Of All the Stupid Things Read online

  The window overlooking the gymnastics area is one of the first things I find. I peer through and spot Riley right away. I can see her perfectly. I put myself behind a cardboard vitamin ad so that if Riley happens to look up, she won’t see me through the glass. Ah, this is too easy. I shift the display a bit to get comfortable and watch her.

  Any idiot could see she’s up to something. Every three seconds, she looks at the big clock on the wall. Even though I can’t hear what is going on, I know by the way the coach waves his arms that he’s telling her off for not paying attention. At 4:26, Riley goes up to the coach. She puts this pathetic face and I bet anything she’s telling the coach that she needs to go to the bathroom. The coach looks at his watch and probably says something like can’t it wait. Then Riley goes all apologetic and I can practically hear her saying that it’s a female emergency. The coach rolls his eyes and waves her off.

  This is it. I have to stop her now. There’s just one little problem. I’m a floor above her and I don’t know how to get down to the gymnastics door. I see the stairs and take them quickly. My heels echo across the whole building as I clump down the stairs. Shit. This is no way for a sneak counterattack. Getting them off would take too long. I try running on my toes and that seems to help. I see a door that says GYMNASTICS GYM: TRAINERS AND STUDENTS ONLY. At the end of the hall I see Riley walking toward another door. I can’t reach her in time; if I run she’ll hear me and get away. There has to be some way to stop her. I look around for something, anything. The fire-alarm box is just a few feet away. I don’t know what good it would do, but it’s a distraction, and I’m desperate.

  I am reaching for the little hammer to break the glass when someone grabs my arm.

  Tara

  BRENT HAS STOOD ME UP.

  I wait a while, until almost five o’clock, and still nothing. Well, forget him. I’m not about to waste the whole afternoon waiting for him to never show up.

  On the way out, I glance through the window to the gymnastics area. I don’t see Riley. I think about checking the locker room for her, but that seems a bit weird. Besides, it’s getting late. Sherman has been locked in the house since early this morning and I have to get dinner started.

  I keep an eye out for Brent as I leave. Walking across the parking lot, I see a car that looks like his. I get closer. It is his car. I recognize the bumper sticker the soccer team uses to promote their games: WATCH BOYS PLAYING WITH THEIR BALLS. I’ve tried to get Brent to remove it, but he won’t.

  There’s someone in the backseat. The windows are fogged up, but I can see the brown form of Brent’s head. He must be looking for something. Probably lost his gym pass again. I get closer to knock on the window. That’s when I notice the car is shaking, rocking back and forth.

  I stand there. The car squeaks as it moves. I can’t see inside, but he’s not just having a hard time scratching his back. There’s someone else in there. I don’t know who. The images I have almost managed to repress suddenly stampede into full gallop, but altered. Brent with Someone Else. Someone Else with Brent. I hear a grunt, a moan, and then the car stops shaking.

  I turn on my heel then power walk back to the gym. Long, fast strides, as fast as possible without breaking into a run. Control, control yourself, Tara.

  I walk right by the front desk. I don’t look at anyone and I don’t see anything. I don’t go to the RTC. I go to the small training room that doesn’t have glass walls. No one else’s there. I dump my duffel and finally let go.

  I hit the four-foot, seventy-pound punching bag. I alternate with each fist. Punch. Punch. Punch. The bag is heavy and it swirls around. I hit it with my hands, my arms, my shoulders, whatever I can hit it with first. I raise my leg and kick the bag. The bag keeps coming back for more and each time I’m there for it. Punch, kick, whatever it takes. I even ram into it with my head. That’s a mistake. It swings around and knocks me to the ground.

  I roll over on the mats. I get to my hands and knees, but can’t manage to get any further. I’m out of breath. My fists are throbbing. My legs are sore. My head hurts. The bag swings above my head.

  I stay like that for a while with my eyes squeezed shut. I know I need to pull myself together, get back in control. I know I have to get home. But I don’t want to cross the parking lot again.

  Whitney Blaire

  “JUST WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, YOUNG lady?”

  I swing around to find a security guard holding my wrist. “Quick, sir, there’s a fire in the gymnastics area.”

  “I don’t think so. I saw you running down here looking like you were up to no good.”

  Riley is almost at the door. I’m going to miss her. “That’s just it, sir. I saw the smoke from the viewpoint upstairs and rushed down to sound the alarm.”

  “Well, let’s see about that.” The guard leads me toward the gymnastics door. I turn around and see Riley go through the other door. I try to yank my arm out, but the guard has a tight grip. Crap. I have no idea where Riley has gone. Off to get together with Brent, no doubt. We enter the gymnastics area. Without looking at the clock on the wall, I know it’s just after four thirty.

  The coach looks at us. “Does there seem to be a problem?”

  The guard places his free hand on his belt to pretend he’s packing. “There was a report of some smoke in here. Do you know anything about a fire?”

  The coach looks around. “There’s no fire here.”

  “Sorry to bother you.” The guard nods and drags me out. Once back in the main gym area, he squeezes my arm tighter. “So what do you have to say for yourself?”

  His grip really hurts, but I don’t care about that right now. I look toward the door Riley had gone through. Is there even the slightest chance that I can still stop her evil plan to seduce Brent? “Look, I’m sorry. I made a mistake. Can you just let me go now?”

  “No. I’m filing a report,” he says, his hand still on his belt. “Do you know what you almost did is a criminal offense? False alarms cost tax payers loads of money.”

  I switch my tone and smile at him. “I really am so sorry. It was a silly mistake. An accident, really. It was good you were there to sort things out with that coach. Tell you the truth, he was a bit scary, but you smoothed everything out. You were great. Thanks so much.”

  The guard grunts. “Can it. You can’t sweet-talk your way out of this one, princess.”

  We walk back upstairs. Damn Riley and damn this stupid guard holding me. I give my arm another yank. I can’t break free.

  I dig my heels into the floor. “I demand you let me go. Do you know who my father is? When he hears how you’re treating me, he’ll have you for abuse, harassment, and possible child molestation. You don’t want that on your record now, do you?”

  The guard doesn’t flinch. “I’m taking you to my boss, and he’ll decide what to do about you and your daddy.”

  “Fine.” I glance at the name badge on his shirt. “Franklin. If that’s the way you want to play it.” I hold my head high and follow him willingly. I feel Franklin the guard no longer knows if he is doing the right thing. Well, I’m not shitting him. No one in this town messes with the Blaires.

  Tara

  “TARA?”

  I look up to see Riley. Her hair hangs like a curtain so I can’t see much of her face. I wish I had hair that did that.

  “You okay?” Riley asks.

  I push myself up from the floor. I’m in control. I’m in control. “Yeah, of course. The bag just knocked me over. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “What happened?” Riley offers a hand.

  I shake my head. The images don’t budge. “Nothing really. Just like I said, the stupid bag…” I brush off my pants and try to smile. The smile doesn’t quite reach my face.

  Riley doesn’t try to smile back. I know she doesn’t believe me but she doesn’t push it. “Are you heading home?” she asks.

  My breath is still coming out in jagged bursts. “Yeah, I’m late to get dinner started.”
>
  “Let me give you a ride.”

  I think about that. “Where are you parked?”

  Riley makes a face. “Around back, by the emergency exits.”

  I grab my bag. “Okay, let’s go.”

  Riley leads the way out to her car. I follow her with my shoulders back and my head up. I don’t look at anyone, just keep my eyes focused straight ahead. I climb into her red Audi TT and silently thank her parents for getting her a car with tinted windows. I stare in the direction of Brent’s car. I can’t see it, but then again I can’t see that far.

  “Which way?” she asks.

  Part of me wants to tell Riley to circle around the parking lot. She probably would do it and not ask any questions. But I’ve already seen enough. I’m not Pinkie. I don’t doubt everything I see, hear, or think.

  “Turn right once you get out.”

  Other than give Riley directions, I don’t say anything on the ride home. And other than clarify my directions, Riley doesn’t ask anything.

  She pulls into the driveway before I realize it.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “No problem, anytime.”

  I nod and wave to her. I’m halfway to the door when I realize she hasn’t moved. I turn around. It’s like she’s waiting to make sure I get in okay.

  I take one more step to the door and then turn around again. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

  Riley responds by turning off the engine and getting out of the car.

  Whitney Blaire

  THE SECURITY GUARD TAKES ME TO THE SURVEILLANCE room. Right away I notice that there is a camera shot of the cardboard vitamin display. And one of the front desk. Great. Now all I need is for one of these stupid Franklin guards to find the tape of me sneaking into the gym and vandalizing the display on top of almost pulling the fire alarm.

  I sit down on a rolling chair and wait for the verdict. Franklin talks to another guard who has spent too many hours looking at the security screens with little more than donuts for company. I can’t hear what Franklin is saying, but I’m not paying attention either. I have to get out.

  There’s no way I’m really going to call my father. Calling Mother wouldn’t be any better. They probably can’t pick me up anyway. Didn’t they say something at breakfast about going out for drinks with some of Father’s new clients? Could be. There are always clients and extra work to hold them up. Whatever. I can deal with this on my own.

  Franklin leaves and Donut Guard looks at me with powdered sugar on his mustache. I let my lip quiver. My whole face starts contorting. My ribs jolt upward. I sniff.

  “There now,” Donut Guard says.

  That is the cue I’m waiting for. I bury my face in my hands and start crying. “I’m so sorry! I can’t believe I was so stupid. I think I saw a cloud of chalk from the gymnasts and must have thought that was smoke. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I thought I was being a he-he-hero!”

  I feel a tissue by my face. I grab it without looking up. Between my sobs, I hear Donut Guard creaking in his chair. I cry harder but make it sound like I’m trying hard to stop.

  “There now,” he says again. “Don’t worry. No harm done. I think old Franklin was just a bit bored, you know? Tell you what, why don’t we call up your parents to come get you and we won’t tell them anything about what Franklin thinks he saw, okay? After all, you didn’t really do anything wrong. How does that sound?”

  I sniff a couple times and nod. “Okay, but can I go to the bathroom? To wash up?”

  “Sure, do you know where it is?” Donut Guard asks.

  Again I nod.

  “Do you want me to call your parents while you get yourself together?”

  I hang my head low over the piece of paper and scribble our spare line that isn’t actually attached to any phone so it will only ring and ring. Then I hurry out of the surveillance room. Once the door closes, I straighten up and look around. Franklin is nowhere. There are also no cameras. But I know that already. I memorized every single angle I saw on the screen while I was in the room. I need to hurry. I have to get out. But the front doors have cameras on them. There has to be another way.

  I remember Riley’s car parked out by the emergency exits. But where are the emergency exits? I think about where they are outside and where that would be from the inside. Of course, the door Riley had gone through earlier. I hurry back downstairs. I keep my head low, and in the places I know there’s a camera, I hug the wall underneath it.

  I go through the door and into a staff-only corridor. Straight in front is a door leading outside. An old woman with rainbow hair has it propped open while she smokes. I stop myself from ripping the cigarette out of her hand and taking a drag myself. Instead, I scoot past her, neither of us saying anything.

  I stop just outside. This is the emergency exit by Riley’s car. Or rather where Riley’s car had been. I catch just a glimpse of it driving away. Through the tinted window, I spot Tara looking straight ahead. Riley sees me and waves as she zooms by.

  Tara

  IT TAKES THREE TRIES TO FIT THE KEY IN THE DOOR TO unlock it. When it finally works, I almost get knocked off my feet as Sherman bursts out of the house like the ferocious dog he thinks he is. Before I can stop him, he’s sniffing Riley. Instead of being scared, Riley sits down right there on the pavement and scratches him behind the ears. Sherman takes that as a hint to plant all forty-five pounds of himself on Riley’s lap. I’m about to apologize, but Riley doesn’t seem to mind.

  “He really likes you.” I make conversation in my effort to act normal. “My other friends tolerate him, but no one really gets to his level.”

  Riley continues scratching him. “He’s a good boy, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

  At the second “aren’t you,” Sherman leaps off Riley and starts running laps around the front yard. Riley pretends to chase him and that just gets him more excited. If it had been any other day, I might have laughed at them running after each other, Sherman with his tongue flapping all over the place and Riley with her hair flying around her. They chase each other for a few minutes until Sherman remembers that he’s been locked up in the house all day long. He stops dead and gives Riley a guilty look as he lifts his leg.

  I enter the house, letting Riley shut the door behind Sherman. I tell Riley the bathroom’s upstairs if she needs it and wave quickly to the downstairs: the small living room by the front door and the kitchen in the back. It’s good having Riley here. It’s easier to stay calm when there’s company. And for some reason it’s easier to stay calm when she’s around.

  I put three sweet potatoes from the batch I baked last night in the oven to warm up and then pour some grains into a pot with water.

  “Do you like quinoa?” I ask Riley.

  She’s petting Sherman again and looks up. “What is it?”

  “It’s a grain, kind of like amaranth. It’s very high in protein and contains lots of essential amino acids.”

  “Okay, why not.”

  I set the quinoa on the stove and head toward the fridge to make the salad. I get sidetracked when I notice the light flashing on the answering machine. It’s probably Pinkie wondering if I’m coming over to her girls’ night. I press PLAY.

  “Hey, baby.” I freeze at the sound of Brent’s voice. “Where are you? Sorry I was late, but why didn’t you wait for me? I—” I press the DELETE button long and hard.

  The bottles on the door rattle as I jerk the fridge open. I yank out the lettuce, the tomatoes, the bell peppers, and an overripe avocado. I look at the cucumber for a second before tossing it in the trash; it’s too soft. I pull out a cutting board and reach for the biggest knife from the magnetic strip. A hand seizes my wrist holding the knife. I look down to see Riley staring up at me. I stare back at her. She doesn’t flinch.

  “I’ll take care of the salad. Why don’t you get me a drink?” Firmly, Riley takes the knife out of my hand. I unfold my fingers and let her take it away.

  My hands clutch into fists. I can feel
the veins in my neck pulsing. Calm down. Stay in control. “What do you want?” I say.

  She sets the knife down away from me and washes her hands. Then she grabs a couple lemons from the fruit bowl, cuts them in half, and pushes them toward me. “Some fresh lemonade would be nice, don’t you think?”

  I relax my hands. “Cut some more and I’ll make enough for everyone.”

  For the next few minutes I squeeze each lemon long and hard. All my attention is taken by extracting every last bit of juicy pulp. By the sixth half, I’m starting to get a grip on things. At least I’ve managed to control myself.

  I turn to Riley. The salad is artistically arranged and she is drizzling it with a vinaigrette she made after rummaging through the cabinets.

  I take a deep breath. “Why don’t you like Brent?”

  Riley keeps quiet, though I know she heard me. Finally, she says, “I don’t trust him.”

  “Why?”

  Riley sets the salad on the table. She takes her time adjusting it just right. “I met him when I first moved here and right away I got a bad vibe from him.”

  I fold my arms across my chest and stare at her. “Did he hit on you?”

  “Yeah,” she says, nodding, her attention still on her salad.

  I close my eyes for a second and then breathe deeply. “And you didn’t go for him?”

  Riley turns to me and looks like she’s about to be sick. “Trust me, he’s not my type.”

  I think about my “type”: athletic, good looking, supportive of my training, and makes me happy. I thought that was Brent, but now he only ranks three out of four.

  “Besides,” Riley continues, “your friend Whitney Blaire made it very clear that he was taken.”

  I add water and honey to the lemon juice and taste it. My face puckers. I pour myself a sour glass and then add more honey to the rest of it.