Of All the Stupid Things

by Alexandra Diaz

  David’s impish smile grew. “Yeah, I still can’t believe it. Whitney Louise Blaire is my girlfriend.”

  I couldn’t believe it either.

  But I didn’t have a chance to ask Whitney Blaire about it since she was sick and didn’t want me to pick her up for school on Monday. Or Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Or today.

  Then yesterday David called me wondering if I knew where she was. They were supposed to go out and she hadn’t shown up. Whitney Blaire has never been known for being on time, and she is forgetful, but she doesn’t normally blow people off completely. At the same time, I wonder if this is one of her little stunts for attention. Just like when she got stuck in that tree. I keep thinking what Tara said about Whitney Blaire pretending to have been stuck; if it’s true, that stupid thing could have cost her her life.

  At any rate, I’m pretty sure she’s not suffering from cramps. I wonder if it has to do with the fight with Tara. Must be something big if she thinks giving cramp excuses will get her out of whatever she doesn’t want to face.

  Normally I’d be worried, thinking that she’s ignoring me, but she’s not. She’s texting me every day so I know whatever is going on, it doesn’t have anything to do with me. And it’s not like she hasn’t done this before. Every once in a while, she just gets in these moods. When she gets this way the best thing is to wait it out until she’s ready.

  Still, I reply to her text saying: I’M SORRY YOU’RE STILL NOT FEELING WELL. GET BETTER SOON. I MISS YOU! XO. At least this way she knows that I’m thinking of her and really do miss her.

  Sigh, but for now it’s going to be another lonely day at school.

  My phone beeps again and I assume it’s her reply. Wrong. It’s David.I MISSD THE STUPD BUS. CAN I GET A RIDE?

  I turn the car around to head toward his house. Then I turn her around again when I realize I was going in the right direction to start with. He’s out the door before I even pull into his driveway. He slams the car door and says, “Let’s go.”

  My worrying radar sends an alert. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” he lies.

  I unbuckle the seat belt and lean over to give him a hug. He pushes me away. “Just drive, will you?”

  I reattach the seat belt and shift the car into gear. David fiddles with the radio, but the stations aren’t playing anything he wants to hear. He swears and turns it off. I pretend to look in the side mirror and sneak a glance at him. He’s staring out the window, but I bet he’s not seeing a thing. I want to hug him. I want him to cry on my shoulder and tell me everything that’s wrong. Then I can tell him that everything is going to be okay.

  But I don’t touch him. I keep talking and acting like everything is okay. At one point I leave my hand between him and the gear shift, hoping he’ll take it, but he doesn’t. When we get to school, he gets out before I’ve completely stopped.

  “Thanks,” he says automatically and then takes off.

  I watch him walking away and then roll down the window. “Meet me here after last period and I’ll drive you home.”

  He lifts an arm to wave but doesn’t turn around. I don’t know if that means that he wants the ride or merely that he heard me.

  From the student parking lot, I walk up by myself. Occasionally I wave at someone and say the usual, “hi, how are you, fine thanks,” but there’s no one I really want to talk to.

  By the wall, I see Tara. Her hair is still wet from her morning shower and it’s pretty close to freezing. Just seeing that makes me feel colder. I gave Tara a hair dryer a few years ago, and the next thing I knew Whitney Blaire was selling the exact same model of a never-used hair dryer on eBay. I stopped giving Tara beauty supplies after that, but I make sure to give her a nice scarf and natural cough drops every year for Christmas.

  I want to go over there and say hi, but we haven’t really spoken since she and Whitney Blaire fell out. I’ve given her mini looks across the hall, but I can’t manage much more than that.

  Riley is there with her now. I don’t have a problem with Riley per se like Whitney Blaire does. But I can’t talk to Tara when Riley is sitting on the wall behind her with her arms around Tara’s shoulders. It’s bad enough thinking of them as a couple, I don’t need them to flaunt it. And in public! It’s revolting. Small kids walk by the high school and what are they going to think if they see two girls behaving like normal couples do? If Tara and Riley act like that where everyone can see, what’s going to keep them from forgetting where they are and actually kissing in public? I don’t think I could keep my breakfast down.

  Tara notices me. I look away quickly and rush to my first class. I have the textbook, a notebook, and three sharpened pencils out, and my reading glasses on, by the time the bell rings. Every class I share with Tara, I made a point of getting there first and then burying my head in the book so I don’t have to make eye contact with her.

  At lunch, I eat my BLT with one hand while sorting through my bag to make sure I have all the homework I’d been collecting for Whitney Blaire. At one point Tara walks by me with her canvas lunch bag. I stare at the math sheet I’m looking at so hard, it’s like I’m begging the problem to tell me the answer. Once she passes, I watch her sit with some of the other weirdos at school.

  Most people seem to accept and ignore the weirdos, though occasionally there might be a bit of name calling. Some people might even avoid being around them, but we’re not a school likely to get violent because of them. It’s only at lunch when a few congregate at a table that they’re intimidating—to me at least; it’s their table that usually laughs the loudest. I wonder if they’re really saying funny things or just want all the normal people to think they’re special. Part of me wants to know why they’re laughing. The other part is afraid that everyone might think I’m a weirdo if I go find out.

  So instead I go back to my BLT and pretend I belong with the people I’m sitting with.

  As I get to my car at the end of the day, I spot David walking toward me from the opposite direction. I smile and give a little wave. He acknowledges me with a slight nod. This time he lets me hug him, but it feels like he’s hugging me because he has to, not because he wants to.

  “How were classes?” I ask as I unlock the door.

  “All right.”

  I try again. “What do you think about that test we had in poli-sci?”

  “I don’t know.”

  One last attempt. “Do you want to tell me what’s up?”

  “Not really.”

  And that was it for conversation. I start up the car and we drive off. Just like in the morning, I make small talk, chatting about some teacher or another, but it’s clear that David isn’t paying attention. I pretend to be cheery and indifferent to his attitude by singing with the radio. He just keeps looking out the window. As I’m about to turn onto David’s street, he finally speaks.

  “You mind driving around a bit?”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “I don’t care.”

  I have to think of something quick since I’m kind of in the middle of the road. It’s not a busy road, but still a road. I head toward town. At the very least it’ll buy me a couple more minutes before I have to figure out where we should go.

  We drive right through the middle of town and once I get to the end, I turn the car around and go back the way we came. I figure we can keep doing that until one of us figures out what we should do or where we should go.

  I’m turning around again at the intersection near David’s house when he suddenly looks at me. “Are we driving around in circles?”

  “More like straight lines.”

  “Why?”

  I want to say because it’s more logical to drive in straight lines instead of circles, but I don’t want to get him in a worse mood. So I explain: “Because I don’t know where to go. So I’m just driving, like you said.”

  David shakes his head like he’s at least a bit amused. “Well then, why don’t you drive to some place?”

 
; “Where?” I point in the different directions.

  David doesn’t look in any of the directions I pointed. “Wherever.”

  “But where do you want to go?” I insist.

  David rests his head in his hands. “Do you always have to be this indecisive?”

  I fluster. “I just…I want…I don’t want to do anything that will upset you more.”

  David closes eyes and shakes his head. “Pinkie, I’m not pissed off at you.”

  “I know but—”

  “So stop worrying,” he interrupts.

  I fidget some more. “It’s just—”

  “I mean it,” David says while his hand massages his forehead. “Just stop. Or else you will piss me off.”

  I sigh and head to the first place I can think of. We used to go there a lot, but I haven’t been since Angela decided she was too old to go to playgrounds.

  They added a lot of structures between the time Mama used to take me and the time I would accompany Angela. Originally, there were just two sets of swings, baby swings and big-kid swings, a metal slide that burned my legs on hot days, a merry-go-round that I was always too scared to go on when it went fast, and a sandpit, which was my favorite. Now there are more swings and slides of various shapes, monkey bars, jungle gyms, rope bridges, and all sorts of cooler stuff. When I look at the sandpit now, it just seems extremely unhygienic.

  Together, David and I walk to the big-kid swings. I push off and swing low while David just drags his feet in the dirt. I’m about to tell him to stop, that he’ll wear out his shoes like that, but I don’t want to sound like his mama.

  We swing and shuffle for about ten minutes before David finally speaks. “Why’s Whitney being such a bitch to me?”

  I shake my head. “No idea. I mean, it’s not like you’ve done anything wrong.”

  David digs his toes into the ground until they’re completely covered in dirt. I want to double-check and ask if he has done something wrong, but since he’s only just started talking to me about what’s bothering him, I don’t want to shut him up.

  “Did she tell you what happened between us?” he asks.

  Again I want to ask what did happen, even though I think I have a pretty good idea. My guess is that at the party that I wasn’t invited to, Whitney Blaire got caught up in the festive moment and maybe kissed David. David (like I would have) probably thought the kiss meant she was interested in him, but to Whitney Blaire it didn’t mean anything.

  Instead of asking for confirmation of my theory, I answer David’s question. “No, I haven’t spoken to her in ages.”

  David stops digging his hole to China to look at me. “She’s not talking to you either?”

  The reminder makes me sad and lonely. “I’ve called her a few times, but she’s not answering her phone. She just sends me text messages saying she’s not feeling well.”

  David tries to cover his worry, but I know him too well. “Why, what’s wrong with her?”

  “She…” I stop. I can’t discuss menstrual cycles with a boy, even if it is just David. “I don’t know exactly. She’s not telling me. I think she’s just in one of her moods. I think the whole fight with Tara last week really hurt her, unless something else went on that I don’t know about. Maybe something with her parents. You know how strange they are.”

  David goes back to digging the hole, alternating between his heels and toes. Already it’s about eight inches deep. Suddenly he jumps to his feet, but then immediately grabs the post as if he’s going to faint. “Holy crap!”

  I’m at his side in an instant. “What is it? What happened? Are you hurt? Do you need to see a doctor?”

  He gasps a couple times before he finally manages to choke out a few words. “I’m fine.”

  But he doesn’t look fine. He’s in horrified shock. His eyes are wide open, but I can tell he’s not looking at anything. I stay at his side and put an arm around him. This time I don’t keep my prying questions to myself.

  “Please, David, tell me what’s going on.”

  Slowly he shakes his head no.

  I want to insist, but I don’t. I tighten my arm around him. “Well, I’m here if you want to talk about it. You just look like you’ve done something horrendously wrong and the worst thing possible has happened as a result.”

  David pales and gasps a few more times. “Oh God, I hope not.”

  Whitney Blaire

  I HAVE THE MOST HORRIBLE CRAMPS. I TELL PINK WHEN she calls to see if I’m feeling better. I know she doesn’t believe me, but for once it’s really true. My gut is killing me, there’s a horrible pain in my lower back, I’m sweating like a pig even though I’m freezing, and I barely slept all night because of it.

  At first I was glad to get it. I’ve been having this nasty thought going through the back of my head that maybe I was pregnant. I knew I wasn’t. I remember we used something, but there was still that worst-case scenario of “what if.” And it didn’t help that I was about three days late.

  It’s Carmen’s fault really. The whole day while we cleaned the house, she kept telling me that there was no protection against pregnancy. She went on to say that some cousin’s niece’s neighbor’s ex-girlfriend once got pregnant even though she was on the pill and they used a condom. Someone else while her tubes were tied. Another even though the man had had a vasectomy. And then the last story was a sixty-five-year-old woman who had been through menopause fifteen years before. That was gross. No one wants to think about nearly seventy-year-old ladies getting lucky at anything other than bingo.

  So when I couldn’t sleep last night because my stomach was hurting and went to the bathroom just for something to do, it was great to see the blood. Not that I believed all of Carmen’s stupid talk, but still, it was good to know for sure that I wasn’t. And good to stay home from school another day.

  I almost did have to go to school, though. Father’s home now and even being on my deathbed isn’t good enough to make me miss school. He had wanted me to go when I had chicken pox back in third grade, but Mother reminded him that if I infected the other kids it could end up in a lawsuit. In that case, I stayed home until the doctor signed a form to guarantee I was no longer contagious.

  Thankfully, both of my parents left ten minutes before Pink normally comes, so I’m in the clear. It’s a big effort considering I want to die, but I called the school as I had done all week pretending to be my mother (I must say, darling, I can do her voice perfectly). The school secretary reassured “Dr. Blaire” once again that “her daughter” was excused. Now there is no way for Father to know that I’m staying home.

  I eat some chips left over in the bag by my bed. Fifteen minutes later I’m praying to the porcelain god. Sometime after that, I hear Carmen let herself in and then fuss with the alarm to see why it wasn’t on. She finds me a bit later still hugging the toilet.

  Instead of being angry, she strokes my head. “Ay, niña, pobrecita. You see? I tell you you get pregnant.”

  I close my eyes and lower my head onto my arms. “No, I’m not.”

  Carmen puts her hands on her hips. “No? Then you are drunk?”

  Even with my head in my arms, the world isn’t very stable. “No, really. It’s just cramps. The worst cramps ever.”

  I see her look at the counter where I left the wrapper. Suddenly she crosses herself and says, “Gracias a dios santo. We get you to bed, okay? I bring you hot water bag to put on your stomach and you sleep. Later, when you feel better, I bring you some soup, yes?”

  She helps me get up. For a second I think I’m going to throw up again, but I don’t. Carmen fluffs up the pillows and then tucks me into bed. She’s almost at the door when I call her.

  “Carmen?”

  She turns around. “Yes?”

  “Gracias.”

  She nods and shuts the door behind her.

  I wake up when the doorbell rings. I hear Carmen answer it. I can tell it’s not Pink or Tara because Carmen doesn’t say hello to them. It’s a male voice, but
I can’t tell who it is and what he’s saying. Carmen doesn’t let him in. I hear the words “sick” and “sleeping.” I listen closely but can’t make out anything else. The boy says something and the door shuts. Carmen comes up the stairs. She knocks softly on my door and then opens it. I sit up. She enters holding a bouquet of flowers. As she gets closer I see they’re roses. Four red ones, one pink, one white, surrounded by those silly little white flowers they put in bouquets.

  The card says, To Whitney.

  David.

  I take them and set the vase on my lap. “Thanks, Carmen.”

  She stands there looking half curious, half surprised, and half upset that a boy brought me flowers. I stare at her. Finally, she takes the hint and leaves the room. I open up the envelope.

  Dear Whitney, I’m sorry if I did something wrong. Give me chance to make things right. If I got you into trouble, any trouble, I’m here for you no matter what. Yours always, David.

  I read the note again, and again. I swallow, but it doesn’t help. Tears roll down my cheeks. The vase tips over on the bed. Everything is wet. The pink rose falls to the carpet and I keep crying.

  Tara

  I NOW EAT LUNCH WITH A NEW CROWD AT SCHOOL: Susan (who I think is really a boy trapped in a girl’s body) is a bodybuilder; TJ (whose gender I still haven’t figured out and am too embarrassed to ask) is a swimmer; and Morris, whose biggest muscle is his tongue. Riley says we should call ourselves the Gay Athletes Society. I still have a problem calling myself gay. I’m not ashamed of the relationship I have with Riley. Every day I’m with her, I’m happier and more in love than I would have thought possible, but somehow that doesn’t justify gayness in my mind. I still notice the good-looking guys, but I’m starting to notice the pretty girls a bit now too. I won’t say I’m attracted to them; I just notice them. I notice everyone, but Riley is the only one I picture naked.

  As Mom predicted, I have gotten a few weird looks and snide remarks (especially in the bathroom or locker room), some from people I don’t even know. On the other hand, there have also been a couple people who’ve come up to me privately and complimented me on “coming out.” I don’t know how I feel about that term either. I haven’t done anything to justify it. I just don’t deny I have a girlfriend.