Of All the Stupid Things Read online

“David just sent a text wondering where we are,” she says, but I know that’s not why she’s grinning. Nonetheless, I check the phone still in my hand and sure enough I also have a message from him.

  Unable to hold the suspense any longer, Whitney Blaire finally lets me in on her plot. “I figured since Tara’s okay and, knowing her, probably wants to be alone anyway, and since we’re already here…well, I told David we’re checking out a roller coaster!”

  My stomach turns just thinking about it, but Whitney Blaire is already out of the car and walking across the parking lot. I can’t just leave her here. I don’t know where we are.

  I let out a third sigh. “Fine.”

  Tara

  I HIT THE WALL A COUPLE BLOCKS FROM HOME. I HAVE to walk the rest of the way. Or more like drag my corpse. I can barely see. My head is light from dehydration. My thighs burn. My lungs ache against my sides. I don’t know how far I ran. Ten, maybe twelve miles, in addition to the six earlier. I took the back roads by the railroad tracks that I don’t know very well; it kept my mind focused on where I was running instead of why.

  Last time I ran so hard was when Dad left five and a half years ago. But even that was completely different from now; I had been running after him.

  Our mutt Sherman bursts out of the house. I go in but leave the door open for him. The phone is ringing. Automatically, I pick it up. It’s Pinkie. She says that Brent didn’t do it after all and then asks fifty times if I’m okay. I say yes I am, and no, I don’t want her and Whitney Blaire to come over. I finally tell her I need to get some rest. Then I promise her something before hanging up.

  I concentrate hard on getting myself back into form, stretching and drinking small sips of water. Taking deep breaths. Trying to get back in control.

  Mix-up or not, the thought is still in my head. What if Brent cheated on me? With a guy.

  Sherman comes over and whimpers. I place a hand on his head and crouch down. He licks my face. My breathing is returning to normal. My heart has decided not to give up. But there’s a stitch near my appendix that still hasn’t gone away. I rub it with one hand. I stop drinking but continue petting Sherman.

  Part of me wishes I were still running. Then I wouldn’t need to think. But I can’t move my legs, so the thoughts pour in: Brent with Sanchez. Sanchez with Brent. Not true, I remind myself. Not true. But I need to know for sure.

  That’s why I answer Brent’s soft knock on the door at five thirty the next morning. I need to hear it directly from him before I can believe it isn’t true.

  “Hey,” Brent says. He leans over for a kiss but I duck away and break into a run. My body is still recovering from yesterday’s exertion. I set the pace somewhere between slow and moderate. Brent is at my side in moments. Silently, we run the first couple of miles. As we get to the park, I slow down automatically. Brent and I always take a break in the park. But today we’re not going to spend the time with our hands all over each other.

  Not that Brent doesn’t try. He places a hand on my waist once we stop. I push it away. He tries to hold my hand and I move out of his grasp.

  “Baby, talk to me,” he says. “What’s bugging you?”

  I sit down. The grass is wet with dew, but I don’t care. I pull up handfuls and heap the blades in a pile. When I speak, I cringe at the name. “Chris Sanchez.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Brent kneels down and tries again to take my hand. Again I pull it away. Brent’s lips press together.

  I run my fingers through the grass. Deep breath. “Did you screw him?”

  “What?” Brent chokes. He gets back on his feet and paces as his breaths come out in gasps. “How—what—who told you this?”

  I look away. “Just something I heard around.”

  He swears under his breath. I watch him continue pacing, his hands on his head holding his hair.

  I press against the ground and control my breathing. “So, is it true?”

  He stops and looks at me sitting on the grass. I watch his face. For a split second it looks angry, but then I realize it’s probably more shock and hurt. “No, baby, no. Course not.”

  I take a deep breath. And another. I keep quiet as I breathe. I want to believe him. I want to trust him. He’s never given me a reason not to trust him. But the images are running around my head. Brent smiling at Sanchez. His hands on Sanchez. His lips…Brent with Sanchez; Sanchez with Brent.

  I want them to stop. They have to stop. But every time I look at Brent, they come back. Uninvited. I have to move; it’s the only thing that keeps the images at bay. The only way to stay in control.

  Before I can sprint off, Brent wraps me in his arms.

  I push him away. “Don’t touch me.”

  He holds tighter.

  I jerk to break free. “I mean it, let me go.”

  Brent sighs and drops his arms.

  Brushing my hands against my arms, I try to wipe away Brent’s touch. The images of his hands on Sanchez haven’t stopped. I pace. Back and forth. I hold my head. Any minute now the images are going to take over and I’m going to lose control. I can’t let that happen. Focus. But I can’t.

  “I can’t,” I gasp.

  Brent leans closer. “Can’t what?”

  “I can’t be with you.” The words almost choke me as they come out. I don’t believe I’m saying it. He’s my first real boyfriend and has been everything I’ve needed. He’s supported me in so many ways. But now…I keep pacing.

  His eyes widen and his mouth drops. “Are you breaking up with me?”

  I inhale deeply and exhale slowly, squeezing my diaphragm to release the last bit of air. Then I take a normal breath. “Yes.”

  He blinks. If I had kicked him in the balls, he couldn’t have looked more hurt. Or surprised. I turn away. I pick up my water bottle from the grass and squeeze it like I did yesterday. Squeeze, release. Squeeze, release.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder. It sends a shiver down my spine. But I can’t tell if it’s a good shiver or bad shiver. And even if it’s a good shiver, I don’t know what that means.

  “You can’t be serious. I love you,” he says.

  I make the mistake of looking at him. There’s a sad puppy-dog look in his green eyes. He shallows and sniffs. “Tara, please.”

  That does it more than the three words he had said before, even more than the tortured look on his face. Brent never calls me by my name.

  The images of him and Sanchez fade a bit. But only a bit.

  I lick my lips. “I need some space. A little bit of space. Away from you, away from…this.”

  He sighs and then kisses me lightly on the lips. I don’t respond, but I don’t wipe my mouth clean either. “Okay, if that’s what it takes for you to trust me. And once you do, it’s you and me again?”

  “It’s getting late. We have to go.”

  He squeezes my hand before we start running again. Slowly first, and then as the images clear I pick up the pace. I know he thinks I didn’t really mean what I said. But I do. I need these thoughts out of my head. And until they are, I can’t be with him. As much as I might want to be.

  Then comes the little voice inside my head. It asks why I didn’t just finish things off completely if there’s doubt about Brent’s honesty. Because I love him, I tell the voice. Oh right, says the voice, and it shuts up and goes away.

  Whitney Blaire

  DAVID’S WAITING FOR ME BY THE SWING SET JUST LIKE I asked him to. And he’s holding the history notes that I missed from yesterday. He’s such a good boy.

  “Aw, thanks.” I give him a quick hug. “You’re such a sweetie. I’d be totally lost without these.”

  David looks down while I rustle his blond bowl cut. He shifts from one foot to the other and kicks some gravel. He’s blushing like he’s ten, it’s so cute.

  “It’s nothing, really,” he says.

  I shove the notes in my purse and spot a magazine. “Hey, check this out. There’s this article in here that talks about the ten most
important traits to have in the perfect guy. I got it for Tara, so hopefully she won’t end things with Brent.”

  I feel kind of bad about yesterday. I acted too quickly. I shouldn’t have rushed to Tara with the news. Not when it was so obviously not true, not possible, not even likely. But at the time I thought she had the right to know if she was being two-timed. I figured it was better to hear it from me than through the grapevine. That’s what real friends do.

  David grumbles. “What’s Tara see in him anyway?”

  “Oh, come on.” I glare at David. “Brent’s the hottest guy outside Hollywood. Any girl at school would give her right arm to be seen with him.”

  “Then why haven’t you gone for him?”

  I give him a shocked look. “A girl never goes for a friend’s guy. Never ever. That’s the ultimate betrayal.”

  He crosses his arms but keeps staring at the ground. “But you basically said you wanted him.”

  “David,” I try to explain things to him. “There’s nothing wrong with looking at something you’re not going to buy.”

  David snorts. “Yeah, but what’s going to keep you from trying it on for size?”

  I don’t need to defend myself. He’s a guy. He doesn’t know anything about shopping. Or guys. Instead, I squint at him and tilt my head. “Are you jealous?”

  “No,” he says too quickly. “I just think you girls should know better than to go for guys like Brent. He just uses girls to get laid.”

  I wave David away. He is jealous. And intimidated that Brent could have any girl he wants. Not that David should be. I missed my chance with Brent. Or rather he never offered me a chance. And now, because of his history with Tara, if he did ask, I would have to turn him down. Which, thinking about it, really wouldn’t be too bad. Because that would mean I’d be the one girl he’d want but couldn’t have.

  I fantasize about that while David picks a handful of pebbles and as if he’s on a lake; he starts skipping them across the playground.

  It’s a few minutes before he speaks. “So, let’s hear it.”

  “Hear what?” I was just getting to the part in my fantasy where Brent was sending me flowers and begging me to give him a chance. David is still focusing on throwing stones but his back is a bit hunched over.

  “The ten things you need for a perfect guy.”

  I grin. That’s why I mentioned it in the first place. David will never be anything more than a friend, but there’s no harm in letting him know how he ranks.

  Sitting down on the merry-go-round, I start off. “‘Rule one: Be sensitive and supportive of a woman’s needs.’”

  David stops for a second and turns around. “I always give you a hug when I see you, and I brought you those history notes.”

  I roll my eyes. Boys. “History notes are not exactly what I have in mind, but I guess it’s a start. ‘Rule two: Don’t be afraid to ask her what she wants.’”

  “Do you want the history notes?”

  I give him a confused look. “Yeah?”

  He smiles, straightens up, and skips another rock. “Great. So let’s move on to rule three.”

  Stupid, I walked right into that one, but I’ll get him back. I stretch out on the merry-go-round. I don’t have to peek to know I’m showing off some good cleavage. I scoot up just a bit. “Ha, now here you’re slacking. Pink would love this rule: ‘Always return a woman’s phone, e-mail, or text messages.’”

  David’s eyes shift down and then up again. “Slacking? When was the last time I didn’t get back to you?”

  I have him now. “I send you e-mails all the time.”

  “Forwards that say ‘you must send this to twenty people in five minutes or face a horrible death’ are not e-mails.”

  “Well, you could at least send me a note to let me know you got them. Or send me forwards once in a while,” I point out.

  David does nothing to help his looks by making a gross face. “You like getting all that trash?”

  “Of course. And it’s not all junk. Some of those forwards are really funny and interesting. Don’t you read them? And it’s great opening my mail and seeing loads of new messages. That way I know people are at least thinking of me.”

  David drops the rocks left in his hand to look at me all serious. “I don’t need forwards to think about you. But if it takes a stupid forward to know you’re thinking of me, then send me all you want.”

  I laugh. I guess I shouldn’t tell him that I don’t know half the people in my address book; that I just plug them all in when I send forwards.

  “All right, I’ll let you off that one too,” I say with mock annoyance. “After all, you do reply when you need to. ‘Rule four: Make sure to get along with the woman’s parents and friends.’”

  David thinks about this one for a second. “You know, I can’t remember the last time I saw your mom. And have I even met your dad? Seriously, other than being years older than most parents, I can’t remember what they look like.”

  “Lucky you,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I say quickly. “Parents aren’t important. You know and like my friends. I mean, Pink’s practically your sister, so you’ve got that rule covered.”

  “Cool. What’s next?”

  I read out the remaining questions and we conclude that he scores eight out of ten. Well, he says he got a perfect score since the two he missed don’t apply—they were about being good in bed. I stay firm on giving him an eight out of ten score. David then says the typical guy thing. “So, let’s see if I can win those extra two points.”

  I flick my hair over my shoulders. “In your dreams.”

  David shrugs. “Why not? I mean, you’re not seeing anyone and I got everything else right. Aren’t these all the things you want in a perfect guy?”

  “Sure, but he also has to be good looking with lots of money,” I answer quickly.

  “Ah, money,” David pats his pockets. “I’ll have to work on that one. But for now, you want to grab an ice cream before we start our homework?”

  I stuff the magazine in my bag. It wasn’t a very good article after all. It forgot to list rule eleven: always offer to take a woman out for a treat. Even though David says he doesn’t have much, he never seems to mind spending what he has.

  Now if only he could look a bit more like Brent.

  Pinkie

  I GET TO THE CLASSROOM EARLY. A FEW TIMES A month, the school’s Honor Society gets together. Sometimes we discuss important things like what colleges want to see on applications and developing good study habits. But we also attend lectures and volunteer in the community. Once a year we have dinner with the mayor, and at the end of the year, if there is still money left in the budget, we have a field trip to the city and go to a couple museums. It’s lots of fun. Really.

  I start rearranging the desks so that we’re in a circle. That’s how Nash likes them. He likes everyone to be able to see everyone else. Nash is really smart that way. Well, he’s brilliant in all ways. He knows everything about everything, speaks something like five languages (his voice-mail message is always in a combination of English and some other language), and can do advanced math in his head. Rumor has it that he deferred from Harvard until he has saved up enough money to go. That’s why he’s here, being our advisor, while the rest of the time he bartends at this really expensive restaurant Whitney Blaire’s parents go to. He’s amazing.

  “Hey Pinkie, thanks for setting things up.” Nash comes in and gives me a big hug. I beam and hug him back. The world would be much better if more people hugged.

  “We’ve got some interesting stuff to go over,” he continues as he sets down his things. “I hope we have a good turnout.”

  “I talked with a few girls and they’re way excited about coming,” I tell him, and then instantly wish I had kept my mouth shut. Do I always sound so stupid? Quick, say something clever and funny and mind-blowing. “Did you know that rats get turned on by marijuana, while small doses of radiation do it for
earthworms?”

  Nash laughs and I blush even more. Where did that come from? Stupid, stupid Pinkie. I might as well tape my mouth shut for all the good it does for me. I fuss with the desks as people start to arrive. Nash hugs the girls and gives the guys a half-hug pat on the back. One boy, Andre, comes in with a black eye. Nash tries to hug him properly, but Andre pushes him away, saying he’s fine and that it was just a stupid soccer injury. Nash sighs and then sits on top of one of the desks.

  “All right, let’s get started.”

  I already have paper and a pen out to start scribbling away. Once in a while I sneak glances up at Nash. Whitney Blaire says he’s funny looking, Tara thinks there’s nothing special about him, and okay, I admit it, he’s not a heartthrob. He’s got this messy, dark brown hair like he just rolled out of bed, and a big nose that looks out of place in his narrow face. But he wears these tortoiseshell glasses that make him look really cute in a geeky kind of way, and his brown eyes are always shining from behind the glasses. His cheeks have a perpetual five-o’clock shadow. As he talks to us, I wonder if his face feels prickly or smooth. It looks smooth.

  He catches me looking at him and one of his eyes closes. I look away quickly. I can feel my face turning red. Was that a twitch or a wink? It had to be a twitch because he’s not allowed to wink at students. I know there’s some regulation against that. But on the other hand, he’s only an advisor to an after-school group; it’s not like he’s a teacher. And he’s only twenty-one, he’s practically one of us. But still, it was probably only a twitch.

  I look up at him. He’s smiling at me. No, he’s smiling at everyone. I must have imagined the wink. Wait, now he’s definitely smiling at me. Maybe he knows I like him and finds it amusing. Oh great, he must think I’m some kind of silly teenybopper little girl. I must pretend that I’m cool and indifferent. No, forget that, or I’ll say something worse than horny earthworms.

  He passes around some leaflets about the most common mistakes done on personal essays and his hand clearly brushes mine. I look up at him and see it again. A wink. Even I can’t tell myself it was just a twitch this time. But what does it mean? I look around at the others in the group. David is twirling a pencil across his knuckles like he’s bored. Some others are doodling or sending text messages. No one noticed Nash winking.