Of All the Stupid Things (14 page)

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.

“Tara?” Mom calls from the front door. She comes into the kitchen, sees Riley, and smiles.

“Mom, this is Riley,” I introduce them as I open the oven. “She’s staying for dinner.”

Mom gives her a hug. “So, you’re the gymnast. Tara talks about you all the time. I’m Linda. I was wondering whose car that was. I thought maybe Brent had gotten a new one.”

With a loud crash, the tray of sweet potatoes drops on the floor. Sherman wolfs one down before Mom grabs him by the collar. I pick up the tray. Riley gathers up the hot sweet potatoes and quickly pops them back. With the utmost care and attention, I place the tray on top of the cutting board. Slowly and carefully. Bit by bit, I pick off the debris from the skins. Then I remember to breathe deeply.

“No, Brent still has the same car,” I say. I shut the oven door and turn it off. I remove the oven mitts and press against the counter. I turn back to the potatoes. “But you won’t be seeing him around here anymore.”

Even with my back to Mom and Riley, I can tell they’re taking turns looking at each other and looking at me.

“I thought you were going to get back together.” Mom tries to place a hand on my shoulder but I move away. “Did something happen?”

I pace up and down the kitchen. Two steps and turn around. My arms tighten around my sides as I rock back and forth. “Yes, but it’s fine. I just need to get in shape. Focus on my miles. I’m fine. I don’t have time to date. It’s fine. Completely fine. It’s all for the best. Everything is fine. I really am fine.”

Mom wraps her arms around me. At first I try to break away, but Mom doesn’t let go and at last I give in. I squeeze my eyes shut as I keep as still as possible. I don’t make a sound; I don’t cry. I just let my mom hold me until it all goes away and I’m back in control.

At one point Sherman whimpers and paws my leg for attention. That’s when I remember Riley is there. She whispers to Sherman to come. I hear his nails against the floor and the sounds of Riley soothing him, comforting him, telling him it’s going to be okay.

I take a deep breath and let go. Mom rubs my back before dropping her hands to her side. Then Riley hugs me. Her hug is solid and strong, and feels like it comes from a much bigger person than she is. Whitney Blaire always gives one-arm half hugs like she didn’t want to get too close, and Pinkie’s hugs are comforting and squishy like squeezing a pillow. But Riley’s hug is different. When she holds me it feels safe…and nice. But maybe a little too nice.

I turn away and drink some of my sour lemonade. My heart is beating fast. I breathe out slowly. It’s okay, I tell myself.

When I look at the table, it’s set for the three of us. Mom had washed the sweet potatoes and put one on Riley’s plate with some quinoa and divided the other potato between the two of us.

“The salad looks beautiful,” Mom praises. Riley glances at me and grins.

We have just finished dinner (I can tell Riley didn’t like the quinoa, though she ate it all anyway) when the phone rings. Mom leans over from her chair and picks it up.

“Hello, Brent…No, I don’t think Tara is here right now.” Mom looks at me with her eyebrows raised. I get up and walk over. “Oh wait, here she is.”

She hands me the phone.

I take a deep breath. “Hello.”

“Ah baby—” he starts, but I cut him off.

“Brent, don’t call me ‘baby.’ And don’t call me ever again.” I slam the phone on the cradle. Mom and Riley glance at me. I don’t say anything, and neither to do they. I clear the table and start running the water into the sink. Riley comes over and dries while I wash. I vaguely notice Mom going out with Sherman as we finish cleaning up. It isn’t until we put everything away and wipe down the surfaces that someone finally breaks the silence.

“I better get going,” Riley says. “My parents will be wondering where I am.”

I point to the phone. “You can call them.”

Riley shakes her head. “It’s all right. I don’t want to worry them more.”

I wait for Riley to elaborate, but she doesn’t. Fair enough. I don’t need to question it. Just like she hadn’t questioned me.

Pinkie

NOBODY HAS SHOWN UP FOR OUR GIRLS’ NIGHT. STILL, I order a healthy pizza and a regular one as planned. I make sure we have some vegetables in the fridge in case Tara wants to add them to the pizza. Then I call back the greasy pizza company and ask if they can include some regular soda for Whitney Blaire. I know Whitney Blaire prefers diet, but there’s no way I’m feeding my friend something that is proven to cause cancer.

It is just after seven when Whitney Blaire knocks.

“Hey,” I say as she brushes by me to the kitchen. “I was just going to call you. Where’ve you been?”

She grabs the bowl of chips and starts munching. “The gym.”

I lick my lips. Whitney Blaire knows how much I hate it when she lies to me. And yet she still does it. I sigh and pretend I believe her. “Did you have fun?”

“Why would I?” She continues eating as she stares at the wall. I bring her a slice of pizza and can of soda. She doesn’t even look at what kind it is before she takes a big gulp.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

Whitney Blaire suddenly starts poking around as if she’s searching for something. Don’t know what. Daddy and Barbara are at the neighbors’, and before we take over the living room Angela is watching one of her silly teen movies where the leads don’t even kiss.

“So, Tara isn’t here?” It’s a question but she says it more like a statement.

“I’m sure she’ll come any minute,” I say, even though it’s more optimistic than I feel.

“Stupid bitch,” Whitney Blaire mumbles as she shovels more food down.

I quickly grab the phone and give Tara’s house a call. Her mom answers.

“Hello, Mrs. Hopkins, it’s Pinkie. How are you?” I politely make small talk, even though all I want is to know about Tara. I can’t help it. It’s how Barbara raised me.

Mrs. Hopkins sighs. “We’ve been better, but I’ll let her tell you. I suppose you want to talk to Tara?”

“Yes, please,” I say eagerly. What’s going on? What’s wrong with Tara? Did she get hurt? Is she going to be okay? Maybe we should drive over there. Whitney Blaire has finished the chips and is working her way through the greasy pizza, and not just the slice I gave her.

“Sorry, Pinkie,” Mrs. Hopkins says as she returns. “But she’s gone to bed already. It’s been a hard day for her and we had Riley over for dinner as well. I’ll have her call you in the morning, okay?”

“Okay, thanks.” I hang up feeling more helpless than before. Whitney Blaire has stopped eating long enough to stare at me. Her look makes me squirm. “Tara’s asleep,” I mumble.

“What? It’s seven thirty on a Friday night. What’s she doing sleeping?”

I start wiping the crumbs from the counter. I decide not to tell her the whole truth. “Mrs. Hopkins said she’s had a bad day.”

Whitney Blaire throws her empty can in the garbage. But because her aim is bad, she doesn’t make it and a little bit of leftover soda splatters on the floor. “Bad day, my ass. I’ll give that bitch a bad day.”

“Hey, watch it,” I scold her. I don’t like it when she calls people bad names. It always makes me wonder if she’s ever called me the same thing. She’s never called Tara that, and I don’t see why she would now. Twice. Unless she was talking about someone else, but I don’t know who else that could be. “Shh. Angela might hear you.”

“Hear what?” Angela calls out from the living room. “Who’s a bitch?”

I send Whitney Blaire an evil look, which of course she ignores. She’s busy closing the cardboard lid of the pizza box. She places it against her hip and grabs the second can of soda.

“Take me home,” she demands.

I frown. Coming from Whitney Blaire, that statement means a lot. “What do you mean? What about our girls’ night? I rented five movies—well, four for us and one for Angela, but I’m sure—”

“Are you going to take me or do I have to call a cab?” She gives me this look that makes me feel helpless and useless, and that hurts. Whitney Blaire has always had a way of twisting emotions to make me feel like the guilty party. I sigh and grab my keys, phone, and purse. As much as I love Whitney Blaire, there are times I wish Tara had left her up in that tree.

Our girls’ night ends up with me watching the cheesy teen movie for the millionth time with Angela. The healthy pizza really isn’t that bad if you dip the crust in some ranch dressing.

I keep the phone with me just in case, but no one (Tara, Whitney Blaire, and unfortunately not even Nash) calls. Maybe I’ll call him later. Right after the girl in the film doesn’t get kissed by the boy.