Of All the Stupid Things

by Alexandra Diaz

  Riley, my girlfriend. I do like the sound of that. And I guess if that makes me part of the Gay Athletes Society, so be it.

  But today there’s a new jock invading our table without permission. Chris Sanchez.

  What can I say? I don’t like Sanchez. Even before the rumor of him and Brent, I found Sanchez vulgar and obnoxious with a tendency to say things just for the shock value. He’s not much for morals and doesn’t think twice about who he gets off with.

  I ignore Sanchez and notice Brent sitting a few tables away. I see him with his new girl all the time now: a dark-haired tennis player I’ve heard of but have never talked to. I shouldn’t be surprised; Brent’s not the kind to stay single for long. But it’s weird that I haven’t seen him with Whitney Blaire. Not even a quick chat. Maybe what they had was just a quick fling. Or maybe it’s one of those secret high school romances that no one is supposed to know about.

  I’m halfway through my hummus, tabbouleh, and veggie pita sandwich when I hear Sanchez say something to Morris about Brent. Riley, with her hand resting on my leg under the table, is talking to TJ and doesn’t notice a thing.

  I chew the bite in my mouth slowly. Sanchez keeps on talking to Morris in a hushed voice. “Don’t like this new girl of Staple’s. She’s such a leech. Thank God she’s away this weekend. It’s been ages.”

  I stop chewing altogether. The mush stays in my mouth. He’s lying. He’s showing off. He has to be.

  Morris’s eyes widen. “Wait. You mean you and…?”

  Sanchez makes a shushing motion toward Morris and says in an exaggerated whisper, “Oh, yes, Morris baby. Thought that Andre was going to bust us a while back, but Staple took care of it. Don’t go telling anyone, though.”

  Sanchez dramatically looks around to see if anyone heard him. His eyes land on me with mush still in my mouth. He gasps.

  “Oh, no, don’t worry, Tara baby,” he says, over-apologetic, his face extremely red. “It was like weeks, no, more like months after you two had finished. Really.”

  I don’t say anything. Riley stops talking to TJ and looks from Sanchez to me.

  Sanchez keeps on rambling. “Really, I’d never do that. Not to you, Tara baby.”

  I finally swallow the mush. It feels very solid as it goes down. At one point I think I’m going to choke, but I just keep swallowing.

  I put the rest of my lunch away. Riley takes one more bite and crumples her brown bag. I leave the table and Riley follows right behind me.

  As I’m walking away, I hear Sanchez frantically telling the table: “Really, you know there was never nothing between me and Staple. Really, I swear. Nothing, never. Because I was just kidding, you know? Staple and me, I just made it up.”

  I walk by Whitney Blaire. She’s back at school after being gone all last week. I glance her way, but she doesn’t even notice me. I look at Pinkie. She stares at me for a second, tries to smile, and then sighs before turning away. I keep walking out of the cafeteria.

  Riley takes my hand in the near-empty hall. “Tara, I—” I swallow again as I turn to look down at my girlfriend. There’s only one thing I want to say to her right now. “Did you actually see Whitney Blaire with Brent?”

  Riley licks her lips. “No, I didn’t. I told you, I just saw her sneaking around the gym.”

  I can still feel bits of food in my mouth. I keep swallowing to try to get rid of them. “Did you know it was Sanchez?”

  Riley shakes her head, her shoulders dropping a bit. “I didn’t know anything for sure. Technically, we still don’t know.”

  No, Sanchez didn’t actually come out and say he was with Brent that particular day at the gym. But I saw and heard how Sanchez tried to cover up. It’s enough to confirm that as much as Brent likes girls, and in his own way maybe even loves the girls he’s with, he also likes Sanchez on the side.

  Brent with Sanchez, Sanchez with Brent. The images that haunted me suddenly make sense. I see now they didn’t bother me because they were about Brent and a guy. I mean, in a way, I’m doing the same thing now. They bothered me because in some subconscious part of my mind, I knew they were real. And it meant that my whole relationship with Brent, my first real relationship, had been fake.

  I close my eyes and cover my head. I crumple to the ground until I’m compressed as much as possible. My forehead presses against my biceps while my forearms curl over the top of my head.

  I’m suddenly very sure that whoever was with Brent that day in the gym, it wasn’t Whitney Blaire. I don’t even know how I let myself think she was sleeping with Brent. Maybe I let myself blame her because it was the easy thing to do. Easier to think it was her than to accept the truth about Brent.

  “Oh, God. Whitney Blaire,” I say, or maybe just think.

  A hand rests between my shoulders. Riley places her other hand around my legs. “I’m sorry. I should have never accused her. It was a really stupid thing to do. I’m so sorry.”

  I don’t say anything. I want to stay in my little cave and never come out. But I’m vaguely aware that I’m still in school, crouched against the lockers, where I can still be seen.

  “I never meant to hurt you,” Riley whispers and tightens her hold. Slowly, I unfold just a bit. Just enough to lower a hand and pick up Riley’s. It’s dry, but still as strong as it was when we first met. I run my thumb over her fingers, feeling the calluses of her grip.

  A little more clearly, I start hearing people walking by and inquiring what’s wrong and Riley trying to convince them that I just need to be left alone. Gathering myself up, I get back to my feet. Riley keeps apologizing as she leads me away to a refuge. I keep my eyes shut, but by its location I know that she takes me to the same bathroom where I heard the initial bad news about Brent.

  It takes a few more minutes before I get myself together and open my eyes. Riley’s tanned face is white with worry and guilt. I take her hand again and hold it to my face. It feels real. But what if the relationship is fake as well? “I’m sorry,” Riley repeats.

  I bring her hand to my lips and kiss it. I have to believe it is real. Or at least could be.

  “Do you think you’ll ever tell your parents about me, about us?”

  Riley closes her eyes as she brushes her lips over the part of her hand I kissed. Taking a deep breath, she looks up at me. “Yes, I think I need to. They should know I’m in love. But only if there’s still something between us left to tell.”

  “I don’t want to lose you,” I reassure her. “But I don’t want to lose Whitney Blaire either.”

  Our hands still interlocked, she now kisses my hand. “There’s no reason why you should. Not from me, at least.”

  Riley stands on her toes to kiss me.

  I let out a big breath. I don’t blame Riley for letting me think Whitney Blaire was in the car with Brent. I blame myself for not realizing that as much as Whitney Blaire flirts, she’s never been a boyfriend stealer.

  She always reminded me how lucky I was when I started dating Brent. I did wonder why she hadn’t gone for him herself, but she said he wasn’t right for her. Now I wonder if that was her way of saying she was scared of rejection, and maybe even intimacy. Not going for him and still thinking she could have a chance with him would be better in Whitney Blaire’s mind than knowing she didn’t have any chance at all.

  I remember one time when the three of us were at my house and for some reason Pinkie wasn’t there. Brent offered Whitney Blaire a ride home, but she turned him down, saying she wanted to walk. Whitney Blaire hates walking. Only now do I see what she was doing. Or rather wasn’t doing. Resisting temptation. And being loyal.

  Oh, Tara, says the little voice in my head. You screwed up big-time and now it might be too late. I agree with the voice. Whitney Blaire doesn’t forgive and forget very easily. I know she acts tough and self-assured to hide her insecurity. And loneliness.

  I need to talk to Pinkie. I owe her an apology as well for pushing her aside. I know she’ll forgive me. Then maybe she’ll help me work on
Whitney Blaire. I have to try.

  Whitney Blaire

  I DON’T SEND DAVID A TEXT UNTIL MONDAY AFTER school. I managed to avoid him throughout the day; I just didn’t know what to say. Finally I settle for a simple SORRY.

  Instantly he replies: I NEED 2 C U. WE NEED 2 TALK.

  I walk the length of my room and back again. I don’t really want to see him or talk to him, but I see his point. OK, I reply.

  I shower for the second time that day and change my clothes. As I blow-dry my hair I wonder if I should make a big effort and dress to kill, but then think that would be cruel. A little makeup, my favorite worn jeans, boots, and a blue top that Pierre once said brought out my eyes. Just the act of getting ready perks me up a bit, even though I’m not looking forward to what David has to say. With a deep breath, I head out.

  We meet at a café that’s between our houses. He’s already there with his arms crossed. He doesn’t hug me. I nod and dump my coat over the chair. He starts to get up, but I wave him away and order the mochas myself: one regular, one skinny with whip. I bring them to the table and use a wooden stick to swirl the chocolate on the whipped cream. David takes a sip of his and then finally speaks.

  “Whitney, at the party—”

  “I don’t want to talk about that,” I interrupt. “Look, it just happened and that was that.”

  David doesn’t let it go. “But if there are, um, complications, I—”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about but I guess it has to do with me being out “sick” for a week. “I’m fine. Honestly.”

  I flash him a smile and hope he doesn’t realize it’s a fake.

  He sits there staring at his drink while I pretend all’s well.

  “What’s going to happen between us?” he asks his drink.

  I prepare a surprised look, which he doesn’t see. The look then changes to a frown that wasn’t prepared. “What do you mean?”

  He looks up now, half annoyed, half I don’t know what. Confused maybe. “Well, I kind of thought, that you know, after what happened, we’d be a couple. So are we, or not?”

  I twirl the wooden stick around in my drink.

  David continues. “You’ve been playing me for years, and that was okay because I thought that maybe, someday, something would happen. And then it did. But then you turned all moody bitch on me. I thought maybe it was because…but I guess not. So now, now I don’t know where I stand.”

  David picks up a sugar packet and shakes it so that all the grains fall to the bottom. I know it’s my turn to talk, but I don’t know what to say. I can’t wave it away with a pretend laugh like I might have done another time.

  I sigh. “You need someone better than me, David.” Now I’m the one speaking to my drink. “You said so yourself. I’m a moody bitch. I’m…I don’t know. Ask my mother. Scared of commitment or whatever. You deserve someone else.”

  “I know,” he says. I snap up to stare at him. Although I meant was I said, I didn’t expect him to agree with me. “But I can’t. I—”

  I cut him off. “Don’t say it.”

  David bends his sugar packet one way and another. “Don’t you like me even a little?”

  I take the time to really study him. His hair isn’t spiked today, but the haircut still looks okay. He doesn’t wear glasses so his eyes are fine. There’s a pimple on his chin, but at least it’s not gross looking. His teeth are decent. Put together, though, there’s just nothing special about him. On there other hand, there isn’t anything actually wrong with him either. He’s a nice guy. But maybe that’s the problem.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “You were all over me at the party,” he mumbles hopefully.

  “I was drunk,” I answer back, but not as defensive as I might have.

  It’s a few minutes before David speaks again. “So this is it.”

  I drain the last of my drink and scrape the side of the glass for any last trace.

  Two guys from school walk in. The black guy is in one of my classes and I’ve always thought he was hot, though I’ve never talked to him. His friend is pretty cute too, but a bit short. Our eyes meet for a second as they walk by. I look back at my glass, which is still empty, and finally turn back to David.

  “I think we should go back to how things used to be and take it from there.”

  He stops playing with the sugar packet, which is just about to tear in the middle. “So what does that mean?”

  “It means we’re friends,” I say, and then before I can change my mind, I add, “But with the chance that something more might happen.”

  Pinkie

  SOMEONE IS KNOCKING ON MY BEDROOM DOOR.

  “Come in, Angela,” I say since she’s already been in three times. She doesn’t believe that Nash hasn’t called at all in the last ten days and certainly doesn’t believe that I don’t have his number. Which is fair enough. I only deleted it from my phone. I know I have the number somewhere else. In fact, I’m sure I could remember it if I tried, but I don’t tell her that. I try not to tell myself that either.

  I look up from my homework. It’s Daddy instead.

  “What’s that you’re doing?” He looks over my shoulder. “Trigonometry? You shouldn’t worry about that.”

  I close the textbook. “Mrs. Bensche hinted that she’s going to give us a pop quiz on Monday. I just want to be sure I’m ready.”

  “It’s Tuesday, Mousie,” Daddy reminds me. “And you have a four-day weekend coming up. You study too hard. You know, I wouldn’t mind seeing you have some fun now and then. Go on a few dates—of course, after we give him a full criminal background check.”

  “Daddy.” I roll my eyes and then wait. I can tell he isn’t in my room to chat about my lack of a social life.

  Daddy sighs and sits on my bed. “So, Mousie, you know I’m going to Seattle on a business trip first thing Friday morning right?”

  “Of course. Barbara’s been planning a girls’ weekend with Nana, Angela, and me. I heard her talking about egg-yolk masks and mayonnaise conditioner.”

  Daddy makes a face. “My poor mama, now she’ll never go back home. Thank goodness I’ll be out of the way.”

  I grin. Daddy always pretends that he can’t stand living with three girls, but I know he loves it. I once caught him watching a girly teen film when he thought we were all asleep. He claimed that he wanted to know how teenagers tick. Which, as far as I’m concerned, shouldn’t even apply, because as far as Daddy knows, I’ve never done anything rebellious in my life.

  Daddy’s smile leaves his face. “But anyway, I just found out that I’ll be gone for more than just the weekend. They want me to go to Tokyo for a week afterward and then give a presentation in New York before coming back home. So I’ll be gone about fifteen days.”

  I don’t need to look at a calendar to understand what he isn’t saying. I set my reading glasses on the desk and sit down next to him on the bed.

  “But Daddy, you can’t. You have to be here. You’ll have to tell them you have a prior family commitment. You’ll miss Mama’s…I mean, we have to go to…”

  “Sweetheart, this trip is very important. I can’t back out of it.”

  I push some stuffed animals out of my way. “There has to be something you can do, even if you have to pretend you’re dreadfully ill. Or what about your passport? I’m sure it’s expired.”

  Daddy shakes his head. “No, Mousie, I’m going on the trip. And it’s okay. You know how much I loved Aurora, and she will always have a special place in my heart. I wish she was still with us, but it’s time to let go of her. I have to move on; we have to move on. She was a wonderful person, but she’s dead.”

  I pick at the bits of lint stuck to my pajama pants. I think about that day so much, it’s like it could have happened yesterday. Yet I doubt I’ve ever told anyone about it before. “I remember I woke up from my nap and thought Mama was resting like normal when she didn’t answer. I thought it was best not to bother her. But the house was so quiet and
that scared me. So I turned on the TV and soon forgot all about her. I didn’t even check up on her.”

  Daddy takes me in his arms. I feel like I am four again as I climb into his lap and cry on his shoulder. He brushes the hair from my face and then I feel his chest shaking too. I wrap my arms around him and keep on crying.

  “Sweetheart, it’s not your fault. Nothing could have been done.”

  “But if I had called for help, maybe she would have lived longer,” I mumble through his shirt sleeve.

  “No. It wouldn’t have made a difference. When she left, she was gone for good. The best doctors couldn’t have brought her back.”

  “She wasn’t supposed to die that day, was she? She did her hungry hippo impression before putting me to bed. We were laughing and she didn’t seem sick at all.”

  He shifts a shoulder to rub against his face. I hold him tighter. “No, I know she wasn’t supposed to die that day. She was fine when I left for work, that’s why I didn’t have a problem leaving you with her. We all thought she had months left. When I saw her there on the bed, it was the most awful moment of my life and I know it must have been the same for you too.”

  Daddy holds me tighter as he tries to control his crying. “I couldn’t believe she was really gone. I was upset that I hadn’t been there. I hated that I left that morning not knowing I’d never talk to her again. It was horrible. I was so scared. And I was scared for you too.”

  The tears slow down and I sniff. “Why? I wasn’t sick.”

  “No, but you weren’t even four. I hated that you had to lose your mama so young. And I hated that I couldn’t keep you away from all the sickness and then her dying with you in the house. I hated thinking that you had to go through that. I was so scared. Anything could have happened to you being left unsupervised like that. You might have drowned, been poisoned, opened the front door and taken off—you could have done any number of things parents worry about. I realized how close I was to losing you too.”