A Thousand Reasons

by Mariah Dietz

  The next morning, I wake up at five and dress in a loose pair of blue mesh shorts and a T-shirt. I start to make coffee because some traditions are really hard to break. I stayed here much of last year, and often these walls feel more familiar than the ones my lease is tied to.

  Ace appears first, her long blonde hair in a ponytail that hangs down to the middle of her back. Her T-shirt has been washed and worn so many times the screen-printed letters are half faded. It’s her staple look. One I am grateful to know will never change.

  I fill a mug with coffee and pass it to her before getting my own, and we sit at the kitchen table. Ace looks tired this morning, but it’s the way she flips her phone over and pushes it away from her that concerns me.

  “What’s going on?”

  She continues staring at her phone, and then sighs heavily. “Do you think it’s crazy that I sometimes still wake up and have the urge to call my dad? That I want to text him and tell him about my classes and what we’re learning about because I know he’d love discussing it all? It’s like I forget that he’s gone.” Slowly, Ace looks up. “Then I wonder how it’s possible for me to forget?”

  Before she can look away, I reach forward and place my hand over hers. “I think that’s why they say people are never gone. He’ll always be with you, likely in many forms.”

  Her lips slowly slide into a weak smile and she nods, but pulls her hand back and grips her coffee cup with both hands. I hadn’t noticed it prior to her dad’s passing, but Ace has a tendency to draw away from others when she’s hurting. I don’t think she even realizes her actions when she begins internalizing things, and I don’t point it out to her because just having her discuss a glimpse of her emotions is more than she was willing to do a year ago.

  “So, are you going to call Leela today?” Ace sits up, attempting to flip forward to a fresh and clean page. One that isn’t already covered in corrections and stories of the past.

  Thoughts of Leela’s long red hair and her smile that grew with the passing hours last night fill my mind, and I shake my head.

  “What?” Ace cries. “Why not?”

  “I’ll see her in class on Monday.”

  She juts her chin forward, unimpressed.

  “What’s that look for?” Max asks with a laugh as he comes in, holding his tennis shoes.

  “He isn’t going to call Leela because he’s going to see her Monday.”

  Max looks at Ace for a moment before moving over to the coffee pot.

  “You don’t think that’s crazy?” she asks.

  Max’s lips twitch, his gaze drifting from me to Ace.

  “You’d wait, too?” She puts her coffee mug down and gestures to Max with an open palm. “And this is why it took us three months to start dating.”

  I’m laughing too hard to see Max’s expression as he says, “You were just as difficult.”

  Ace shakes her head and looks at me with pursed lips. “Learn from us,” she says. “Don’t worry about waiting and all the crap that goes with dating norms. If you like her, reach out to her. I’m not telling you to ask her out, just tell her you had a good time. It will let her know you’re thinking of her.”

  “I’ll see her on Monday,” I say again.

  Ace’s eyebrows go up but she doesn’t say anything more before standing and setting her cup in the sink. “Ready?” she asks, turning to Max.

  Max kisses her and the two leave me with far too many thoughts that I quickly pour down the drain with the dregs of my coffee. I leave for the gym, hoping to escape from a few of them.

  Leela stays on my mind while I lift, and when I add more weight in an attempt to flush my thoughts, I find myself comparing each one of my previous relationships—dating back to middle school, when I thought I was mature and cool. Back then I thought casualties were a given in relationships, that it was unavoidable for someone not to get hurt. Maybe it’s because I grew up as an only child, or because I played in highly competitive baseball leagues until I graduated high school where I was treated as a God rather than a boy, or perhaps it was the fact that no one taught me differently.

  My views and beliefs didn’t change overnight. It wasn’t until months after Ace and Max had been dating that I realized I wanted what they shared. I wanted to call someone at the end of my day, and I wanted that same person to be my plus one at the movies and parties. To be with someone who knows what I’m feeling with a single glimpse, and know their expressions just as intimately.

  I pull my phone out of my bag as I leave the gym, and against my better judgment, I text Leela.

  Me: I had a good time last night. I’m glad you came.

  I hit send before regret can settle, and head to my truck. I pretend not to be waiting for a response as I get my things situated and my seat belt on.

  Then, I work to convince myself she isn’t responding because my text didn’t call for one.

  6

  Leela

  I pick up the bubble wand and blow a long stream of tiny, iridescent orbs into the clear blue sky. Today is perfect. Everything about the day feels right. Jasmine and Jordan are over, our feet soaking in a kiddie pool we’ve had for years. We have full glasses of sweetened sun tea and a bag of marshmallows to roast later when we start our bonfire. Even the air smells perfect, perfumed by one of our lemon trees that’s in bloom.

  Jordan grabs one of his action figures and slides his flip-flops on. He darts up and starts racing around our turf covered backyard in an attempt to pop every last bubble before they float over the fence.

  The turf is older than me. It has a few rips we’ve attempted to mend, and it’s balding in a few spots, but the green makes it almost feel like a real backyard. Grass is a luxury in Southern California, one we’ve never been able to afford because it requires so much watering. With droughts nearly every summer, we can hardly afford to maintain the couple of potted plants that decorate our yard.

  “I’m so glad you have tonight off,” Jasmine says, leaning back and closing her eyes. I want to tell her about last night. Tell her about how funny and genuine Wes was, but as the hours continue to pass, I’m debating if going was a good idea. Though he seems like a great person, I don’t have time to be in a relationship. I have goals. I have a timeline, and it doesn’t include getting distracted by a guy, even one who I stay up too late thinking about.

  I shift my thoughts back to having the night off. I’m glad to have another night off, too, though it stresses me out. I was supposed to pick up a shift at the discount store, but they called and said it was so slow they didn’t need me. The variances in my schedule make the pay unreliable. “And it should just be us, Mom and Dad, and maybe Luna.”

  “Troy isn’t coming?” she asks.

  I shake my head, hoping to shake the impending thoughts out. “Nope.”

  Jasmine doesn’t ask where he is or why he isn’t coming. We know it likely deals with what he refers to as his “business.”

  “Hey!” Mom calls, stepping out the back door. “Guess what I brought home?” She’s still in her waitress uniform, her red hair pulled back in a tight bun.

  “Hey,” I call, smiling because her excitement is palpable. “What did you bring home?”

  “They messed up the delivery, and Suzanne let me bring home the extra stuff. Huge tubs of potato salad, coleslaw, biscuits, frozen gravy, sausages, ice cream, and an entire box of chicken.”

  “Ice cream?” Jordan stops, turning to face my mom.

  “Three flavors!” Mom says, her eyes wide with excitement. “Want to come have a small bowl before dinner?”

  He dashes toward her without delay.

  Mom’s shoulders are lowered, looking relaxed like her smile. This is what I want to achieve for her—this look of serenity that won’t have her worrying about paying for groceries or electric bills.

  “That’s awesome! Do you need help putting it away?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “We’re in full chill-ax mode tonight. You girls stay there and enjoy. I’ll get Jo
rdan some ice cream, and then we’ll start grilling some hot dogs.”

  “How’s school going?” I ask Jas as Mom closes the door.

  Jasmine shrugs. “I think it will be fine. I keep focusing on how I’ll be able to create my own schedule. I mean, obviously it’s not going to be that easy, but I’m hoping I can arrange it so I can be off with Jordan rather than always being gone for dinner.”

  “You have more skill in your pinky than everyone in your class combined.”

  She scoffs. “There are so many hairdressers in the world. I’m just worried I’ll never be able to afford my own chair, let alone my own shop.”

  “It will happen,” I assure her. “It will definitely happen.” I was Jasmine’s very first customer. We were only eight the first time she’d convinced me to let her cut my hair. It wasn’t straight, and it wouldn’t fit into a ponytail for an entire summer, and yet I still let her do it again the next time she asked. It took her several years and terrible haircuts for her to improve, but by the time we were thirteen, my best friend could fabricate an exact replica of any hairstyle in a magazine. After graduation, Jas began working out of her home, but without a license, she can’t get a chair at an actual salon—something she’s hoping to accomplish so she can work a single job rather than several.

  “What’s going to happen?” Dad asks, stepping out into the backyard with two bowls that he carries over to us.

  “We were just talking about Jasmine’s future hair salon,” I tell him.

  Dad beams with pride. “Damn straight.” He hands each of us a bowl filled with ice cream. “I’ve got my hairdresser and doctor both sitting in my backyard. You girls are going to have everything you want one day.”

  “A bowl of this ice cream every afternoon is all I want,” Jas says, dipping her spoon back into the bowl.

  I laugh.

  “Oh, and I’m going to hire someone to clean my house. I never want to wash another bathtub ever again,” she continues.

  Dad shakes his head. “You can’t join the population whose greatest threat is losing the lower-class, Jas.” He takes a seat across from me, the metal of the lawn chair groaning. “Everyone keeps talking about a zombie apocalypse, but can you imagine if some of these people had to figure out how to cook their own food or mow their own lawns?”

  “I’m striving to own art insurance,” I say, smiling.

  “Art insurance?” Jasmine cries. “People own art insurance?”

  “Rich people have all sorts of ridiculous things,” Dad says. “Like rooms they never use and cars they never drive.”

  “We still have an entire box of Happy Meal toys,” Jasmine admits. “I’m pretty sure it’s just human nature to hoard crap we don’t use.”

  Dad shakes his head. “We use everything here or it’s stuff we might need one day.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Jasmine asks. “What about those tires on the side of your house?”

  “They’re perfectly good tires,” he objects.

  “They’re growing mushrooms!” Jasmine cries.

  “But they’re serving a great home for all the lizards and bugs,” I say, smiling.

  “That’s right.” Dad nods. “See, they do serve a purpose.”

  Jasmine rolls her eyes before erupting into giggles. “Nice save.”

  “Do you guys want to grill the hot dogs? Or should I boil them?” Mom offers.

  “Grilled!” Dad calls. “I got an extra tank of propane from a job site last week, so we’re set!” My parents make eye contact, sharing a smile and special look that conveys pride and accomplishment. When I was younger, my parents constantly fought and argued over money. It got worse when Troy began getting involved with buying and selling drugs. Mom had wanted to move, but Dad insisted we couldn’t afford it. The next year, they discovered Troy was experimenting with drugs in addition to dealing them. Mom had wanted to send him to rehab, but it wasn’t something we could afford, and Dad wanted to believe it wasn’t as bad as it was— he was convinced it wouldn’t get worse. When Troy began stealing money and later objects from our house to pawn for drug money, it brought forth more arguments and fights that had me convinced for a while that they’d get divorced.

  It drives that need for me to succeed even further. Even if it takes me several more years and stress, I will achieve my goal.

  7

  Leela

  I look at Jamal and repeat the question I’ve already posed twice. This time I attempt to rephrase it.

  His expression remains blank.

  Tutoring takes a special kind of personality, and if I didn’t need the money so badly, I’d stop trying to shove myself into that personality, because it’s certainly not mine. I tutor students who attended the same college I graduated from, and am paired with athletes most of the time who don’t care about their education except to pass their classes so they can continue playing. Like me, they all have a goal—money. I know this because nearly every single one of them reminds me of how they’re going to go pro one day.

  Jamal is no different. He plays on his cell phone for most of our sessions, and when he does look at me while I’m speaking, it’s always at my chest. I hope one day I get to see him as a patient, so I can order a dozen rectal exams as retribution.

  “We have twenty minutes left,” I tell him in an attempt to spark some inspiration.

  He opens his eyes wide as though trying to stay awake, and I consider the hundred other things I’d rather be doing right now. Things that aren’t necessarily more fun but would give me so much more satisfaction than wasting my time with someone who doesn’t even want to be here.

  “Do you do anything besides study?” Jamal asks.

  “Work.”

  He laughs. “You need to get a life.”

  I stare at him, showing how unimpressed and unfazed I am by his insult. “Like football?” I deadpan. I know it’s the sport he plays. He’s told me no less than a dozen times. “I like school, thanks.”

  He frowns. “Man, I hate school. My mom thinks I need something to fall back on in case I get hurt. She chooses to ignore the fact that football takes a lot of time and energy. I have to work my ass off every time I step out onto the field so I can show those scouts I know my shit and to continue to get noticed so I can be in the paper and make the news. It might be different if I was up in Oregon or somewhere that didn’t have a pro football team, but here in California there are three. Three pro football teams. Do you know how hard it is to get any attention when you’re competing with those guys?”

  He pauses, waiting for an answer. I shake my head.

  “It’s harder than hell. And with me working my ass off every game, I’m increasing my chances of getting injured. You want to know what will happen to me if I get hurt?” Again he looks at me for a response.

  “I don’t know anything about football,” I admit.

  “Nothing. Nothing will happen. The school will cut my scholarship, pro teams will forget my name, and this school will forget I even existed. Right now, I’m like a king. Every girl wants to be with me. Every dude wants to be my brother. I’m a celebrity, but I could lose it all with one wrong hit. So while I appreciate you taking your time to sit here and teach me about algebra, I don’t give a shit about absolute values.” Jamal stands up.

  “So what are you going to do if you do take one wrong hit? Or if some freshman shows you up and you aren’t drafted? Then what?”

  “This math shit won’t get me anywhere in life.”

  I slam the textbook shut and scoot my chair back. “Only someone who’s never had to work for anything would be so ignorant and stupid. They’re handing you a free education, and you’re so blinded by your dreams of going pro to even recognize what you’re throwing away.”

  He turns to me, pulling his head back. “Did you not hear me when I told you they’ll show me the door if I can’t play?”

  “So why not absorb every bit of knowledge that you can? At least this gives you a fallback.”

  “Easy for you to say
. You like this shit,” he says, hitting the flap of a textbook with his knuckles. “Math doesn’t make any sense to me. All I see is a bunch of gibberish when I look at this shit.”

  “You know nothing about my life. This is my way out. I don’t have the luxury of a fallback. This is it. My one chance.”

  Jamal stops. Every one of his muscles stills, bringing attention to how much he moves. He always has headphones around his neck, and music is always playing. His fingers, his hands, his legs, they all bob in sync with the beat. He slides back into his chair across from me and pulls the pencil he wears behind one ear free. “You really think school can offer me a way out?”

  I look at him and see my sister, Luna, as his tough exterior fades into vulnerability. I don’t know if he’s referring to financial or other means, but regardless I nod. “I do.”

  “You’re not like most of them, are you?”

  “Most of who?” I ask.

  “The kids going here.”

  “You mean rich?” I shake my head and scoff. “Definitely not rich.” He can likely see I’m poor if he’s paid any attention. There are small details that regardless of how hard I work to conceal them always shine through: my bottom teeth that all slant to the left, and how careful I am with each of my possessions—taking special care of even my binders so they remain in mint condition. “I don’t go here anymore though. I graduated two years ago and am going to med school.”

  He stares at me, and suddenly my self-manicured hands, carefully styled hair, and shirt I bought with new tags at a second-hand store suddenly feel like lies. “Med school and you’re not rich? You really must be a genius.”

  “Or glutton for punishment.”

  He laughs. “It’s bullshit that money allows the few so many chances and opportunities.”

  I sigh. “Money seems to hold a higher regard than ethics, morals, and heart combined.”

  “But I’m still not good at this shit.” Jamal stands again.