Of All the Stupid Things

by Alexandra Diaz

  “The car won’t start,” I say.

  She nods over to her minivan. “Come on. I’ll take you.”

  I gather the bags and run over to her car. The sliding door is open and I jump in it. I set the bags in the back, then squish my way to the front. We buckle up and head for the cemetery.

  The rain hasn’t stopped by the time we get there. I take a deep breath.

  Barbara turns off the car and pulls out a magazine. “I’ll wait for you here, unless you want me to come with you.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “All right. Take your time, but if you’re going to be longer than twenty minutes in this weather, I want you to give me a call, just to make sure you’re not frozen or something.”

  I smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

  I grab the bags and leave. Normally, Daddy and I spend hours with Mama, but Barbara is right; it’s too wet and cold to stay very long.

  Right away I realize there was no point in stopping home for the candles; I forgot the matches. And the bits of paper I brought to read to her get soaked through before I finish unfolding them. I made a wreath of flowers to put over the headstone like a tiara, but within seconds the rain tears it apart.

  With nothing left to do, I crouch down and speak to her as freezing water pours down my face. “Hi, Mama, it’s me Pinkie. Daddy couldn’t make it this year. He’s in Japan for work, which is about as far away as he can get from being here. He hasn’t been gone more than a few days, but I really miss him. I think it’s just this time of year that seems so lonely. Even when Daddy was here, I’ve been feeling very left out. Whitney Blaire has been very hot and cold with everyone lately. Even when she laughs I can tell she’s just pretending. I told her she seemed depressed and she agreed. But when I told her she should get help she said no, that she was happy being depressed. I don’t understand.

  “As for Tara, I don’t know if we’re friends. It’s really awkward being around her. I don’t know what to say or do. I want to give her a hug, but I just can’t. I can’t. I can’t be myself around her. I want to gossip about cute guys, but I can’t. I want to ask her what she thinks of my new top, but then she’ll notice my body so I can’t. I can’t act normal around her anymore.”

  I move a lock of wet hair from my face. Rain has poured around my collar and soaked my raincoat through. I start to shiver.

  “But at the same time, I don’t want to lose Tara’s friendship, or Whitney Blaire’s. We have so much history; I don’t want it to end. But I’ve also figured out that they can’t be my only good friends. David is great, like a brother. Trina in trigonometry seems nice. And there’s this funny-looking guy, Oliver, I’d like to get to know now that he’s called me back about some polisci homework.

  “So I’m not forgetting my old friends, nothing like that, but after these last few weeks, I know my childhood friends can’t be my only friends.”

  I jump as a loud clap of thunder seems to shake the earth.

  “Okay, Mama. I’m freezing and if I don’t get back soon, Barbara’s going to send those rescue dogs with the alcohol barrel around their necks to come after me. I’m sorry I couldn’t make this a better party for you, but I’ll come again soon. Remember I love and miss you.”

  I blow a kiss her way, grab the bags I came with, and stand up. My legs are all cramped up from being crouched down. I walk stiffly back to the car. Once again Barbara opens the sliding door for me.

  “Here, take off your wet clothes and set them on the floor,” she says.

  The car is all steamed up from the heater and the humidity. Barbara hands me a sweatshirt that goes down to almost my knees. Then turning around in her seat, which can’t be easy considering she’s well over six feet and over two hundred pounds, she wraps the picnic blanket that lives in her van around my shoulders. It drapes down to my ankles. Dry grass and other debris scratch my legs, but I tell myself it’s part of the insulation.

  I squeeze up to the front seat.

  “Better?” she asks as she fastens the seat belt for me.

  I pull the blanket around tighter. “Yeah, thanks a lot.”

  “Should I drive by and get us some hot chocolates to go?” she asks as she starts the van.

  “Yes please, that’ll be great.” I shift a bit so the seat belt isn’t holding me prisoner. “And thanks for driving me to see Mama. I couldn’t not see her.”

  “I know how important she is to you.”

  “You’re important to me too,” I say to Barbara before I realize what I said. I look down, pick bits from the blanket, but still I know that Barbara glances at me for as long as possible while driving. At the traffic light, she shifts the minivan into park and leans over to kiss my forehead.

  “As far as I’m concerned, you’re as much my daughter as Angela is. I’ve raised you.”

  She’s right, though I’ve never wanted to think about it. While Mama gave birth to me, Barbara has been my real mom. As much as I wrote to Mama for comfort, Barbara was the one who always came to my rescue. She was the one who really was there for me when I needed her. She was the one who held my hand the first time I was getting a cavity filled. She was the one who picked me up from school in fourth grade because I had stained my pants. She was the one who answered honestly when I asked what it’s like to have sex (at least I hope she was being honest). There are so many awful people Daddy could have married; it’s good he found Barbara. All these years I’ve been missing a mama without realizing that I at least had a mom.

  What I told Mama about needing to have more close friends than just Tara and Whitney Blaire suddenly hits home.

  Just because I had a mama, it didn’t mean that I couldn’t also have a mom. I remember what Daddy said about having to move on. Maybe he’s right.

  A few hours later, after we had gotten home and I had taken a long hot bath, I get started on my homework. I come across a problem that is giving me some trouble, so I pick up the phone. It rings two and a half times before he picks it up.

  “Hi, David,” I say. “It’s me, Adriana. Adriana D. Ricci.”

  Tara

  I’M UP HALF THE NIGHT, EVEN THOUGH I WENT TO BED early. Half of it is nerves and the other half is adrenaline. And then there’s my mind traveling at light speed thinking about everything that has happened in the last couple of months. By the time five o’clock rolls around, I’m glad just for an excuse to finally get out of bed and stop thinking.

  Last night I tried one last time to get through to Whitney Blaire. I called her up to remind her about the marathon and let her know that I would like it if she was there, even if it was just for the end. I just hope she doesn’t delete the message without listening to it first.

  I also left a similar message on Pinkie’s phone inviting her to the race. I begged her to see if she could get Whitney Blaire to join her, and then told her I’d drop off a copy of the map first thing in the morning so she wouldn’t get lost. If she decides to come.

  For breakfast I have almond butter on multi-seed bread with a glass of grapefruit juice. I look over my shoes to make sure they’re still fit and sound for twenty-six miles. Before slipping them on, I take the half twenty-dollar bill and place it in the bottom of one of the shoes for good luck.

  We leave at seven: Mom, Riley, and me. Sherman gives us a sad look when we don’t include him. The drive takes us about an hour. I eat a banana along the way and drink some water. The roads are still open, but already the traffic is building up. After parking, we head over to registration. By nine I’m all ready and still have an hour to wait. At nine thirty they start lining us up. All eight and a half thousand of us.

  We’re divided into two groups: the elite athletes (or rather the ones who expect to finish) and those who are running (or walking) for the fun of it. Most people are wearing T-shirts with the charity they’re running for on them. I don’t see anyone with my shirt, but then again they’re only a small local organization that gives support to single moms. Some people are wearing homemade
T-shirts with funny slogans, or Halloween costumes. Among the distinguishable ones, I’ve seen Spider-Mans (one might have been Spider-Woman, but I’m not sure), Supermans, Power Rangers in every color possible, Dracula, Cinderella, Elvis, a male cow, and two people within the same chicken costume.

  I decide my goal, other than running the twenty-six miles in about four hours, is not to let the two-headed chicken beat me.

  At ten o’clock the whistle blows. Thousands of people take off. A few pace setters break into the front, following the car that is leading the way. I think of dog racing where the greyhounds chase after a mechanical rabbit.

  I want to break free from the pack. Even though I started in the elite group, there’s still this horrible mob for the first few miles. I know my pace and if I increase my speed so early in the race, I don’t know if I can finish it. I grin and bear it, even though it’s very claustrophobic. I inch my way to the edge of the road and at least it’s a bit better there.

  By around the fifth mile, people are slowing down. The Pink Panther is on his back and Mighty Mouse is sitting on the sidelines. Me, I’m just warming up. I squirt some water into my mouth and lengthen my stride just a bit as the road becomes clearer.

  I pause to top off my water at the nine-mile checkpoint. I pour in a packet of Emergen-C. It’s still fizzing when I drink some. Not too much. Just a sip. Any more will only cause a stitch in my side. I’m back on the course in less than a minute.

  By mile marker seventeen, I’m starting to feel tired. I stop in the Porta-Potties. I don’t have to go, but this way it doesn’t feel like I’m taking a real break. I see someone in costume up ahead. I open a Clif Bar and nibble on it while I keep running.

  At mile twenty-two, I’m certain I can’t go any farther. My lungs feel hollow and my heart can’t beat fast enough to make up for the exertion. My legs feel like they will fall right off. Even my arms are sore. I look down at my shirt. I wonder if the sponsorship I collected is conditional on finishing the race. I can’t let them down, but I don’t know how I can finish. I’m running alone now, though I can see other runners not too far ahead. I think about waiting for a group to come by just to join them, so we can motivate one another. My stride shortens a bit.

  But then I hear the crowd cheering and clapping. There’s no one for yards around. They’re cheering at me. I notice a tall girl in high heels and a miniskirt.

  “C’mon, blondie!” she screams. “Show us that girl power. Don’t give up now. You can do it!”

  I give her a quick thumbs-up and she cheers more. My legs extend a bit longer. More and more people I don’t know call out to keep going. They clap and cheer and wave banners that say GO FOR IT! and MAKE US PROUD! and YOU ROCK! as I pass. All these people say I can do it and I start believing them. I don’t know how, but I will do it. I can’t let them down. However long it takes me doesn’t matter. I’m not competing with others. I’m just competing against myself. Just as long as I do it, I win.

  The boost from the crowd keeps me going like a steady hum. By the time I hit the twenty-fourth marker, I’m on autopilot. I can’t feel my legs, my heart feels like it’s beaten out of my chest, my lungs burn, and yet it seems like something is just keeping my body moving without me having to do anything other than go along for the ride.

  At twenty-five, it’s insane. I find this burst of energy I must have hidden in some unknown part of myself. I increase my speed and the crowd goes wild. People are screaming things like 1000, 900, 800. When they get to 700, I figure out they’re screaming the yards. Yards! No more miles, I’m on the homestretch. I hear 400 up ahead. I pass that point. The crowd is so loud now that I can’t hear what anyone is saying. I just hear the noise that seems to say, Go! Go! Go! I see the posts at the finish. A big clock marks the time. I’m there, five more seconds, and I did it. The screen flashes 3:54:18 as I run by.

  I am more tired than I’ve ever been in my whole life, yet knowing that I actually did it gives me enough adrenaline to cool down appropriately: walking, stretching, and drinking sips. Someone comes to collect my time chip and someone else hands me a bottle of Gatorade. Race stewards wave to move on and clear the area. A couple of paramedics carry a runner to the first-aid tent. I take this all in as I look around for Mom and Riley. We said we’d meet by the green massage-therapy tent, but we didn’t think of the thousands of people lurking about. I make my way around the tent, careful not to leave any body part behind.

  I see Riley’s hair flying behind her before I see her running to me. I lift her off the ground and spin her around, even though I can barely hold myself up. We kiss quickly and then I let go to hug Mom, who looks like she’s going to cry. A couple instructors I know from the gym come over and give me a pat on the back. All around people I don’t know cheer and congratulate me. Someone reminds me to pick up a marathon T-shirt and a souvenir water bottle. The crowd gets thicker as more people finish the race and more and more spectators come to congratulate us.

  I almost don’t see her, but standing to one side is Pinkie. Even though I just ran 26.2 miles in four hours, I jog over to her side. She looks nervous and out of place. I take her in a big hug and am glad that she hugs me back. She breaks away quickly, but I’m happy enough with something that resembles the old Pinkie.

  “You were fantastic. I could never do that,” she says.

  “Thanks, but you do so many things I could never do,” I answer back.

  She blushes and looks down. Her phone beeps and she quickly checks it. I look back at the rest of the people there supporting me. It’s good to see them all here.

  “Tara.” Pinkie holds out her phone. “Here, I’ll replay it for you.”

  I take the phone and listen to the message. It’s from Whitney Blaire. “Pink, what’s all this Adriana shit? No, David, I don’t think it suits her, she’ll always be Pink to us. Anyway, tell Tara we saw her on TV. Tell her…tell her she did real good. And…yeah. Okay, David’s here waiting for me. Catch ya later.”

  I flip the phone closed and hand it back to Pinkie. As unlike me as it is, I give her another hug. This time she doesn’t break away. I squeeze her hard and then let go. “Thanks for being the glue that keeps us together. I’m really lucky to have you as one of my best friends.”

  We walk back to my friends and family who came to watch me run. Although I hadn’t noticed it while running, I’m suddenly conscious of the half twenty in my shoe. Everyone that matters is here in some form or another, or at least saw me on television, which is just as good.

  More people congratulate me, patting me on the back or shaking my hand. Two little girls ask for my autograph. I smile and tell them to keep it safe in case it’s worth something later on. I drink some more water and pour a bit over my head. Pinkie says something about catching pneumonia. I smile but ignore her just the same. Mom hands me another Clif Bar and some orange juice. I down them quickly, realizing how starving I am. Someone from the gym suggests we go for some food. My stomach rumbles as I think about chicken with brown rice and steamed veggies. Or a bacon cheeseburger. But with organic meat on a whole wheat bun. Yeah. And chocolate cake. Dark, fair-trade chocolate.

  My stomach moves my legs toward the car. Riley puts her arm around my waist, and Pinkie doesn’t look away.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A big, heart-filled thanks to Sarah for seeing what this could become, and to Elizabeth and everyone at Egmont for making it become what it is.

  Thanks to Heather for tips on training and running a marathon, and to Bianca for gymnastics tidbits.

  Special thanks to my friends and tutors at Bath Spa who helped greatly at its early stages. Had they not been there, the story would be very different.

  And big hugs to my family and friends, particularly the Noonans, Waldens, and Lovett-Marianos, who feel like both. Without everyone’s love and support in past years, I wouldn’t have gotten this far.

  ALEXANDRA DIAZ grew up in a bilingual Spanish/English-speaking family, where she started creating stories before she
could write, and didn’t stop once she could. She’s lived in Puerto Rico, Austria, the United States, and Great Britain. Of All the Stupid Things is her first novel.

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  Tara

  Whitney Blaire

  Pinkie

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  About the Author