Of All the Stupid Things Page 4

  Whitney Blaire

  I’VE FINISHED MY SALAD AND AM NOW HELPING MYSELF to the last of David’s fries. It’s the ultimate skinny rule: as long as you don’t order the food yourself, the calories don’t count. Besides, the iceberg and fries cancel each other out like positive and negative numbers so it’s like I’m practically eating nothing.

  “So then…” I pause for effect but David isn’t paying attention to me. Instead, he has this little goofy smile on his face and is half blushing. He smiles like that at me sometimes, and it’s really cute, but it’s not me he’s smiling at now. I turn my head around to see what’s making him gawk.

  There’s a girl I’ve never seen ordering food. And it’s not just David; every guy in the place has gone gaga checking her out. Don’t ask me why. For one thing she’s ugly as all hell. Her black hair looks like some kind of moth-eaten Halloween wig. As for her clothes, all I can say is that there’s a difference between being a size 1 and squeezing into it. And the worst is that she’s just a kid. She’s some little kid that went crazy with her mother’s makeup and stole an older sister’s bra to stuff with tube socks.

  “Damn,” David whispers.

  “Who’s that?” I demand.

  David shrugs, his eyes still on the kid. “A tourist?”

  “No tourists would come to this town.”

  “Maybe she’s visiting someone. She can come visit me anytime.”

  I hit him on the back of the head.

  “What?” He turns away from the kid and stares at me.

  “David, she’s like ten years old. That’s gross. Besides, you shouldn’t stare.” I shove down two more fries. I don’t care if me and David are never going to date in a million years. It’s totally wrong for him to act like a guppy.

  David returns to what’s left of his fries. “I just wanted to see what everyone else was looking at. Besides, no way that girl’s ten.”

  I look at her again. I know that if I was standing, she wouldn’t be much higher than my shoulders. And that’s without my heels. With heels, she wouldn’t reach my chest. No, David’s right. She’s not ten. More like eight.

  The girl walks by us with her takeout bag. By the smug look on her face, I can tell she thinks she’s the shit and loves the fact that everyone is staring at her. She flicks her hair and swishes her hips. It’s like she’s daring someone to try and steal her attention. When she passes by us, she turns up her nose.

  I turn my head around to look at her over my other shoulder. In the second it takes to change directions, a big figure blocks the light coming in from the door.

  I recognize Brent, the Abercrombie lookalike, right away. Of course everyone else looks at him too. According to Tara, they’re taking a break, which I kind of feel like it’s my fault since I told her about that stupid thing, but maybe she has others reasons. But until she says she’s done with him for good, he’s not up for grabs. Of course the eight-year-old doesn’t let that stop her.

  “Excuse me.” She places a hand on his arm. It looks like she’s moving him out of her way. It also looks like a sneaky way to feel up his arm.

  Brent steps slightly to the side and gives her the once-over. “Hi. You need help carrying that?” He gestures to her takeout bag as if it were heavy.

  “No, that’s okay.” The girl smiles up at him.

  “You look really familiar.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Do I know you from school? Or maybe I’ve seen you on TV?”

  She laughs and sticks out a hip. Her belly ring flashes as it catches the sun. “Not on something you’d want to watch,” she says.

  Still, he raises his eyebrows and winks. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  I push down the stupid plastic salad lid. It doesn’t close. I keep trying, but it just makes a lot of noise. Not enough noise, though. Brent carries on, “So, what’s your name?”

  “Riley.”

  Brent smiles. “I like that. Riley. I’m Brent, by the way.”

  I have to do something. She’s all over Brent and I’m not going to let some little kid steal my best friend’s boyfriend.

  “Brent, hi!” I call out. Leaping from my chair, I rush to hug him. I link my arm through his and hope he doesn’t pull away. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  I glimpse the little girl trying to duck out. And then, I honestly don’t know what happened next. Seriously, I just stretched out my leg when all of the sudden, the girl is sprawled out on the floor. Her bag breaks and then there’s baked potato and orange juice all over the place. (Who goes to a burger joint for a baked potato and orange juice anyway?)

  I look down at her as if I’m noticing her for the first time. “Oh, what happened? Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” she snaps. What a bitch.

  “Oh, man.” Brent holds out a hand. “Here, let me help.”

  “I said I’m fine.” She looks from me to Brent and gets up on her own.

  “Brent, be a dear and get us some napkins.” I smile sweetly at him. The second he leaves, I glare back at the girl. “He’s taken, so don’t even think of stealing him away. Or I will hurt you.”

  The look the girl gives me is cold, but I don’t shiver. “You? Hurt me? With those fake nails?”

  I’m about to say the ultimate comeback: something cool, something smart. Something any second now. But David gets between us and starts dragging me away. “Whitney, we got to go, because that sale my sister was telling us about at the mall, it’s going to end in like five minutes.”

  I try to break away, but David leads me out of the burger joint. I turn around and see that Riley kid come out the door, alone. Good. Maybe she got the hint.

  A few blocks down, and out of sight of the burger joint, I finally shake off David’s hand.

  “A sale at the mall? How superficial can you make me look?” I place my hands on my hips. Okay, so yes, I do shop at any store that has a sale, but did he have to go and broadcast it to the whole world?

  “C’mon, I had to get you out of there. That girl would’ve clobbered you.”

  “She’s a shrimp.”

  “She’s a fit shrimp. Did you see her shoulders and that sixpack?”

  Her ugly belly piercing, not to mention the fact that she was practically jumping Brent’s bones, kept me from looking at her body. But it doesn’t help my mood that David had noticed it.

  David is still going. “I mean, that girl was something. Like a small, dark Tara, but with curves—”

  “Shut up.”

  “—no wonder he was after her,” David finishes.

  “I said shut up!” I hiss under my breath. “Such a bitch.”

  David doesn’t say anything for a while. He keeps his hands shoved in his pockets as he kicks a pebble down the sidewalk. We walk a bit more before David finally says something. “Do you want to go home?”

  “No,” I answer quickly.

  Silence again.

  David makes a sound in his throat. “You know, I think Sophie did mention something about a seventy-five-percent-off summer clearance.”

  I lick my lips and turn to look at him. “Which store was this?”

  When I get home with my bags, the entire house is spotless as usual. Mother has Carmen come about twice a week to clean, whether the house needs it or not. It never does; nobody’s ever home to dirty it. Sometimes I want to spit on the counter, just to make a mess. But then Carmen would make me clean it up. And cleaning is one thing you can’t pay me to do. Besides, it’s hard to tell when someone will be home. There’s no point in making a mess to make a statement if no one’s around to notice the statement, or the mess. My parents usually aren’t home, but sometimes I get surprised.

  I’m not surprised today, though. My voice echoes through the house when I call out. When they’re in, Father reminds me not to shout and Mother goes on about the effectiveness of a calm tone and how I should use the intercom instead. I don’t have to look on the kitchen counter to know that Mother has left a twenty. She used to leave a note as well, saying that she
and Father were working late and that I should order a pizza. In those notes she would even mention what time they’d be back and where I could reach them in case of an emergency. Nowadays, especially if they’re just working late, she doesn’t usually bother with a note. She just leaves the cash.

  I grab the money and make my way through the house. I pass the lounge and Father’s study as I head up the stairs. I know without trying the door that it is locked. Father’s study is only ever unlocked when he’s actually in it, but even then I have to knock before entering. At the top of the stairs to the right is my parents’ room. That room isn’t locked, but I don’t usually bother going in there.

  On the wall between Mother’s study and one of the guest bedrooms are the family photos. Not the kind at Pink’s house taken yearly at Sears with everyone looking happy because they’re all wearing matching snowman sweaters. The photos on our wall show our successes: Father after he won a multimillion-dollar case; Mother receiving the Citizens’ Choice award for the area’s favorite therapist; both of them with the vice president. The one of me was taken when I was three and crowned Little Miss Tiny Tot.

  Farther along is another guest bedroom, a bathroom, my former playroom—which has been converted to my study, though I never use it for that—and then finally my bedroom with its own bathroom. My room has always been the farthest away from my parents’. Which means it’s the best room in the house.

  I dump the bags on the floor and put the twenty in the leather wallet I keep between my sweaters on the top shelf of my closet. I can barely reach it so I know Carmen definitely can’t, though I don’t think she would. No one else comes into my room, so I know it’s safe. Then I call Pink to see if I can come over for dinner.

  Pinkie

  NASH HASN’T CALLED. I WONDER WHETHER HE LOST my number. I wonder if he ever had it. The whole group exchanged numbers at the beginning of the year, but he might not remember the list. I’ve called him a couple times before when I’ve needed his help with some trig problems. Always left a message. But he’s never called back. Probably because he was at work and figured I had solved the problem by the time he got the message. Which I had, but it still would have been nice if he had called back. But then again, how could he if he didn’t have my number?

  I give him until four o’clock on Saturday and then call him up.

  “Hi Nash, this is Pinkie, Pinkie D. Ricci. I thought we were doing something this weekend and since I haven’t heard from you, I was just making sure everything is all right. Can you give me a call? Maybe we can do something tonight or tomorrow, that is if you’re free and if you’re interested. So yeah, let me know if you’re all right and I hope to see you soon. Here’s my number.”

  I hang up and instantly think I’ve given him the wrong number. Should I call him again and make sure? No, that probably falls under the category of stalker. But on the other hand, what if I really did give him the wrong number? What if he’s trying to call back now and can’t get me? The missed-calls menu on his phone could be broken.

  I pick up the phone and press the button that calls back the last number. “Nash, hi. It’s Pinkie D. Ricci again and I’m sorry, I don’t know if I gave you the right number. It’s…” I say it slowly to make sure I don’t mess it up. And then for good measure, I leave it one more time.

  Tara

  WHENEVER I SEE BRENT IN THE HALLWAYS, HE SMILES and raises his eyebrows. Sometimes I smile back. But I make sure he keeps his distance. I don’t want him to touch me. I can’t let him. Sometimes we chat, usually about sports and training. We don’t mention what he says didn’t happen last week.

  I need to focus on my training. The marathon is only eight weeks away. With my inconsistent times, I need to get back in form. Just because there are rocks on the trail, I can’t let them trip me up.

  I am only doing four miles today. Marathon training is varied. There are days for short sprints and there are days for going the distance. Sometimes the race course involves going up and down hills. Sometimes the weather on the race day isn’t ideal. These are the things I need to work on: running under any condition.

  Four miles go by before I realize it. When I read the numbers on the stopwatch, I grin. That’s the way to do it. Seven seconds better than last week’s four miles at a moderate speed. Welcome back.

  Mom drops me off at school on her way to work. Pinkie’s been giving me rides again this last week or so, but her car’s in the shop and the alternative is going in Barbara’s minivan along with five ten-year-olds. I know Whitney Blaire is getting a taxi; she’d rather spend the money than go in the minivan, or worse yet, get her parents to drop her off.

  I wave to my mom and head for the doors. Brent is chatting with his teammates on the wall. He jumps down when I pass by. Before I can duck, he kisses me on the cheek.

  “Brent,” I warn, but he doesn’t pay attention.

  “Hey, we’re rounding up the guys for some ultimate during lunch. You want in?”

  I do. I’m always up for an impromptu game. But playing Frisbee with Brent brings back too many memories of other times we’ve played: our awareness of the other’s presence, our ability to predict the other’s next move, the natural teamwork connection that’s stronger than what Brent has with his soccer team. And then there were the little special moments of hidden smiles and secret gropes that the others didn’t see. I don’t trust him to keep his hands to himself. I’m not sure if I trust myself either.

  “I’m meeting the girls for lunch.”

  Brent frowns just as the bell rings. “Too bad. Maybe next time.” He picks up his bag and slaps me on the butt before walking off.

  I take a deep breath and let out the air slowly. I join the crowd as I head to Spanish class. I’ve been watching him since that day Whitney Blaire told me the rumor. Watching how he acts with the girls, and the guys. I don’t notice anything more than his normal friendliness. I’ve even seen him chatting with Sanchez and there’s nothing to imply an attraction. Not from Brent, at least. Sanchez, on the other hand, makes it very obvious that he wants something. But that’s how Sanchez acts with everyone. It bothers a lot of the guys (and me too), but Brent just ignores that bit and treats him like he treats everyone else. At least, he doesn’t encourage Sanchez. I want to think that just means Brent is confident in himself—that he’s simply not threatened by a gay man—but I’m still not entirely sure. And until I am, I have to keep things neutral with Brent. Be strong, Tara, I tell myself. Just give yourself some time.

  I settle down in my seat in the middle of the classroom. Pinkie is already sitting in the front with her reading glasses on. She gives me a half wave and then gets back to the textbook in front of her. We’re having a quiz today and Pinkie always studies until the last second. I don’t have to look to know Whitney Blaire isn’t here yet. Even when Pinkie drives her in the morning, Whitney Blaire is never on time for anything.

  Ms. Ramirez starts closing the door and Whitney Blaire sneaks in just in time. She walks by my desk and drops a note. It says: iv som thn 2 tel u with a heart on top of the i. I crumple the note and stuff it in my pocket before Ms. Ramirez sees it.

  Ms. Ramirez hands out the quizzes right away and I forget about Whitney Blaire’s note. She doesn’t, though. As I finish the first page, I get another note: thrs a nw grl. boyz al ovr hr. I crumple that note too and move on to the next page.

  Ms. Ramirez passes by me. She grabs another note Whitney Blaire has just written.

  “Señorita Blaire, see me after class,” Ms. Ramirez tells her.

  Pinkie sends Whitney Blaire a scolding look.

  “Class, I want your eyes to stay on your own papers. That includes everyone,” Ms. Ramirez reminds us. Pinkie blushes.

  Once the bell rings, I leave quickly for my next class, knowing that I’ll get the full scoop at lunch.

  And I’m right. According to Whitney Blaire, this eight-year-old munchkin cast a spell that made every sensible guy gawk at her. In other words, David took his eyes off Whit
ney Blaire for a couple minutes to look at someone else.

  I half listen as I look out the window to catch part of the Frisbee game. I watch Brent leap into the air, grab the disc two others were trying to get, and send it sailing to another teammate in a matter of seconds. It looks like a great game. I sigh and turn back to the girls.

  “Oh great, she’s here,” Whitney Blaire groans. “No, no. Don’t look.”

  Of course I turn around right away. Pinkie’s more discreet, holding up her compact mirror to sneak a peek.

  “Where?” I don’t notice an eight-year-old, and certainly no one resembling a munchkin.

  “There. The one that looks like a witch.”

  I look again and this time I do spot a short girl. She probably isn’t much more than five feet, but she’s still normal looking and not any younger than the rest of us. But I don’t give her shortness, or even her face, much thought. It’s her hair that I notice: waist length, thick, shiny, and black. I’ve never seen hair that long look so healthy. My own blonde bob is limp from too many washings. It gets horrendously thin if I even let it grow close to shoulder length. But this girl’s hair…I want to touch it. Make sure it’s real. I want to know if it feels as nice as it looks.

  As she gets nearer, Whitney Blaire hisses something like “bra stuffer,” as if she should talk with her add-a-size padded push-up. The girl glances at me quickly as she passes. My hazel eyes meet her brown ones. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. It really is like she cast a spell. A lilac scent lingers as the black hair floats away.

  “Who is she?” I finally manage to speak without gasping.

  Whitney Blaire makes a gagging noise. “I told you. A total bitch.”

  But that can’t be true, not of her.

  Pinkie

  STILL NO WORD FROM NASH. I LEFT A THIRD MESSAGE ON his phone. And just to make sure that he’s not deliberately avoiding me, I blocked my number and called him from home. He didn’t answer and I didn’t leave a message that time. I’m certain his phone isn’t working. Whitney Blaire once had the problem that her phone deleted all her messages and wiped out half of her address book too. The same could have happened to Nash’s phone. I know it isn’t my phone. I already went down to T-Mobile to complain that I’m not getting calls and the guy there assured me that the phone is in perfect order. Part of me thinks that I should call Nash to let him know that his phone isn’t working. I don’t, of course, but only because calling one more time might make me seem a bit obsessed. Which I’m not.