Of All the Stupid Things

by Alexandra Diaz

  I take his hand and hold it. “I just watched TV. I knew I wasn’t supposed to do anything dangerous.”

  “I know, Mousie. You were born with more common sense than most grown-ups. But you were there. That was more than any child should have to go through.”

  I straighten up bit, leaning against Daddy. “I’m glad I was there. I don’t think I would have understood if Mama had just disappeared. I’m glad I have that last memory of her doing a hungry hippo.”

  “I’m sure she felt the same way.” Daddy rubs my back. “Maybe you don’t remember, but when your mama died, she had a smile on her face. She died happy. She always said she’d rather die at home than in a hospital. The doctors wanted her to start treatment again the following week, but she didn’t want to. She told me a few days before that it pleased her so much that she could look back on her life and see what a great one it had been. She didn’t feel like it had been a waste, short as it was. She loved you so much. She always talked about how lucky she was to have you, so smart, well behaved, and beautiful.”

  “Daddy, I’m not beautiful.”

  “But you are. You might not see it, but trust me, everyone else does.”

  I playfully shove him for being so corny, but I don’t make any move toward leaving the security of his lap.

  Tara

  I’VE BEEN TRYING TO TALK TO WHITNEY BLAIRE FOR THE last few days. I’ve barely seen her in the halls, and when I’ve called out for her to stop, she hasn’t. At lunch I asked to speak with her, but she continued talking to her friends as if I wasn’t there. Pinkie sat at another table with David and her other geeky friends. I caught her watching us, but then she sighed and turned away as usual.

  My only choice is to get Whitney Blaire alone. And to do that, I get to school early the next day and wait for Pinkie to show up. Fifteen minutes before the bell I hear her car rattling before I see it. It turns a corner slowly and very carefully parks between two small cars.

  I trot over.

  Whitney Blaire is closing the passenger door just as I get there.

  “Whitney Blaire, hold on,” I call out to her.

  She doesn’t turn around. Two strides, I’m at her side and I take her arm.

  She shakes it off. “What?”

  “I just want to talk to you for a second.”

  She gives me her infamous look: a look that makes a person feel smaller than a two-year-old.

  “No,” she says, and walks away.

  I watch for a second.

  I look back and see Pinkie biting her lip, staring at us. I need to talk to her too, but I can do that afterward. I don’t know when I can get Whitney Blaire alone again. I dash up to her. She ignores me completely. I take a deep breath and start talking anyway.

  “Look, Whitney Blaire, I know you’re pissed at me and you should be, but I’m really sorry. I should’ve known you would never hook up with Brent. I was really stupid to think that. If I were you, I wouldn’t forgive me either. But it was all a horrible misunderstanding on my part and I should have never said the things I did. I’m so sorry.”

  I pause for second. She doesn’t say anything. She’s still walking. I continue. “It’s been hard not being your friend these last few weeks. I miss you.”

  I breathe. She’s got to know how hard this is for me. I never express my feelings like that.

  Finally Whitney Blaire stops. She folds her arms across her chest and turns to look at me. “So, do you finally believe me that Riley is a backstabbing bitch?”

  “That’s cold, I can’t—”

  “Then I can’t.” She goes over to a group of people, smiles wide, and starts chatting with them as if everything were perfect.

  I bury my face in my hands and pull my hair. I stay like that for a few seconds, even though I know at least one person is watching me. I take two deep breaths that come out more like two big sighs. I raise my head, but my eyes stay closed for a second longer.

  “Pinkie?”

  “Yeah?” she says from behind me. I turn and walk over to her. I want her to give me one of her famous hugs, but I can’t move my arms to tell her that’s what I want. For a second I think her hugging instinct will take over, but her hands just end up clutching the straps of her backpack.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been treating you bad too. You didn’t do anything wrong. It was just me being, I don’t know what. Stupid, I guess. I shouldn’t have pushed you away.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” she agrees. “I know I’ve always been the odd girl out of the three of us—”

  I look down. “That’s not true.”

  She runs her hands up and down her straps, not really looking at me. “It is. And that’s okay. But I never thought that if you and Whitney Blaire fell out, that you would dismiss me too.”

  I shift my backpack to my other shoulder. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  “I know, but it still hurt. You know how much I worry.” She now starts fidgeting with her phone.

  I close my eyes again for a second. “Sorry. I’ve missed you too, you know. It’s weird coming home and the answering machine being empty because you haven’t left any messages.” I try to make a joke.

  Pinkie doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. She presses a few buttons and shows me a screen on her phone. “I did call a couple times but didn’t leave a message.”

  I relax just a bit. As long as Pinkie is still making calls, I know there’s hope. “Do you think we can all go back to how things used to be, but with Riley in our group too?”

  This time Pinkie really does take forever to reply. The bell rings and we start walking to class. “It’s not that easy,” she finally says. “I think we all need some time to get used to your new lifestyle.”

  Whitney Blaire

  THE NERVE OF TARA. I DON’T KNOW WHAT SHE’S TALKing about. Saying she forgives me, but she still doesn’t see Riley for what she is. Pink says we don’t need to like Riley to be friends with Tara. But she isn’t any better. I don’t see Pink rushing over to hug Riley. And I thought Pink would hug anyone.

  Maybe I should go after Brent. Then she’d really have something to feel bad about. He’s not off-limits now, seeing that Tara isn’t my friend anymore. But there’s still that thing that maybe I’m not his type. If I am, I’m not sure I would want to be with him seriously or for very long. And if I’m not his type, I don’t want to know about it.

  I should have pretended to be sick longer. Part of me had wanted to, but Carmen forced me out of the house. Thank goodness it’s a short week.

  When I get home, there’s a note on the counter along with the usual twenty. I don’t want to read it. But I do anyway. And then I wish I hadn’t.

  Darling,

  I’m going to the city to get an early start on Christmas shopping and I might end up spending the night there. Don’t worry, I’ll be home in time for our Thanksgiving dinner at Le Bon Fromage tomorrow. Your father will be in late tonight. No need to wait up for him, but better not invite your friends over. I’ll bring you back a little something.

  Yours,

  Mother

  I scream. It echoes through the empty house. She promised she’d take me shopping in the city next time she went. She promised one day we would stay in a nice hotel just for the fun of it.

  So much for promises.

  So much for effective parenting.

  I take a knife from the block and stab it through the note. It makes a mark on the countertop. I pull it out and thrust the knife in much harder. I leave it sticking out from the counter. I take the twenty and head upstairs.

  In one of the spare bedrooms there’s a closet with all our suitcases. I grab a small one with wheels. I throw in a few sweaters and shirts, a couple pairs of jeans, a short skirt, my knee-high boots, a hairbrush, my curling iron, my makeup bag with my contacts, some underwear, and the two remaining condoms I stole from the nurse’s office.

  From the top of my closet, I pull out my secret stash. Years of saving pizza money, birthday
money, and every penny I found on the streets has paid off. I have over three grand. I can go anywhere, do anything. And I know my passport is in Mother’s office, not locked up in Father’s.

  I call Pink up. I know how she is and I know if I don’t, she’ll have the whole Secret Service, or whatever those high-end detectives are called, out looking for me. I’m glad to get her voice mail. I tell her we’re going away for the holidays, but will drop a line when I get a chance.

  Then I call a cab.

  When I’m done I hold on to the phone, looking at it for a bit. Pink sends a text saying to have fun and not do anything stupid. Part of me hopes David would call saying that he and his family are on their way to his grandparents’ and would I like to join them.

  After a few seconds, I toss the phone in my purse. Not that I would go with David and his snot-nosed family anyway. I have enough money to go shopping in Paris; I could lounge on the beach in Hawaii. I don’t need to go on a family road trip.

  The cabbie rings the bell. I haul the suitcase off the bed. It thumps down the stairs behind me. I grab my coat and leave the house. I don’t set the alarm. And I don’t leave a note.

  It takes us close to five hours to get to the airport. Everyone and their damn mother is on the road. The cabbie says it’s always like this the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. I watch the meter change every few minutes, even though we haven’t moved and tell him to go to hell. At one point I think about walking. Then the cab moves a few yards, so I stay. We get to the airport close to nine. I pay the cabbie a shitload of money even though he barely did anything. I could have bought something real nice with what I paid. I stick around to get my twenty cents change.

  The airport is packed. The lines to the ticket counter are longer than I’ve ever seen them. I go to the airline my parents always use.

  It takes forever to get to the head of the line, but finally I’m there. The man behind the desk is in his forties and looks like he’s about to die of boredom.

  “Where are you flying to?” he asks without looking up.

  “I’m not sure. Can you give me a price comparison between Paris and Hawaii? Oh, and maybe Thailand too. Just wherever, really.”

  Now the man does look at me. I bat my eyelashes and smile sweetly.

  “What dates?” he gruffs.

  I force myself to stay smiling and pretend to flirt. “Silly. Today of course.”

  “There aren’t any flights today.”

  “What?” I lose the smile.

  “We only have three fights left tonight: St. Louis, Phoenix, and Tallahassee. St. Louis leaves in fifteen minutes, so you won’t make it, and Phoenix is sold out, so it looks like Tallahassee.”

  I drop the charming act and demand. “What the hell am I going to do in Tallahassee? Can I get a connecting flight somewhere else from there?”

  “Not tonight.”

  I think for a second. Tallahassee is in Florida, I think. Which means it’s close to Disney World and Miami Beach. “Fine, I’ll go to Tallahassee.”

  The man types in some numbers. “When are you coming back?”

  “I don’t care, a few days, a week, whatever.”

  He types some more and then speaks. “That’s one thousand—”

  “One thousand! You’ve got to be kidding!”

  The person waiting next in line calls out, “Hurry up, missy. Some of us don’t have all night.”

  I try to smile again at the airline man. “I don’t need first-class tickets.”

  “These are standard coach seats.”

  I try one last time since I’m obviously not connecting with him. “I’m sorry, could you repeat the price?”

  He says it again, and still I don’t hear anything after a thousand. I could do it. I have enough. But if it’s that much to fly somewhere, how much is everything else going to cost? Between the flight and what I already paid the stupid cabbie, I wouldn’t be left with much. Probably not enough for a few nights in a hotel, food, and a taxi to get to Disney World and Miami Beach. And not to mention any money left for shopping.

  “I think I’ll try another airline,” I say as I gather up my bags.

  The man shrugs and then says, “It’s the busiest flying day of the year and you’re booking at the very last minute. You’re not going to find anything cheaper.” And then he waves to the next person in line.

  I shuffle out of the way. I can’t even pretend that it’s his loss. I walk over to the monitors listing all the flights. I have to blink a few times to read what they say. There’s just a handful, and none of them is going anywhere fun. Tomorrow’s flights aren’t up there yet. And I don’t want to go back and ask the airline man what they’ll be.

  I close my eyes and count to ten. When I open them, there’s one less flight on the screen. I stay there for a while longer until someone comes by with a mop bucket. I wheel my bag to the nearest chair and plop down.

  The crowd is thinning. I wonder how long before everyone is gone. I wonder if there’s a time they make everyone leave.

  A scruffy man sits down two seats away from me. He takes off his shoes and stretches out his legs. Then he picks his nose. He wipes his finger clean under the chair and goes back to picking his nose. He looks up to see me watching him and winks.

  I get up and move away.

  I feel his eyes on me while I duck through the remaining people. I head to the other side of the terminal. Even then, I feel his eyes searching.

  I can’t do this. I can’t spend the night in the airport. I can’t fly to some random place and not know what I’m doing there. As much as I want to get away, I can’t. I’m scared.

  I think about calling Pink to come get me. But then I remember how slow she drives, how she always manages to get lost—chances are I’d be waiting for her till Christmas.

  I wish Tara could drive. She knows how to get where she’s going. She’d pick me up, if she knew how to drive. And if we were still friends.

  I let out a sigh. I don’t want to pretend anymore.

  I want to go home, but I don’t want to go to my house. But I don’t see any other choice. There’s no one else I can turn to. I pull out my phone and scroll down the phonebook.

  She answers on the third ring. “’Ello?”

  I take a deep breath. “Hi, it’s me. I’m at the airport. I’m—I don’t want to be here. Can you come get me?”

  “Why are you at the airport? You’re crazy.”

  I see the scruffy guy shuffling to the bathroom. He stops for a few seconds to scratch his ass.

  I turn away so I don’t have to watch, but then check to make sure he’s not coming up behind me. I don’t see him, but that doesn’t make me feel better. I clutch the phone and whisper, “Just come get me. I’m all by myself. Please, Carmen, hurry.”

  Pinkie

  THIRTEEN YEARS AGO TODAY, ON NOVEMBER THIRTIETH, my mama died at home. I saw Daddy crying on her chest and she didn’t move. Strange men covered her up and took her away. I wasn’t quite four years old, and yet I remember everything about it. Right down to the pink sweatpants and daisy sweatshirt she was wearing.

  I remember thinking she looked like a fairy princess, like Snow White sound asleep. I remember telling Daddy that all he needed to do was kiss her and she’d wake up. Yet even with all that wishful thinking, I still knew deep down what it meant when someone died.

  I’ve always known that she would never come back, but I’ve always been determined to keep her from ever really going. That’s why I started writing letters to her. At first they were drawings with my name and “I love you” scribbled over them. Then, as my writing got better, so did the letters. Everything that happened, everything I didn’t understand, that I wanted to talk about with someone but didn’t want anyone to know about, I put in the letters. Some people write in their diary; I wrote to my mama.

  She was my best friend when Tara and Whitney Blaire, not knowingly, made me feel left out. She was my enemy when I couldn’t handle her not being there for me. Whatever or who
ever I need her to be, that was Mama.

  And today is the day she died, thirteen years ago.

  Every year, Daddy and I plan a special surprise for Mama: cards, flowers, candles. We bring poems, stories, comics, and newspaper articles that we think she might like, and spend hours reading them to her. There’d be photographs to share and report cards show off. One year, the year we went to Barbara’s parents’ house for Thanksgiving, we brought Mama some leftovers. Every year we do something. It’s a tradition. It’s the only time when just the three of us are together again. Our own family.

  But now, for the first time in thirteen years, Daddy isn’t going to be there. He didn’t even leave her a card or ask me to pick up some flowers on his behalf (though I did anyway). I feel like he’s betraying us. I also feel that if he really wanted to, he could have been here. For Mama, for both of us.

  I planned to go straight after school, but I forgot the scented candles at home. It’s okay, I tell myself; it’ll only take a couple minutes to stop by and pick them up.

  It’s pouring when I get home. Lightning, thunder, and pelting raindrops. It has never rained before on Mama’s day. I can only hope that it’ll stop soon. I go in to get the candles and run back to the car. She doesn’t start. I try again. Nothing. I speak to her nicely and tell her I’ll get her oil changed 100 miles before the next 3,000-mile deadline. Still nothing.

  I sit in the car for a few minutes wondering what to do while the rain continues. It’s too far to walk, I haven’t ridden a bike in so long I’ve probably forgotten how to, there aren’t any buses that go from my house to the cemetery, and even if I knew how to ride one, I don’t have a horse. I put my head on the steering wheel and pray for a miracle.

  I hear tapping on the window and I scream. Through the rain, I make out a giant wearing a raincoat and holding an umbrella. Oh, thank goodness, it’s only Barbara. Still, I make sure there’s no hook in her hand before rolling down the window, just in case.