Of All the Stupid Things (23 page)

WE GO OVER TO RILEY’S HOUSE AFTER WORKING OUT. Riley reassures me that her parents won’t be home until late, though I still don’t understand why that should matter. I call Mom to let her know where I am. We make dinner (whole wheat pasta with sun-dried tomatoes, turkey meatballs, Caesar salad, and for dessert Riley brought out organic chocolate-covered cherries) and then we go up to her room. It’s the first time I’ve been there. Her room’s as big as Whitney Blaire’s, which means half of my house, one whole floor, could fit in her bedroom. But while Whitney Blaire’s has white walls and cream carpet, Riley’s is more her, with red walls and zebra-striped sheets. Her gymnastics medals take up almost a whole wall.

“I’ve got lots of trophies too,” I say quietly.

Riley turns her head to the side and looks a bit guilty. “I didn’t see them.”

I sit down on her queen-size bed and stare at my fingernails. “That’s because they’re all packed away. From when we moved to our present house five and a half years ago.”

Riley sits down next to me looking surprised. “Really? Mine were the first things I unpacked when we moved here.”

I shake my head. “That’s because you earned yours. Most of mine don’t mean anything.”

Riley is confused so I continue.

“When I was little and played soccer or softball or any other team sport, everyone got a trophy; whether you won or not didn’t matter. One girl sat on the bench reading a book during every practice and game and she still got a trophy because she was ‘part of the team.’ I told my dad it wasn’t fair; only the winners should get something. But he said this way it made everyone feel like a winner.”

Riley sympathizes. “But you didn’t.”

“Of course not,” I say, still talking to my hands. “Everyone doesn’t win. Not in games, not in real life. I don’t think we should pretend for kids. It creates false expectations.”

Riley places a hand on my knee. “You’re thinking about your dad and what he did to you.”

I hadn’t realized it, but she’s right. I cross my arms over my chest. “Yeah.”

She gives my knee a supportive squeeze. “Tell me about it.”

So I tell her.

I tell her everything about my dad and how I felt when he left. How I still feel now that I’ve seen him again. Hurt. Betrayed. Angry. Confused. Unwanted. Indifferent. And despite all of that, how I still wish I could see him more. How I hope that one day I’ll actually be able to talk to him and not let my emotions hold my tongue.

I move on to tell her about me and Brent and how I trusted him. A lot of the things I felt with Dad, I felt them again with Brent. I tell Riley how much it hurts what Whitney Blaire did and how I could never forgive her for that.

I tell her all the things that happened before, that are happening now. I never share my thoughts and feelings with anyone, not even with myself. But with Riley it’s different. I want to tell her; I want her to know. And it doesn’t feel like I’m losing control. While I’m speaking, it’s like someone else has taken over my body and is saying things that I’m not aware of. But once they are said and I hear them out loud, I realize they are true. As I tell Riley all about myself, I learn it all myself too.

Through all this, Riley doesn’t say much, but I know she’s listening to everything I’m telling her. Sometimes she gives me a smile of encouragement or a comforting rub on the knee. When I finally finish, Riley doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. After all I said, it’s good to have the comfort of silence.

With Riley slouched forward, some of her long hair brushes against my hand on the bed. Instead of moving my hand, I look at Riley. The way she’s sitting, her hair is covering most of her face. I reach up and move it away so I can see her better. Once I touch her hair, I continue running my fingers through it. It’s as thick and soft as it looks. Part of me says I should stop, but I can’t pull my hand away. And if anything, Riley doesn’t seem to mind. Her eyes are shining at least.

“Your hair is so beautiful,” I whisper.

A small smile creeps across Riley’s face and her eyes stay looking into mine. My heart pounds in my chest as if I had run eight miles. I don’t know what’s going on. Part of me suggests I stop, but I can’t think of a single reason why I should. Maybe because I can’t really think at all. My face gets drawn in closer. I stop myself a few inches from her lips.

“It’s okay,” she whispers back. Her hand slides up my leg. Like a magnet, I tilt my head and kiss her. Just a light kiss, but right away I notice the difference. Her lips are soft; there’s no stubble prickling my face as we kiss. And I know my chin won’t be red in a few minutes. Then she kisses me back more passionately. I do the same.

My fingers tangle themselves in her hair, her wonderful, beautiful hair. I can smell her lilac shampoo. My hands go up and down her back. It’s so strange. She’s so much slighter than Brent; her body feels so different. Softer. Less intimidating. She’s still muscular, but at the same time delicate. I feel like I have to protect her, almost like I’m the guy and she’s the girl. No. I push those thoughts out of my head. As weird as it is, I want us both to be the girls—no, the women—we are. It’s better this way.

My body has never felt like this before. Every part of me Riley touches tingles; every part of her that I touch makes me want to explore even more. I’m like an artist: feeling and admiring perfection. Nothing has ever felt so real and so great. I should know what girls are like, what we feel like, but I can’t get enough of Riley’s body. Her female body.

One hand moves down to her waist. I can feel a bit of skin where her shirt doesn’t reach her pants. I slip my fingers under. I feel her belly ring as I make my way up her shirt. Riley shifts forward, like she wants my hand to keep moving up. I cup her bra. It’s squishy from the padding and that just gets me more excited. I want to touch the real things, but I’m scared to at the same time.

Riley takes one hand away from my legs and unhooks her bra through her shirt. Without thinking, my hand slips under the cup and I hold her breast. Wow. It feels great under my hand. I try the other side and that’s great too. I have never known why guys are so obsessed with breasts, but now I know. They’re fantastic. Soft but firm, they move around in my hands, but stay in the same place. It’s so different from touching my own breasts—they just seem to get in the way of the soap when I shower. But Riley’s breasts fill my hands perfectly as I play with them. I flick a nipple with my fingers and she moans into my mouth.

Her hands were all over my legs and my butt, but then they move to the button of my pants.

I break away from our kiss and move my hand back down to her waist. I’m out of breath. We stare at each other. Her breath is heavy too.

“Is this okay?” she asks. Her hand stays on my waistband.

I think about her breasts in my hand, the way her hair feels, the way I feel when we touch, when we kiss. My heart is going crazy. This is crazy. We shouldn’t be doing this. But I want her. I want her more than I ever wanted Brent. “Yeah. It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

She smiles as she eases me down onto the bed, and I close my eyes.

Whitney Blaire

MY HEAD IS THROBBING AND THE ROOM FEELS LIKE IT’S shaking. No, not the room. Just me. I open one eye. It’s not easy. My contacts are dry and seem to have crusted my eyes shut. I can just make out the orange hair of a bad dye job. I roll over and pull the covers over my head. The shaking continues.

“Go away,” I mumble.

“No, no, no. You wake up right now.”

“Carmen, please, just leave me alone.”

Carmen yanks the covers off. “No. You get out of bed or I bring my spray and get you out.”

When I was little, Carmen always sprayed me with a water bottle when I did something wrong, like make a mess after she had just cleaned up. I wouldn’t put it past her to still do it. “Okay, fine. I’m getting up.”

Carmen watches as I roll myself out of bed. My head still hurts and I can’t focus very well. Carmen’s eyes stay on the bed. For a second I wonder if I only thought I had gotten out of bed but was really still there. I turn to see if I can see myself sleeping.

Nope, no Whitney Blaire sleeping away her hangover. Instead my eyes land on a blood stain on the ivory sheets.

“Niña, what did you do?”

I lean against the bed post. It’s all coming back. The fight with Tara, Mother’s note, the party, the gin and tonics, David. As soon as I remember that, I feel the soreness between my legs. “I must have started my period.”

“No! You don’t start period.” Carmen stomps her foot. “You have a party and bring a boy to your room.”

I don’t say anything. Carmen knows she’s right and nothing I say can change that. She knows me too well. I stare at my feet. There seem to be two of them.

Carmen sighs. “Okay, you get dressed and I make you breakfast. Then you help me clean the house. All day we clean. Until the house looks good again.”

My fantasy of leaving a mess to make a statement goes out the window. The P.S. on Mother’s note that last night I saw as permission now doesn’t seem to mean anything. The only thing I want now is for them not to find out. I wouldn’t put it past them to sue their underage daughter for misconduct, or subject me to hours of pointless therapy. “You’re not going to tell my parents?”

Carmen hesitates. “I don’t say nothing if you help me clean. You don’t help, then I don’t clean and I call them right now.”

I lick my lips. “Let me put on some old clothes.”

The mess is worse that I thought. I remember going downstairs after I showered. There were people everywhere. Drinking, eating, having a good time. Normally I would have been thrilled to know that I had thrown the party everyone would be talking about. But after being with David, I had just wanted everyone to leave, especially David, who for some reason wanted to stay and help me clean up. I remember screaming very loud. Once I had everyone’s attention, I told them to get the hell out. They all listened, even David. Not many people wanted to mess with me. I didn’t want to mess with me. Then once they’d all left, I took a few gulps of something someone left and went straight to bed.

And here I am now. Scrubbing a puke stain off the Persian rug. I’ve already filled the dishwasher twice and taken out the trash a few times. I want to call Pinkie. Try a little Tom Sawyer manipulation to get her to help me out. But it’s Sunday. She’s doing her little church thing. And there’s also the fact that I don’t think I invited her to the party. I hadn’t wanted her to ruin it. It had ruined itself.

By now David must have asked her why she wasn’t at the party. I wonder what else David will tell her. I don’t want her to know. On the other hand, I’d like to tell her. But I won’t. She won’t want to talk to me. Not after I left her out. Not after I did what I did. And I don’t want to hear it.

I also want to talk to Tara since she’s been through this whole being-with-a-guy thing before. I want the old Tara before Riley came and turned her against me. But the Tara I want to talk to doesn’t exist anymore.

I scrub the stain a little harder and hope Carmen is right about club soda.

Tara

I COME DOWNSTAIRS AND SEE MOM WITH HER HAIR loose wearing an old shirt at the kitchen table with her checkbook, a pile of receipts, and the calculator. She’s frowning at the numbers. She looks up when she hears me and then glances at the oven clock.