “So, come on then.” I continue up the stairs. I don’t look back to see if he’s coming. His loss if he doesn’t. I open my bedroom door and go in. A few seconds later I hear the door close. I don’t turn on the lamp; there’s enough light coming from the window. I can see the shape of him standing there in the middle of my room.

  I grab his shirt and pull him toward me. I start kissing him again. My hands tug at his shirt until I pull it over his head. Then I take off mine. His hands suddenly go crazy. Like he’s trying to touch everything at once. I chuckle. You’d think he’d never felt up a girl before. Still, it’s kind of cute.

  And it feels good. It’s great to be wanted.

  His hands fumble with the bra strap. He can’t unhook it. He pulls and twists it but can’t undo it. He stops kissing me. Not good. I hear him swear. Then he tries to pull the bra over my chest. I sigh. I reach a hand around and undo it myself. He gets the straps off my shoulders and tosses the bra across the room.

  I move him onto the bed. Our other clothes come off. David stops again.

  “We can’t. I don’t have anything.”

  I roll over to my night table. In the back of the drawer are some condoms I snagged from the school nurse’s office. I hand him one.

  I keep kissing and touching him as he gets ready. I want this; he can’t have any more second thoughts. He doesn’t seem to. He’s pretty eager but doesn’t seem to know quite what to do. I take it in my hand and show him where it goes.

  I wince slightly. Everyone says it hurts and it does, but not too bad. It’s not great, but it’s not bad.

  It only takes David a few minutes, then he’s done. He lies down next to me, playing with my hair. “Wow. That was great. I love you.”

  I look up at the ceiling. It’s good to have it over with. Through the canopy, I can see the spinning fan. The gin and tonics are wearing off. I hear the music from the party below. I’d forgotten all about it and all the people that are in my house. I don’t even think we locked the bedroom door.

  “You okay?” David asks. “Was I all right?” He gets up on his elbow and looks at me. In the darkness I can see his silhouette, but I can’t really see him. I hope it’s the same for him.

  “Yeah, sure. Perfect,” I say.

  David starts kissing me again but I push him away.

  “I’m going to take a shower. You go back and enjoy the party.” I wrap the sheets around me and move quickly to my bathroom on the other side of the room and lock the door.

  Pinkie

  I’M WAITING FOR ANGELA OUTSIDE A STORE WHEN I SEE a pair of Converse, a suit, and a messy brown head walking toward me.

  “Nash!”

  He looks up and a second later, he has me trapped in a big hug and is rocking me side to side. “Hey, sorry I had to cancel this week’s meeting. I’ve been working overtime.”

  I smile at him. As long as he doesn’t kiss me, I can think straight. “But that’s good. Lets you save up money. When do you think you’ll have enough to get to Harvard?”

  He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up more than normal. “Hopefully, I can go in the fall. I should know by the end of the year if I’ll have enough saved up.”

  The comment David made about him never having even applied runs through my head. “So you’re all enrolled and set up?”

  Nash makes a sound that means yes. “Just as long as I get the finances sorted.”

  “That’s really exciting.” I’m glad David was wrong. I didn’t like thinking that Nash was too insecure to even apply to college. “But then we’ll have to get someone else to run the Honor Society.”

  “Ah.” Nash puts his arms around my waist. “But there’s still plenty of time. And who knows, maybe the following year you’ll be at Harvard too.”

  My mind races. He’s talking about the future, our future! That must mean that we’re together, right? Now I just have to get into Harvard. My grades are decent but are they enough? Will I have what it takes to get in? What is it about me that would make my application stand out? I should start working on it now, even though it’s still a year away. I have to do everything I can to make it as perfect as possible.

  A voice takes me away from my collegiate planning. “Nash!”

  We break away. Bursting out of the store, there’s Angela. She runs to Nash and throws herself at him. Her legs wrap around his waist as he lifts her up in a hug.

  “Look, Nash.” She holds up her arm when he sets her down. “I just got these bracelets for my birthday. I’m eleven now, you know.”

&
nbsp; “No way,” he says. “I thought you were thirteen.”

  Angela flips her hair over her shoulder, a trick I swear she learned from Whitney Blaire. “That’s because I’m in the gifted program in school. They’re even talking about me skipping sixth grade next year and going straight into junior high.”

  “No, they’re not,” I say. Angela gives me a look that says I’m dead for tattling on her. For a second I feel guilty, but then I remember that I’m the older sister and Nash is my pseudo boyfriend, not hers.

  But Angela is not about to give up so easily. “Well, they’re at least saying that I can take advance classes. I hope they let me take Latin. Do you speak Latin, Nash?”

  Nash shakes his head, but keeps smiling. “Only a bit. I took Ancient Greek instead.”

  Angela’s mouth drops.

  “Angela, we need to go.” Part of me is amused by her behavior, but the other part remembers that in a few years she’ll be competition.

  Angela frowns. “But I haven’t seen Nash in such a long time.”

  Nash bends a bit to get to Angela’s height. “Tell you what. This week I can’t, but next weekend I’m completely free. We’ll do something then, the three of us.”

  “Really?” Angela’s eyes light up.

  “Sure, I’ll call your sister later and we’ll set something up.”

  “Cool!” She gives him another hug and then a kiss on the cheek.

  Nash straightens up and hugs me.

  “You’re not really going to call, are you?” I ask softly.

  Nash laughs. “Course I am. Don’t I always?”

  “No,” I answer truthfully before realizing I’m being rude.

  Nash shakes his head like I’m teasing him. “Sure I do, you silly girl.”

  He kisses me quickly on the lips. The world doesn’t stop turning; my feet stay planted firmly on the ground. I don’t even think about our wedding.

  Then he waves and walks away.

  Angela sighs. “I think I’m in love.”

  “Get over it,” I say in a tone that is more Whitney Blaire than me. “He’s never going to call.”

  “But he promised,” Angela whines.

  “Well, then keep your fingers crossed but don’t hold your breath,” I say as I unlock the car. I think about what he said. Unless there’s some other Pinkie he phones, he’s never called me. Which means he’s either delusional or he’s a liar. Which are both worse than being a phony. And neither of which is a quality I want in the person I’m dating.

  I was happy enough for a while with secret kisses in an empty classroom, but now I want something real, someone who’s there for me when I need him. Someone who returns my calls. Or even calls initially. Someone who doesn’t lie. And for what Nash has proved, he’s a lousy boyfriend.

  At the red light, I pull out my phone. Angela is in the backseat staring dreamily out the window. Before I can think about it a bit more and change my mind, I delete his number. If a miracle happens and he does give me a call, let him leave a message with his number on my phone.

  Tara

  WE GO OVER TO RILEY’S HOUSE AFTER WORKING OUT. Riley reassures me that her parents won’t be home until late, though I still don’t understand why that should matter. I call Mom to let her know where I am. We make dinner (whole wheat pasta with sun-dried tomatoes, turkey meatballs, Caesar salad, and for dessert Riley brought out organic chocolate-covered cherries) and then we go up to her room. It’s the first time I’ve been there. Her room’s as big as Whitney Blaire’s, which means half of my house, one whole floor, could fit in her bedroom. But while Whitney Blaire’s has white walls and cream carpet, Riley’s is more her, with red walls and zebra-striped sheets. Her gymnastics medals take up almost a whole wall.

  “I’ve got lots of trophies too,” I say quietly.

  Riley turns her head to the side and looks a bit guilty. “I didn’t see them.”

  I sit down on her queen-size bed and stare at my fingernails. “That’s because they’re all packed away. From when we moved to our present house five and a half years ago.”

  Riley sits down next to me looking surprised. “Really? Mine were the first things I unpacked when we moved here.”

  I shake my head. “That’s because you earned yours. Most of mine don’t mean anything.”

  Riley is confused so I continue.

  “When I was little and played soccer or softball or any other team sport, everyone got a trophy; whether you won or not didn’t matter. One girl sat on the bench reading a book during every practice and game and she still got a trophy because she was ‘part of the team.’ I told my dad it wasn’t fair; only the winners should get something. But he said this way it made everyone feel like a winner.”

  Riley sympathizes. “But you didn’t.”

  “Of course not,” I say, still talking to my hands. “Everyone doesn’t win. Not in games, not in real life. I don’t think we should pretend for kids. It creates false expectations.”

  Riley places a hand on my knee. “You’re thinking about your dad and what he did to you.”

  I hadn’t realized it, but she’s right. I cross my arms over my chest. “Yeah.”

  She gives my knee a supportive squeeze. “Tell me about it.”

  So I tell her.

  I tell her everything about my dad and how I felt when he left. How I still feel now that I’ve seen him again. Hurt. Betrayed. Angry. Confused. Unwanted. Indifferent. And despite all of that, how I still wish I could see him more. How I hope that one day I’ll actually be able to talk to him and not let my emotions hold my tongue.

  I move on to tell her about me and Brent and how I trusted him. A lot of the things I felt with Dad, I felt them again with Brent. I tell Riley how much it hurts what Whitney Blaire did and how I could never forgive her for that.

  I tell her all the things that happened before, that are happening now. I never share my thoughts and feelings with anyone, not even with myself. But with Riley it’s different. I want to tell her; I want her to know. And it doesn’t feel like I’m losing control. While I’m speaking, it’s like someone else has taken over my body and is saying things that I’m not aware of. But once they are said and I hear them out loud, I realize they are true. As I tell Riley all about myself, I learn it all myself too.

  Through all this, Riley doesn’t say much, but I know she’s listening to everything I’m telling her. Sometimes she gives me a smile of encouragement or a comforting rub on the knee. When I finally finish, Riley doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. After all I said, it’s good to have the comfort of silence.

  With Riley slouched forward, some of her long hair brushes against my hand on the bed. Instead of moving my hand, I look at Riley. The way she’s sitting, her hair is covering most of her face. I reach up and move it away so I can see her better. Once I touch her hair, I continue running my fingers through it. It’s as thick and soft as it looks. Part of me says I should stop, but I can’t pull my hand away. And if anything, Riley doesn’t seem to mind. Her eyes are shining at least.

  “Your hair is so beautiful,” I whisper.

  A small smile creeps across Riley’s face and her eyes stay looking into mine. My heart pounds in my chest as if I had run eight miles. I don’t know what’s going on. Part of me suggests I stop, but I can’t think of a single reason why I should. Maybe because I can’t really think at all. My face gets drawn in closer. I stop myself a few inches from her lips.

  “It’s okay,” she whispers back. Her hand slides up my leg. Like a magnet, I tilt my head and kiss her. Just a light kiss, but right away I notice the difference. Her lips are soft; there’s no stubble prickling my face as we kiss. And I know my chin won’t be red in a few minutes. Then she kisses me back more passionately. I do the same.

  My fingers tangle themselves in her hair, her wonderful, beautiful hair. I can smell her lilac shampoo. My hands go up and down her back. It’s so strange. She’s so much slighter than Brent; her body feels so different. Softer. Less intimidati
ng. She’s still muscular, but at the same time delicate. I feel like I have to protect her, almost like I’m the guy and she’s the girl. No. I push those thoughts out of my head. As weird as it is, I want us both to be the girls—no, the women—we are. It’s better this way.

  My body has never felt like this before. Every part of me Riley touches tingles; every part of her that I touch makes me want to explore even more. I’m like an artist: feeling and admiring perfection. Nothing has ever felt so real and so great. I should know what girls are like, what we feel like, but I can’t get enough of Riley’s body. Her female body.

  One hand moves down to her waist. I can feel a bit of skin where her shirt doesn’t reach her pants. I slip my fingers under. I feel her belly ring as I make my way up her shirt. Riley shifts forward, like she wants my hand to keep moving up. I cup her bra. It’s squishy from the padding and that just gets me more excited. I want to touch the real things, but I’m scared to at the same time.

  Riley takes one hand away from my legs and unhooks her bra through her shirt. Without thinking, my hand slips under the cup and I hold her breast. Wow. It feels great under my hand. I try the other side and that’s great too. I have never known why guys are so obsessed with breasts, but now I know. They’re fantastic. Soft but firm, they move around in my hands, but stay in the same place. It’s so different from touching my own breasts—they just seem to get in the way of the soap when I shower. But Riley’s breasts fill my hands perfectly as I play with them. I flick a nipple with my fingers and she moans into my mouth.

  Her hands were all over my legs and my butt, but then they move to the button of my pants.

  I break away from our kiss and move my hand back down to her waist. I’m out of breath. We stare at each other. Her breath is heavy too.

  “Is this okay?” she asks. Her hand stays on my waistband.

  I think about her breasts in my hand, the way her hair feels, the way I feel when we touch, when we kiss. My heart is going crazy. This is crazy. We shouldn’t be doing this. But I want her. I want her more than I ever wanted Brent. “Yeah. It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”