Of All the Stupid Things (12 page)

LUNCHTIME WITH THE GIRLS IS AWKWARD. WHITNEY Blaire is brooding about something. It’s obviously serious because she’s wearing her sunglasses inside and not stealing food off Pinkie’s tray. I’m likewise quiet, thinking how Riley is much better company. Pinkie is the only one chatting, pretending that everything is normal.

“You know what we need to do?” Pinkie says. “Sleepover at my house. We rent some girly movies, get some greasy pizza. Have an early start to the weekend. What do you say?”

I shake my head. “I can’t, you know I’m in training.”

Whitney Blaire grunts. My guess is she’s either going to complain that I stick to my diet better than she does or is about to say something about friends being more important than training. Whatever it is she doesn’t say it, because Pinkie continues.

“We can get pizza from Gio’s. I know they do a whole wheat crust, and all their ingredients are natural.”

“We better get a regular one too, and we’ll see which one gets eaten first,” Whitney Blaire adds.

Pinkie smiles as she assumes all is well in her little hen-house. “And if we start right after school, then you can still get to bed early for your morning run, Tara. It’s been ages since we did something just the three of us.”

I’m not in the mood for a girls’ night. I don’t want to hear all about Pinkie’s worries or Whitney Blaire’s bitchiness. Of course I don’t tell them that. “I’d love to, but I don’t think I can. I have to hit the gym after school.”

Whitney Blaire scowls. “I hope you’re not spending more time with that freak kid. I’m telling you, stay away from her. She’s evil.”

I drop the apologetic attitude. “Lay off Riley. She hasn’t done anything to you.”

“No, just to you,” she growls.

My eyes narrow and I press my lips together. “If you must know, I’m not meeting Riley. I’m spending time with Brent.”

Whitney Blaire’s voice suddenly changes to sugary sweet. “So you two are back together now?”

I feel my back grow tense. “No, we’re just working out. It’s no big deal.”

Pinkie takes a deep breath. “Tara, are you sure that’s a good idea? Getting close to him again? I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

I roll my eyes. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

“That’s what you think,” Whitney Blaire says under her breath.

“What are you talking about?” I demand.

“Nothing. You just go and have fun.”

“I will.” I grab my bag and take off.

“Stop by my house afterward if you can,” Pinkie calls out. “I’ll get the pizza.”

I keep walking, keep moving. If I walk fast enough maybe I can get around the whole school before the bell rings. No need to tell Pinkie that even though Gio makes a great pizza, I really don’t want to hang out with Whitney Blaire at the moment.

Whitney Blaire

I KNOW I HAVE TO FOLLOW RILEY AFTER SCHOOL. OR AT least get to the gym by four thirty. I still don’t know exactly what the plan is and how I’m going to stop it, but it doesn’t matter. I can lie my way through anything. And I’m good at thinking on the spot.

The only problem is that the gym is far away. I need to drive there. But I still haven’t passed the stupid test to get my license. Pink usually drives me around. She has this loud, clunky old thing that smells like little kids, but as Pink always reminds me, at least it usually runs. But I can’t get Pink to drive this time. She wouldn’t approve. She’ll probably call Riley up and try to sort things out. Like mothers do when their kids are fighting in the playground: “Now children, what seems to be the problem here? Why don’t you hug and make it feel better? There, there, good children.” Screw that. Pink isn’t the only answer to my driving problems. I can find someone else with wheels.

I look around the school parking lot and recognize a kid from one of my classes. He’s unlocking the door of a VW. It isn’t a great car, but it’s a newer model. I think he is just barely sixteen, but if he can drive, that’s all that matters. Shoulders back and swaying my hips, I walk toward him.

He glances my way and then pretends to be looking at something else, yet I know his eyes are on me. I flip my hair, smile, and give him a little wave. His mouth drops a bit. I want him to look behind him to double-check that it’s him I’m looking at and not some other random guy, but he doesn’t. His eyes stay on me. Which is fine too.

“Hi.” I have no idea what his name is, but when you smile as sweetly as I am, names don’t matter. “I was wondering, would you mind giving me a ride? See, my friend was going to take me to the gym, you know the one out by Target, but she must have left without me. I really need to work on my…” Shit! What is the fitness word for ass muscles? “On my squats. So can you? Give me a lift?”

The guy blinks a couple times. “Ah, sure. Hop in.”

I give him another smile. “That’s great. You’re a lifesaver.”

He shrugs me off, but I can tell he’s blushing.

I chat with him the whole way to the gym. Don’t ask me about what. My mouth might be blabbing away, but my mind is thinking about a plan. A good plan to counteract Riley’s bad one, which I still don’t have the details on.

I wave good-bye to my ride before he can ask for my number. I walk around the parking lot. I find Riley’s skankmobile hiding out by the emergency exits, but there’s no sign of Brent’s car. That’s okay. It isn’t four thirty yet. I have to find Riley.

I walk into the gym as if I belong there. I don’t stop to pay. Although I can feel the glares of the people working the front desk, no one stops me either. Just goes to show, if you act like you should be doing something, no one questions you.

Now the trick is to find Riley, and hopefully without her or Tara seeing me. Let Tara thank me later when I’ve saved her relationship with Brent and showed the world the kind of person Riley really is.

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