Of All the Stupid Things (4 page)

“Well, you could at least send me a note to let me know you got them. Or send me forwards once in a while,” I point out.

David does nothing to help his looks by making a gross face. “You like getting all that trash?”

“Of course. And it’s not all junk. Some of those forwards are really funny and interesting. Don’t you read them? And it’s great opening my mail and seeing loads of new messages. That way I know people are at least thinking of me.”

David drops the rocks left in his hand to look at me all serious. “I don’t need forwards to think about you. But if it takes a stupid forward to know you’re thinking of me, then send me all you want.”

I laugh. I guess I shouldn’t tell him that I don’t know half the people in my address book; that I just plug them all in when I send forwards.

“All right, I’ll let you off that one too,” I say with mock annoyance. “After all, you do reply when you need to. ‘Rule four: Make sure to get along with the woman’s parents and friends.’”

David thinks about this one for a second. “You know, I can’t remember the last time I saw your mom. And have I even met your dad? Seriously, other than being years older than most parents, I can’t remember what they look like.”

“Lucky you,” I mumble.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Parents aren’t important. You know and like my friends. I mean, Pink’s practically your sister, so you’ve got that rule covered.”

“Cool. What’s next?”

I read out the remaining questions and we conclude that he scores eight out of ten. Well, he says he got a perfect score since the two he missed don’t apply—they were about being good in bed. I stay firm on giving him an eight out of ten score. David then says the typical guy thing. “So, let’s see if I can win those extra two points.”

I flick my hair over my shoulders. “In your dreams.”

David shrugs. “Why not? I mean, you’re not seeing anyone and I got everything else right. Aren’t these all the things you want in a perfect guy?”

“Sure, but he also has to be good looking with lots of money,” I answer quickly.

“Ah, money,” David pats his pockets. “I’ll have to work on that one. But for now, you want to grab an ice cream before we start our homework?”

I stuff the magazine in my bag. It wasn’t a very good article after all. It forgot to list rule eleven: always offer to take a woman out for a treat. Even though David says he doesn’t have much, he never seems to mind spending what he has.

Now if only he could look a bit more like Brent.

Pinkie

I GET TO THE CLASSROOM EARLY. A FEW TIMES A month, the school’s Honor Society gets together. Sometimes we discuss important things like what colleges want to see on applications and developing good study habits. But we also attend lectures and volunteer in the community. Once a year we have dinner with the mayor, and at the end of the year, if there is still money left in the budget, we have a field trip to the city and go to a couple museums. It’s lots of fun. Really.

I start rearranging the desks so that we’re in a circle. That’s how Nash likes them. He likes everyone to be able to see everyone else. Nash is really smart that way. Well, he’s brilliant in all ways. He knows everything about everything, speaks something like five languages (his voice-mail message is always in a combination of English and some other language), and can do advanced math in his head. Rumor has it that he deferred from Harvard until he has saved up enough money to go. That’s why he’s here, being our advisor, while the rest of the time he bartends at this really expensive restaurant Whitney Blaire’s parents go to. He’s amazing.

“Hey Pinkie, thanks for setting things up.” Nash comes in and gives me a big hug. I beam and hug him back. The world would be much better if more people hugged.

“We’ve got some interesting stuff to go over,” he continues as he sets down his things. “I hope we have a good turnout.”

“I talked with a few girls and they’re way excited about coming,” I tell him, and then instantly wish I had kept my mouth shut. Do I always sound so stupid? Quick, say something clever and funny and mind-blowing. “Did you know that rats get turned on by marijuana, while small doses of radiation do it for earthworms?”

Nash laughs and I blush even more. Where did that come from? Stupid, stupid Pinkie. I might as well tape my mouth shut for all the good it does for me. I fuss with the desks as people start to arrive. Nash hugs the girls and gives the guys a half-hug pat on the back. One boy, Andre, comes in with a black eye. Nash tries to hug him properly, but Andre pushes him away, saying he’s fine and that it was just a stupid soccer injury. Nash sighs and then sits on top of one of the desks.

“All right, let’s get started.”

I already have paper and a pen out to start scribbling away. Once in a while I sneak glances up at Nash. Whitney Blaire says he’s funny looking, Tara thinks there’s nothing special about him, and okay, I admit it, he’s not a heartthrob. He’s got this messy, dark brown hair like he just rolled out of bed, and a big nose that looks out of place in his narrow face. But he wears these tortoiseshell glasses that make him look really cute in a geeky kind of way, and his brown eyes are always shining from behind the glasses. His cheeks have a perpetual five-o’clock shadow. As he talks to us, I wonder if his face feels prickly or smooth. It looks smooth.

He catches me looking at him and one of his eyes closes. I look away quickly. I can feel my face turning red. Was that a twitch or a wink? It had to be a twitch because he’s not allowed to wink at students. I know there’s some regulation against that. But on the other hand, he’s only an advisor to an after-school group; it’s not like he’s a teacher. And he’s only twenty-one, he’s practically one of us. But still, it was probably only a twitch.

I look up at him. He’s smiling at me. No, he’s smiling at everyone. I must have imagined the wink. Wait, now he’s definitely smiling at me. Maybe he knows I like him and finds it amusing. Oh great, he must think I’m some kind of silly teenybopper little girl. I must pretend that I’m cool and indifferent. No, forget that, or I’ll say something worse than horny earthworms.

He passes around some leaflets about the most common mistakes done on personal essays and his hand clearly brushes mine. I look up at him and see it again. A wink. Even I can’t tell myself it was just a twitch this time. But what does it mean? I look around at the others in the group. David is twirling a pencil across his knuckles like he’s bored. Some others are doodling or sending text messages. No one noticed Nash winking.

“So, I thought I’d let you know,” he says. “There’s a lecture at seven o’clock tomorrow tonight at the civic center on Emerging Democracy in Islamic Countries. Dr. Wang Hall is brilliant and I have been looking forward to hearing him speak for a long time. If you’re not doing anything, I recommend you go. If anything, just to get a new perspective.”

Everyone kind of shrugs and starts getting their things together. David pauses to wait for me but I tell him to go ahead. I take my time putting my notebook in my bag. I check to make sure I have my phone, my keys, my wallet, my breath strips, and then I double-check to make sure they’re still there. It’s only once I’m certain I have everything that I head to the door.

Nash walks over and hugs me like he did the others. “So, are you coming to hear Dr. Wang Hall tomorrow?”

“Definitely,” I say, even though I hadn’t thought much of it before. But what if that sounded overeager? I have to say something else. I don’t want him to think I’m boring and have no life. “Well, that is if I get all my homework done in time.”

Nash grins. “Well, I hope you can make it.”

“Me too.” I smile back. We stay there looking at each other, not sure what to say or do. I move a strand of hair out of my face and then fumble to get my bag. “Right, so, see you later.” I give him a half wave and get myself out of the room before I start acting very much more stupider.

Tara

MY TIMES HAVE BEEN OFF THESE LAST FEW DAYS. MAYBE because I’m still recovering from the twenty-mile exertion earlier this week. I decide to take a day off running and go to the gym to use the pool instead. The gym is like a second home for me. Mom teaches a yoga class there every Saturday on top of her regular job. It doesn’t pay much but it gets us into the gym free. I only need to wave at the guys at the front desk as I walk by.

Like some magnetic force, my eyes land on Brent as he heads to the RTC, the Resistance Training Center. Through the glass surrounding the room, I watch him jerk his chin up and smile at Lola, the fifty-something-year-old with green hair working behind the counter. She rolls her eyes at him and with her stale cigarette breath comments that if only she were thirty years younger. I’m too far away to actually hear Lola say this, but that’s what she told him when I first met Brent six months ago.

I was on the treadmill that day when he walked into the RTC. Although my back was to him, I could see him clearly in the mirror in front of me. I knew him vaguely from school, but then again it was hard not to.

I remember my surprise when he opened the door for some Down syndrome kids. Instead of averting his eyes to not look at them, Brent held out his hand and high-fived each one that passed by. One little girl with thick glasses couldn’t coordinate her hand well enough to slap Brent’s. He bent down and held his hand just a couple inches from hers. She slapped it hard. Brent held out his other hand. She slapped again, and he gave her a thumbs-up.

He straightened up to find Lola watching him with a pen in her mouth. Slowly she turned back to her magazine and spoke to him as if he were looking at her from the glossy pages.

“What is it with you and women, Staple?” she demanded.

Brent blushed and shrugged away her comment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. They’re good kids, that’s all.”

Lola snorted and flicked over to the next page.

Half amused, Brent shook his head as he took off his windbreaker and straightened his tight white T-shirt.

I reduced my speed.

Lola, eyes still on the magazine, took the pen out of her mouth and shook it at him. “You better watch it, young man. If I wasn’t thirty years too old for you…”

Brent laughed embarrassedly. “I don’t believe you’re thirty years older than me, Lola.”

Lola huffed. “See, there you go again, you charmer you. But you’re right. It’s more like thirty-five, but what’s five years?”

Brent shook his head again as he smiled wider. My pace reduced to almost walking speed.

“Well, you sure don’t look it.”

Lola whacked him on the shoulder with her magazine. “Lay off, will you? Give an old lady a break. I gotta get back to work.” And with that Lola grabbed her cigarettes and lighter and went outside.

I notched up my speed but kept an eye on Brent in the mirror as he headed for the free weights. Whitney Blaire called him the ultimate hottie and said she’d do anything to be seen with him. When I asked why she didn’t go after him, she laughed and said he wasn’t her type. She was right, though: Brent was hot. Seventeen, but looked twenty, amazing shoulder-length brown hair, bright green eyes, a sexy smile, and a body that wasn’t bulky but was so muscular there wasn’t an inch of fat on him. I noticed that bit as I watched him from across the room.