Of All the Stupid Things (7 page)

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 Whitney 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.

Still, I run it by the girls at lunch.

“So, tell me, why don’t boys return calls? Because it’s not just Nash, is it? I mean, I’ve heard other girls complain about it, right? Please tell me it’s not just me.”

“Come on, Pink, of course it’s you,” Whitney Blaire teases. At least I hope she’s teasing.

“It’s not you.” Tara sends Whitney Blaire a dirty look as she confirms. “Some guys are just like that. They forget.”

“But everyone does that—girls too. I’ve gotten guys’ numbers and then forgotten to call them,” Whitney Blaire says as she drinks some of my chocolate milk.

“Forgotten to call, or forgotten who they are?” Tara teases.

“I know. I can be such a bitch sometimes.” Whitney Blaire laughs, but I can tell she’s proud of herself. “I should start taking pictures when I get a number. Then I’ll remember the next day which one is worth calling.”

They are getting off track. I turn to Tara. “How often did Brent call you?”

Tara shrugs. “I don’t know. Every day or so.”

My eyes widen. “But it’s been five days since the lecture and still Nash hasn’t called me.”

“Well, he’s a freak,” Whitney Blaire puts in.

“Nash is not a freak! Do you think he’s a freak?” I look at Tara, who is glancing at another table.

It takes her a second to reply. “Course not.”

I look at the table that Tara was looking at. The girl that Whitney Blaire gossiped about is sitting with some of the school’s weirdos. Maybe that’s why Tara is staring at her, which is a bit unfair really. The new girl probably doesn’t know those kids are weird.

I take a bite of the meat loaf and mashed potatoes. “So what do you think is up with Nash?”

“He’s older. He could just be playing you,” Tara says. This time I catch her looking over at Brent. I want to do something to keep her from thinking about him, but I don’t know what. I’ve always felt he wasn’t right for Tara—too certain of his so-called charm—and am secretly glad she’s taking some time away from him. I’ll just have to keep talking and hope my problems need more immediate attention than hers.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “Nash always seems so happy to see me. I was starting to think he liked me as much as I like him, but maybe not. I wish there’s some way to find out what’s going on.”

“Maybe there is.” Whitney Blaire grins.

Tara takes her eyes off Brent and gives Whitney Blaire her full attention. “Don’t even. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it’s not going to work.”

Whitney Blaire takes another sip of my chocolate milk. “But if it does, Pink will love us forever.”

“What?” I say. “What are you talking about?”

“Operation Spy on Nash.”

I stop eating. The fork stays between my mouth and the plate. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t do it,” says Tara as she bites into her apple.

“No, really, it’s perfect.” Whitney Blaire keeps drinking more of my chocolate milk. “We get you all dressed up in some kind of disguise, Pink, and then go down to Lay Bone Fromage—”

“
Le Bon Fromage
,” I correct her.

She rolls her eyes and continues. “And then you can, what’s the word, interrogate him. Flirt a bit, see what he’s like when you’re not around.”